by Eve Rabi
Every five minutes or so, she lifts her head up from whatever she’s doing and screams at me for … something.
To prevent her assaulting me, because I believe she’s capable of it, I hurry and do my best, but it’s not good enough for Bitchface.
She is assisted by Dr. Hamid and Nurse Sara.
Dr. Hamid is in his forties, quiet-spoken, slight beard, no turban. He speaks a little English, and he’s polite and respectful towards me.
Sara is pretty and mid-thirtyish. She does not speak English. In fact, she seldom speaks. What I notice most about her – her dead eyes. They’re vacant.
Bitchface and Sara are dressed in traditional garb – skirts down to their ankles, long tunic tops, and scarves tied around their heads.
Grudgingly, I have to say that Bitchface runs the place rather efficiently. I can’t help but be impressed. When she talks, everyone says, “Okay, Shaida.”
I meet Bygone, a Woody Allen lookalike who appears to be in charge of the kitchen. (Yes, that really is his name.) I assume he’s also a cook. He barely speaks English, but he nods a greeting at me.
I suspect that the patients are a little fascinated by me as their eyes follow my every step, sometimes even craning their necks to look at me long after I’ve passed them. As long as they’re not throwing something at me, like a grenade sans its pin, I’m not complaining. It’s a little freaky when they call me Zarina, though.
The place has just about everything a small hospital has – beds, medical equipment, nurses, medicines, intravenous therapy, and even scheduled drugs that are kept under lock and key. The only thing missing is an operating theatre. Although, there is a makeshift operating area cordoned off by curtains.
I help serve breakfast. Cumin and coriander flavored sausages, eggs, orange juice, tomato, and coffee. I’m hungry; the smell of this wonderful food is not helping, and I can’t wait to tuck in.
But I’m not offered any, even though every person around, including nursing staff, is eating. While they eat, Bitchface makes me serve coffee, then clear dishes.
Breakfast is cleared. With my bottom lip sweeping the floor, I continue working. Lunch will be soon, and it will be good. It better be. I’m fucking starving.
Lunch, is great – spicy tomato chicken with fried potatoes and butter peas, served on a bed of yellow, fragrant rice. As I serve, I’m drooling.
Everybody eats and again, and I’m not offered any. The last time I’ve eaten was 4 p.m. yesterday at the farmhouse. Now, my stomach is growling.
The temptation to sneak a piece of chicken is great, but I’m scared of what Bitchface will do if she catches me.
I’m so hungry I cannot focus on anything. I have to eat.
At 7 p.m., it’s dinner time. Barbeque lamb chunks with green salad and different sauces served in seeded flatbread. I’m going nuts just looking at the food.
Again, nothing for me. My stomach burns now.
As I empty the plates, I look at all the uneaten food and my heart breaks. How could they waste so much food? Right now, I’m prepared to eat all the leftovers from every one of these plates. I don’t give a crap about hygiene.
As I empty the last plate into the refuse bin, I give in to temptation and pop an untouched lamb chunk into my mouth. It’s the most delicious thing I have ever tasted in my life.
I’ve been to five-star restaurants around the world and I’ve tasted food that costs so much – no amount of justification could … justify it. And here I am, stealing a piece of discarded lamb in Iraq. I close my eyes and savor the meat in my mouth. Beautiful.
Suddenly, I get knocked on the head.
I whirl around just in time for Bitchface’s fist to connect with my nose. Searing pain has me holding my nose as my eyes fill with tears. As I stumble around, she shoves me and I crash onto the floor. Since I’m still shackled, I struggle to get up, but I know it’s important that I do or she will probably boot me.
Humiliated, starving, and in pain, I fight back tears and hurry off to work.
At 8 p.m., Bygone beckons me with his index finger towards a corner of the ward. When I see three injured militants next to him, sitting with their backs to me, obscuring any view of what’s in front of them, I get nervous and ignore him.
