AMMAN, Jordan I’m wearing a silky leopard print blouse and a pair of skin tight jeans. Every curl on my head has been sprayed and arranged so they all twist in the same direction. And my face is barely recognizable — luminous foundation, extra highlights to emphasize my cheekbones, a kiss of blush, hot pink lips that look like they’ll vibrate right off my face, smokey eye shadow for extra drama, and finally, the crowning glory of the whole get-up: my brows.

My brows have been drawn on my face with utmost care so they look thick, lush and expressive, but what they might express I am not exactly sure. Surprise? Consternation? Shock? Can they distract from my racing heartbeat, my pure, unadulterated angst? What I do know is that they are arched perfectly beyond what could possibly be natural. And they make me look very much like I belong in a Jordanian nightclub. I try not to look at myself in the mirror and purposely avoid taking a selfie, anxious that it might later be used to identify me, or worse yet, blackmail me.

My Iraqi friends have painstakingly spent hours to prepare me for a night on the town, and did so with great pride and relish. I traveled to Amman to research a story about Iraqi and Syrian refugee women at risk — at risk of being trafficked, sold, prostituted, married off to older men from Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and the Emirates.

Unlike my male journalist counterparts, who can walk into any club and pass themselves off as customers, I need to surreptitiously pass myself off as a prostitute to visit a club and witness refugee women working in the sex industry. It is illegal to work as a prostitute in Jordan, and I certainly will not get the club’s permission to film and report openly. In fact, if I am discovered with my hidden camera, my fate will be rather dire.

Clubbing in Amman

Over the next many hours, in visit after visit, the role of women becomes clear as I move from club to club. In the first, I’m approached by a 60-year-old Arab version of Elvis who turns out to be a friendly Iraqi-American from Michigan. 

I slide to the other side of the bench and lean over the edge to chat with a young woman who has squeezed herself into a body hugging red dress that’s two sizes too small; she’s been sitting alone at the table next to me for the past 45 minutes. She confirms that she is Syrian. What part of Syria, I ask, but we don’t get past, “Damas-cooos?” as she continually looks at me with an uncomprehending gaze.

At the next club, women strut in and out. Waiters effusively welcome them, and flirt a little before seating them, revealing their over familiarity. They cover their tables with little plates of hummus, vegetables, salads and beverages.

At the table ahead of me is a heavy set man dressed in a red head scarf typical of Kuwait and a white dishdasha, the traditional Arabian robe for men. He is accompanied by a young woman wearing a black abbaya and hijab. I’m not so sure I understand the conservative covering in a nightclub. I thought she might be his daughter based on her age, but it was later confirmed to me that the young woman was his partner for the evening.

On my left are two women seated side by side, one is strikingly beautiful, maybe 18-years-old, and has been zigzagging a path to and from the restroom as she tightly grips the back of every chair she passes. She looks like she might stumble at any moment. Behind me are a group of middle-aged men who cut furtive and appreciative glances at the two women.

In the distance is a couple, the only couple openly getting it on. The woman appears to be in her 50s and she’s warming up for some dirty dancing on her eager partner. She can’t be bothered to go to the dance floor, so she’s performing her own side show in the flickering lights.

On my right are two former Soviet-bloc women who have wasted no time in joining the action on the dance floor. Russian and former Soviet-bloc women are popular in this part of the world. Their grasp of Middle-Eastern dancing is impressive.

Seated next to the band is a curiously tall, hipless female wearing a dangerously short skirt. She arrived with much ado, setting off vibrations in the club as she glided to her seat of honor at the front of the club, next to the band.

Most of the women in this club are part of the exodus from Syria that started in 2011 and from Iraq in mid-2014 when ISIS took control of parts of the country, although Iraqis have been seeking asylum in Jordan since 2003.

Jordan, the land of safety for war refugees

Jordan is presently home to more than 740,000 refugees from both Syria and Iraq according the UNHCR Jordan Factsheet in February 2018 — that is more than the entire population of Seattle. Syrians comprise 657,000, Iraqis comprise 66,000, while other registered refugees come from Yemen, Sudan, Somalia and elsewhere. One in four people living in Jordan is a refugee according to the Georgetown Journal of International Affairs.

By contrast, the Jordanian government estimates 1.3 million Syrians currently live in Jordan. Exact numbers of refugees are not easy to quantify as many refugees do not register with the UNHCR or other organizations.

“There is a stigma linked to the registration as a refugee,” according to the former UNHCR manager of Za’atari Refugee Camp, Kilian Kleinschmidt. “As soon as you have become a refugee on one of those lists, then it’s very difficult to get out of it. It can become a disadvantage to be registered as a refugee.” Effectively, it is almost impossible for refugees to find work. “The entire Middle East has been preventing people from working as soon as they become refugees,” Kleinschmidt said.

The challenges of finding work has created desperate situations for most refugees in Jordan, particularly women who have lost their support networks. Many husbands, fathers and brothers have either died, are injured in the war or have left for Europe. This makes them even more vulnerable. With little education and training, prostitution is the only way they can support themselves and their families.

