Lipstick in Afghanistan

by Roberta Gately

  She stood, wiped her eyes, brushed debris off her hands, and turned to the victims who were lying on the road. She could see Ezat tending to victims and Hamid standing nearby. He called to her.

  “Here, Elsa, over here! These people are badly hurt. They need you.”

  She hurried over and went first to a woman who lay quietly with her eyes open, staring at something Elsa couldn’t see. Her head was covered in blood. Her breathing was steady and she seemed stable, so Elsa simply covered her wounds.

  While she moved from victim to victim, more vehicles began to arrive, some bearing the UN logo. Some of the onlookers were even helping now. A familiar hum, not unlike the sounds in Trauma One, filled the air, but Elsa stayed focused on triaging until a soft sniffling reached her ears. She turned and saw two small boys clinging to each other.

  “Brothers,” Hamid said over his shoulder. “Their parents are under the bus.” Though their clothes were bloody and torn, they had no serious injuries that Elsa could see.

  “Will you move them away, Hamid, so that they don’t see this?” She motioned to the wreckage, and Hamid guided the two boys to the side of the road.

  A groaning caught her attention, and she whipped around. A slender young man lay in the road with his left arm and leg bent at impossible angles. The front of his large shirt was soaked with blood. His breathing was labored and his eyes were glassy. His face was covered in blood, his features obscured by shards of glass and metal.

  He had a terrible head wound; shrapnel from the explosion had probably pierced his skull. He would be unrecognizable to family and friends. Elsa bent over and gently unwrapped his turban. Cascades of black hair fell out.

  She looked closer.

  This was no man.

  This was a woman.

  Elsa listened to her patient’s chest and heard a faint heartbeat. She noticed then that this tiny, bone-thin woman was pregnant.

  “Oh, shit,” she whispered. “Hold on. We’re going to get you to our hospital as quickly as we can.” The woman moaned.

  Hamid helped and together they straightened out and splinted the woman’s arm and leg with tape and pieces of wood. Elsa rummaged through her supplies and pulled out an intravenous set. If the woman received fluids, she might live until they could get her to the hospital, and there, just maybe, they could deliver her baby.

  Elsa’s hand was steady as she applied the tourniquet and found a suitable vein. She threaded the catheter in and hooked it to a bag of fluid. She motioned to Hamid, and they gently lifted the woman into the back of the jeep. As they lifted her, a tiny worn tube of lipstick rolled out of her pocket and tumbled to the ground. Elsa picked it up and rolled it in her hand.

  Lipstick? Here?

  “I’ll hold this for you,” she said softly as she tucked the tube into her pocket. Elsa wanted to leave for the hospital right then but there were several more victims for Elsa and Ezat to check before they could go.

  Suddenly there was a faint cry, and she turned to see the villagers pull a tiny form from the belly of the bus. He was covered with blood, his legs were crushed, and one arm was gone—no doubt torn from his body in the instant of the explosion. One of the villagers passed him to Elsa.

  She took the little body, but though he was still breathing, she could see that there was no hope. She cradled him in her arms as he heaved a final sigh and died. She stroked his hair and touched his cheek, then tenderly passed him to the crying man who’d held him.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured before she turned away, tears pooling in her eyes.

  Beads of perspiration ran down her face, mingling with her tears and clouding her vision. She wiped them away with her sleeve and tried to shake off the terrible sadness she felt.

  Ezat and the arriving personnel were dealing with the rest of the victims in the wreckage, so she turned her attention to the remaining survivors sitting by the stone wall. Their injuries were relatively minor, and they could easily be transported to the hospital for further care. She and Hamid helped to load them into the jeeps sent by the UN. Before long, all of the survivors had been located.

  “Hamid, let Ezat know that we’re heading back. This second vehicle can take him when he’s ready.” She watched as Hamid spoke to Ezat, who turned to her and nodded. Was that an approving half smile?

  She nodded in return, and she and Hamid climbed into the vehicle with the badly wounded pregnant woman. Elsa held her hand during what seemed like an endless ride, and once at the hospital, she asked Hamid to stay with her while she went to find Laila.

