Burned alive: a victim of the law of men

by Souad; Marie-Thérèse Cuny

  The next day when I return to the hospital, she is still only semiconscious, and her neighbor in the next bed is still in a coma. And this fetid odor is unbearable. I’m not aware of the extent of her burns but I do know that no one has disinfected them. The following day, one of the two beds is empty. The girl who was in a coma died during the night. I look at this bed, empty but not cleaned with any great care. It’s always painful not to have been able to do something, and I tell myself that now it is time to look after the other one. But she is only semiconscious, and I don’t understand anything of what she tries to answer me in her delirium.

  And here is where what I call the miracle happens, in the person of a young Palestinian doctor whom I see here for the first time. The hospital director already had told me to let it drop because she was dying. I ask this young doctor for his opinion and why they haven’t at least cleaned her face.

  “They try to clean her as well as they can but it is very difficult. This sort of case is very complicated because of customs . . . you understand.”

  “Do you think she can be saved, that something can be done?”

  “Since she isn’t dead yet, there may be a chance. But tread carefully with this type of situation, be very careful.”

  In the following days, I find a somewhat cleaner face, with streaks of Mercurochrome here and there. The young doctor must have given instructions to the nurse, who makes an effort but not a great one. Souad tells me later that they had held her by the hair to rinse her off in a bathtub, because no one wanted to touch her. I am careful not to criticize, which would only worsen my relationship with this hospital. I go back to see my young Arab doctor, the only person who seems accessible. I tell him about my work with the humanitarian organization and my interest in trying to help, and ask him again if he thinks she has any hope of surviving.

  “My opinion is that, yes, she does, something could be attempted, but I don’t think it can be done in our hospital.”

  “Well, could we take her to another hospital?”

  “Theoretically, yes, but she has a family, parents. She is a minor and we can’t intervene. The parents know she’s here, the mother has already come, and besides they have been forbidden visits ever since. It’s a very special case, believe me.”

  “Listen, Doctor, I would like to do something. I don’t know what the legal obstacles are, but if you tell me she has a chance to live, even the smallest chance, I can’t let the possibility drop.”

  The young doctor looks at me, a little amazed by my stubbornness. He certainly must think that I don’t grasp the situation . . . one of these “humanitarians” who understand nothing about the country. He is about thirty years old, and I find him sympathetic. He is tall, thin, dark, and he speaks English well. He doesn’t at all resemble his colleagues, most of whom are closed to the inquiries of Westerners.

  “If I can help you, I will do it.”

  Success! On the following days, he speaks willingly with me about the patient’s condition. Since he was educated in England and is rather cultured, the interactions are easier than usual. I go a little farther in my investigations into Souad and learn that, in effect, she has received no care. The doctor reminds me that she is a minor, that it is absolutely forbidden to touch her without her parents’ permission. “And for them she’s as good as dead. That’s all they’re waiting for.”

  I ask if I might be allowed to put her into another hospital where she will be cared for and better treated. Does he think they will let me do it? He says that only the parents can give permission for that, and they will not authorize me to do it. I go back to see my friend, who was the source of this adventure, and I share my idea with her of having Souad moved somewhere else and ask if she thinks it is possible.

  “You know that if the parents want her to die, you won’t be able to do anything! It’s a question of honor for them in the village.”

  I can be rather stubborn in this type of situation. If I am dissatisfied with a negative answer, I want to push on until I find an opening, even a tiny one. In any case, I usually pursue an idea to the limits.

  “Do you think I can go to this village?”

  “You’re risking a lot if you go there. Listen to me. You don’t know how relentless this code of honor is. They want her to die, because if she doesn’t, their honor has not been washed clean and the family is rejected by the village. They would have to leave in disgrace. Do you understand? You can always throw yourself into the lion’s jaws, but in my opinion you are taking a big chance for probably no results in the end. She is condemned. Without any care for such a long time, with burns like these, the poor girl won’t live long.”

  But the next time I go to see this little Souad, she opens her eyes a little, and she listens to me and answers me with a few words despite her dreadful suffering. When I ask her where her baby is, she says she does not know, they took it away. With what she is enduring, and what awaits her, seemingly imminent death, I understand very well that the child is not her major problem.

  “Souad, you have to answer me, because I want to do something. If we are able to get you out of here, if I can take you somewhere else, will you come with me?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I’ll come with you. Where will we go?”

  “To another country, I don’t know where, but someplace where all this will be behind you.”

  “Yes, but my parents . . .”

  “We’ll see about your parents. We’ll see. Agreed? You trust me?”

  “Yes . . . thank you.”

  So, armed with this confidence, I ask the young doctor if he knows where this famous village is where they incinerate young girls who are guilty of being in love.

  “She comes from a little hamlet, about forty kilometers from here. It’s rather far and there’s hardly any passable road. It’s also dangerous, because you don’t know exactly what goes on there. There aren’t any police in these remote places.”