But due to the dire consequences associated with prostitution and sex work, there are currently no statistics on the number of women involved. It is clear, however, that desperate and alone, many young women and girls are at risk of being exploited or “choosing” prostitution to survive.

Undercover GoPro

A GoPro camera is strapped on my chest, hidden underneath a leopard pattern scarf that matches my blouse. It is covered in black tape except for the lens. Once in a while, I lift the scarf to film the scene. I’ve been seated in the back of the nightclub and somehow I have to get to the dance floor to film the action. I debate this in my mind, each minute that ticks by costs me more battery power. And the pressure mounts.

In dismay, I realize, the only way I can naturally be near the dance floor is…to…dance. So against all on this earth that is dignified, I gather my courage and shamelessly strut toward the disco lights flashing in rhythm to the beat of an Iraqi rap song being belted out by an aging male singer.

I had some training from my Iraqi friends’ birthday party the night before on Middle Eastern-style dancing: boneless arm twisting and very vigorous shaking of the shoulders. The other moves, I don’t possibly dare as they might require the help of a chiropractor. As I practiced shaking my torso at the party, I was corrected very emphatically and told that the goal is to “shake your boobs.” One should keep the arms as still as possible for this dance move, lest you be mistaken for having a seizure. All of this said, there is no amount of training at this point in my life that would turn me into a Middle Eastern dancer.

And so, there I was, trying to let myself get into the groove of live Iraqi rap and trying to forget that I was very likely a bit of a sad spectacle to this audience, a woman old enough to be the mother of any of these younglings, dressed a bit too youthfully, trying to look like I had business in the club.

The mode of operation in Amman nightclubs of this ilk works like this: If a man enters a club unescorted by a woman, he cannot openly carouse with the women. He must send his phone number to her via the waiters, indicating where he is seated, and requesting a time to meet the woman outside. If the woman is agreeable, she will exit the club, he will follow after a few minutes, and they will negotiate the price. If the terms are acceptable, they will go to a place of his choice for sex. However, if the man and woman enter the club together, they can behave as salaciously as they wish. The club cannot appear to be a place for hookups, it’s all about appearances.

Jordan is the only peaceful enclave in the Middle East, flanked by Iraq, which has been at war for over a decade, and Syria, which was one of the largest humanitarian crises in recent years, and Israel. The Jordanian government takes great precautions to protect that peace. On March 4, 2018, Jordan executed 15 men, 10 convicted of terrorism. The violence, though uncommon, has been eroding a once vibrant tourist economy. [These stats need updating immediately before publication as they change frequently]

Jordan is dependent on international aid and foreign debt. Its economy is one of the smallest in the Middle East, according to the CIA Factbook. It is resource poor, with no oil and little water. But now, a number of economic factors related to the area’s instability, may be driving the country toward insolvency.

Jordan spends 25% of its state budget on refugees, $2.5 billion a year, according to the World Bank. Foreign aid covers some of the cost, but 63% of the costs of hosting refugees is covered by Jordan.

As international aid has waned and the flood of refugees remained constant, so has the pressure increased on Jordan. At the moment, Jordan has closed its border with Syria, stranding at least 55,000 Syrians in the desert at the border of Jordan at al-Rukban refugee camp. Rukban is a no man’s land with scarce food and water. Each year, children die of hypothermia and treatable diseases in the camps, and many more are at risk of starvation and freezing to death. Aid organizations have been unable to reach the camp until this January when Jordan permitted the delivery of UN humanitarian aid via a crane. Jordan fears ISIS sleeper cells may be present among the refugees.

Jordan is a relatively poor country by the standards of the Middle East. On average, Jordanians earn a little less than $500 USD per month, while 86 percent of Syrians living in Jordan live below the poverty line of $87 per capita per month, according to a report by Amnesty International. The cost of living in Jordan is high. In fact, in 2015, 2016 and 2017, Amman was named the most expensive city in the Middle East by the Economist Intelligence Unit; in 2018 it fell to the second most expensive city in the Middle East after Tel Aviv. It is more expensive than Dubai or Abu Dhabi. For example, a tube of name-brand foundation make-up in the U.S. that costs $25, costs $100 in Jordan.

The Jordanian government allows Syrian and Iraqi refugees asylum, but attending school has been difficult for many. Jordan requires service cards for children to register for school and has imposed a magnetic service card for children to prove medical history. The cost of the service cards hinder many living below the poverty line from registering their children.

It was illegal for refugees to work in Jordan until April 2016 when the government pledged to issue 200,000 work permits over the subsequent three years, a first in the Arab region. The permits are contingent on exports, foreign investment and soft loans. According to Jordan’s Ministry of Labor, as of mid February 2018, some 88,000 work permits have been issued, but only 4 percent of them to Syrian women, the majority of whom work in agriculture, earning $8.50 per day.

