The woman lifted the baby up to her breast, and it nursed. “He was so excited he couldn’t sleep when I was in labor.”
“Where is your husband now?”
She didn’t answer, but closed her eyes and hummed a children’s lullaby.
I gave in to the rocking motion of the truck.
*
After what felt like an eternity, we stopped in the village of Diifow.
The boy who had loaded the truck earlier removed the tarp, and the sun poured down on us with vigor. “We’ll rest here until dark,” he announced and jumped from the rafters to the ground.
We took to the ladder as fast as we could. The women pooled all the food they had together: bread, cheese, butter, rolls of dried meat, and bottles of buttermilk. Idris and another man lit a fire and we made tea. Soon we had set up a modest feast.
My mother-in-law noticed the woman with the baby still inside. “What is she doing in there? Idil, could you please go and check on her?”
I climbed the ladder. “You should come and get something to eat,” I said to her.
With the baby in her arms, and her other three children unattended outside, she looked at me as if she’d woken up from a deep sleep.
“Let me help you.” I guided her out of the truck and she followed me without resistance. She held the bundle in her arms like a drowning person holding a life preserver. She sat on ground next to her children, but made no attempt to serve them or herself. I gave her two slices of bread, a piece of cheese, and a mug of buttermilk.
She took two bites of the bread and cheese and drank half of the milk. She pushed the rest of the food into my hands, as if she were running out of time to eat. “Thank you,” she said, and went back in the truck without checking to see if her other three children had eaten.
*
Our freedom came to an end when, a few minutes before sunset, we boarded again. The truck pulled out of its hiding place behind a large tree and reached the main road.
An hour later, under the darkness of the night, Adam grew restless. “It’s too crowded. I don’t have enough room.”
My mother-in-law called to him. “Adam come sit with Grandmother.”
“I can’t. I am too heavy for you.”
“You could sit next to me. I have enough space for both of us.”
He hesitated, but I encouraged him. “Go to your grandmother.”
Adam went.
No more than five minutes after Adam moved, a loud bang overhead shattered the fragile peace. The men on the top of our truck returned fire, and a full-fledged gun battle erupted above our heads. The firing back and forth merged, making it hard to tell our defensive bullets from the enemy shots, until the truck came to a full stop.
Attackers ran up the ladder, yelling, “Get down, get down, now! All of you!”
We obeyed and moved to the ladder. They continued to shout even after all of us were on the ground, except for the woman with the baby.
Six men with AK-47 rifles surrounded us. “Empty your pockets! Hide nothing. Do you think we are blind? Dig deeper. Yes, give us everything.” Three of them gathered the loot while the other three stood guard.
A man approached me. “Don’t make me wait.” He ran his hands under the band of my bra and shoved his fingers inside my underwear. “You’re hiding money in here. Lift both your breasts, now.”
I did, but nothing fell out.
He pushed me with the butt of the rifle. “Take your scarf off.”
I hesitated, trying appeal to his sense of modesty.
“I said take it off.”
I did as I was told and prayed they didn’t do the same with my mother-in-law. What we thought was the best place for the money at first, now seemed the worst idea.
Luckily, he noticed the woman inside with the baby in her lap before moving on to my mother-in-law. “Hey, you up there! Come here!”
She didn’t move.
“Don’t make me come up there!” he yelled.
“Why are you begging her?” Another man, perhaps the leader, climbed up the ladder, two steps at a time. The woman did not resist when he pulled her to her feet. She followed him without a fuss. Standing next to the truck, he tried to take the bundle from her, but she wouldn’t let go.
A tug of war ensued. Her oldest son, perhaps eight years old, threw himself at the man. “Stop! Leave my mother alone!” He buried his teeth in the man’s thigh. The man yelped and hit the boy over the head with his fist. He continued to tug at the blanket with his other hand. The boy, once latched on, wouldn’t let go, but cried. His mother, hearing her son’s cry, released the bundle and sent the man flying backward. He landed on his behind with a thud.
She gathered her son in her arms and ran her hand through his hair. His dark curls glistened with the wet, shiny blood from her hand.
The man opened the bundle he had fought for. “Ya’Allah!” He shrieked so loud that other men from his group came running to him. “It’s bleeding!” He came face-to-face with the blood-soaked body of the infant girl.
“The shrapnel must have hit her,” I whispered to my mother-in-law.
“What is it?” The leader grabbed the bundle.
Blood seeped from the blanket and stained the white robe he was wearing. He looked at the woman sitting at his feet holding her son, noticed the solemn faces watching him, dropped the bundle, and ran. His men saw his blood-covered hands and followed him into the night with their loot.
The woman picked the baby up, wrapped her as though she was getting her ready for bed, and rocked back and forth. Her son rubbed her hand to console her.
Idris squatted next to her. “We must bury the baby here, before we leave,” he spoke to her in a gentle tone.
“No, no, no. Not without a proper funeral.” She was adamant.