  “I don’t know if I can go there alone . . .”

  “Oh no! I don’t advise that at all. Even trying to find the place you’ll get lost ten times over. There aren’t any maps sufficiently detailed . . .”

  I may be naive but I am not stupid. I know that it is quite a problem asking for directions on these roads when you’re a foreigner. All the more so because the village in question is in territory occupied by the Israelis. And I, Jacqueline, Terres des Hommes or not, humanitarian or not, Christian or not, I could quite easily be taken for an Israeli woman come to spy on the Palestinians, or the opposite, depending on the section of road where I happened to be.

  I ask if he will help me by coming along.

  “That’s madness!”

  “Listen, Doctor, we could be saving a life. You tell me yourself that there is some hope if she’s taken somewhere else.”

  To save a life. The argument makes sense to him because he is a doctor. But he is also from this country, like the nurses. And as far as the nurses are concerned, Souad or any other girl like her should die. One has not survived already. I do not know if she even had a chance to pull through but in any case she received no care. I would like to say to this sympathetic doctor that I find it unacceptable to withhold care from a young girl because it is according to custom! But I won’t do that, because I know that he himself is caught in this system, vis-à-vis his hospital, his director, the nurses, the population itself. He has already shown great courage in just talking to me about it. Honor crimes are a taboo subject.

  But I guess I finally have him half convinced. He is truly a good man; I am touched when he says hesitantly that he doesn’t know if he has the courage. I answer that we can only try, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll just come back.

  “All right, but you’ll let me turn around if there’s the slightest complication?”

  I promise him, the young doctor whom I will call Hassan, who is going to be my guide.

  I was a young Western woman who had been working in the Middle East to care for children in distress, be the
y Muslims, Jews, or Christians. This is always a complicated exercise in diplomacy. But the day I got into my car with this brave doctor at my side, I didn’t really appreciate the risk I was running. The roads were not safe, the inhabitants were mistrustful, and I was bringing along an Arab doctor, freshly graduated from an English university, on an adventure that would be incredible if the goal were not so serious. He must have found me completely mad.

  When we leave in the morning, Hassan is a little green with fear. I would be lying if I said I am at ease, but with the daring of youth at the time, and the conviction of my engagement in the service of others, I plunge ahead. Obviously neither of us is armed.

  For me it’s “God be with us,” for him, it’s “Inshallah!”

  When we leave the city, we are driving in a classic Palestinian countryside, with parcels of land that belong to small farmers. The parcels are surrounded by low stone walls, with little lizards and snakes running between the stones. The land, which is a reddish ocher color, is dotted with fig trees. The road that leads out from the city is not blacktopped but it is passable. It connects the hamlets, the neighboring villages, and the markets. The Israeli tanks have just about flattened it but there remain enough holes to make my little car rattle. The farther you get from the city, the more you see small farms. If the parcel of land is big enough, the farmers grow wheat, but in the smaller ones they let the flocks graze, a few goats, some sheep, more animals if the farmer is rich. The girls labor in the fields. They attend school very little, if at all, and those who are lucky enough to go are soon brought back to take care of the younger ones. I had quickly understood that Souad is completely illiterate.

  Hassan knows this road but we’re looking for a village that he has never heard of. From time to time we ask directions but because my car has an Israeli license plate it puts us in some danger. We are in occupied territory and the directions we are given are not necessarily reliable.

  After a short time, Hassan says to me: “This is crazy, we’re going to be all alone in this village. I forewarned the family by the Arab telephone, but God knows how they’ll receive us. The father by himself? The whole family? Or the whole village? They can’t possibly understand your involvement!”

  “Did you tell them that the girl is going to die and that we’re coming to talk to them about it?”

  “Exactly, that’s just what they’re not going to understand. They burned her, and the one who actually did it is probably waiting for us at the next bend. In any case, they’re going to say that her dress caught fire, or that she fell into the coals headfirst! It’s complicated in these families . . .”

  I know that. From the very first, people have been telling me that a woman who has been burned, that’s a complicated situation, and that I shouldn’t get involved. Except here I am, involved.

  “I’m telling you it would be much better to turn back . . .”

  I stimulate my precious companion’s courage. Without him I probably would have come anyway, but it is better if a woman doesn’t go about alone in these regions. Finally, we arrive at the village in question. The father receives us outside, in the shade of an immense tree in front of the house. I sit down on the ground with Hassan on my right. The father is seated against the tree in a familiar posture with one leg bent, on which his cane rests. He’s a small man, reddish hair, a very pale face with freckles, somewhat albino looking. The mother remains standing, very erect in her black dress, a veil of the same color on her head. Her face is uncovered. She is an ageless woman, with strong features, a hard expression. Palestinian peasant women often have this look. But with what they endure, their burden of work, children, and servitude, it is understandable.