As the wars have raged on year after year, many refugees have simply run out of resources. They’ve sold their homes and their land, for a fraction of the value, sold all their jewelry and assets, and eventually, many feel compelled to sell what is their last precious commodity—their bodies.

Nadira, my dear friend [pseudonym used for safety]

My primary agenda in coming to Jordan was to visit an old friend, an Iraqi woman whom I had met in the spring of 2003 immediately following the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq. I was an embedded journalist with the U.S. Marines as they fought their way to Baghdad during the war. Later, I would leave the embed program to work unilaterally and cover the war from the Iraqi perspective. I parked myself in central Baghdad, hired a translator and driver, researched, photographed and wrote my own stories.

I met Nadira at that time, when Iraqis were still gasping for breath after Iraq’s leader Saddam Hussein was toppled from power, but it would be a few more months before Hussein would be captured in a spider hole that I would later crawl into and photograph.

Nadira and I became fast friends. We are almost the same age, but our lives could not have been more disparate. I was a newspaper photojournalist, newly married at that time, and traveling constantly. She was a veterinarian married to a police major; together they had six children between the ages of three and 16, five girls and one boy.

In those chaotic times, Nadira’s house had been bombed by U.S. air strikes and her family was living out of the mud hut that was formerly the gardener’s dwelling. It was quite small so they mostly slept under the stars. Nadira seemed to hold no grudge about the destruction of her property. She understood that the Iraqi tanks left on her property by the Iraqi Republican National Guard who later deserted their posts as the U.S. Army approached Baghdad made for an easy target for U.S. air strikes. The destruction of her house, sadly, was collateral damage.

She easily befriended the U.S. Army soldiers who camped near her property, disarming them with hot Iraqi bread from her traditional stone oven. The soldiers reciprocated with blankets to protect her and her family from the chilly nights. When I first met Nadira, she was washing her family’s clothes in a basin next to the burned out carcasses of Iraqi tanks. The backdrop was a pile of melted metal that barely resembled a structure. That pile was all that remained of her house.

When I reflect in my mind’s eye on that scene years later, I’m sure the place was fully radioactive with exploded ordnance particles. But I was drawn to stop, chat and meet the woman, who appeared to have risen from the ashes — doing laundry, no less — and who would become a very dear friend to me.

Weeks after we met, Nadira’s husband was shot dead in front of the family in the middle of the night. That one bullet defined her life’s path.

As a widow, she could no longer live au plein air with her young children. As a widow, she had to fend off would-be suitors who lusted not only for her beauty, but also for her money. As a doctor, she was a woman of means. When she declined one suitor, he turned vengeful and arranged to have her kidnapped and tortured. But in an odd stroke of fate, she was away on business that day, and the kidnappers were instead greeted by her eldest daughter, a stunning beauty with her mother’s immense will. They took her instead. It would be several hours before Nadira negotiated her daughter’s release. She was returned alive. Her nose was broken and until this day, she refuses to speak of what happened to her.

In the years that ensued, I lost track of Nadira. After numerous attempts to contact her through email, my hopes of seeing her again diminished with time. But in the spring of 2014, 11 years after we met, I was delighted to get an email from her, and we began a correspondence. Within months of our renewed contact, she and her children would flee the violence in Baghdad to live as refugees in Jordan. She invited me and my family to visit them, but it took two more years for me to travel back to the Middle East. My coverage of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have deeply impacted me, and it was a difficult choice to return.

Before I arrived in Amman, I discussed with Nadira my interest in exploring how the ongoing conflicts in Syria and Iraq have impacted women. As part of the story, I wanted to visit the largest Syrian refugee camp in the world, the Za’atari Refugee Camp just north of Amman.

Nadira’s Jordanian friend Mahjub, a documentary film producer and actor offered to help me submit a request to visit the camp. I sent him all the necessary paperwork a month in advance and confirmed that he had secured the permission a week before my departure.

Because Jordanians on average earn less than $500 per month, they are always looking for ways to supplement their incomes. I had asked Nadira in advance what Mahjub wanted out of the deal. She assured me, with a twinkle in her eye, that he would be paid handsomely with some face time with her lovely daughters as Mahjub wanted to make one of them his bride.

The false fixer

I arrived in Jordan on a Wednesday afternoon. Mahjub came by and confessed that he did not have the permission for me to visit Za’atari after all, but assured me that he had an oral agreement from the Syrian Refugee Affairs Directorate and we simply needed to pick up the permission in person on Sunday and we could go directly to the camp to start reporting. On Saturday, he took his payment in advance, inviting Nadira’s family and me for dinner to his home about one and a half hours from Amman. The daughters, ages 16 to 28, groaned and rolled their eyes but agreed to spend an evening with Mahjub and his extended family on my behalf.

Mahjub led us to a farm on a mountainside instead, with an exquisite sunset view of Israel. Mahjub’s brother and his son accompanied by a farmer awaited us.