But he gestures wildly, so eventually, I make my way to him. Cautiously. When I reach him, he pats his lips with his finger then points to a table. On the table is a cup of tea and four dry biscuits.
“Eat,” he whispers.
I look at the biscuits in disbelief. Then I look at the militants.
They also motion for me to eat. Now I know why their bodies are obscuring Bitchface’s view.
Quickly, I stuff the biscuits into my mouth and gulp down the tea. I never knew dry biscuits with lukewarm black, weak tea could taste this good.
Just as I finish, Bitchface shows up.
The militants got it covered – one of them sticks his injured arm at me, its bandage undone.
When she sees me fixing the bandage, she purses her lips and walks away.
“Shukran,” I say to the men. “Really appreciate it.”
They nod happily and get back to whatever they were doing.
Iraqis protecting me from Iraqis. How ironic is that?
It’s more than I can say for the US military. Why the fuck aren’t any of the US Special Operations Forces breaking down this door and rescuing me while recording it for the world to see?
Did they really buy the whole jihad crap speech of mine? Don’t they know that when you’re in enemy hands, you do what you need to survive?
I shake my head hard to clear away negative thoughts and soldier on.
By 10 p.m., the patients are finally sleeping. Shaida’s gone to bed and all is quiet.
“I think you can go now,” Hamid says. “Yes, go.”
“Oh, thank you, Hamid!” I say, and totter up to my room in my ankle chains, excited that I can finally rest my weary body on my comfortable bed.
My door is locked.
Fuck! I look around. Who can I ask for the key? Maybe Bygone?
I look around, but he’s gone to bed. Nobody else is around to help me. Disheartened, I sit on the floor and inspect my shackled ankles. The hem of my skirt is painted with blood from my abrasions.
Exhausted, hungry, and bleeding, I take stock of my situation.
I was better off at the farmhouse.
Angel-man, where are you?
Resting my head on my knees, I close my eyes and nod off.
***
Someone is shaking me. I open my eyes and look into Bygone’s face.
I blink a couple of times and realize it’s morning. I’ve spent the night sleeping on the floor outside my room.
Bygone is frantically motioning to his mouth.
“Okay.” I get up and follow him to the kitchen where he and his co-conspirators from yesterday hand me four cheese sandwiches and a mug of hot tea.
I gobble up the food, thank the men, and hurry back to the ward before Bitchface catches me.
My duties are the same as yesterday, but extreme exhaustion coupled with a lack of sleep leaves me feeling stoned and zombie-like. I think nothing of moving aside an AK-47 lying on the floor with my foot.
Suddenly, there is commotion in the bunker. A young man of about twenty-five is rushed into the ward. Looks like he’s been shot. They call him Imtiaz.
Hamid, Shaida and Sara rush off to help the man. I crane my neck to get a peek, but I’m unable to.
An hour later, Shariff rushes into the bunker, followed by Omar, who glares at me. All this activity has me more than a little curious.
Twenty minutes later, Reed hurries into the ward.
When I see him, tears of joy and relief spring to my eyes and I can’t wait to complain to him.
He gives me a slight nod, then rolls up his shirt sleeves and joins the team assisting Hamid.
When I see the pain on Shariff’s face, the way he paces, the way everyone around tries to comfort and pray with him,
I wonder if Imtiaz might be his son.
By 10 p.m., Imtiaz’s condition appears to have stabilized, because Reed and Hamid take a break.
When the ward is quiet, I slip off to my room only to find that the door is locked again.
What a comfortable room yet, it looks like I’m never going to sleep in it again.
Too weary to seek help, I sit on the floor and re-examine my bleeding ankles. By now the hem of my skirt is covered with blood.
“Megan?”
I look up into Reed’s face.
“What you doing?”
“Hey, Reed.” I manage a weak smile then flash him my ankles.
He gapes at them.
“Shaida,” I say. “My door has been locked two nights now. I slept on the floor here last night.”
“Shaida did that?” Shaking his head, he walks off. He returns with two keys. Crouching, he unshackles my ankles, then stands up and opens my door.
