by David Hosp
The demonstration wasn’t the danger, as far as the police and Delta Force were concerned. The danger would come from the counter-demonstrations. The challenge to the law recognizing male supremacy within the household was viewed by many in the community as an attack on the Muslim faith as a whole. Worse, it was viewed as an attack organized by foreign interests. They were expecting as many as a thousand counter-demonstrators to confront the women marching. Those numbers made physical confrontation a virtual inevitability, and the Delta Force anti-terrorism unit, thirty-strong including the three women, was sent in to support two hundred Afghan police officers in trying to prevent a massacre.
The protest began as expected. A bus pulled up in front of the madrasa at 11.30 a.m. and stopped. No one was moving on the street except the police and military. The rest of the city seemed deserted. The faded-grey school bus blended in with the cement buildings and the chalky road. It was as if the place could hold no color – the entire area had given up the battle against the dust that had covered it since the beginning of time. The street was eerily quiet as Cianna sweated under her gear, her assault rifle hooked in the crook of her arm.
The women came off the bus in silence, like spirits, single-file, eyes fixed straight ahead of them. Most of them wore western-style dresses or jeans and blouses. By and large they were in their twenties and thirties, and they held their heads up high. There were even a few young girls with them, holding hands with their mothers as they took up the fight to change their world at an early age.
Cianna looked around the small square where the madrasa was located. It was near the center of the city, and a narrow tin arch marked its entrance. A series of billboards in multiple languages pictured wanted men alongside smiling faces hawking commercial products Cianna couldn’t identify from the context. The archway resembled the ticket gate of a decrepit southwestern drive-in theater in a Stephen King novel. In the distance, the 100-foot Ferris wheel at the old fairground in the center of the city stood rusted and motionless, like the skeletal remains of a city that had once held promise. The air seemed to buzz around them as the women lined up, and all of the tension of the city seemed concentrated on the one tiny area.
Then it began.
The doors to the madrasa opened and the men poured out, screaming and chanting and shouting foul oaths. Cianna swiveled her head back and forth, trying to comprehend what was happening. They were coming from the front door, but also from side doors, and from around back of the building; swarming the square like ants from a giant anthill. It hardly seemed possible that they had all fit within the madrasa itself.
The Afghan police hesitated, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers. There were two hundred police, but five times that many counter-demonstrators, and those organizing the men had effectively surprised the police with an instant show of force. Cianna had only just begun learning Pashto, but she understood enough. They were shouting at the women, calling them western whores and telling them to go home to fuck their fathers. For a moment, Cianna thought the women would actually get back onto the bus. Who in their right mind would stay to face such a bloodthirsty mob?
The captain in charge of the Delta Force was the first to react, barking out orders to his own unit, as well as to the Afghan police. The Delta team split up and surrounded the line of women, fifteen soldiers on each side, establishing a barrier to protect them from the crowd. They stood there, facing out, using their training to try to spot any specific threat that might surpass an acceptable level. The Afghan police milled around outside the line of military, forming a looser barrier between the women and the mob. Cianna questioned their resolve. She knew that many of them actually sympathized with the mob and agreed that the women should not be demonstrating in the first place.
She had taken up position near the front of the line of women, and out of the corner of her eye she could see a woman close by her turn to address her compatriots. A young girl who looked to be around nine or ten years old was at her side.
‘Women of Afghanistan!’ she said in Pashto. In spite of themselves, those in the mob grew quiet at the power of her voice. ‘We will no longer live in a country where we are treated as property! We will no longer submit as non-persons to rapes and to beatings and to those indignities that only those without rights and a voice can understand!’ The square had grown very quiet now, and only her voice could be heard. ‘I stand here, and I pledge to my daughter,’ she looked down at the girl by her side, ‘that she will not to have to live in a land where she does not have the chance to stand up for herself and be judged on her merits as all human beings must be!’
She finished her speech, and no one said anything. The heat continued to press down on them. Cianna looked around at the faces in the mob. They were still and inscrutable, and for a moment she actually believed that they had been won over by the force and simple dignity of the words that had been spoken.
Then the cheer went up from the mob. Angry and violent, they screamed as one, and the force nearly knocked Cianna off her feet. ‘Whores!’ they shouted. ‘Allah shall punish you! Enemies of the true faith!’
The crowd began closing in as the women started marching toward the city center where the local government offices were located. The mob pursued them, still screaming. They had gone no more than twenty feet when Cianna felt the first spray hit her face. She looked around and saw that those in the mob closest to the column of women were spitting at them. It rained down on them in heavy wads from angry faces with bulging eyes. She lowered her head and took shelter under her helmet. At one point she noticed that even some of the Afghan police were spitting. The crowd continued to press closer and closer, and pushing started to break out between the mob and those Afghan police who were still trying to keep order. The Delta team had their guns at the ready, and she suspected that their presence was all that was warding off a full attack from the crowd.