We could not go to the house as Mahjub’s sister-in-law had just given birth, he said, so they were hosting us on their family farm. We settled in to some plastic chairs on a rug that the farmer had just arranged.

Minutes later, a compact sedan pulled up and a man dressed in a western suit stepped out.

Mahjub quickly explained that this was his neighbor. Despite the cultural and language divide, it was clear that the man was perplexed, but seeing a foreigner in the midst, he stretched out his hand graciously. “I hope you are enjoying my property,” he said in perfect English. “Yes, very much. Thank you for welcoming us,” I replied, my own confusion growing. He greeted Nadira as well, inspected the scene one final time and then jumped back into his car. Mahjub, who doesn’t speak English, didn’t realize that he had been ratted out. Apparently, Mahjub had invited us to his neighbor’s farm without his permission.

Mahjub and his cousin Musa’id left to pick up lamb, chicken and flat bread, while his brother started the fire. We wandered around and took pictures of the sunset. During the meal, Mahjub repeatedly insisted on feeding me large chunks of meat by hand. After several forceful attempts, I accepted one piece by plucking it out of his fingers with my own hand and biting off the tip, giving him a wan smile. I hoped it would satisfy him and end the embarrassing interaction. It did not. And I accepted no further handouts. After our stomachs were filled, the daughters began to enjoy themselves. Tea was served and they bantered as Mahjub tried to impress them with his wit.

Mahjub had brought Musa’id hoping that I would hire him as my translator. As it was time to talk about the reporting, the cousins slyly pulled aside three chairs turning their backs on the group by the fire. Yes, he said, we can meet some prostitutes in Za’atari. Yes, yes of course. But maybe they may not want to talk to you. I pressed them to find out what they could offer the story. They would suggest an idea excitably and shoot it down in almost the same breath. I realized they had nothing — no contacts, and a negative attitude to boot. I’ve never minded working with rookie fixers and translators, but a negative attitude is one thing that will drain one’s energy. Fast.

At this point, Nadira realized what was happening, and she pulled up a chair, scolding them in Arabic. But it was of no consequence. Con men will try to find worthy victims, but I was not fooled by their duplicity.

We departed and thanked Mahjub and his family for their warm hospitality. Mahjub and Musa’id agreed that they would come the following morning to help me pick up the permission to visit the refugee camp.

I awoke early the next day in a cold sweat, knowing I could not trust Mahjub to do anything he said, and started making alternate plans for the coverage of my story. But to my surprise, Mahjub and Musa’id showed up on time. The cousins waited an hour for us, and were rightfully unhappy. Mahjub said that his contact at the Syrian Refugee office had already left for another appointment. We followed them in their vehicle nevertheless, circling Amman for one and a half hours, as Mahjub tried to find the office he professed to know. Nadira accompanied me at my request.

We signed in with the security office upon arrival. “Do you have an appointment?” “No,” replied Mahjub, contrary to his earlier claim. “Which refugee camp do you wish to visit?” “Azraq,” he replied. “No, no,” Nadira interrupted. “It’s Za’atari.” I’m not sure what game Mahjub was playing, but Nadira and I were on alert.

When we met the head of the Syrian Refugee Affairs Directorate, I was pleasantly surprised to find that he spoke fluent English. So I approached his desk, turning my back on Mahjub and Musa’id to negotiate the permission on my own terms. Nadira stood next to me to further block their view. By the time our meeting was done, the man promised to do his best to expedite my request to enter the Za’atari refugee camp to fit within my travel schedule.

Za’atari has had its share of security issues with riots in 2013, unsavory visitors preying on girls, and finally ISIS elements in the camp, according to King Abdullah in a BBC interview in February 2016. For those reasons, the security arm of the Jordanian government has a rigorous process of screening visitors.

I spent much of my two weeks in country in culture shock. And sticker shock. For translator services, I was quoted a day rate ranging from $150 to $750 per day. So I reached out to colleagues and friends to find English speakers who might be interested in working with a foreign journalist. The nature of the story being culturally sensitive, it was a challenge, to say the least.

I was informed by the Jordanian government’s press office that I could only hire Jordanians. But a Jordanian woman risks her reputation if she is seen speaking to a prostitute or going to a club known for prostitution. For a Jordanian man simultaneously, if he is so much as accused of inappropriate behavior towards a woman, for example, groping, he could be sent to jail for several years. The burden of proof is on the man. These protections are only applicable to Jordanian women since refugee women are not granted the same rights, but the risk is still high.

The Jordanian American siblings

At one point, a young woman of Jordanian American descent agreed over the phone to work with me for part of the story. She was working toward her physical therapy certificate and was working in Amman for a few months. I was ecstatic as she sounded like a lovely person who genuinely cared about the story I was reporting on and was not overly concerned about the compensation. Farah [pseudonmyn] invited me for tea to her home in a posh part of Amman. When I arrived, she greeted me carrying a very large stick and was accompanied by two nervous little dogs. She explained that the stick was to keep the dogs in line. In this part of the world, I was surprised to see a couple of pet dogs, as dogs are generally viewed as dirty.