Another man joined Idris to convince her not to take the body with her. They reminded her she could do the mourning when she reached her family. Keeping the body would only prolong her sorrow and distract her from her living children, but she wouldn’t listen. No matter what they said and how many verses from the Qur’an and prophet Mohamed’s—peace be upon him—hadiths they referred to, she refused.
She held the child’s remains close to her chest, the fresh crimson blood streaking her dress. “I did not see my husband’s body.” Her voice cracked with raw emotion. “Do you know what they told me when I asked? They said the explosion was so strong they couldn’t tell what body part belonged to what person. I will take my baby in one piece and bury her properly.” She got up, went to the truck, and resumed her seat. No one could argue against her.
“I cannot sit next to her.” I lingered outside with my mother-in-law when others boarded.
“You could have my place,” she offered.
It didn’t matter where I sat because death had tainted the whole truck. Its scent, taste, and texture filled the air around us. “That could have been Adam,” I said.
“Don’t say that.”
“Her little feet were inches away from my hip.”
“Stop.”
“Adam was sitting there only minutes before.” I shivered as the words left my lips. “That could have been Adam,” I repeated.
“Everyone goes in their own time,” she said.
It was hard for me to accept it was this baby’s time to go—and in such a fashion. “She was an infant.” I sobbed for a child I didn’t even know.
“Please stop…the children.” She pointed at Adam and Amina, standing next to her, tears brimming in their eyes.
I took a deep breath, collected myself, and sat in the truck next to the dead baby. Once inside, I shook so hard, I had to sit on my hands.
“My husband came back to take her,” the child’s mother said. “He loved her so much, more than one human being should love another.”
“People don’t r
eturn from the dead.” Again, the image of Sidow striding in my direction, warm and alive, came to me. What I wouldn’t have given up to see that bright smile one more time!
She laughed, and others turned in her direction. “He adored her so much, it made me jealous!”
I pointed at her son, stroking her hand trying to gain her attention. “Your son is very kind,” I said. I just wanted her to stop speaking, but I couldn’t distract her.
She glanced at her boy for a quick second and laughed even louder. “Do you know what he said when she was one week old?”
“What?” I asked even though I didn’t want to know the troubling details.
“He said, ‘I’d die if something ever happened to her.’ Oh, I was so angry with him then!” She sighed. “At least he died before witnessing this.” She lifted her hand and examined the blood. “In a way, he got his wish. They are together now.”
*
We arrived at the outskirts of Bledley before dawn the following day.
That same boy who loaded us before, lifted the tarp off the truck. “Here we are. The village is not far now. You can see it from here,” he announced. He was much less energetic than he was before the attack.
The driver whistled for our attention. “We’ll send a messenger to the militia with money for permission to enter.When he returns, we’ll go in groups.”
Two hours later, the man came back with a letter of consent from the militia leader who had ruled Bledley since the president’s departure.
I pointed at the woman with the baby. “She should go first.” Nods of assent followed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was just after the midday meal when we arrived at our farm. A boy, not much older than twelve, stood at the front gate. A rifle, twice his size, was slung over his right shoulder, and he approached as we walked toward him. “Who are you?” the boy asked.
“We are the owners of this farm,” Hasan responded.
“You arrive just now, and you claim this here is your farm? You are telling me you own this land?” He chuckled.
“This farm belonged to us for hundreds of years, son.” My mother-in-law tried to appeal to his respect for elders.
The boy took the rifle off his shoulder and leaned it against the wooden post. “I am not your son, and this here isn’t your farm. You better leave before it is too late.”
“We are not going anywhere,” Hasan said.
“We’ll see.” The boy gave us a serious look and walked away.
I nudged Hasan’s elbow. “Let’s go before he returns. There will be trouble. I know there will be. I can feel it.”
“We’re not leaving.” Hasan wouldn’t budge.
“Please,” I begged my mother-in-law.
She was staring at the house, lost in memory. “I had my children here, buried my husband, and he buried his parents. Now a mere boy tells me it is not mine, and I should leave?”
“Please,” I repeated. “We have to go, now!” The children clung to me.
Hasan’s face burned with rage. “This is our home.”
“Not anymore,” I said. It was too late. A man, accompanied by the same boy, came toward us from the house.
“The boy tells me you claim this is your farm,” the man said.
I took charge before Hasan could say anything. “Sorry for the trouble. We were just leaving. The boy must have misunderstood. We were looking for a friend who used to live here, so we could spend the night.” The man’s eyes were fixed on Amina, and my heart beat against my chest. I took Amina and Adam, one in each hand, and began walking away, hoping Hasan and his mother would follow. I didn’t dare turn back.
“What is your relationship to the women?” The question was for Hasan.
Hasan, frozen with anger, didn’t respond. I turned around and answered instead. “This is my husband, that is his mother, and these are our children.”
The man stared at me with contempt. “Ha! I see the wife is the head of this family.”
Hasan realized the danger because he reacted by chastising me for the man’s benefit. “What did I tell you about answering when you are not spoken to?” He turned on me, violence in his gaze.
I played the part of the intimidated wife. “Sorry, it won’t happen again.” I bowed my head and looked contrite.
