The Girl in Green

by Derek B. Miller

  It looked so different when she walked from her village toward Domiz. She had left with her mother, her older brother, and two cousins — both girls a little younger than her. Her brother wanted to stay and fight. He did not know who to fight with or even for, he said. He only knew what to fight against. ‘Then you’ve already lost,’ her mother said, and she would have no more of it, and she forced him to pack his belongings, and instructed him to protect the family. ‘The family is most important,’ she’d told him. ‘More than Syria, more than the tribe.’ He brought an old military knife with a handle wrapped in leather. The knife smelled bad. It had grown mouldy.

  The man who marched them to Iraq took all their money before leaving. He did not even look into their eyes. He collected it and shoved it into a bag with a large zipper. He took their passports, if anyone had a passport. Adar did not. He walked them for kilometre after kilometre. Babies were terrified and unable to sleep, because their schedules were interrupted and there were no comfortable positions to rest in. They were passed from tired arms to rested ones, agitating them more. Eventually, they passed out from exhaustion.

  They did not travel alone. There were other families. Some were going north to Turkey — they would risk boats to Europe. Others were going east to Iraq or Jordan. Some dreamed of Iran, but they were Persian and spoke a foreign language. No one knew if they would be welcome there.

  Rumours formed and spread. They were going in the wrong direction; the leader was a member of the government, and they were going to be arrested or murdered; the children were going to be stolen from the parents, and their livers cut out and sold to the rich in the Emirates, and their bodies thrown into ditches in the desert. Information and freedom of choice were their only possessions, and to imagine not having either was to submit to powerlessness.

  They walked for ten hours straight. Some didn’t make it. No one stopped for them. They had paid first. Down below, she could see the river they were crossing by way of a narrow bridge when, nearby, her brother was shot — by whom, or why, no one knew. Her mother screamed and jumped into the water after him, and the people tried to hurry away from the shooting, but there was no way to hurry on such a narrow bridge, and so people fell into the water. Many could not swim. ‘Run,’ her mother instructed her from the river. And because the people pushed her with the force of water through a dam, she was lifted and taken to the other side.

  There, down there — though the land all looks the same, and yet is called a thousand different names — was where the trucks were parked. Trucks had come to meet them, and they carried supplies. Those army trucks were travelling on a road while her people were crossing the dirt. There were fewer of them now, many wet and many weeping.

  She waited for her mother and brother, but they did not come. She lost sight of her cousins. She was the eldest, and it was her job to care for them. The vehicles stopped, and people in white vests with foreign symbols on them ordered them into lines so they could receive food and water at the front. Where were her cousins? The little girls were gone, and it was all her fault. She was supposed to look out for them. They were so young, so helpless — only ten and twelve years old. She would find them at Domiz. That was what people said. The camp was safe. The camp was where everyone found each other. No one who said this had ever been there.

  They had to be behind her. She had to wait for them. They would have to come this way.

  She waited, thinking of the little girls and missing her mother. She did not know if her mother could swim. Can any mother swim? Where would she have learned to swim? There were no rivers in her village. The line moved on without her. She forgot to look ahead and close the gap.

  Men in black outfits were carrying a tube across the desert. She did not know who they were, or what the tube was for. They were not dressed like the people giving food.

  There was an explosion. She fell. When she lifted her head, she saw men killing people, shooting them as they sat on the sand. Many prayed. She did not. She hid inside a big truck, inside a big box, and curled into a ball smaller than a beetle.

  Adar was alone. For one day, for two days, for three days, she was alone. The box had food of a type she had never seen before. It smelled awful. No one had cooked it recently. How could it still be edible? There were cups of water. She drank and slept.

  And then a man found her — a man with kind eyes and clean hands.

  And now she looks at the people in the helicopter. Who are they? She can only understand Jamal. His accent is foreign, and he uses words she doesn’t know. He is like so many of the boys she knew in school. They are a little shy, but when they start talking, their bodies become full of stars, and they cannot contain the universes inside them. They must talk or risk exploding.

  Outside, below, is her family — her mother, her brother, her two little cousins. She knows they are dead. They are in heaven, waiting there for her. Why should she remain here alone?

  Below there are more explosions, as people she cannot see kill other people she cannot see.

  This is not the real life, the Koran teaches. The real life is eternal. Maybe it is time for the false and lonely life to end, and for the true and eternal life with her family to begin. Maybe it is time to go.

  Adar presses down on the handle of the aircraft’s sliding door and pulls it.

  A hand is placed gently on her shoulder. It is the large black man. She has never been touched by an African before. His hand is large, warm, and soft. Maybe it is warmer than other hands. He is smiling at her, and holding something. He hands it to her. It is a piece of chocolate.

  The return trip is short. Märta and Tigger assist Elise in whatever she needs. Neither has any medical training beyond advanced first aid, but they are helpful in holding things, handing things, and passing stuff around as instructed by the medic.

  The helicopter touches down as gently as rainfall. Around them, Domiz is no longer the quiet camp Benton first saw. It has become transformed, and now pulses with new life and new injured. People are streaming in to escape the combat, hoping the UN will keep them safe. An emergency surgical team is on the ground. They open the sliding door, take instructions from Elise Garcia, and remove Benton and Jamal.

