Camel Whip

Cowering under the kitchen table, I frantically push myself backwards. Hands squeaking on the linoleum floor.

“You get over here, my girl” he bellows, whip in hand.

“Don't you talk to me like that.”

Grabbing at the corner of the tablecloth, reaching for me, his tentacled hand roughly scratches my knee.

“YOU COME HERE, good girl.”

I shrink my body, using the table as my shield. He snatches at my right leg and pulls sharply.

Coarse hands against fragile skin.

Clawing,

Groping,

Hands too strong for a child to resist.

Whip!

I let out a shriek of pain. Desperate to land a stronger blow, I hear leather braiding concealing hard metal as it cuts the air sharply.

Whip!

Again, this time harder.

WHIP, WHIP!

True to their name -- and if used correctly -- whips cut the air with a characteristically whipping sound

What kind of person visits Giza, and instead of being suitably astonished by such a scene, is instead engrossed...nay, enamoured by the instrument used to beat a camel?

What

kind

of

person?

As I imagine him riding the dusty train behind a procession of other tourists on dirty, mistreated camels, he marvels at the regularity of violence that goes unchecked. Camels, tamed and beaten down by the incessant whacks of the many whips.

Where did he purchase such a souvenir, I wonder?

Upon disembarking from the dusty back of his chosen beast of burden, did he politely ask his guide where he might purchase his very own whip? Did a local guide with a knowing smile intuit that he did not mean to tame a camel at all?

Indeed, there were few, if any, camels inhabiting the Welsh valleys. At least none that roamed freely, to my memory. Children, on the other hand, were in abundant supply.

Spare the rod, spoil the child, and all of that.

The rod looms large in my imagination. It is kept on top of the mantelpiece as a warning. No child in this house shall transgress. There are consequences to actions, painful consequences that take days, weeks, to heal. If they in fact ever do heal. Sometimes, after enough years have passed us by, and if we are lucky, our pain morphs into that which should not be mentioned in polite company.

The whip is beige and brown coarse leather caressing metal, with a handy loop dangling from the handle that slips over the wrist…lest you lose your grip.

“I've told you not

whip!

to talk

whip!

to me

whip!

like that

whip!

With precision, each movement lands on target. Snarling and out of breath, he is pulled back by my mother who has heard the commotion and run into the kitchen.

“That's enough, Jesus!” she screams, as she turns to me with affected frustration,

“Come out from there, for God's sake, and behave.”

She is equal parts angry with us both. A cascade of insults erupts and washes over the room like hot lava, it's scorching and viscous train licking at the edges of normality. Just another happy Saturday. I hear my sister crying as their shouting reaches fever pitch.

Winded from the effort, he stumbles and almost falls over a chair. Clutching my stinging thigh, I watch from under the table as all 6”3 of him wobbles unsteadily. He storms off into another room, slamming the door so that it rattles on its hinges.

I have my own whip now. It's black leather handle with perforated cutouts and metal studs rests easy in my small hand. Without the strength of brute force, I am the dark mistress that men yearn for, pay for, and adore. The same hands that once frantically sought shelter from the lashes of a camel whip years ago now wield a weapon of their own.

I. WAS. A. CHILD.

Consenting individuals beg me to do unto them what was done unto me.

Yet, I. WAS. A. CHILD.

They beg me to talk dirty to them. Demean them. Make them feel small.

Being a Mistress doesn’t come easy to me, so I conjure up the image of a girl desperately trying to escape the cruel bite of leather and metal lashes. I remember in that moment what it feels like to be so small and afraid. That lasting imprint of a demonic man hungry to dominate remains etched in my memory. It drives my rage as I unleash torrents of pleasure and pain.

I think of all the girls and women who cannot fight back against their abusers, as I raise my whip high and bring it down hard upon smooth, white, unbroken flesh.