Path of Jen: Bloodborne (10 page)

As she walked out of the building with the
other girls she felt grimy and dirty, and her face hurt with every
step. She regretted wishing Sarah was with her. She was glad Sarah
was far away from this terrible place.
“I miss you Sarah!”
she thought. Tears welled in her eyes and she had to fight to keep
the tears from flowing. Once she started, she was afraid she would
not stop.

Throughout the day the girls were led through
multiple chores and duties. They were also made to pray separately
from, but at the same time as, the men. Jen knew a little of the
ritual because of her father, and because of some exposure to it on
TV, but she mostly copied what everyone else did. She began to
appreciate the anonymity the burka provided. She felt invisible,
and most of the time she was.

She looked for the light skinned girl as she
went through the motions of each assigned task, and she pretended
obedience. All the while she looked for an opportunity or a means
to escape. Jen had no idea where she was, or how to find help if
she left. She only knew that she was not meant for this. She did
not belong, and she wanted to go home.

The trucks that the soldiers arrived in were
still parked outside between the buildings. Jen wondered where the
soldiers in black were as she beat the dust from one of the hanging
rugs with a stick.
“Did they take the little girl with
them?”
she wondered.
“Did they notice she was missing and
now they are out searching for her?
She was reminded of her
dreams from the night before, and she wondered who the soldiers
actually were.
“They aren’
t
good men,
”
she thought.
“That is pretty much a
guarantee."
Jen pretended each rug covered the face of the man
who had taken her friend and she beat them mercilessly.

That evening, before supper, Jen saw the
soldiers again. They came from beyond the compound, still carrying
their rifles and looking weary. Their black head wraps were gray
with dust, and instead of covering their faces the tails hung
loosely about their necks. Most were old and gaunt, and they looked
more like peasant shepherds than soldiers. A few of them were
younger, and they stood out from the rest. Even beneath the loose
robes, Jen could tell they had hard and lean bodies. They walked
upright with pride. One of them, a surprisingly young looking
soldier without a beard, was quite handsome. Jen caught herself
staring. His eyes were not as hard as the others, and he seemed to
be interested in everything he looked at. The others looked at
everything with indifference or scorn, but he seemed to have an
appreciation for the world that surrounded him.

A hand cuffed Jen in the back of the head.
“Ow!"
She turned to see the woman in black standing close
behind her and giving her an unpleasant look.
“Okay, okay,”
Jen thought.
“
I
won
’t look at the pretty boy."
She looked down
obediently and walked quickly to join the other girls waiting out
of sight nearby. Her nose throbbed as she sat against the back wall
of their hiding place. They were inside the little shack nearest
their living quarters, sitting in the shade. The other girls spoke
to each other in hushed tones and Jen listened for words she might
recognize. She began to feel lonely, and felt tears of self-pity
coming.
“What gives me the right to feel sorry for myself and
cry?”
she argued.
“That little girl must be terrified,
wherever she is."
She shook it off and determined to think
about something else.
“I should learn to speak, or at least try
to understand some of what they are saying,”
she thought.

“Salaam,” she said to the group. The other
girls stopped talking and turned toward her. They stared in
silence. Jen smiled briefly, but then she realized they couldn’t
see her face. She scooted closer and held out her hand to the
nearest girl. “Salaam,” she said again.

“Salaam,” replied the girl timidly. She
reached out and squeezed Jen’s offered hand, awkwardly. They both
giggled at the uncomfortable situation, and soon all of the girls
were giggling.

“My name is Jena,” said Jen while placing her
hand over her heart. She patted it and repeated, “Jena."

The other girl held her hand against her
chest and said, “
Esmee Mara.
" Then she
repeated, “Mara,” as she tapped her chest. The other girls took
their turn introducing themselves to Jen. They all said it in the
same way, “
Esmee,
” and then their name.
Jen wondered what the little girl with light skin was called.
“I
wish I could ask them about her,”
she thought.
“Maybe one of
them knows where she was from.”