We entered the property through large metal gates that opened to a well-shaded courtyard. An exquisite antique carriage stood in the driveway. Her father was a long-time collector and dealer of antiques, Farah explained. She led me to an unceremonious door and held out her hand to lead me in. The room was covered wall to wall and floor to ceiling in the most unbelievable inlaid mother of pearl furniture. In fact, the pieces were over 600-year old Ottoman period armoires that were once given by wealthy grooms as gifts to their brides. Each armoire took two years to make as the design incorporated intricate details over every inch of the entire piece, and each one was about eight feet tall.

She pointed to some other equally fantastic chairs for me to sit on. They were not as comfortable as they were handsome, but that was not my concern at the moment.

We chatted a few minutes about my story and research, and were then joined by her brother Anwar [pseudonym]. Over tea and fruit, I learned of their family history. Their mother is an American who teaches English in the United Arab Emirates. Their merchant father lives in Jordan. She and her brother both attended universities in the UAE, and were home in Amman for a few months. They grew up partly in Saudi Arabia, where their mother once worked. While there, they lived in a compound for foreigners and attended schools for foreigners, so they were not required to follow the local rules, particularly those required of Saudi women.

Although both siblings looked perfectly Arab to me, they explained that locals recognize that they have mixed heritage and have not grown up in Jordan. Farah said it was her facial expressions that gave her away. Anwar couldn’t quite put a finger on why he was such an open book, but he usually grew a beard when visiting Jordan to try to fit in better. We talked about their studies, Jordanian culture and the dire situation of refugees in Jordan.

Eventually, their father made an appearance from a scant pathway between the furniture. He was a round statured man in an opulent tan suit and a mustache that curled most eloquently. With formidable presence, he shook my hand and welcomed me in a deep resonant voice before disappearing out the front door. His departure was as dramatic as his entry. For a brief moment, it felt as if I’d entered onto the set of Lawrence of Arabia. Somehow I had the sense that he knew exactly what impact he had on people. The siblings sat quietly. Knowingly.

Sadly, I didn’t have the opportunity to work with Farah as family duties called her away. I would have enjoyed getting to know her better.

The Prostitute [pseudonym used for safety]

“I dance,” that’s how one Iraqi prostitute whom I met in Amman described her work, giving her shoulders a vigorous shake accompanied by a practiced and lascivious “tat-tat-tat” to further emphasize the point. But when pressed, Rana acknowledged that her real work involves sex.

Rana was willing to sit and talk to me only because she was menstruating and therefore unable to work.

Rana lives in a decent apartment in Amman, her living room graced by a large portrait of Saddam Hussein. Like most Iraqis I met in Jordan — Sunni and Shia alike, men and women of all ages, she misses the days when Saddam was in power. “The Iraq War was a great experiment,” said one Iraqi refugee, “but we wish now that Saddam was still alive and we could live in our own country.”

Rana’s father had died of a heart attack during the Iraq War in 2003 so her mother fled with her two sisters and four brothers to Jordan in the early days of the war. Not long after their arrival, her mother became ill and the family had no money for medical expenses. A friend introduced her to prostitution, she said. And now, “my sisters and I, we are all prostitutes.”

“The situation forced me to this decision, and even until now, I have not found another way to make a living,” said Rana. Rana explained that the cost of living in Jordan is prohibitive and without a college degree or training, she is unable to find other work that will pay enough to support her family.

At the club where she dances, she describes business this way: “If they offer, I accept or negotiate,” as she cannot afford to go home empty handed. Sex is conducted at the client’s place. Rana said she tries to work most days that she’s physically able and earns an average of $150 USD per night. She admits that she has had cosmetic surgery to help her business. She does not have a pimp and keeps all of her earnings.

“Every day, I go to work scared, but I have to stay strong as I have a family to support,” said Rana. Rana supports her mother, her adult daughter who is married to a Syrian man, and their two-year-old son. “I would not want my daughter to experience this, to see the torture I go through.”

She also paid for her four brothers to travel to Belgium in 2015, to the tune of $40,000. But until now, they are still in refugee camps, she said dejectedly.

When I finally met Nadira after so many years, it was a tearful reunion. At the airport, she and her adult children, met me with an enormous bouquet of bright flowers. I held her hand and marveled that I was seeing someone who had almost left this earth so many times. She smiled her beautiful smile but underneath was a sadness, a deep exhaustion. She walked gingerly, like a woman much, much older. The bullet that is still lodged near her neck from an assassination attempt left her with multiple health problems including the swelling of her feet.

Like many refugees in Jordan, Nadira usually goes out only to shop for food or when invited by other mother’s hoping to corral one of her daughters for marriage. Her children spend their days attending school or studying; the daughters are fearful of being harassed in the streets. Nadira’s 21-year-old son enjoys hanging out with other young Iraqi refugees in his spare time.