  Adar is taken in hand by a nurse, who speaks soothingly to her in Arabic. Benton watches her go. He is grateful she does not look back.

  As Herb, Tigger, and Märta collect their personal effects, Spaz turns to them from the cockpit and says, ‘Watch yourselves.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tigger asks.

  ‘Louise. She will not be pleased to know what happened. ISIL only cuts off your head. But Louise—’ and he makes a snipping motion with his fingers near his zipper.

  ‘We didn’t do anything wrong,’ Märta says.

  ‘I see,’ Spaz says. ‘So it is a coincidence that secret ISIL base is located and destroyed in pincer movement between government air force and Kurdish infantry, only moments after hostages are taken away in humanitarian aircraft?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tigger says.

  ‘So,’ Spaz says. ‘Same like Russia.’

  ‘I’m going to call my wife and let her know I’m all right,’ Herb says, walking in the direction of the IRSG head office. ‘I’ll find you all later.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Tigger says, as Märta walks off in another direction, toward the medical unit.

  It is midday, and the sun is burning. Tigger and Herb walk in silence, side by side, past the UNHCR refugee tents, the giant water tanks, and the families gathered outside and under makeshift shade canopies.

  There is a cafeteria used only by international staff, and Tigger asks Herb whether he can buy him a drink before they each call home.

  ‘Sure,’ Herb says.

  They buy beers from a cold box and sit under the awning together. When they first arrived, the bar had no name. Märta called it Wonderland. Herb and Tigger followed suit, and la
ter all the young people picked it up, which made it official.

  There are few people there. Everyone else has a job.

  ‘Your wife,’ Tigger says, opening the beers and pushing one over to Herb. ‘Does she know that you were in any danger?’

  ‘I wasn’t in danger — you were in danger. You and Märta took point.’

  ‘You flew in an unarmed helicopter across a war zone, landed in a terrorist base, and carried wounded survivors to safety under armed elements of ISIL. Believe me, you were in danger.’

  ‘I did something stupid, and I need to tell you about it.’

  ‘Keep it to yourself,’ Tigger says.

  ‘I was worried about you two.’

  ‘Keep it to yourself.’

  ‘I sent someone to follow you, in case you disappeared. So there would be a fighting chance, in case they captured you—’

  ‘Leave it be, my brother.’

  ‘I committed the very sin I accused Märta of doing with Jamal.’

  Tigger lays a hand on Herb’s own. He pats it several times. ‘You do not have to confess it to me. We are doing the best we can for each other in a world that is doing its worst.’

  ‘I’m ashamed of myself,’ Herb says.

  Tigger raises his beer. ‘To the best we can do.’

  Herbert raises his beer bottle, too. ‘Amen,’ he says.

  The surgical tent has six beds. Benton lies in one, hooked up to an IV. His clothes have been removed and discarded. He said that he didn’t want to see them again.

  ‘But not the shoes,’ he said. ‘Leave those right here.’

  By early afternoon, the wounds on either side of his leg have been cleaned, stitched, and dressed. He is informed he’s been fortunate, in that the wound has not become infected and, while he will likely suffer chronic pain and will need physical therapy back in England, he will be able to walk again if he follows the rehab regime properly.

  ‘I’m a lucky man,’ Benton tells the doctor.

  The doctor is an Indian, from a town in Gujarat that Benton doesn’t know.

  ‘You are not lucky — you were shot. You’re joking, right?’ the doctor says.

  ‘I’m honestly not sure.’

  Benton sleeps. When he wakes, it is dusk. Märta is sitting beside him, reading a book. When she sees his eyes, she puts the book away.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m OK. How are the kids?’

  ‘Jamal’s mother and father came to collect him. She slapped him, hugged him so hard he couldn’t breathe, and then slapped him again. His father started to cry. And when he saw that, Jamal started to cry. And then Herb started to tear up, which Tigger wouldn’t allow to go unmentioned later. So, as expected there, I suppose.

  ‘Jamal will be OK,’ she continues. ‘The bullet passed farther away from the bone than it did for you. He’s in his early twenties. He’ll recover. Apparently our administrative staff is now questioning whether he’s covered for long-term medical care through our insurance policy.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Benton says.

  ‘I’m going to tell Herb, obviously. I think it’ll sort itself out quite nicely and quickly under the threat of an editorial to the New York Times and a call to the mothers of every member of the board of directors.’

  ‘And Adar?’

  ‘In the short term, I’m going to let her stay with me for a little while. I don’t usually cross that line, but this is a special case. The world media will be interested in her survival, given how much coverage they gave the original attack. It could turn her into an international celebrity, which would be uncomfortable, to say the least. The ICRC has excellent staff working on family reunification, so we’ll start there. She must have people somewhere. We know her name and her village, so we’ll put it together. But it’s not certain she can go back. Or should.’

  ‘My suggestion,’ Benton says, propping himself up a little higher in bed, and then thinking better of it, and scooting back down, ‘is don’t tell anyone. There’s more to the story than everyone knows, and it might affect her.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘My shoe. Give it to me — the left one.’

