I was staring down the barrel of an AK-47.
Well, wasn't this just awesome. I wondered if the boy was going to shoot me. Is he Taliban? Is this it? Could I draw my rifle fast enough to kill him. Some small part of me didn't want to have to do that. Maybe I could talk to him.
"As-salaam alaikum," I said. I hardly knew any Pashto, only the three phrases I had learned from Maria, while we were sitting around.
I studied him. What did he want? He inched closer.
He spoke, pointing at my rifle. I didn't understand what he meant. He kept pointing at it, and he began to get agitated. By now, I was really getting scared.
I realized he wanted me to put my rifle down. Moving slowly--my side was still hurting and I didn't want make any sudden movements--I laid my rifle on the ground, wondering if he had noticed the nine-millimeter strapped to my leg.
He started yelling at me. My hands were still up, but my left side was throbbing, and weak from the injury. He jabbed his rifle in the direction that he wanted me to move. I made my way through the flock of sheep. When I stopped walking, I felt the muzzle digging into my back and heard more harsh words, so I resumed walking.
I wondered where we were going. I was trying to suppress the sense of panic, but I could feel it rising up inside me. Would he lead me to my death? Would he hand me over to the Taliban? I wondered if I should try to grab the rifle from him. I mean, what was he--nine, maybe ten? The size of Afghan people could be misleading. They were so slightly built that I had mistaken grown men for twelve-year-olds.
However slight, they were strong. And swift. If I tried to grab his rifle, chances were that the boy would shoot me. But if he was taking me to the Taliban, death might be the better option.
No. Don't think like that. Think about survival. The guys are coming for you. They won’t stop looking for you. My mind began to fill with doubt. How would they even know where to look for me?
We walked on. Every so often, the butt of the rifle jammed against my back. Not only was I frightened, I was starting to feel annoyed.
After what felt like twenty minutes, we arrived at a small hut, surrounded by large boulders. It looked like a typical Afghan house, made of mud bricks with dingy white cloths hanging as window coverings. It was very small, one room, perhaps two. The boy ran around in front of me and pointed the rifle at my face. I froze. I saw that he also had carried my rifle on his back. With his rifle still trained on me, the boy yelled something over his shoulder. There was silence. I waited. Would a Talib come out and take me away to be executed? Or worse?
Being a female prisoner of war would be very bad. I had heard stories about what happened to female prisoners. The Taliban showed even more cruelty towards women, because they considered it an insult to be engaged in combat with them. I didn't know if it was true, and I didn't want to find out.
He shouted again. A little girl in a bright blue hijab came out of the house and walked towards us. They began to talk to one another, and the boy kept his rifle trained on me, sometimes gesturing with it as he spoke.
Without warning, the girl reached out and grabbed my hand. "Brit-ah-ney Spears?" she said.
What? Wait. Oh.
Oblivious to the rifle that was still pointed at me, she began to tug me by the hand towards the hut. This was quite bizarre.
"Brit-ah-ney Spears,” she said.
"I'm not Britney Spears. Let me go."
The boy made a threatening gesture with his rifle. I walked into the small house, with the little girl holding my hand. The boy followed, still aiming the rifle at me. It seemed he didn't trust me quite as much as she did.
She motioned for me to sit on the floor. When I did, she ran to the far corner of the room and pulled something from a roll of bedding. She brought it over to me. It was a picture of Britney Spears. I smiled. I guess I looked like that to her. I guess any blonde, American female would have fit the bill.
It seemed that they weren't going to kill me, just yet. It felt good to sit down, and to be out of the sun. The girl spoke quietly to the boy. I looked at the two of them. They must be brother and sister. They were too young to be married, of that I was sure. I wondered where their parents were.
The boy sat my rifle down next to the door. I still couldn’t believe that the boy hadn’t taken my nine-millimeter. It was in plain view, but maybe he didn't know what it was. I didn't think about it too hard. All I knew was that I was bone-tired and in a lot of pain. Although I drank my fill of that nasty water, I was thirsty again, and feeling a little hot.
I wished I knew what they were talking about. I was pretty sure by now that the boy wasn't a Talib. But he could still decide to turn me over to them. After another minute or two, the girl went outside. This made me uncomfortable, as I felt that she was my protector. I looked at the boy, trying to guess his intentions.
The girl returned with a bucket.
Water!
She went over into the corner and fired up a little stove.
I looked at her brother. He seemed to have relaxed a little, as if he felt certain that I wasn't just going to run away. I was, but not at that moment. I didn't have the energy to get very far. His sister said something to him, and he sighed. She approached me with a small cup in her hand.
Tea. She made me tea. She placed it in front of me, looking anxious. I picked it up and took a sip. It was mint tea. It tasted sweet and delicious.
"Mihrbaanii," I said. Thank you.
She smiled at that. I wished with all that was in me that I knew more Pashto. She brought over something else. Naan. Bread. Oh, yes. My mouth began to water. As soon as she placed it in front of me, I snatched it up. I devoured the small piece of bread almost instantly.
Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. These kids could help me, if I could just find a way to communicate better with them. I changed my posture, and felt a stabbing pain in my side. I groaned and doubled over, almost blacking out.
"Brit-ah-ney Spears?"
I felt little hands on my side, untying my blouse and lifting up my shirt. She started shouting at her brother. Her brother shouted back. When she touched me, the pain lit up my back.
"Ahh!" I cried out, and she jerked her hand away.
I wanted to push her away. I knew she was just concerned, but if she touched that wound with her hands, it would become infected for sure. I think her intention was to wash it, but the water here wasn’t clean.
I took her hands and patted them, and then I retied my blouse. "It's okay," I said.