  “Laila, the explosion was terrible,” she said quickly. “I can’t even begin to describe it. Ezat will be back soon, and most of the people that we brought back can wait for treatment, but there’s one, a young woman…” Elsa lowered her voice and continued. “She was dressed as a man. She has a terrible head injury and I think she’s going to die. Actually, it’s a miracle that she made it here.”

  “Well, if it’s hopeless, let’s see to the others then.”

  “No, Laila, the woman is pregnant.” Elsa stopped to catch her breath. “Maybe we can save her baby.”

  Laila nodded, and Elsa motioned for Hamid to help them carry the woman into the treatment room, after which he quickly hurried out.

  Laila leaned over the woman and examined her. She looked up, her eyes flashing.

  “Feel her abdomen. Those are contractions. The baby is coming.”

  They pulled out the delivery tray and washed and gloved for the imminent birth. Elsa took a vial of Pitocin from the tray and drew it up into a syringe. It would hasten the contractions and the birth, but it soon became clear that it wasn’t needed. Laila slipped a small gloved hand inside the woman and said she felt the baby’s head as it descended the birth canal.

  “It’s coming. Get the scissors and ties and a blanket.”

  Elsa gathered the equipment and within minutes the baby was expelled in a rush of blood and fluid. It was a boy, scrawny and already malnourished. He took his first breath and gave a feeble cry just as his unknown mother breathed her last and died.

  Laila handed the baby to Elsa and covered the woman.

  “At least the baby is alive,” she said, pausing sadly. Then she turned again. “If you’re all right here, I’m going to see if Ezat is back and then we’ll see the rest of the patients.”

  “Go, go. We’re fine.”

  Elsa washed the tiny orphan and wrapped him in a hospital blanket. Then she foraged in the pharmacy for nutritional supplements, preparing some formula in a well-used baby bottle. She sat cradling the small bundle, urging him to suck, which he did eagerly. How different from Diana, she thought with a touch of sadness.

  Once he had drunk his fill, he fell asleep in Elsa’s arms, and she sat there rocking the infant as her fingers searched her pocket for the old worn tube of lipstick. It was the one clue the woman had left behind that might identify her.

  Looking up, Elsa stood and went over to the baby’s mother. “Your baby is okay,” she said softly, smoothing the sheet that covered her.

  She finished up late, staying to help Laila and Ezat care for and settle the other victims and their families. Reluctantly, she gave the baby to one of the hospital staff and, Hamid at her side for the trek, headed back to her own room for the night.

  Early the following morning, Hamid knocked at the gate.

  “Elsa, there are already people gathering at the clinic—people looking for family. I think you should come now.”

  Elsa grabbed her head-scarf and hurried through the gate after Hamid.

  Word had spread about the explosion and villagers had gathered to see if any of their own had been among the injured or dead. The staff had set up an old tent to use as a small morgue, lining up the bodies and covering them with sheets.

  Elsa walked through the tent and lingered by the body of the woman who’d delivered the tiny baby. No one had come to claim her.

  Poor soul, to die alone like that.

  She stepped outside an
d saw Johann, who hurried over. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he took Elsa’s hand. “Thank you, Elsa. Laila and Ezat told me what a wonderful job you did yesterday. Thank you so much. You have helped the people of Bamiyan greatly.”

  Uncomfortable with Johann’s effusive comments, she just nodded and hurried away, running right into a grim-faced Ezat.

  “Taliban.” He almost spat out the word. “The police said it was the Taliban who laid that mine.”

  Hamid’s eyes grew wide with the news.

  Elsa felt a shiver. “But I thought they were either in prison or gone?”

  “No, they are not gone. They are still here, waiting, just waiting.”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she turned to the crowd that had gathered. Many were speaking excitedly and even more just stood there waiting quietly. Those, she thought, were the saddest.

  Elsa asked Hamid to interpret so that together they could help. They approached a tiny woman who was standing alone. Her face was hidden by the veil she held across it.

