Koumay Mulhem, a young Syrian journalist, has been researching Iraqi prostitution in Syria for a year as a reporter for an online women's magazine, and is preparing to make a documentary about it. Mulhem serves as my tour guide of sorts one recent Friday night as I try to get a sense of how widespread Iraqi prostitution is here.

Our first stop is Martyrs' Square, the center of Damascus. With the Damascene charm of Middle Eastern nut and juice shops, Al-Merjeh, as it is locally known, is somewhat reminiscent of New York's Times Square of the 1980s: seedy side streets, a plethora of one-star hotels, and pimps. Within minutes, Mulhem locates a pimp, a shoeshine boy, and quickly begins bartering with him.

"I have farfourd," says the pimp, using the slang for very young girls. "Fifteen years old."

"I need younger," Mulhem says.

"Yes, we can find them. Iraqi girls. The cleanest you can find. You'll never see anything like these girls. They'll make you very happy."

"How much?"

"Since you're more than one -- 1,500 Syrian pounds [$30]."

Mulhem balks. The demonstration is over, and so he breaks the deal and walks away. "Two minutes," he says, a terse commentary on how easy it was to transact a deal.

Mulhem says that Al-Merjeh has long been a place to find pimps, even before the influx of Iraqis. It's a transit point for taxi drivers, who transport men to prostitutes in suburban apartments in Jeramana, Berze and Sayeda Zainab (these districts house many Iraqi Christians, Kurds and Shiites, respectively). "Prostitution is flourishing in these areas," Mulhem says. "I'm a resident of Jeramana and there's a new place for prostitution within my own building."

He notes that Russian and Moroccan sex workers operated in Syria during the mid-1990s. A comparatively smaller influx of Iraqi prostitution came after Operation Desert Storm, but "since the last Gulf War, there has been a flood that everybody has felt."

At the square we hop into a taxi. Just after we state our destination, the cab driver begins soliciting us. He tells us about girls in "furnished apartments" in the suburbs and offers us a room "with a 16 year-old maid. You will see something you'll never believe," he says.

We decline and head to Rabwah, a neighborhood with about 20 clubs -- mostly with Syrian and Moroccan sex workers, but now with more Iraqis, Mulhem says. Before entering one, Mulhem pulls me aside. "These places are dangerous," he says. "Don't speak English. You're Turkish now, OK?" An American presence would arouse too much suspicion, he says, as locals are the expected patrons.

In one club, girls in low-cut halter tops walk hand in hand along a fashion runway-like platform. Blaring music makes conversation impossible and so we decide to leave. As we do, a man joins us to help us find "the right club." We hail a cab and head to the upscale neighborhood Mezza. We end up at the Manara nightclub, where I met Farah weeks ago. This is the place, our companion says, where the best Iraqi girls are found, and their youth is a premium.

This time the girls are more aggressive. As soon as we sit down, four instantly arrive at our table, squeezing in tightly, knitting their hands into ours. Alia and Noura sit beside our Syrian photographer, who turns to them and asks why two are presenting themselves to him.

"She's my sister," says Alia, who says she's 18 but looks much more like 14. "We always go together."

"Where are you from?"

"Baghdad."

"Did you bring your sister here?"

"No, my mother brought us," says Alia, suddenly looking a bit sullen.

"Do you like your mother?" our photographer asks.

"Of course," she answers, slightly defensive. "Now you have to choose between me and my sister."

Sitting beside Mulhem is Dana, who says she's from the "jihad neighborhood of Baghdad," but doesn't name the district. He's trying to negotiate a way to spend time with her to talk about her experience and how she landed the work.

"How much time would you spend with me? What are you going to do?" he asks.

"I'll make you happy in any way you want," Dana says. But first she has to check with her brother, seated just behind Mulhem, about prices and availability. They agree on $100 and a rendezvous tomorrow afternoon (Mulhem doesn't show up). The deal is closed and our evening winds down -- unless we decide to do more business. We decline. The girls are disappointed and we head out in the night.

As we stroll alongside the Mosque of President Hafez Assad, Mulhem tries to calculate the number of prostitutes in Damascus. There were about 40 girls in the Manara nightclub, he says. Now multiple that number by approximately 120 clubs and you have a pretty good estimate. Streetwalkers constitute a smaller number, and who knows how many prostitutes operate in "furnished apartments." As we continue walking down the windy street, Mulhem grows reflective. Referring to Dana, he says, "She's just a child. They're all just children."

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