The rocks came next. She saw one of the women in the column recoil and stumble, and at first she thought the woman had fainted from the heat. Then she saw the blood running down her face. The other women marching put their hands over their heads to try to protect themselves, but there was little they could do, and the barrage kept coming. Cianna’s finger tightened on the trigger of her assault rifle, and she looked around for the lieutenant, hoping that he would give the order to fire off a few rounds in the air to at least disperse the crowds.
‘Delta Force, hold your fire!’ he said instead. ‘We are not to engage the crowd unless the situation is life-threatening! Keep eyes peeled for explosives!’
A rock pounded off her helmet and set her ears ringing, and she had to fight the urge to retaliate.
At that moment, a scuffle broke out just to her right, as the mob tried to break through the mass of Afghan police. The police were beating people back with sticks, but they were badly outnumbered and two policemen went down as they were pelted with rocks. The sight of their blood inflamed the crowd, and they pushed forward with even more vigor. The two policemen on the ground were now being beaten and kicked as some of their colleagues made an effort to get them to their feet and out of harm’s way.
‘Lieutenant!’ Cianna shouted. ‘We’ve got a situation over here!’
‘Stand firm, Delta!’ he shouted back. For just a moment she felt the pride of being acknowledged as a Delta Force member. They were the elite of the elite, and she had stuck through the training step-for-step with the men, in some cases a step ahead, because she knew that if she wasn’t near the top of the class she would never really be accepted. And now she stood in heavy armor before a mob determined to kill a small group of women just for wanting to learn to read, and to have jobs, and to choose when to give up their bodies. The irony was almost as thick as the heat.
The scuffle had cleared out an area near Cianna, which was a relief for the moment. Just then, though, two men broke through the crowd and rushed the protesters right near Cianna. They both had scarves covering their faces and carried large cups in their hands. She f
roze for just a moment, and as they reached her, they threw something over Cianna’s shoulder toward the woman leading the march. Cianna understood instantly what it was.
Acid.
It was a common tactic used against women in Afghanistan: throwing acid on their faces to disfigure them. It served the multiple purposes of causing incredible pain and disfigurement, branding them as whores, destroying their self-esteem, and scaring other women from stepping out of line.
As they let loose the acid, they both screamed out ‘Qatala armad zaniya!’ The high-pitched screams were instantly locked into her consciousness. They came over and over again, and the crowd joined in, chanting, ‘Qatala armad zaniya!’
Cianna swung her rifle butt around and caught one of the men in the stomach and he toppled to the street. She swung for the other assailant, but he ducked, screamed again, and disappeared into the crowd. Looking over her shoulder at the woman for whom the acid had been intended, she was relieved to see that she was unharmed. The acid had apparently missed her completely.
Cianna turned back to the man on the ground. She pointed her rifle at him, and made as though she was going to shoot him. She knew he probably wouldn’t even be arrested for attempting to burn the woman, and even if he was, the religious courts would probably let him off with a warning. In the eyes of Afghan law, throwing acid on a woman challenging societal order was entirely justified. Still, at least Cianna figured she could put a good scare in him. She hiked the butt of her gun up to her shoulder and looked down the barrel, aiming at his head. She kept the safety on, though.
She waited to see the fear in his eyes, but instead he just stared at her with smug hate.
Then she heard the sound.
Even through the cacophony, the wailing was distinct in its horror and anguish. Cianna turned to see that it was coming from the woman leading the march. At first Cianna thought perhaps the acid had hit her after all. It took a moment for her to realize that the reality was much worse. It had flown by her and hit her daughter square in the face.
There was blood everywhere. The little girl was trying to scream, but the acid had already eaten through the skin on her lips. Her eyelids were gone, and her eyeballs swirled wildly as her mother held her, trying to wipe the acid from her daughter’s face.
‘God! Please no!’ the mother screamed. ‘Get me some water!’
Two of the soldiers dug their canteens frantically from their belts and offered them. Everyone knew that it was too late to do much, though. The acid had worked its evil instantly.
The lieutenant saw what was happening and decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. ‘Deltas!’ he shouted. ‘Disperse the crowd!’ He fired three shots into the air. Two other soldiers did the same, as the others held their arms at the ready in case the tactic was unsuccessful.
The effort was effective, and the mob turned and fled immediately. They went screaming and swarming back into the building and up the street in genuine terror.
Cianna looked down at the little girl again, and the rage welled within her. The attacker was still on the ground, and she pointed her gun at him again. ‘On your feet!’ she screamed at him. ‘Now! Up! Up!’
He got to his feet and she kept her gun pointed into his chest. It was all she could do to keep herself from beating him with her gun. That wasn’t her role, she knew, but she couldn’t bear the thought that he wouldn’t pay for what he had done to the little girl. She pushed the barrel of her gun into his chest. ‘Hands behind your head!’ she ordered. She reached up and ripped the scarf away, revealing the face of a man who would use such obscene tactics against those who were fighting only to be recognized as human beings.
