6

  In the court of the Egyptian, Eng. Emad Abdel Zaqzouq, judge, injustice reigned.

  To be fair to the judge, injustice reigned equally pervasively in all courts of Dubai, although, to be fair to Dubai, courts of the entire Gulf Arab world are no laggards in pursuit of foul play. The judge, though crass, cruel, callous and corrupt, was almost blameless in this, except to the extent that he enjoyed his work, and who could blame him for that? He did his masters’ bidding.

  He had been hand-picked by the chief public prosecutor of Dubai, and transported from utter obscurity in a sleepy Egyptian town, where he was a deputy traffic magistrate of doubtful qualification and dubious repute, to notoriety in bustling Dubai, where, upon arrival and prior to assuming his duties, he had been presented to the Sheikh, pictures on page three of every local rag, announcing the arrival of yet another imbecile, at which meeting he had been warned to do the right thing only, or otherwise whatever the Sheikh ordered, right or wrong, though the word wrong is neither implied nor employed when referring to the Sheikh’s instructions, for how could one so wise and mighty ever be wrong?

  In an incredible conflict of interest, he, like all other judges, would report to the chief prosecutor – the very person whose office concocted accusations against all manner of guilty defendants, thereby extinguishing every hope of fair play.

  The Egyptian, Eng. Emad Abdel Zaqzouq, judge, did not care about fair play, and, in time, once he got accustomed to officiating at criminal proceedings, though God knows traffic offences are crime enough, had become the chief prosecutor’s most loyal adherent, handing down the stiffest sentences prescribed by law, unless instructed to do otherwise and rule the guilty innocent, and also, unless instructed otherwise, to rule the innocent guilty.

  He sat with three other judges, one, another Egyptian of equally questionable antecedents, being his deputy, in case he was indisposed or on leave, and the other two being trainee judges, both locals, learning the correct interpretation of the laws of the land, which, paradoxically, they assume the right to devise while acknowledging the inability to interpret. A highly unqualified clerk sat alongside the quartet on the bench, recording, whenever the fancy took him, whatever he made of the proceedings.

  The Egyptian, Eng. Emad Abdel Zaqzouq, judge, heard every type of case, civil and criminal, and, as punishment for an offence could be anything from the entire spectrum of punishments, he never got it wrong. In this, he was ably assisted by prosecutors and lawyers, by law locals only, who played by the same rule of never ever exciting the Sheikh’s ire by launching too vigorous a defence or attack, routinely leaving multiple loopholes in arguments, though that was primarily achieved by default through imbecility, so that in case either the Sheikh’s favour or malice was somehow acquired, sufficient scope existed for acquittal or punishment.

  Concerning malice there is little to relate, as the Sheikh’s spite is readily obtained, but gaining his favour is a matter of money. Well-connected local touts offer services, whereby, upon payment of sums proportionate to sins, royal pardons duly signed by the Sheikh can be procured for freedom - no matter what evidence exists of guilt.

  There is one other means to obtain royal pardons. As the Sheikh loathes any examination of his dubious legal system, which is to be expected of a man with so many skeletons in his cupboard, the certain route to case dismissal is to have the international press report the story – and that is why pot smoking, drink driving, foul mouthed, fornicating celebrities never get into trouble in Dubai.

  This was a normal working day, a morning in Zaqzouq’s court without his handlers’ special instructions. Under-trial male prisoners, locked inside a large metal cage built into the side of the courtroom, sat on metal benches bolted to the floor, apprehensively waiting for their bouts with absurdity.

  A Filipina housemaid, declared an absconder by her UAE national employer, had been apprehended by the labour department. The employer had reported her missing, presumed absconded, almost three years ago, shortly after arrival in the country to take up employment in his household.

  “Do you know the punishment for running away from an employer?” asked the judge, the translator doing his thing.

  The housemaid, led in from a side door and stood in shackles outside the cage, spoke passable Arabic. “I ran away?” she asked disbelievingly, speaking directly to the judge. “Who said that, sir? I work in my sponsor’s house. My visa is due for renewal next month.”

  “Your sponsor reported you absconding almost three years ago.”

  “No, sir, that’s impossible. I live in his house. I have his telephone number, and you can call and verify, sir.”

  “Live in his house? How come you were apprehended at a residence of Filipino workers in Al Quoz?”

  “I went to see a friend, sir. Ask my sponsor or his wife, sir. They sometimes used to drop me there. In fact, the day I was arrested, my sponsor himself had driven me there. I was going to spend the day with my friend, see a movie, and return home at night.”

  “It was not Friday,” said Eng. Emad, a shrewd smile on his lips. “It was not a holiday.”

  “It was a holiday for me, sir. Every few months my employer gives me a day off.”

