What does it mean when a woman sells the most precious thing she owns?
I’ve seen it happen countless times, particularly in 2019, after the country plunged into the most catastrophic financial crisis of modern history. I’ve seen hungry women sitting on the side of the street approach me with what little charm they had left and offer themselves to me in return for one meal for their children. I’ve seen flower girls as young as twelve years old look at me suggestively and hand me a single red rose, hoping I would take them in.
I do not pretend to be a man of high honor and upright values. I take what I can from the world and I don’t flinch when accepting free pleasures – why shouldn’t I enjoy a free pass when it is so willingly offered to me?
But still, a man has limits.
Those limits were made clear to me the day I met Mona*.
Even though Mona and I lived in the same neighborhood in Chayah, Dahieh, I had never laid eyes on her before. Instead, I met her on Bumble. She had half her face covered with an emoji in her profile photo, and she told me willingly that she “went out on dates with men for money,” as she delicately put it. I was not altogether surprised. I had received such offers on dating applications before. My curiosity was piqued when she suggested we meet at a location very close to my house. After chatting for a few days, we agreed to meet next to one of the local landmarks near my house. The agreement was that I would park my car by the chosen location, chat with her briefly and then pick her up.
That was in October 2024.
I arrived ten minutes earlier and waited for her; she followed, a few minutes late.
I still remember exactly how she looked.
Short stature, curvy body, tanned skin, long sandy blonde hair. Not altogether unpalatable. Brown eyes, hooked nose, wide mouth. There was something childish about her demeanor but I couldn’t quite place my finger on it.
We waved at each other. “Kifik?” I asked her how she was doing, mustering a smile. “Mniha, thank you,” was the custom reply, letting me know she was fine. Her voice was soft and husky. As we chatted, I suddenly remembered where I had seen her before: around my neighborhood, in this supermarket or that shop, usually accompanied by one, two or three small children. She was one of the housewives of the neighborhood, married to a man who seemed to have no clear profession. We had never spoken before but suddenly everything about her seemed familiar.
After our carefully staged small talk, she got into the car. Beneath her cheaply made makeup (smudged eyeliner, bright red lipstick), she smelled of cheap perfume – the kind you would find at a one-dollar shop. I began drilling her with questions on the way, as we headed toward the small studio I’d rented for the occasion.
Why had she chosen this path? What had happened to her that made her turn to this profession? Where was her husband? Did he know? Did she really have three children? Why couldn’t she find a decent job?
The fact that I was going to be one of her paying customers gave me a sense of entitlement and authority over her. There was no need for me to be so demanding because she answered my questions willingly and with the least amount of prodding on my side. She seemed to almost welcome anyone willing to lend her a sympathetic ear.
After she was done, I was able to piece together her full story.
2014. Mona is a wide-eyed 19-year-old from a poor, broken home. She has three sisters, one brother and an abusive father. Her brother is a reckless drug addict and an ex-convict whose bursts of anger can be violent, deadly even. Her three sisters are unhappily married, each navigating her own financial woes with her husband.
Having not finished school and with no degree in her hand, Mona accepts the hand of her neighbor, Mahmoud, who works as a driver and a go-between (errand) man for a wealthy Shite family who lives in the Rawche area in the heart of Beirut. His work is stable during the first two years of their marriage. Mahmoud has a reputation of being a gambler, but he assures her that it is all in the past. What matters now is his future and the family they will build together.
Children start to arrive. After the birth of her second son in 2019, Mona discovers that Mahmoud has been gambling away half his salary, claiming instead that his employer has cut down his salary due to the financial crisis. When he finally loses his job, Mahmoud turns to drugs and becomes physically abusive toward Mona, who is pregnant with her third child.
Mona considers getting an abortion. When Mahmoud finds out, he promises to change and find another job, which he does for a while. When their third child, a girl, is a few months old, Mahmoud relapses and goes back to his old ways. Faced with a failure for a husband and three infant children, Mona suffers a nervous breakdown that leaves her in bed for a few months, and she starts relying on what little help the neighbors and her sisters could afford.
“It destroyed me, finding out what he’d done for a second time,” she said in her soft, husky voice. “We lived on handouts and charity for a whole year before I started working.”
“How exactly did you start ‘working’?”