  “Miss.” Hamid spoke softly. “Are you looking for someone? Can we help you?”

  Hamid’s voice had startled the woman, and she hesitated before pushing her veil away to reveal her face. She was young, with a fresh-scrubbed face and sparkly green eyes. She wore a determined expression, and she looked right into Elsa’s eyes.

  Elsa hesitated. There was something about this woman. She felt almost as though perhaps they’d met before, but she would have remembered that intense gaze. She watched as the woman held her hand over her heart and spoke as Hamid interpreted.

  “I am Parween, and I am looking for my friend. Her name is Mariam, and she may have been on the bus from Mashaal. I am not certain but I have been checking the buses recently. Have you seen her?”

  “Do you have any other information that could help us? Any jewelry or special clothes she may have been wearing?” Elsa asked.

  Parween smiled as if remembering her friend.

  “She is small and beautiful with long black hair and deep dark eyes, and though I have not heard that she was on the bus from Mashaal, in my heart, I know she was.” Her face darkened as she spoke.

  Hamid relayed what she had said, and Elsa remembered the pregnant woman’s long black hair spilling onto the road. She held her breath as her hand found the old lipstick still tucked into her pocket. She pulled it out slowly and rolled it into the palm of her hand.

  “Does this belong to her?” she asked softly.

  Parween covered her mouth, her fingers fluttering there.

  “Oh, that is Mariam’s,” she said. “I gave that to her. I knew that she would be here. Where is she? Please bring me to her. Allah u akbar. I knew that Allah would keep her safe.”

  Elsa passed the tube of lipstick to Parween, who looked into Elsa’s eyes and suddenly realized that there were tears there.

  “Che taklif?” Parween asked.

  Elsa took Parween’s hands and sighed.

  “Your friend did not make it. She died yesterday after delivering her baby. I am so sorry.”

  Parween seemed puzzled and pulled away.

  “You are wrong,” she said. “Mariam is not pregnant. Yet she is here. I know it. This is her lipstick. Please. Please, bring me to her.”

  “She is here; you are right,” Elsa replied. “But she has died. I was with her when it happened. We can bring you to her, but you must know that she suffered terrible injuries. You may not recognize her.”

  Parween’s confidence dissolved, and her face crumpled into grief.

  “Please,” she said through a cascade of tears. “Bring me to her.”

  Elsa took the young woman’s hand and guided her to the tent where Mariam’s body lay. They could hear the others’ cries as they approached the makeshift morgue. Once inside, they walked to the rear of the tent, and there Elsa knelt to gently lift the sheet and reveal Mariam’s bloodied face.

  Parween gasped and fell to the ground.

  “Oh no, no, no!” Her cry filled the tent. She bent to the lifeless form, lifted it into her arms, and sat there in the dirt, rocking Mariam and stroking her face. “Oh forgive me, Mariam. I should have come for you. Forgive me, dearest.” Parween held the broken body close and cried until her tears ran dry.

  Elsa kept a respectful distance and waited until Parween’s sobs quieted. Then she reached out and gently touched her, whispering, “Mariam’s baby is alive. Would you like to see him?”

  Parween trembled.

  “Sai’est? A baby? Is it true?” she asked.

  “Balay, balay, yes,” Elsa replied. She led Parween from the tent into the glaring morning sun and into the hospital. The crib had been rolled into the hallway and there lay the tiny infant still wrapped in the blanket from the previous night, asleep with his little hands scrunched into tight fists.

  Parween gently picked the baby up.

  “A boy, yes?” she asked, and Elsa nodded. Parween smiled and looked the baby over closely, checking everything, even counting fingers and toes. She held Mariam’s child close, and when she finally looked up, she fought back her tears to speak.

  “He will come with me.” Parween gazed down at the baby. “Mariam escaped from Mashaal to have this baby. I know that she was coming here so that her baby could live.”

  Elsa was struck by Parween’s decisiveness. She was the exact opposite of everything Elsa had seen and heard of traditional Afghan women. And she would get no argument from Elsa. Parween and the baby already seemed to have bonded. Awake now, the baby clung to her veil and dress.