  “And by coincidence the same for your friend?” asked the judge sarcastically.

  “No, sir. She’s a tailor in a factory, working non-stop to meet deadlines on export orders, and rotating holidays among workers. Her holidays can fall on any day, sir. But you can check with my sponsor, sir.” Her eyes fixed on the bench, she had failed to spot her sponsor’s arrival. He was a tiny wizened man with a craggy face, wearing the white dishdash and headgear identifying him as watani.

  “Is the sponsor present?” asked Zaqzouq. The shrivelled man came forward.

  “Sir, sir, thank God you’re here. Sir, please tell the judge that I live and work in your house.” The young woman practically danced for joy.

  The old man ignored her as he positioned himself before the bench. He took his oath with a hand on the Quran.

  “Is she your housemaid?” asked Zaqzouq.

  “Wallahi,” said the withered man, truly, “I cannot say for sure. She stayed about a week, before running off. Here is her passport for the court to check her identity. Luckily I took it off her and kept it in my office safe.”

  The maid understood every word, having lived three years in a household that spoke only Arabic. “Sir,” she addressed her wasted employer, “what are you saying? Why are you telling lies? I have not harmed you or your family in any way.” The shrunken man looked pointedly away.

  “Did you pay for her visa?” asked Zaqzouq. The reply was in the affirmative.

  Eng. Emad turned to the maid. “The court sentences you to deportation for the crime of absconding from your lawful employer. However, you will go to prison and remain there until you have repaid visa charges and other expenses this innocent man has suffered.”

  “Sir, my belongings are at his house. He deducted visa expenses from wages in the first months of my job. Over the next three years he paid only one other month’s salary, promising to clear my dues when it was time for me to go on leave. Sir,” she turned to plead with her employer, “I have worked three years in your house, slaved day and night, served both your wives faithfully and looked after your bed-ridden mother and six little children. Sir, why are you doing this?” But the grave-dodger did not either look at her or answer her.

  “My God, sir, my God, you want to steal my money, isn’t that so? You planned it from the day of my arrival, or even from before, like many locals do with servants, and you falsely declared me an absconder to rob me of my little money. You told the labour inspectors where to find me, because you dropped me there. Now that my three-year visa is ending, your plan must be implemented. For the small money of a maidservant, you have held the holy book, and you a Hajji, and told lies. Sir, you will go to hell. Tell the truth, tell the truth.” But the ancient evil shrugged and looked at the judge.

  “Take her away,” ordered the Egyptian, Eng. Emad Abdel Zaqzouq, judge.

  The housemaid struggled against the fat policewomen who rolled up to take her away. She began pleading with Zaqzouq. “Sir, you can check. All you have to do is order police to investigate. Everyone around the house area, sir, shopkeepers, laundrymen, children, policemen, everyone recognises me and knows I have been working in that old thief’s house. The truth will be known to you in minutes. Sir, please do it, please. You sit in a great big chair to give justice to oppressed people, sir; just order it and you will learn what a liar that old man is, a Hajji who can swear on the Quran and still tell lies. Sir, please do not collaborate with a thief to steal from me, from a poorly paid and overworked domestic servant, please, the truth will be out with a phone call, or bring his children here, the little ones will run to me…”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Listen to her,” said Zaqzouq mockingly, as she was dragged away.

  Next up was an Indian labourer, arrested for attempted suicide, a common occurrence in Gulf countries. He had hung himself by the neck, but alert compatriots had prevented his suicide. Hospitalised at first for a few days, he had, with his neck in a brace, been produced in court. The man looked mentally ill, constantly muttering to himself, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

  “Do you not know it is against the law to take your own life?” asked Eng. Emad. The man remained silent. “Why did you try to kill yourself?”

  The translator had to go up to the man to get his faint reply. “They won’t let me go home.”

  “Who won’t let you go home?”

  “My employer. The company refuses to return my passport.”

  The commonest form of human rights abuse, throughout the Arab Gulf, is the forcible detention of workers by employers. Upon arrival, most workers are dispossessed of passports, and, while this is the condition of almost every category of employee, it is the rule for those in lesser positions. They are then made to work without relief for three years, until work visas expire, and when finally allowed to go home, are generally cheated of monetary dues.

  The control exercised by people who possess other peoples’ passports is so total, that custody of passports is the rule for a variety of businesses, notably the hotel industry, travel agencies and car rental companies. Nobody can argue with a hotel over incorrect and excessive bills when it simply will not return the passport. Travel agencies often arrange visit visas, and claim visitors’ passports on arrival. Passport control is also a terrific tool of sexual harassment, and many visitors are coerced into surrendering sexual privileges for freedom.