  Märta hands him the boot, which she holds as though it were a rat. Benton digs out the sole and removes the SDHC chip. ‘I took this from a video camera I found at the site of the mortar attack in the desert.’

  ‘What’s on it?’

  ‘Proof that ISIL did it, and not the Kurds.’

  ‘Which is good to know, but hardly surprising.’

  ‘Well, yeah. But that’s not what’s interesting, is it? It proves they have a strategy for psychological warfare and public diplomacy. It proves they have the technical skills to stage, carry out, video, edit, and disseminate complex messages that can mislead the entire international news profession. It proves that their capacity for deception exceeds our ability to detect it. We can’t simply stare at things anymore. We have to get to what they mean.’

  ‘I don’t work in intelligence, Benton. This doesn’t affect us.’

  ‘No, it does. It really does. If we come out with the facts, and ISIL finds out Adar survived, she could easily become a symbol of survival. They won’t want a living symbol of resistance to their cause. They’ll hunt her down. I feel like this girl’s life is constantly in my hands and I don’t know how to save her.’

  ‘How long did the doctors say you need to remain in bed?’

  ‘There’s a flight the day after tomorrow. Farrah called the airline to say I need a wheelchair and assistance. I’m going to board that plane.’

  ‘And that will be that,’ she says.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  Märta isn’t interested in explaining how she feels. She’s done enough today. ‘I think it’s a wonderful and rare opportunity to learn that two people can still care for one another through it all. To learn that affection can linger,’ she says. ‘However, I feel that you belong back in Cornwall with your wife and daughter. Don’t you?’

  ‘I guess I do.’

  ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to say, “Let’s stay in touch,” and leave it at that. I didn’t know it when I was younger, but it turns out you can do that. I think we might even owe it to ourselves.’

  ‘That sounds very nice,’ Benton says. ‘Let’s do that.’

  Märta then bends over and kisses him, long and gently on his unparted lips, before standing to leave.

  ‘Märta?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thank you for saving my life.’

  Benton sleeps as much as he can after Märta leaves. He does not sleep well. The drugs succeed in dulling the pain, but not in clearing his mind. The blessing, though, is that he is no longer thirsty. There is a cup beside him, always full. He often places his fingertips into the water to be sure it is really there.

  When he does sleep, he does not suffer nightmares. He does not dream of the mattress soaked in his own blood, or of the light coming through the black hood. He does not dream of Abu Saleh’s face — so that was his name — or his voice, or the gun that shot him.

  What he does dream about is the other girl in green — the girl from 1991 who crouched with him by the truck as Samawah was assaulted. In these dreams, he talks to her, and she talks back to him. They sit together by the giant tyre, and chat as though she were a niece or the school-age daughter of an old friend unseen since a baby.

  He asks her about school, and she shrugs in the way fifteen-year-old girls do.

  ‘What subject do you like best?’ he asks as the bombs fall around them, the shots resound, and the buildings burn.

  ‘I’m good at maths,’ she says. He is glad to hear her place the s properly at the end of the word — proof the British were there first.

  ‘You like solving riddles?’

  ‘
I like it when there’s a right answer and I can find it,’ she says, drawing a picture in the dirt with a small stick. She isn’t much for eye contact. She’s shy.

  ‘I like that, too,’ Benton says to her. ‘But I’m not so good at maths. I’m not so good at finding answers.’

  ‘What are you good at?’ she asks, not looking up.

  ‘I’m better at finding the right questions,’ he says. ‘Are you in high school?’

  She nods. She’s a freshman. She started this year.

  ‘Do you have a best friend?’ he asks.

  ‘Namira.’

  ‘What do you like about her?’

  ‘She’s funny. She always makes everyone laugh. She’s good at maths, too. She says she wants to be an astronaut when she grows up.’

  ‘That sounds exciting,’ Benton says. ‘Do you want that, too?’

  ‘No. I don’t know what I want to be yet.’

  ‘That’s OK. There’s a big world out there,’ he says, as a tank shell explodes into the hospital, and a wall of black smoke approaches them.

  ‘Can I be anything I want?’ she says, looking up for the first time.

  ‘No,’ Benton says, as the sky grows thick with smoke. ‘No, you can’t.’

  When he’s awake, he watches television. He has no focus for reading. The pulsing in his leg and his head dissuade him from trying. The TV hangs in the corner of the tent. It is tuned to Al Jazeera, which is occasionally in English. What he watches is the war that is still not called a war.

  The Iraqis have attacked, and continue to attack, ISIL positions in and around highly populated areas. They hide there, thinking they can use the population as human shields. Sometimes they are right. Usually they are not. The news says ISIL claims to speak for the Sunnis, and they want to establish a caliphate state in al-Anbar. They assassinate and murder the Shiites, some of whom have taken to changing their family names so they can better blend into Sunni society, and hide there, or at least signal their surrender. Other Sunnis are offended by the beheadings and the killings, and the arbitrary exercise of punishment that is claimed to be sharia law. It is a position these people can only maintain by willfully ignoring 1,400 years of Islamic scholarship, early interpretation, and legal rulings. And so that is what they do.