  “I will send my family to bring Mariam home. We will take care of her.” Fresh tears stung Parween’s eyes as she bundled the baby up and turned to leave. She hesitated, then spun around and took Elsa’s hand, speaking haltingly in English.

  “Thank you, thank you for help… from you.”

  And with that, she turned again and hurried off, her veil trailing behind her as she headed out of the gate and down the road.

  15

  Parween arrived home cradling Mariam’s tiny son in her arms. She rushed through the gate and went in search of Uncle Abdullah. She wanted him to be the first to know.

  “Uncle,” she called when she spied him tending to his little patch of garden. “I must speak with you.”

  Abdullah turned and smiled when he saw Parween. He pushed himself up, and it was then that he saw the tiny baby in her arms and the tears in her eyes.

  “Who is this?” He reached out and gently stroked the baby’s face.

  In a rush of words, Parween shared the news of Mariam’s death in the bus explosion. She inhaled deeply.

  “The baby is Mariam’s, but his father, I think, was one of the Taliban who so tormented her. I am sure that Mariam was running from her husband and from Mashaal to protect her little one.”

  Abdullah sighed and sat heavily. “Ahh, you are right. Poor Mariam. Hers is another senseless death in a lifetime of so many.”

  Parween felt a familiar sadness grip her heart, and she handed the baby to Uncle Abdullah, who sat there gazing into the little bundle’s face.

  “There has been too much misery, Uncle, but this baby, inshallah, is a sign of happier times to come.”

  Abdullah rocked the infant. “Such innocence, such promise. May Allah grant him a long life free of the misery that so plagued his poor mother.” He looked up at Parween. “He is sent from Allah. You must take him as your own; it will be safer for him if he is thought to be yours.”

  “Yes, Uncle, I think so too. Please keep him with you until I have decided what to say to my mother.”

  “The truth, Parween.” He said it firmly. “The truth will be enough.”

  Abdullah arranged for two local men to bring Mariam’s body home to be buried. Parween and the women would follow tradition and wash her, wrap her in white fabric, and lay her to rest in the small cemetery just outside the compound walls.

  By the afternoon everything was ready, and Parween and the other women walked the short distanc
e to bury Mariam. Once the box that held her had been covered over with earth, they gathered heavy stones to mark her resting place, and they prayed to Allah to watch over her. A river of tears flooded from Parween’s eyes.

  Will this misery never end?

  When the service was finished, she dried her tears and collected the baby from Uncle Abdullah. She carried him to the courtyard where the women had gathered. They all sighed in sadness.

  “Mariam had been lovely,” they murmured. “What a terrible end.”

  Parween held the baby tight and looked into his eyes.

  “This has been a sad day, but Allah has granted a wish of mine and my dear husband. Today I went to the clinic with pains low in my stomach, and there, I learned that I was not only with child, but that he was about to be born.”

  She smiled and held the baby out for all to see. “It is Raziq’s final gift to me. All the more precious because he was so unexpected.” She almost held her breath as she spoke, afraid that they might see through her false words.

  But the women only sighed and cooed and gazed at the baby. “Allah has not forgotten you, Parween. He has given you a boy baby to dry your tears.” They passed the baby around, exclaiming over the likeness to his parents.

  “Why, he has your eyes,” an old woman with thick spectacles proclaimed.

  Another disagreed. “But I am certain that he has Raziq’s chin.”

  Parween smiled. She saw only Mariam when she gazed into the baby’s sweet face, with his pert nose and deep brown eyes—he was the image of his mother.

  She was relieved though that the women accepted the baby as her own. She would have no difficulty claiming she had been pregnant. Women here, so thin and covered in voluminous layers, often hid pregnancies until a baby was delivered. No one would think to question the tiny widow; neither would they think to count the months since Raziq’s death.

  As fate would have it, most of them couldn’t count anyway.

  Rahima, though, knew her daughter well, and once they were alone, she asked where the baby had come from. Parween whispered her reply.