“I had a neighbor who was a womanizer. He was always looking me up and down and dropping hints at me. One day my daughter needed milk and nappies, but I was unable to breastfeed her because I take psychiatric medications; they were running out too. So, I smiled at him and responded positively to his advances. He paid me handsomely.”
Still in the car, she took a long drag out of the cigarette I offered her, staining it with what little lipstick she had on.
“After that, clients were easy to come by,” she added, shrugging.
“We’re here,” I said as I parked the car. “Do you want to go upstairs?” She took a final drag out of the cigarette before throwing it out of the window. She grabbed her purse- a small brick-red thing with beads gone loose all over it- and got out of the car.
You might ask, dear reader, why I didn’t take pity on her before soliciting her generous services. The simple answer is that I had already paid for the studio rent beforehand and, regardless of my taking pity on her or not, I was expecting a handsome return on my investment. That was the nature of our business deal.
However, while I might not have been fazed by her story initially, having heard many similar stories from other prostitutes, I was shaken by the phone call she received after we were done. It was her little son, asking when she would be back.
“Mama’s almost done darling,” she said over the phone, turning her back to me. “Are you being nice to your sister and brother?”
After she hung up, I couldn’t help asking the questions that had formed in my mind.
“Your husband stays with the children while you’re away?”
“Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t.”
“Does he know?”
“I suspect he does. “
“Does he take your money away?”
“Fuck him. I’ll kill him if he comes near my money.”
“What about your son? How old is he?”
“Almost eight. He’s the eldest.”
Eight years old. I felt a pang as I thought of this. At eight years old I was preoccupied with beating my friends at football, not waiting for the return of a mother who was whoring around to provide me and my siblings with a meal for the day.
I looked at her face intently and I saw, as if for the first time, how tired and aged she was. She looked much older than her 28 years. There was visible acne on her cheeks, and her complexion was taut and pale.
Emboldened by my pity, she made her move.
“I really need to get my children something to eat,” she said, staring down at my hands. She seemed to be mustering as much courage as she could. “Would you mind paying me a little extra?”
I let her have it. Instead of paying the usual price of $60 a night, I paid double that amount. I couldn’t get her son’s voice out of my head. It was almost torture.
I drove her to the same landmark we had met at, and she got out of the car unceremoniously without looking back. Again, I found myself curious as to what she would do next, so I stayed parked at the corner to see which path she would choose. I needn’t have waited very long because I saw that she had entered the neighborhood supermarket. She re-emerged a few minutes later, carrying bags of food. From my corner, I could discern dairy products and what looked like frozen chicken and cooking oil. She took the alley to the right and disappeared.
So it was probably true – everything she had told me. There would be a husband waiting for her to bring the money home, as well as three hungry little children. There would be no questions asked, no accusations made. Just acceptance and hunger, and then more hunger.
I remained uncharacteristically shaken for a few days after meeting Mona. Her son’s tiny voice haunted my imagination. I did not regret my affair with her; I had paid her handsomely, after all. But I did feel sorry for what she had been, and continues to go through. When I felt the sting of loneliness again, I did not call her, but instead deliberately chose other company, despite the fact that Mona was considered a cheap prostitute who lived conveniently close by.
She, however, did call me a few weeks later to ask me “if I wanted to go out” with her.
“How much do you need exactly?” I found myself asking her on the phone.
“As much as you’d like to offer,” came the incredulous reply.
“I’ll wire a hundred (dollars),” I said rather gruffly.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” she did the worst thing possible at that moment – she wept.
I hung up.
I have since wired Mona money several times after meeting her. She usually calls at the end of the month to offer me her services, which I politely refuse, and having refused her, I inform her I’ll wire the needed amount, and she weeps.
“You’re so kind to me,” she once said. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do in return?”
But Mona doesn’t get why I’m helping. Nor, dear reader, do I think you do. What I’m doing is not an act of kindness. The Lord knows I’m no decent man. It’s not an act of redemption to save my soul – I still like going out with hookers and prostitutes. It’s just that, in this wretched world, there are things and abuses too monstrous for any human being to look away from. I can still hear Mona’s little son calling, asking her when she’s coming home, probably asking for food as well. I certainly wouldn’t want that on my conscience, as dirty and guilty as it may be.
In this world, there are stories too evil to be told, too hideous to be written, but I’ve just told you one. I hope you can find it in your hearts to have compassion for the likes of Mona, and forgiveness for the likes of me.