As a family, they watch the same American and Bollywood films repeatedly until the sun rises, and then sleep a few hours a day. When they awake, the daughters put on full make-up most days, to feel like they are living, they said. Quietly and desperately, the pattern of holding and waiting is repeated across hundreds of thousands of refugee households in Jordan every day.

The post Jordan: Women Refugees Turn to Prostitution for Survival – A Photojournalist’s Tale appeared first on cheryldiazmeyer.com.

Cheryl Diaz Meyer presents the president of the Philippines, Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, with one of her Pulitzer Prize-winning photographs from the Iraq War at the Malacañang Palace in Manila in 2004.

Dear Family, Friends and Colleagues,

I had barely gotten off the airplane with a couple of hundred other nameless folk, dazed and a little stupid from too much travel, when I was met with a sampaguita lei and a bouquet of roses from a correct staff woman from the Philippine Department of Tourism.  I was then smoothly guided through immigration, had only to point at my luggage before someone retrieved it off the belt for me, and then was led outside where an air-conditioned vehicle awaited to whisk me to the historic Manila Hotel.  It was a dream.   Who am I?

In early June I received a frantic phone call on my voicemail from a woman identifying herself as Gina from the Philippine Consulate in Chicago.  She wanted to know if I had received a fax inviting me to the Philippines to participate as one of the honorary “Outstanding Filipinos” to be highlighted during Independence Day for my winning the 2004 Pulitzer Prize for Breaking News Photography with my photos from Iraq.  I would ride in a parade float with notable Filipinos such as World Featherweight Boxing champion Manny Pacquiao and then meet Philippine President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo in the grandstand.  Would I come—all expenses paid?  It was one week before the June 12 celebrations and I was certain that I had misheard.   What government calls expecting you to fly clear across the seas on one-week notice?  And besides, I am busy trying to clean my house.

The weekend went by and I finally called Gina back three days later.  Indeed, it was true and the offer still stood.  Could I leave for the Philippines in two days?   I called my boss, Ken Geiger, whose response was– “I suppose you should do that” — and then the circus began.  I had 48 hours to get a whole wardrobe together just so I’d be prepared for any occasion for which I might be invited, as advised by Gina.

My coworkers were agog, each one giving advice as to how best I should wave in the parade.  I practiced each one just to show them I was very serious about their advice and then ran off to shop.  I didn’t even have time to buy gifts for my relatives in the Philippines. 

My mother insisted that I should not ride the float unless the Department of Tourism promised me a fleet of security.  Who does she think I am?  If someone was going to get knocked off at a parade full of dignitaries and other honorables, I don’t think I’d be the Numero Uno target.

Shortly after I was delivered to the hotel, my cousins Gigi and Marie arrived with my Tita Hilda and Tito No in tow, and they had taken the initiative to buy me an exquisite Filipiniana dress, a two-toned avocado green butterfly-sleeve gown, which fit perfectly with only minor adjustments.  Gigi had arranged the beautician, a woman who claimed expertise in both make-up and hair, to arrive at 5:30 a.m. so that I’d be coiffed and glammified for my first appearance– the Flag Raising ceremony at 7 a.m.

The beautician meticulously applied baby blue eyeshadow, which uplifted and opened my travel-weary, sleep-deprived eyes, and she even dabbed a little taupe shading along the sides of my nose to make it appear taller.  I was feeling my cells become more and more Filipino by the second.  By 7 a.m. my transformation was complete.  My hair was swept up in a French twist, and with my new slipper pumps, I felt like a beauty contestant even though I wouldn’t have made it far down the catwalk.  Heck, even if I did get any publicity out of the deal, not even the Abu Sayyaf in Mindanao would recognize me afterwards.

I attended the Flag Raising ceremony in Luneta Park as the sun was still low in the eastern sky and was introduced to a variety of folk including Manila’s Mayor Atienza, who after learning my credentials said he thought he was being introduced to Miss Dallas.  I flashed him my Miss Universe smile, the one my coworker Smiley forgot to teach me, and then I thanked the mayor.   Afterwards, I was invited to sit at a table of President Arroyo’s cabinet members and shared breakfast with foreign dignitaries, diplomats and politicians of all ilks.

Midday, I was booked for a variety of interviews, so we left the hotel room and were met by a cloud of smoke in the hallway through which I could identify a few teenage figures.  My temper flared, who is this *#!?*%* stinking up my hallway?  “Hiiiiii, C-e-h-h-d-r-i-c-k,” says a sultry child’s voice as my little 10-year-old niece, Andrea, comes up from behind with the rest of my relatives.  “Hiii,” he exhales in a puff of smoke.  My jaw drops and I pick it up quickly.  No, my niece doesn’t know the tall good-looking boy emerging into clear air, she knows of him since Cedrick Stinky is a famous teen actor as I am later informed. So I put my arm around my niece and direct her towards the elevator as she floats away.  Andrea is on Cloud Nine.