“It better not happen again,” Hasan said and then spoke to the man. “Don’t mind my wife.”
“My name is Ahmed, and I must say, I admire a man who’s in control of his wife. You may stay for the night, if you have nowhere else to go.”
“We don’t want to bother you. Thank you, but we’ll find our friend,” Hasan said.
“It is no bother at all. I’ll send someone to help you get settled,” Ahmed said, and left without waiting for an answer.
After he was gone, Hasan cupped my face in his hands. “I wasn’t going to hit you.”
“I know that.”
“The way you looked at me—your eyes—were you scared?” Hasan focused on the empty field.
“I was acting for Ahmed.”
Hasan stood close. “I didn’t mean it. You know I wouldn’t hurt you.” He wrapped his arm around my waist.
“Don’t do that,” my-mother-in-law cautioned.
“Don’t do what?”
“Touch her. They don’t like public displays of affection, even if you are married.” She turned back to door to her old bedroom, where Ahmed had gone in.
Hasan dropped his hands to his sides and grew quiet.
Amina stood before me. “Why did you say Uncle Hasan was your husband?”
“They won’t like if we’re together and not married.”
“We’ve always been together.”
“They think we shouldn’t be.”
“Who are these people? You’ve just met them, and they tell you how to be?”
Hasan turned to Amina. “We’re not married, but we can’t admit that. They won’t accept us being together unless your mother and I are married.” Hasan stopped for a few seconds as if waiting for Amina to absorb the information. “Do you understand?” he asked.
Amina nodded, but it was obvious the answer didn’t satisfy her.
*
Soon after Ahmed left us standing by the gate, twelve boys came from behind the house marching in a military style. Not one was older than fourteen. Each boy was wearing an old tattered T-shirt, and a macawis wrapped around the waist with a narrow, black belt. Their feet were bare and cracked like the dry earth they walked on. They were very thin—so thin you could count their ribs. Each boy had a rifle slung over his shoulder. Their eyes, large and wild, didn’t appear to see us, but seemed to peer through us. Their cheeks bulged with wads of chat. High and on edge, the boys seemed to guard the place against imminent attack, although we could see no immediate threat.
The tallest boy said something that excited the others. They broke into fits of giggles, and the devilish sound sent chills up my spine. They laughed like the cackling hyenas before a feast. As quickly as it started, the laughter died, and twelve pairs of eyes, hungry and thirsty, rested upon Amina. She shrank from the heat of their stares.
The boy we’d met at the gate, left the group and came close. “How old is the girl?” He spoke to Hasan, but was staring expectantly at Amina and toying with his gun.
“Nine years old,” my mother-in-law lied to place Amina below the age considered old enough to marry.
Hasan squeezed Amina’s arm, warning her not to say she was eleven. The boy turned to the others. “They say she is nine. That is a lie.” He laughed as though he’d heard the funniest joke in the world. The rest of the group joined him, holding their bellies in exaggerated hilarity. “She is a grown woman. Surely, we can see that.”
Another boy from the group joined the first. “How stupid to lie like that when it is obvious she is much older.�
��
There was no correct response in front of the rifles, so we didn’t protest. After a while they sauntered away.
My eyes followed the retreating boys, and I saw the fallen lemon trees that once marked the property lines. Without the markers, our farm merged into the other properties on both the northern and southern boundaries. The uprooted trees lay rotting on the ground. Rain, like peace, had deserted Bledley, leaving the land forsaken, mutilated, and bare.
The boys disappeared behind the main cabin, and a while later a woman appeared. A black cabaaya—loose robe—covered her whole body. The outfit rotated around her, creating a cascading motion as she walked. A piece of sheer fabric covered her face except for the eyes, which darted back and forth. Her steps were light, hesitant, as if afraid of disturbing something sacred and fragile. She handed one straw mat and one cloth prayer mat to Hasan. “These are for you and the boy. The women will come with me.”
The woman glanced toward the main gate before she lifted her face cover and placed a forefinger to her lips in a gesture of warning. “Come. My name is Layla, and I was told to bring the three of you inside.”
My throat tightened at the sight of her sad, innocent-looking face. “And I am Idil,” I told her.
She lowered her veil. “Ahmed wants the girl to be prepared.”
“Prepared for what?”
“He thinks she is old enough, and he wants to take her as a wife,” Layla said.
Hasan pulled Amina close. “He will have to kill me first.”
Layla stared at Hasan. “He’ll take her just the same,” she said in an emotionless voice. “We have to go.”
The boys emerged from behind the cabin again with the same intimidating glares. “Get inside,” the oldest one hissed at Layla.
Adam reached for my hand. “We must stay together. We’re a family.”
“I don’t want to go inside,” Amina added.
“You must. Don’t make this harder than it is,” Layla’s hollow voice was tinged by the hell and desperation around us.
“Adam, stay with your father. Amina, come with me,” I said.
Adam stood back as Amina stepped out of Hasan’s protective shadow. My mother-in-law, Amina, and I followed Layla to the main cabin.
Tale of a Boon's Wife Page 21