He just stood there, staring at her. He was an average-looking man, in his early-twenties, and he had a thin beard on a pocked face. His clothes suggested that he was from a family of some wealth.
‘Now!’ she shouted again. ‘Hands behind your head!’
He didn’t move for a moment. Then he smiled malevolently. ‘Whore,’ he said in English. ‘I take no orders from a woman.’ He stared at her for another moment. Suddenly his face became serious and he moved his hands quickly to his abdomen, under his robes. Cianna had learned in her training that it was a move that often preceded the detonation of a suicide bomb. Cianna had no time to debate.
‘Bomb!’ she yelled as she pulled the trigger.
Everyone in the area ducked as the bullet ripped through the young man’s chest. He staggered backwards a few feet and fell to his knees. He pulled his hands out from under his robes and held something up to her. It was a Koran, she could see. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. The only sound now was the wailing of the woman whose child lay mutilated in her arms. The man raised up the Koran to Cianna, holding it almost as though it was a shield. ‘It is better . . .’ he choked out unevenly, gasping for breath. ‘It is better . . . for the girl to die . . .’ He paused, struggling for breath. ‘Than for her to be a whore.’ He seemed relieved once the words were out, and he looked to the sky. ‘It is what Allah—’
He never finished the sentence. Another gunshot rang out and caught him in the throat. He toppled back into the street and lay there squirming for a moment. Then he was still. Cianna could still hear the wailing behind her, but she was aware of little else. The world seemed to close in around her.
She looked down at the gun in her hands and saw the thin trail of fresh smoke coming from the end of the barrel.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
‘Everything was by the book,’ Saunders said quietly. ‘Except the second shot.’
She nodded. ‘Turns out the young man was the son of a mullah who was a highly placed local government official. There were witnesses in the crowd who saw that I shot him the second time when he was already wounded and lying on the ground holding a Koran, so the Afghan government demanded that I be prosecuted. I think the panel at my court martial was feeling the pressure. They initially convicted me of voluntary manslaughter. The charges were reduced after I got back to the States, down to involuntary. I was paroled early. I think everyone understood.’
‘Except you.’
She looked at him. ‘Except me,’ she admitted. She turned away and stared at the wall. ‘I don’t remember pulling the trigger the second time. I never meant to. It wasn’t a conscious thought. Maybe I was just holding on too tightly. Maybe there was a noise that startled me. Maybe . . .’ she searched for some explanation that would make sense. ‘Maybe . . .’
He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Maybe you saw a little girl dying in agony in front of you, and you wanted justice for her.’
‘Maybe,’ she admitted. The hand on her shoulder felt so good. ‘It all happened so quickly. I don’t even remember. The only thing that sticks with me is the way the two men screamed with such hatred as they threw the acid. ‘Qatala armad zaniya!’ I had someone translate it for me later. It means “Death to the dirty whores!” And they were screaming it at their own women.’ She let her head drop to her chest. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter. There are some moments you just can’t get back, no matter what you do.’
‘Do you regret what you did?’
She sighed. ‘I regret what I lost.’
‘That’s not the same thing.’
‘No, I guess it’s not.’ She wiped a single tear from her cheek, turned and looked up at him. His hand was still on her shoulder, and he was so close. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Am I still a mystery?’
He nodded. ‘Even more so,’ he said.
He leaned in slowly, and she felt his body, warm and hard against hers. She wondered whether she would pull away. She didn’t, though, and then his lips were against hers, soft and firm and gentle. She parted her lips slightly, and she could feel his tongue on her lips. Her body was still for a moment, and she wondered whether she’d lost the ability to love, just as she knew she’d lost the ability to be loved.
And then something turned within her. She could feel a burst within her chest, and the warmth sp
reading out from there to the rest of her body. It was like coming alive again, and her hands moved against Saunders’s body, exploring. She responded to his touch, welcoming it, riding a wave of pleasure with every move of his hands.
She could feel the tears pouring down her cheeks, mixing with their kisses, and she had no idea whether they were tears of joy or pain. At the moment, joy and pain seemed inextricably intertwined, both desperately screaming to get out from the places deep within her where they’d been trapped for years.
Saunders paused and looked her. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
She had trouble finding her voice as the tears continued to fall. She merely nodded and kissed him again. I will be, she thought. Tonight, I will be.
They were both awake when his cell phone rang. It was just after 5.30 the next morning, and her legs were draped languidly over his, her head on his shoulder as they touched each other idly, running fingertips over arms and legs and chests in a silent, comfortable post-coital dance. She was still trying to adjust to the thought of being a complete person once more. She didn’t love him, certainly, but he’d opened up possibilities for her again. In many ways, the notion frightened her.
He reached over the side of the bed, found his pants on the floor and dug the cell phone out of the pocket. ‘Yeah,’ he said. He listened to the person on the other end of the line. ‘Yeah, I know it.’ More silence. ‘Okay, when?’
He clicked off the phone and put it on the bedside table. He lay back down and maneuvered himself into a position that approximated the one he’d abandoned to answer the phone.