  The authorities do say occasionally that this is illegal - sometimes it is the police chief mouthing off, sometimes the immigration chap, and at other times the labour minister, or whoever – and that no one has the right to hold someone else’s passport. Those words are merely the typical lip-service the Sheikh makes his people give to various concepts of rights, to look good in newspapers and win praise from occasional important passers-by. However, one million labourers, one million other workers, and hundreds of thousands of tourists drift through life in the UAE - with their passports in other people’s hands.

  “Why do you think your passport should be given to you?” asked Zaqzouq.

  “To go home.”

  “Have you completed your contract? Three years?”

  “No, sir. I have been here eight months.”

  “See? That is why you cannot go home.” The judge attempted to reason with the suicidal man. Oh, yes, he would pass some light sentence, but the man had to return to work, otherwise where would Dubai be? Anyway, that was the instruction on this type of case. “As you have a contract to work three years, the court cannot allow you to return home earlier. It would be the same as cheating your employer.”

  “How am I cheating my employer? I do not wish to work. I wish to return home. I have not taken payment for the future. Instead, my employer owes me seven months’ wages.”

  The judge lost his temper. “Listen here,” he shouted. “Do you not understand what I am ordering? You cannot leave your employer midway through contracts. He has highways to lay and towers to erect. He has taken contracts and faces penalties. Do you not understand?”

  “I am a petty labourer, sir, and contracts of mighty people are not offered to me for evaluation. I must go, sir. There is a crisis, an urgent matter, and I have to return home, sir.” The man wrung his hands.

  “Urgent? You’ll sort out every crisis when you go back home. It is only a little over two years to wait. Send money; every crisis sorts itself out. Attempting suicide is a crime. I sentence you to five days in jail, which means you have already completed your punishment and can return to your quarters. I am making a note ordering your employer to assign you only light work the next two weeks. If I see you in my court again, I will not be so lenient. Next.”

  The three white-haired American women shook in fear in their chains, attempting to avoid the wrathful glare of the furious judge.

  “Preaching Christianity!” he roared, his frame trembling in his passion. He paused to let the spectators’ angry muttering peter out, shoulders hunched. “Preaching Christianity in Dubai!” He pointed and thumped and made a grand spectacle of himself, spittle spraying across onto the prosecutor.

  “Your honour,” said a frightened old woman, “we were in my daughter’s house, conducting a bible reading session; we three and a few friends, all Christians.”

  “Preaching Christianity in the presence of Muslim servants!” screamed the raging judge.

  “We were not preaching to the servants, your honour. Everyone was Christian.”

  “Of course all will become Christians,” he yelled, silencing the old maids with every sort of logic. He considered his last observation, and, well pleased at his sharpness, calmed himself down and waved a document in the air. “This police report says you were preaching, you were arrested for preaching, and you are being tried for preaching.” The learned judge shrugged his shoulders while the other judges snickered. “And you challenge that?” The women were tongue-tied at the preposterousness of his reasoning. He changed tack. “How would America respond if I went preaching Islam there? Jail? Death penalty?”

  “You can freely preach Islam, your honour,” answered an old woman, “America does not restrict religious freedoms.”

  “No?” queried the ignorant bigot. “America is not Christian?”

  “Anyone can preach religion in America, sir,” ventured another old maid, “unlike Arabia, and no one is arrested when preaching.”

  The judge pounced. “Aha, so you admit to preaching?” He fingered some prayer beads, holding them up for his audience. “Punishable through death by stoning. My court needs no further proof of guilt. Your words and this report are damning evidence. Attempting to convert is the very worst offence imaginable, so better get yourselves a good lawyer for the appeal, as I shall show no mercy to those hauled in for the most grievous crime of all, and sentence you three preachers to the maximum…”

  The chief prosecutor himself had entered through the main door, skipping and tripping in haste. “Stop, stop the trial,” he yelled. “Dismiss the preaching case. The merciful Sheikh has pardoned these misguided people.”

  Zaqzouq murmured acquiescence and instantly dismissed the case, freeing the three old ladies on the spot. It did not bother him - his masters had so commanded.

  But his head master, the merciful Sheikh himself, was at that very moment getting his butt comprehensively kicked by the US Ambassador.

  Next up was a Sri Lankan housemaid. Suspecting her to be in a sexual affair, her watani employers had laid a trap, illegally recording her telephone conversations. She had pleaded with them to either keep it secret or let her return to Sri Lanka. That way she would be safe. Of course her employers had done nothing of the sort. They had done the right thing and had had her arrested. Weeping, and shielding her face as far as possible, she stood shackled outside the cage.

  “You are married?” asked Zaqzouq.

  “No, sir.”

  “And you did…?” Eng. Emad Abdel Zaqzouq, judge, made crude gestures that may have signified sexual intercourse.

