“There’s no escaping under my watch!”
The shock of the attack stunned her, but Rebecca’s fear grew when she was forced to accompany her captors as they headed away from the main roads, following a network of mysterious pathways through the merciless terrain. Hands and feet tightly bound, with every inch of her body hurting and bleeding, she was bounced about on the back of a motorbike. She had no idea what these wild men had in mind and could not dispel thoughts of rape before they killed her.
After four grueling hours and many miles of agony for her, they reached what looked like a family encampment between the mountains. Based on the horror of the bombing, it came as a surprise to arrive at such a peaceful place in the middle of nowhere. It was also a relief for her broken body and traumatized mind to catch a break. She had been badly banged up from the blast and worried about the open cuts on her body. Without proper disinfection and stitches, there was always a chance of her wounds becoming septic.
Luckily, her shrapnel wounds were mostly superficial, and the worst injury was to her wrist. She must have fractured it when she had dived out of the truck, and her hands took the brunt of her fall. Almost a month after her arrival, sitting in the cave and suspiciously watching the activities around her, Rebecca bandaged her hand with strips torn from old rags that Mullah Shaheen’s sister Gulnoor had given her. The splints, fashioned from bits of wood, offered her some relief, though her wrist and palms were still swollen and sore.
Caves, tents, and corrugated sheets propped up to form sheds and the wide-open spaces of the compound; this was her new home. Rebecca lived in the women’s quarters. She recognized Gulnoor from the time the ailing woman visited the hospital. She felt sorry that someone in her condition lived in this remote, primitive place without medical attention.
Without a biopsy and blood tests, it was impossible to make an accurate diagnosis, yet Rebecca’s experience assured her that Gulnoor had breast cancer, and her condition was getting worse.
Cancer has most likely spread beyond her breasts with their telltale lumps, thought Rebecca. The redness and swelling, the dimpled skin that’s warm to the touch, her swollen arm; constant fatigue; the signs are all there.
The hardships of living as a nomad were taking a toll on the ailing woman. The night before when Gulnoor moaned, tossing and turning at night, Rebecca prepared warm rags which she applied to the woman’s aching breasts and soothed her back to sleep.
Gulnoor was the only person who showed any consideration for her. Everyone else glared at her or ignored her, as Rebecca tried to cope with her physical and mental pain, the fate of her companions, and the loss of Ron. She refused to eat until hunger got the better of her. Almost every day for the past month, she had tried to run away, only to be dragged back and beaten with a thick rope.
Sitting alone, feeling her wrist, she observed the people and the goings-on. Their clothing was traditionally loose-fitting and conservative. The men wore long shirts and waistcoats, over baggy trousers, with large turbans or pakols on their heads. They always carried an arsenal of weaponry with them.
The women wore embroidered full-skirted, long-sleeved dresses over loose shalwars, with a large chador covering their heads and bodies even when they were at home. Rebecca had an old set of clothes belonging to someone, which made her blend in with the others. The men rarely spoke to the women and communicated through the children, mostly boys.
During the day, most of the men left the camp on bicycles or motorbikes or foot, while the women tended to the animals and household chores. The children did not attend school but learned to read the Quran at home. Those who were old enough, especially the girls, helped their mothers. Any free time seemingly was devoted to working on sewing, decorating intricate embroidery on their dresses, or spinning wool from the goat’s hair gathered to knit blankets and sweaters to keep them warm during the bitter winter in the area.
There were about 35 people in the camp; though some came and went, many returned quite often. The nucleus seemed to be about 10 men, eight women and children of varying ages from about 2 to 15. It appeared that the men and older boys were training for combat. Apart from the primitive conditions without running water and electricity, life seemed peaceful and ordered here; everyone knew their place and never tried to overstep their boundaries.
As far as Rebecca could see, there were mountains all around; nothing unusual for where she was. She cast a glance at a valley in the distance. Then she saw it.
Is that a column of smoke out there? she wondered as her heart leaped with excitement.
Wanting to get a better look, she turned to see if anyone was watching her. She scowled when she spotted today’s watchdog, Musa, perched on a stone wall to the side, leering at her with a knowing look on his nasty face.
“I’ve got my eye on you,” he seemed to say. “There’s no escaping under my watch!”
A few kids played a little bit further down towards the edge of the clearing, and she decided to walk over there.
She saw Musa, alert, and ready to move. He took a step down, intending to follow her, but on seeing her glance back, he thought better of it and stayed where he was. He could see for miles around, so there was no question of losing sight of the American woman. Rebecca remained in plain sight until she reached the middle of the clearing, then darted behind a rock where she could get a better view of the smoke.
Looks like a dwelling, she surmised. Must be two to three mountains away. I’m going to try to head there tonight!
She heard Musa’s hurried steps behind her and quickly continued towards the boys.
There were three of them; she guessed they ranged from 8 to 12 years old. They had drawn a large circular target on the ground and were throwing stones to hit the center. Engrossed in their game, they did not notice Rebecca until she was close. Seeing her, they stopped their game and stared at her. Rebecca picked up a stone and threw it at the target. A perfect hit. A boy threw a rock and hit the center. Rebecca tossed another pebble, but this time she was way off. She pulled a wry face, and all the kids started laughing. She even saw Musa smiling.
What are these kids doing here? she wondered if they would talk to her. She decided to find out.
One of the boys who stood by shyly had the loveliest, large, green eyes she had seen.
“What’s your name?” she asked in her still limited Pashto. Her ability to pick up languages quickly had been a plus when she interviewed to join the mission.