She seemed confused, and tried to reach for my wound again. I took her hands and held them. She seemed to understand.
Her brother was watching from the doorway. He seemed almost bored now, his rifle pointed only in my approximate vicinity.
Maybe if I could reason with them, they would let me go. The sister seemed fond of me. I guessed she must really like Britney Spears. I wondered if I could get the brother to let me go.
I had bigger problems. I was in agony. It was so bad that I could no longer sit up. It felt like my whole side was on fire. I was exhausted, and the events of the last twenty-four hours had started to catch up with me. I lay my head on the floor and closed my eyes. I just needed to rest for a little while.
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Khalesia looked at the light-haired woman lying on the ground of her house. She knew that the woman wasn't really Britney Spears, but she looked like Britney, and these were the only English words Khalesia knew. Her brother, Musa, had given her the picture and taught her how to pronounce the name. Those were happier times.
"She is the most famous woman in all the world," Musa had said. "Maybe one day, we will meet her. I wanted to give it to you, sister."
Khalesia had hidden the picture. Possessing such materials was a crime punishable by death. Even to speak an English word was forbidden, and in teaching her to speak in the language of the enemy, Musa had taken a risk. Khalesia knew her brother loved her and would do anything to please her.
The woman seemed to be in a lot of pain. Khalesia wondered if her brother had had something to do with it, but she didn't quite believe that he was capable of hurting anyone. He had changed, after their parents died. So had she.
"Why did you shoot her?" she said to Musa.
"I didn't shoot her! She was already like that."
"Well, then why did you lead her back here?"
"Because. She was near our sheep. She could have been a thief."
"Really! She is badly hurt. I hardly think she could have stolen anything."
Musa let out a sigh. "Father would have done it."
"Father isn’t here anymore. I think it was very bad to bring her here. Someone will be looking for her. The American might drop more bombs."
Musa said nothing, but he looked ashamed.
An American bomb had killed their father. At least, that is what the Talibs had told everyone who was in the market that day. Khalesia didn't believe it. She didn't believe anything the Talibs said.
"We have to get rid of her. If we kill her now, no one will come."
Khalesia shook her head. "Are you crazy? We cannot kill her."
"If she is here and the Americans come back, they will kill us. Or worse. What if Talibs come? We gave her tea, bread. They will think we are helping her."
Khalesia straightened her hajib. She was a proper Afghan girl, even if she and Musa were orphans. As long as she kept their home clean and Musa took care of the sheep, no one else needed to know that. Besides they lived far from town, and no one questioned why the two children lived on their own. Musa was nearly thirteen. The Talibs would soon consider him a man. Technically, this was his house now. But Khalesia was the boss, and they both knew it.
"We will not hurt her,” Khalesia said. “She is already hurt. I do not believe that she will hurt us." She glanced at the woman, who was groaning now. "If the Americans come, they come. Perhaps they will kill more Talibs."
"Khalesia, you should not talk this way. If the Talibs find her here, they will kill her first, then us. If we hand her over to the Talibs, then they will have nothing to find. We won't get in trouble."
"We are already in trouble. You should have thought about that before you brought her here. And we are not giving her to the Talibs. I won't give them anything. Do you not remember what happened to our mother?"
Musa's eyes hardened.
Khalesia understood. The both knew the extent of the Taliban’s cruelty. After their father was killed, their mother had been left to care for them alone. It was bad enough that she was a widower, but this was Taliban country. Talibs did as they pleased in these parts, and they ruled with the countryside with fear and intimidation. They would kill for even the tiniest perceived infraction.
The last time Khalesia had seen her mother, she’d been preparing to go into town to fetch supplies from the market. Musa normally did that for her, to keep his mother out of sight, but on that day, he was ill and needed medicine. With the little money they had, their mother had gone out.
She never returned.
After holing up in the house for days, Musa was too ill, so Khalesia had bravely made the journey into town to inquire about her mother’s whereabouts. A shopkeeper told her what happened. That day, in her rush to get Musa’s medicine, Khalesia’s mother went to town alone without a male escort. She was a good Muslim woman, but her only male relative within a reasonable distance was Musa. The Talibs captured her and dragged her through the streets, shouting that she was an unclean woman, an evil woman, an adulterous woman.
"Allah demands that she be executed," proclaimed the Taliban leader.
They killed her in the street. All the townspeople gathered to watch her being stoned to death. People had cheered.
Khalesia went home to fetch Musa, and together they had tried to recover her body, but someone, or something, had taken it. They had not even been able to bury their mother. Since that day, Khalesia had hated the Taliban, and she would do anything to thwart them. Even helping Americans.
"What will we do if they come?" Musa asked her.
"We will manage. Allah will help us to make a way."
They both looked at the woman who was lying motionless on the ground. Was she dead? Khalesia went over and put her hand on the woman’s chest.
The woman’s heart was beating, and Khalesia could feel the air moving in and out of her lungs. She was sleeping. Thank goodness.
Just then, Khalesia heard the rumble of a truck pulling up in front of the house.
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Dear Readers,
I hope you've enjoyed the story thus far. Thanks for reading.
Some people have asked me how they can support this story. Simply friend me, or like it or write a comment if you wish. You can also tell your friends about it if you like.
This week I thought I would share some interesting news about women joining the combat forces. The Navy is now allowing women into the Riverine Forces. These are the forces that help to transport the Navy SEALS to their destination. Soon, women are expected to be able to join all ranks of military service.
If you want to read about the story, just use the link below:
http://abcnews.go.com/Politics/wireStory/women-heading-navy-riverine-combat-jobs-20812470
Stay tuned for Chapter 6 next week.
Cheers,
Nicki ;-)