  The girl looked at her feet, crying.

  “How can you do something like that, except with your husband? Who is the man?” The girl shook her head slightly. She would not tell. “It is serious,” yelled the judge. “Intercourse outside of marriage! Fornication! Recommended punishment, death by stoning!” The terrified girl swooned. The fat black policewomen beside her caught her and held her upright. “Death by stoning,” screamed Zaqzouq. “Tell me the name of the man you have been fornicating with. Speak up and hope to save yourself.”

  The policewomen let her sit on the floor and brought her water, which they splashed on her face after she had sipped a little. That crude humanitarian mission accomplished, they stood her up once again to face Zaqzouq’s wrath. “Who?”

  The lover was a Pakistani salesman. “Pakistani? Muslim?” shrieked the judge. “And you? You are Muslim?” She was Buddhist. “Buddhist? Buddhist?” the Egyptian bigot roared. “Did you use magic arts to lure a Muslim man? How old is he?” She said he was twenty-five. “And you?” She was twenty-four. “You look much older. I want your partner here. If you attempt to shield him from justice, I may award you the maximum sentence. You are to reveal the details immediately. I want him arrested and brought to my court.”

  “He is here,” she said.

  There was a gasp of anticipation in the courtroom, as everyone craned necks this way and that. “Where, where?” asked Zaqzouq. A young Pakistani man rose at the back of the courtroom. “That one?” It was he. “Arrest him, arrest him without delay, I say. Haul him here immediately to face justice. Doing that thing with a Buddhist? Producing kafirs? Bring him to me.”

  The courtroom police force, launching a variety of noisy manoeuvres, surrounded, caught and overpowered the unresisting man, and, after handcuffing and shackling him with much ado, hauled him forward to the dreadful judge, who studied him a long while in the now silent courtroom. “Take his details down and register a case of unlawful sexual intercourse against him.” That, too, was done. “You have had sexual intercourse in Dubai. Outside of marriage, it is an illegal and immoral activity, meriting the strictest punishment. You are Muslim?”

  The man said yes.

  “Do you pray?”

  Again, yes.

  “Explain to the court why you have behaved in a lascivious and lustful manner.”

  “I love her,” said the man.

  “Love? What does that mean?” The mystified judge conferred with deputy and trainees. “Ah, love like that. I see. Young man, I do not know where you people get such ideas, English movies maybe. Love like that is a western concept, something for unbelievers, kafirs. It is not a valid emotion for Muslims. For us there is love of God. For us there is love of parents and children, understand? God made different kinds of love. What you have experienced is Shaitan’s lust, which, I am given to understand, kafirs call love. Tell me, did that woman confound you with secret magic arts?”

  The young man denied that such arts had been deployed.

  “If not, how could you have fallen into her trap? You are Muslim, and she is nothing but a kafir maidservant.”

  She was a university graduate with a degree in sociology.

  “Degree in sociology,” sneered the Egyptian. “She is Sri Lankan, she is Buddhist, she is a maid, and on top of those shortcomings she is surely a practitioner of her people’s dark arts. She was hoping to persuade her employers to send her home. Do you know what that meant? Of course you do not, because your mind has been altered by her guile and sorcery. She would have become secretly pregnant before departure, so great is kafirs’ desire for mischief, which means your child would have been brought up as a kafir, understand? That would have been a great sin, but her employers have saved your child. They have also saved your soul. Kafirs eat pig flesh, you know? Your child would have been eating pig meat, had the woman not been caught by her righteous employers.” The other judges and police personnel looked sickened. “You will both do jail time for the crime of copulation.”

  The deputy judge whispered to Eng. Emad. “Unless, of course, you marry her.” The Egyptian thumped the counter with finality.

  “I am ready to marry her immediately, sir,” said the gallant Pakistani.

  “You cannot marry her immediately. She is a kafir. She must first convert to Islam. Tell me, witch, are you willing to embrace the true religion?”

  She nodded yes.

  “Speak the words aloud,” commanded the judge.

  “Yes,” said she faintly.

  “Yes what?” roared Zaqzouq.

  “Yes, sir, I am ready to convert to Islam.”

  “And abandon your devils?”

  The crushed woman said the words.

  “You have saved your soul. I sentence you both to jail. The initial period is one month, after which you will be produced in my court again. In the meantime she will take lessons in Islam and convert from her evil ways. On receiving confirmation from prison authorities that such conversion has taken place, you two will marry to be set free. I shall waive deportation. Next.”

  The, Eng. Emad Abdel Zaqzouq, judge, baleful of eye and unjust of nature, moved on to the next case, seeking to cause even greater mayhem in the ranks of trembling innocents.

  He had merely warmed up.