He shied away though smiled, revealing the deepest dimples she had seen, while the kid who had challenged her stood next to him and said, “He is Ahmad. I am Mohammed, and this is Arif.”
“I am Rebecca.”
“Rebeeeka,” said Mohammed, elongating the vowels.
“No, Re…bec…ca.”
“Re…bec…ca,” the three practiced together and then broke into laughter over their futile efforts.
She joined in the hilarity; in this God-forsaken place, mirth bought a welcome respite.
She remembered seeing Gulnoor smack Mohammed in frustration, as only a mother could; realizing who the talker here was, she decided to get more information from him.
“Mohammed, you are Gulnoor Bibi’s son?”
“Yes,” said Mohammed.
“My father is Mullah Shaheen,” confirmed Arif importantly, and Rebecca nodded.
He was a replica of his father, and Rebecca ignored him, looking instead at Ahmad.
“Ahmad has no parents. They…,” Rebecca held Mohammed’s hand to hush him, wanting to hear what Ahmad had to say.
Too late, she realized from the looks on their startled faces that touching was not acceptable behavior. She released Mohammed’s hand, but the situation felt awkward now. Rebecca thought quickly. She liked the kids and was getting tired of being alienated.
“Do you know where I come from?” she asked.
“You’re from the bad foreign land where non-believers live,” remarked Mohammed.
Rebecca sat cross-legged on the dusty ground and waited for the kids to join her. When they squatted around her, she continued, seeking the right words in their language.
And Ron’s words — “The only religion here is Islam, and we must be ever mindful of that fact in this region” — came to her mind before she could stop them.
The recollection made her catch her breath, and she had to bite her lips to stop her tears. She decided to fight back.
“That’s what you think. But we worship our own God and think that people who don’t believe in our God are non-believers!”
She watched the kids closely to see their reactions. They seemed puzzled and yet interested, with varying levels of doubt and resentment. Ahmad was confused about how to respond but listened and allowed her to talk. Arif muttered something she did not fully understand.
“How far is your home?” Ahmad asked.
Rebecca drew a map on the ground with her finger and, asking questions, realized how little they knew.
They talked for another hour. As Rebecca picked up new words, she tried to figure out these kids.
Ahmad was very different from the others, and Rebecca saw that Mohammed was very protective of him. Arif made fun of Ahmad, who never fought back. She now realized that there were other kids like Ahmad, who did not have parents, and Rebecca was puzzled by them, though orphans were commonplace in this war-ravaged region.
During her meeting with Ron’s father, he had mentioned there had been a search to find some kidnapped boys. Now Rebecca wondered whether the bombing, the kidnapped kids and Mullah Shaheen were somehow linked. Once or twice, she had managed to ask Shaheen why he had bombed their vehicles, but he had just laughed and raised his hands to Heaven. It would be good to know what drove him to commit that evil act.
The families here all seemed very gentle, but Rebecca had experienced the monstrous thing the men had done, about which no one talked.
She chatted with the boys until there was a call for dinner, and they made their way to their separate dining areas. Ahmad stayed close to her, and Rebecca liked that. As Arif went to his father to report what he had learned, Rebecca noticed a look of concern on Shaheen’s face, and she felt a little sense of victory.
Rebecca waited impatiently. Gulnoor was taking forever to sleep, twisting and turning long after Amu, her two-year-old, finally slept. On hearing her snores, Rebecca quietly got up and adjusted her pillow to make a body shape under her blanket.
Zoya, Shaheen’s wife, was a very light sleeper. Rebecca knew this since the woman got up to relieve herself at least three times at night, stumbling over Rebecca in her hurry to get outside.
The restroom consisted of a designated spot behind some rocks with strategically placed bricks to squat on. The small open-air space made private by bushes was filthy; the level of hygiene was appalling. When nature called, Rebecca, ever fearful of infection, would wear her borrowed slippers and gag and gingerly tiptoe around the feces and urine all over the sandy floor. The makeshift cubicle where the women bathed was as unsanitary and disgusting.
There’s no concept of cleanliness here, Rebecca thought. Even though they wash before prayers five times a day, their surroundings are a breeding ground for germs and disease.
Rebecca confirmed that Zoya was sleeping and crossed herself when she heard the woman’s heavy breathing. Her mattress was the farthest from the entrance, and she tiptoed over the blankets of the five women between her and the door. She managed to leave the women’s quarters without disturbing the sleeping bodies stretched out on their mattresses on the floor.
So far so good, she thought as she stepped out, wrapping her chador around her. The next big hurdle is to get past the men’s camp. They’ll be up late, talking and sharing a hookah; gotta be careful!
She also knew there would be one guard outside; she had to check where he was and stay clear of him.
She hid behind a rock, steadying her nerves as she watched and waited. Qasim was on duty outside. She saw his gaunt face and long hair under his white crocheted prayer cap. He was a thin fellow with a fierce temper that Rebecca had tasted after her first attempt to escape. He had dragged her from the bottom of the mountain, all the way to Mullah Shaheen.
Qasim would have loved to have given her the lashes, but it was always Zain’s job. Yes, 15-year-old Zain needed toughening up; his feminine ways disturbed the men greatly; Rebecca had read about sexually abused boys in the camps, and it looked like Zain was one of them. Could it be because of the scarcity of women and his pretty face? Rebecca shrugged, whatever the reason, the training was working, and the lashes had become stronger with every new attempt; the men gave thanks to Allah for the boy’s show of masculinity.