  The house is of medium size, very typical of the region, but we don’t see much of it. Seen from the outside, it has a closed look. In any case, the man is not poor.

  Hassan introduces me with a local expression of politeness. “This woman works for a humanitarian organization.”

  And the conversation goes along in the Palestinian style, first between the two men: “How are your flocks doing? And the harvest? You sell well?”

  “The weather’s bad. Winter’s coming. The Israelis make a lot of problems for us.”

  They talk about the weather for some time before touching on the real subject of our visit. That’s customary. He does not mention his daughter, so Hassan does not say anything about her, and neither do I. They offer us tea. Since I’m a stranger, I cannot refuse the customary hospitality. And then it’s time to go. Good-byes.

  “We’ll come back to pay you another visit.”

  We are not going to get any farther than that today and so we leave. It is necessary to begin like this, both of us know that. We have to broach the subject very slowly and not appear to be enemies, or inquisitors, give it a little time, in order to be able to return. And there we are again on the road going toward the city. I remember the sigh of relief that escaped me. I felt like I had been walking on eggs.

  “That didn’t go too badly, did it? We’ll go back in a couple of days.”

  “You really want to go back?”

  “Yes, we haven’t accomplished anything yet.”

  “But what do you hope to offer them? If it’s money, that’s no good, don’t count on it. Honor is honor.”

  “I’m going to play up that she’s dying. It’s unfortunately true and you said so yourself.”

  “Without emergency care, and the emergency is already past, she scarcely has any chance.”

  “Well, since she can’t remain there, I am going to tell them that I will take her somewhere else to die. That could be arranged and would relieve them of the problem.”

  “She’s a minor and she hasn’t any papers. The parents’ agreement is needed. They won’t budge for the papers, you won’t get what you want.”

  “We’ll go back anyway. You’ll ring up on the Arab telephone when?”

  “In a few days. Give me some time.”

  She doesn’t have any time, little Souad. But Hassan, besides being a miracle doctor for my expedition, has his job at the hospital, a family, and the simple fact that getting involved in an honor crime can bring him serious enemies. I understand him more and more and I respect his caution. To attack a taboo of this type, or even try to work around it, this is new for me, and I put all my energy into it. But he’s the one who has to make contact in the village to announce our visits, and I can well imagine the force of persuasion he has to employ for this simple task.

  Souad Is Going to Die

  “My brother is nice. He tried to bring me bananas and the doctor told him not to come back.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “My brother-in-law, Hussein, my older sister’s husband. My mother brought poison in a glass . . .”

  I know a little more about Souad’s story. She is able to speak to me better, but the conditions in this hospital are terrible for her. The burns are becoming infected, they weep and bleed continuously. I notice the upper part of her body: Her head is always lowered as if in prayer, her chin is attached to her chest. She can’t move her arms. The gasoline was poured over her head, and it burned her as it ran down her ears and neck, over her back, arms, and upper chest. She rolled up in a ball like a strange mummy, probably when they were transporting her, and she is still in this same position more than two weeks later. That is not even considering the effects of giving birth in a semicoma, and then the child who has disappeared. The social worker must have deposited him like a pathetic little package in some orphanage, but where? And I know only too well the future that awaits these illegitimate children. He has no hope.

  My plan is crazy. I first want to bring her to Bethlehem, a city under Israeli control at this time, but accessible for both of us. I know for a fact that they don’t have the means of caring for serious burn patients, but this is only a first step. They can at least dispense the minimal basic care. The next phase of the plan: leave for Europe, with the agreement of Terres des Hommes, which
I have not yet requested. And all of this does not yet include the child, whom I intend to try to find in the meantime.

  When my young doctor gets into my little car for a second visit to the parents, he is still uneasy. Same welcome, still outside under the tree, same banal conversation as we get up to leave, but this time I mention the children that we never see.

  “You have many children? Where are they?”

  “They’re in the fields. We have a married daughter, she has two boys, and a married son, who also has two boys.”

  Boys, that’s good. You have to congratulate the head of the family. And extend your sympathy, as well: “I know that you have a daughter who is the cause of much trouble for you.”

  “Ya haram! It’s terrible what’s happened to us! What misery!”

  “It’s really a pity for you.”

  “Yes, a pity. Allah karim! But God is great.”

  “In a village, it is painful to have such problems . . .”

  “Yes, very hard for us.”

  The mother does not speak, always standing solemn and motionless.

  “Well, fine,” I say, “she’s going to die soon anyway. She’s in very bad shape.”

  “Yes. Allah karim!”

  And my doctor adds, very professional: “Yes, she is very bad.”

  He understands my participation in this strange bargaining over the hoped-for death of a young girl. He helps me by adding explicit comments about Souad’s inevitable death, while we are hoping for the opposite. The father finally takes the bait and confides in him the core of all their worries: “I hope we will be able to stay in the village.”