“Get in. No more shackles for you.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much.”
I enter my garish but wonderful room, sit on the bed, and look towards the bathroom. I’m hot, sweaty, and I smell. I have to shower.
Even though I will myself to walk to my bathroom, I find myself crawling under the covers fully clothed.
As I drift off to sleep, I think about how much I like having Reed around. I feel so safe when he’s near.
I think about Bitchface – she’s making me regret not dying with my team seventy-five days ago.
Right now, I despise her, not because she is the enemy, but because she is a terrible human being.
***
7 a.m. When I get to the ward, Reed and Hamid are already up and treating Imtiaz. Something tells me Reed spent the night here.
To my utter relief and thanks to Reed, I no longer have shackles. Even better, when Bitchface shouts at me, Reed steps in front of her and tells her to leave me alone.
Her face contorts with fury, but strangely enough, she backs off. However, when Reed is not around, she kicks my ass.
As for the patients in the ward – even though I’m the infidel, the enemy, they are slowly thawing towards me. Most of them. A few of them are a little hostile so I keep away from them. But most are generally polite and respectful, and a few seem grateful for my help.
They’re also bent on getting me to be fluent in Arabic. “The next time you talk on video, you talk Arabic,” they say.
“Ye … ah.” What else can I say?
A man called Salim beckons me over.
“Yes, Salim?”
He motions to a nearby chair. “Sit.”
I roll my eyes towards Shaida. “Can’t.”
“Ah, Bitchface,” he says and nods.
I chuckle. Shaida better not find out her handle. My ass will be toast for sure.
“I am very …” he motions to his eyes.
“Sad?”
He twirls his finger.
“Depressed?”
He nods vigorously.
“Oh, okay …”
He hands me a book and a pen. “You write letter … my children. They … English … good.”
“Oh, okay.” I accept the book and pen. “What do you want to say, Salim?”
“Tell them … tell them, me very sorry … me not be able … spend time for them.”
I scribble furiously as I try my best to interpret his broken English.
“Tell them very soon … infidels … all Americans … all be dead, I come home.”
I nod as I write. “Infidels … all … will … be dead soon, then you will come home. Got it.” I look up at him. “Eh, me too, Salim?”
“No, no, no, no, no. Only the other infidels.”
“Gotcha!”
Soon there is a queue. A number of men with writing paper and pens.
“Okay, but I’m gonna need some more tea and some of those shortbread biscuits,” I whisper and crane my neck to look for Bitchface. And you have to tell me where the weapons of mass destruction are.
The older men bark orders to the younger men, who run off to fetch tea and biscuits for the infidel.
The letters are sad and sometimes I get tearful when I think of my mom and dad and brothers and sister. I guess we all have time to reflect now, so some serious soul-searching goes on here. A lot of them cry. Grown men crying in front of the enemy – ironic.
“It’s okay,” I say. “They know you love them. They are proud of you.” What else can I say?
Even more ironic – sometimes when my spirits are low, they cheer me up and even encourage me.
“Don’t be sad,” Salim says. “You will escape this place very soon. Don’t give up hope. Be strong.”
Wahib says, “Yes. Think about your family.”
Rawoot frowns. “She don’t have family. All her family, they die when the planes hit the tall buildings. That is why she here.”
A look of sympathy coupled with understanding crosses Wahib’s face.
While I sniff, I wonder if I should correct them.
War is so fucked up.
Throughout the day, prayers are said and religious music is played softly. In the beginning, it drove me nuts. Now I even know the words to the songs.
There is a beautiful indoor garden, an atrium with lush green plants, colorful roses, and a massive water fountain. Here too, there is a statue (of Saddam again), tipping a staff which pours water into the fountain, dominating the atrium. Saddam’s bunker, Saddam’s image. The dude sure loved himself.
Bitchface is nowhere to be seen today. I use the opportunity to sneak off to the indoor garden. To my surprise, Reed is sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette and staring at the photo from his wallet. I noticed he’s been spending nights at the bunker. Something to do with rendering medical treatment to Imtiaz.