I gave three hour-long interviews in the hotel restaurant and then met with the other “Outstanding Filipinos” to be honored at the parade.  They were congregated in the main lobby, a massive colonial structure with intricate carved woodwork and mother of pearl chandeliers.  I met boxer Manny Pacquiao and took a picture of us with our fists at each other.  I met Patricia Evangelista, a teeny 18-year-old who won internationally for her speech “Blond and Blue Eyes,” the story of Filipinos moving away from their beloved homeland in search of opportunity.  The hotel was crawling with famous people and even my cousins were begging for their photos to be taken with some of the notables.

I have never attended the Independence Day celebrations in Manila since I grew up in the province of Albay.  This was truly an exciting event for me and I was as big of a geek as any, staring wide-eyed at all the floats and the performances.  In Manila, they call us provincial folk “Pram-de,” that is “pram de probince,” or translated into English “from the province.”

By the time our turn came in the parade, it had began to drizzle heavily.  All my glamour, including my taupe-enhanced, tall nose, was being washed away with each falling drop.  The floor of the float was wet and slippery, and worse yet, was that a wheel was broken and the whole float rolled and lurched treacherously as we tried to hang on, me in my impossibly high heels.  It was an extravagant float, so much so that it came in four pieces and when it arrived in front of the president it was supposed to split up and then each person or group would be announced with their accomplishments in grand tones over the loudspeakers.  I was supposed to be on the education float, but they had about 13 people crowding that little quadrant, so seeing the nearly empty section nearby, I decided to strategize.  If anyone would help me stay on my feet, it would be Boxer Manny and Tae Kwon Do Kid Mansour del Rosario, another champion in the bunch.  Both were gracious enough to allow me to cling pathetically to them.  If I could just make it without falling off the float or killing myself… 

In between lurchs on the float, I tried all the waves—the “Screw in the Lightbulb” wrist-only action wave, the “Miss Universe” elbow-action wave, the “Hi Mom, Do You See Me?” entire arm-action wave—I figured I’d better do them all just in case anyone at home asked me if I did their recommended wave.  My little digital camera was thrown to the wayside, and just when we were in front of President Arroyo, the skies opened and the rain poured… and all the photographers ran away.  My moment of glory would never to be recorded for posterity.  I gave one final wave, which felt more like I was flailing, and then was helped down by the two athletes.  By the time we reached the president in the grandstand, we were drenched.  She greeted each one of us warmly and later we took our photos with her.  I wasn’t feeling particularly glamorous, but I smiled as if my life depended on it.  President Arroyo joked that everyone should look at my little point-and-shoot camera since my photo would probably be worth a lot being from a Pulitzer Prize winner.  Then she was quickly escorted out and with the sound of the chopper in the distance we all turned back into pumpkins.

The following days were filled with interviews by television, radio, newspaper and magazine journalists.  I had one photo shoot where I was seated in the middle of a grand staircase.  I turned my head this way and that and tossed my hair around just to get the feel of being a true glamour girl.  The Department of Tourism was insistent that I should be interviewed for their own television show.  The hosts were two middle-aged pretty women, former soft porn stars I was told, who in their tight mini skirts and low-cut body-fitting blouses started the show with some salsa dancing as they approached the stage.  Everything was jiggling and shaking.  All I kept thinking was, just please– make it stop.  One of them, it turns out, was a Magna cum Laude from a prestigious university in the Philippines, but now they were both respectable because they since have born children.

My favorite television interview was by an MTV-like show for young people; the host’s name was Ketchup.  The team was made up of five guys in their early 20’s headed by a flaming gay producer, and they promised me that this was not going to be a “hard” interview.

“Thank you, Miss Cheryl Diaz Meyer, for joining us….blah, blah, blah…”  First question, “So, what did you receive for winning the Pulitzer Prize?” asks Ketchup.  “A little crystal pyramid from Tiffany’s engraved with my name on it, a certificate and $10,000 to be shared with my co-worker David Leeson.”  “At saka isang sakong bigas? (And one sack of rice?)”  “No, walang sakong bigas, but if I want, I can buy my own sakong bigas…or two.”  Ketchup was referring to the classic prize given out to contestants throughout the Philippines for everything from winning a singing contest to game shows.  I remember when my family first immigrated to the U.S. and I had a whole summer to watch television before the school year began.  I would watch “The Price is Right” and cry for joy with the contestants as Bob Barker would announce the prizes:  cars, jewelry, cruises to Aruba.  In the Philippines, one might win a sack of rice.