The woman in black stepped around the corner
and shushed them harshly. She passed her familiar disapproving
stare around the group and lingered especially long on Jen.
“Bring it on,”
thought Jen as she defiantly returned her
stare.
“Your mean-old-lady stare doesn’t bother me."
The
woman held her gaze for a moment longer and then clapped her hands.
It was time for the girls to eat. The girls jumped to their feet
and hurriedly walked to get their supper.

When they rounded the corner Jen saw a
smallish girl in a full length black burka sitting alone. “It’s
her!” thought Jen. She broke away from the others and ran over to
the girl. She sat down next to her and gave her a big hug. The
young girl squeezed her tightly and spoke trembling words in Farsi.
Jen couldn’t understand the words, but she recognized the fear and
sorrow that accompanied them. Jen looked back at the others and saw
the old woman walking stiffly toward her. Jen turned back to the
girl, knowing time was short. She said, “
Esmee
Jen,
” and patted her chest. She looked expectantly at the
girl’s big brown eyes.

“
Esmee Sarah,
” the
girl said through trembling lips. Jen choked and held back the
unwanted tears that sprung immediately to her eyes upon hearing
that name. She hugged the girl tightly until she felt the strong
hands of the old woman pulling the two apart. The woman cuffed Jen
solidly on the back of the head and spoke harshly to Sarah in
Farsi. Then she took Sarah roughly by the arm and dragged her to
the doorway of one of the nearby buildings Jen and the other girls
were not allowed in.

An old man, one of the soldiers in black,
opened the door and spoke briefly to the old woman as she firmly
held the girl. Jen watched helplessly as the girl was taken by the
old man and the door was shut.
“Why is she being forced to stay
in there with him?”
wondered Jen. Then after a moment another
thought occurred to her.
“Why was she wearing a burka like the
older girls and women? She was just wearing a hijab
before.”

The old woman made her way back to Jen and
kicked her. She continued to push and kick her until Jen got the
idea and hurried back to the other girls as they stood in line for
their food. When she got in line, Mara looked at her with wide eyes
full of concern. Jen shook it off and winked at her. Mara’s
expression immediately softened and she let out a tiny giggle. They
faced the front and shuffled forward with the line. Jen chanced a
look back to the doorway where Sarah had last stood.
“I promise
I will help you if I can,”
she thought. Then she turned back to
the front and focused on getting through the rest of the
evening.

Over the next few weeks, Jen talked with the
other girls whenever she found an opportunity. As she scrubbed
clothes or washed dishes, she would ask the other girls for the
names of objects. Soon they were beyond teaching her simple words
and she began to learn common phrases. When she beat the rugs or
swept the floors, she practiced saying them over and over. She
began to understand snippets of conversations and tried repeating
what she heard to the other girls.

By winter, there were only four of them left.
Little Sarah and one of the older girls were taken by the first
group of soldiers to visit their compound. Other soldiers came and
took girls with them when they left as well. Mara was taken with
the last group to come through.
“At least now I know what we are
here for,”
thought Jen. It was clear that they were slaves.
They were valued only as property. The lucky ones would perform
labor, like the three of them did here in this compound. The others
were not as lucky. They were awarded as child brides, or as sex
slaves to Jihadists passing through. The man in brown owned them,
and he gave them as prizes to soldiers who proved themselves loyal
or brave.

Jen was speaking passable Farsi, although the
three other girls that remained teased her about her American
accent. The old woman had softened toward the girls as the weeks
and months passed. She was still strict, but at times she joined
the girls in light hearted teasing and laughing. Jen almost forgot
she was part of the group keeping her and the others here against
their will. She wondered how the woman had become what she was: a
slaver.
“Was the woman once a slave, like us? Was this her home?
Was kidnapping and slavery something she was forced into, or did
she do it of her own free will?"
Jen closed her eyes and turned
to memories of home. In the darkness, bundled against the cold, she
lay on her mat and thought of all of the things she had once taken
for granted.
“Running water and a hot shower would be
heaven!"
They were permitted to bathe once a week, when water
was available, in a makeshift shower made from water barrels set on
top of a frame. The men bathed in the evening when the sun had
warmed the water all day. The girls bathed in the morning when the
water was ice cold. Jen shivered just thinking about it.