“Hey.”
He looks at me, then looks away.
“You okay?”
He glares at me.
I frown at his hostility. "Something I said?”
He stubs out his cigarette, replaces the photo in his wallet, gets up, and brushes past me.
Where the hell did that come from? His behavior is confusing. One minute he’s gentle as a nun, the next, he’s hissing at me like a stray cat.
Another time I see him looking spaced-out as he drags a cigarette. He smokes far too much. As a doctor, he should know how harmful it is. Wonder if I can bum one off him? I’m a social smoker. Meaning, I never buy cigarettes, but sponge off others. Horrible habit – smoking and sponging off others.
When I call out his name, he looks at me, but it looks like he’s looking past me.
I’m exhausted and depressed, so his moodiness grates on my already irritable nerves. I’m the prisoner of war here, not him. If he’s missing his family, then why the fuck doesn’t he blow this God-forsaken joint and just be with them? And why isn’t he helping out more with the injured men? We could really do with the help.
Hold it! Did I just say “we?”
What the fuck is happening to me? Disgusted with my choice of internal words, I sit down and rest my weary legs.
Chapter Eight
To Hamid’s delight, Reed helps out more in the ward.
To my delight, Reed teaches me stuff – how to do a figure-eight bandage, how to read blood pressure, how to perform open-heart surgery. Well, I’m kidding about the heart surgery, of course. Point is, I’m learning stuff, and it’s pretty cool.
Even better than all that – I leave the ward at 7 p.m. when Reed’s around. He just tells me to go.
Even better than that – when he’s around, I get to eat all the nice food, and boy, do I take advantage of it.
My door is still locked during the day though.
I’ve noticed that Reed has a room in the bunker now. A couple of times I walked past and saw him in the room reading or doing stuff.
Today, his door is ajar. I knock and stand at the entrance to his room.
He looks up at me.
“Eh, I need tampons.�
��
“What?”
“Can you get me some? Please?”
His ears turn red and transparent.
“It’s that time of the month.”
“I eh … eh …” He looks at the floor, glances briefly at me, then at the floor again. Well, what do you know – Dr. Reedwan Kader is shy. “What size?”
I chuckle. “One size …” I giggle.
“Oh.” His ears and face are now flaming bush-fire red.
“Hey, can I have a cigarette?”
“You shouldn’t smoke,” he says, handing me one.
“What? It’ll kill me? How I hope it does. Tomorrow.”
He grunts and hands me a light.
“Thanks.” I walk towards the indoor garden to smoke and think.
***
Serene. That’s the word that comes to mind when I first see Leeanne Bond. Around five feet two, slim, mahogany hair, porcelain skin, and if I have to guess – I’d say she’s around twenty. Later, to my surprise, I learn that she’s thirty-four. The British must have some great anti-wrinkle cream.
Clutching a Bible, she glides into the ward, her back straight, her green, almond-shaped eyes showing not the slightest hint of fear. When I hear her speak English, a thrill shoots through me. Finally, I have company.
“Hi,” I whisper. “Where you from?”
Bitchface glares at me, so I shut up. The moment Bitchface retires, I sidle up to Leeanne.
“I’m from San Diego,” she says.
She tells me that because she’s fluent in Arabic, she worked as an interpreter for a huge American company with ties in Iraq. While travelling to work, she and two of her colleagues were captured by Iraqi militants.
“Both my male co-workers were shot in the head,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice.
“How come you’re not freaked out?”
“Megan, the Lord gives me strength to cope. I trust in Him. He guides me because he knows that one day, I will be his servant. I will join the convent soon, then I can serve the Lord day and night.”
Oh, brother. A nun in the making with not one, but two crosses around her neck, coupled with Muslim extremists – both pray all the time.
The Lord must have it in for me big time.
“Working in Iraq would have provided me with enough money to support my two girls and save some so that I can pursue my dream to serve the Lord.”