Question two, “Miss Diaz Meyer, do you have any super heroes?”  “I’m sorry, excuse me?  Do you mean heroes?”  “No, superheroes, like Superman or Wonder Woman?”  “Well, I’m Catwoman, didn’t you know?”  “Oh,” says Ketchup, flustered.  “Great, well, uh, would you be willing to take a picture of us?”  “Sure, but I don’t have a camera.”  Hands start flying into bags and the producer hands Ketchup a cell phone, which he hands to me.  I look hard at it, but don’t see a shutter.  “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to use this.”  Ketchup looks at the cell phone and throws it at the producer, “Bakla!  This doesn’t have a camera—what are you doing to me?”  “Was that a trick question?” I ask.  “No,” shaken, Ketchup gets his wits back, “So, I understand that you are a fan of Jessa Zaragoza (famous Filipina singer).”  “Yes, I a-d-o-r-e Jessa Zaragoza.”  “What would you do if you had the chance to meet Jessa today?”  “I would kneel in front of her,” I say in the vein of being outrageous.  “Would you mind singing us one of her songs?”  In the corner of my eye, the producer is standing with his legs apart, knees locked and his hands together praying as he silently begs that I accommodate the request.  But I simply can’t think of a single line… “No.”  “Please.”  “No.  I’m not going to embarrass myself that way.” “Ok, well, then to sign off, would you do a little hand sign with me for our guests?”  I pretend like I’m dusting my shoulder off in sync with Ketchup.  My cousin Gigi is impressed.  I was interviewed by Ketchup.

Somewhere along the way, the wife of a childhood friend calls me.  “Hi Cheryl, this is Edna Belleza, the wife of your former classmate Arnold.  I was trying to reach you…and now I work for the president’s Chief of Staff.  We were wondering, would you be interested in touring the Malacañang Palace?  That’s the Philippine equivalent of the White House.  Sure, if it involves a meeting with GMA (President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo), I say teasingly.  Well, let me see if we can arrange that.  When are you available?  Hours later, it’s arranged.  The president has changed her schedule to meet with me.

And through another series of jokes and teasing, I get someone to set up a meeting for me with former President Cory Aquino.  Had I wanted, I could also have met former First Lady Imelda Marcos!   Who am I?

As my tour continues, one cousin drops off with a stomach bug and by the fifth and last day of my visit, the second chaperone cousin waves me off with a sore throat.  I’m the only one left standing to tour the Malacañang and to meet GMA.  So I get myself rigged up with my little camera and a signed print of my work, which I’m going to gift to her, and set off for the palace.  I’m greeted by the Assistant to the Chief of Staff who is a warm, earthbound sort of woman despite her position.   A gaggle of photographers are waiting to make pictures of me and GMA, and them with me.  Before GMA enters the seating room I’m moved at the last minute from one seat to the next as a staff member tries to stage the meeting for the photo op.  I’m practically giggling, the whole thing is so outrageous.   And the photographers are most definitely giggling.

GMA is announced with dramatic flair by someone whose job it is announce the president each time she makes an entrance, and she comes out smiling simply and greets me warmly, leaning forward in permission for me to give her a kiss on the cheek.  She accepts my photo and positions it out towards the camera, holding the pose as flashes blitz across the room.  I take my own camera and take pictures of her posing with my photograph from Iraq and the photographers in the background.  They are going crazy enjoying the scene of me making photos of GMA.  It’s an all around circus.  Finally, the photographers are led away and we sit down together.

President of the Philippines, Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, with one of Cheryl Diaz Meyer’s Pulitzer Prize-winning photographs from the Iraq War at the Malacañang Palace in Manila in 2004.

She tells me she is glad that I didn’t catch a cold from the rain on Independence Day.  I tell her it wasn’t a big deal.  In any case, I’m sure you have endured worse in Iraq.  Yes, and at least there are no dust storms in the Philippines.  We talk about the elections in the Philippines and the fact that the results haven’t been announced because the opposition is claiming fraud.  She says her government will have to announce that she has won in the next day or so.  After some niceties, the conversation stalls, so I bring up what’s closest to my heart: the plight of Filipino overseas workers, particularly in the Middle East.  I tell her that I have met and photographed them in Kuwait and it is a very, very, deeply troubling situation.  Some of the women who had gone there to work as domestic helpers were paralyzed from jumping out of windows to escape abuse, some had been raped and had born children there, others were starved and forced to work with little sleep.  I told her that I hoped the Philippine government would not forget these people, some of whom are practically enslaved, because if the government would not look out for their welfare, then who would?  At this point, GMA’s smile began to freeze on her face and she stopped agreeing and nodding at each statement.  I let the conversation lull and she changed the subject.

Later I found out that on that same day one of the major newspapers in Manila had attacked GMA’s government for not looking out for Filipino overseas workers.  Some say the Philippines rests on the backs of these overseas workers, that the economy would literally crash if not for the millions of dollars sent home each year to family members.  How can a government complain when it needs every dime sent home by Filipinos who do backbreaking work for a pittance, even if some of them might as well be indentured?

We left on a good note, GMA insisting that I have brought much honor to the Philippines.  I later received an invitation from Edna asking if I wanted exclusive rights to photograph GMA June 30 as she is sworn in for her second term as president.  I am honored but must decline.  My life in Dallas awaits.

 

Love,

Cheryl

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