She smiled as she thought of the casual
regard she had for things like her laptop, Xbox and iPhone.
“I’d
give just about anything to have any of those now,”
she
thought.
“Ugh,”
she thought.
“And my clothes…I miss my
clothes!"
She thought of her friend Sarah from back home. She
imagined the two of them at the mall together. Suddenly, a light
skinned Iranian girl was standing there with them. She looked up at
Jen with tears in her eyes, and Jen awoke with a start.

It was dark in the room the four girls
shared, and they shivered in the cold. Jen scooted closer to the
others and tried closing her eyes again. It was quite some time
before she could fall asleep. Each time she closed her eyes she saw
Mara or Sarah looking at her with brimming tears.
“Please,
God,”
she prayed
. “I know you are still there, and that you
hear me. I don’t understand why you have placed me here, but I am
scared. I know you have a plan for me, and I am waiting for you to
reveal it."
She scrunched her eyes tighter and folded her hands
under her chin.
“Please be with my parents and comfort them. Let
them know I’m okay…and Sarah too. Thank you Heavenly Father,
amen."

Fouzia closed the car door and laid her seat
all the way back. She closed her eyes and took a deep calming
breath. She exhaled. She took another deep breath and let it out
slowly. Her hands trembled as she struggled to regain control.
“You can do this,”
she thought.
“Just turn on the car and
go home."

For six months Fouzia and her husband
petitioned the State Department to help find their daughter. “She
is an American citizen!” they argued. It didn’t matter. The State
Department had no intention of doing anything more than making one
or two inquiries. In six months, the only answers they received
were, “Yes, we can confirm that your daughter was kidnapped,” and,
“No, we have no information as to where she might be at this time."
They even asked Fouzia and Najid not to speak to the media about
the situation. It was nearly the New Year, and Fouzia was at the
end of her rope. She was having trouble making through an entire
shift at the hospital, and it was even worse at home. She couldn’t
stand being there anymore.

After five minutes, she raised her seat-back
and put on her seatbelt. She pulled the visor down and looked in
the small rectangular mirror. Her eyes had dark bags under them,
and her cheeks looked hollow.
“I look as old as I feel,”
she
thought. She flipped the visor back up and started the car. With
practiced movements, she backed out of her hospital parking space
and headed home.

It only took her twenty-five minutes to drive
home. That was one of the benefits to working a swing shift. She
tended to miss the worst traffic coming and going. Fouzia hit the
garage door button in her visor and slowed her approach to let it
rise up. She pulled forward until a fuzzy orange tennis ball barely
touched her windshield and stopped. She killed the engine and left
her keys in the center console. She pressed the garage door button
again, clutched the small duffel bag in the passenger seat, and
climbed out.

The house was depressingly quiet when she
entered the kitchen through the garage man-door. “
Hello?
” she called out. “Not home again,” she
muttered when there was no response. Najid had been spending more
and more time away from home the past few weeks. Fouzia couldn’t
blame him though. She was guilty of the same. She passed through
the kitchen and kicked her shoes off just before the carpet. She
walked tiredly up the stairs in her socks and into the master
bedroom. As soon as she passed the doorway she tossed the duffel on
the floor and collapsed on the bed. “So tired,” she thought. “I
need to brush my teeth…”

Four and a half hours later Fouzia’s phone
rang. She rolled over, onto her back and reached for the night
stand.
“What? Where is the night stand?”
she thought. She
opened her eyes and raised her head to see she was still lying
sideways in the middle of the bed on top of the covers. She was
still in her scrubs. She looked toward the headboard and saw the
night stand beside the bed where it should be, but her phone was
not there. It continued to ring and she followed the sound down to
her side. “Oh, it’s in my pocket…" She said groggily. She fished it
out and pressed the green phone icon.