Xenophobia

by Peter Cawdron

  Jameson laughed. He started to say something and seemed to think better of it.

  “No, go on,” Bower said, turning toward him, wanting to know what was so funny.

  “There was another bet,” he said. “That the Doc would side against an attack.”

  “And the odds,” she asked, surprised to be at the center of a betting proposition.

  “Lousy odds. A dollar to a dollar fifty.”

  “And which side were you on?”

  “Oh,” Jameson replied, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Neither Elvis nor I would bet against you. And, hey, you came good.”

  Elvis laughed.

  “This isn’t the end of the world,” Bower said, trying to convince not only Jameson and Elvis but herself. “This is just the beginning. In the centuries to come, this will be seen as the dividing line in history. There will be everything that happened before Contact and all that follows after. The implications are vast. Our science textbooks will become obsolete with all we stand to learn about the universe. The world has changed, and for the better.”

  She wanted to believe that, she had to believe that, anything else would be to capitulate to fear.

  Jameson leaned forward, pointing at Elvis as if to say, I told you so.

  Elvis laughed, adding, “Oh, the world looks just as shitty today as it did yesterday, Doc.”

  Bower went to say something but Elvis cut her off, saying, “I hope you’re right, I really do.”

  “Me too,” she replied with a forced smile.

  The drive to Ksaungu took six hours.

  As they approached the city they could see smoke rising lazily in the air, dark black plumes hung above the distant buildings. Traffic was congested. All semblance of order had broken down. Cars, trucks and motorcycles clogged the roads and footpaths. Drivers honked their horns, yelling at each other, frustrated in the stifling heat. The stench of sewage sat in the air.

  Bower had moved to the back of the truck during one of the bathroom breaks, giving Alile the chance to sit up the front with Jameson and Elvis. Alile had been reluctant, but Bower was insistent. There was no elite foreigners-only club, just humanity trying to survive its own best efforts at self-destruction, and besides, she could use the distraction of caring for others.

  Bower sat in the back talking with Kowalski, the nurses and patients.

  The rear of the truck was covered in a canvas tarpaulin. There was little to hold onto and Elvis wasn’t the most considerate of drivers. A slight breeze leaked in beneath gaps in the canvas near the cab of the truck. At the back, a canvas flap fluttered in the breeze, but dust kicked up by the tires swirled behind the truck, preventing them from opening the canvas up entirely.

  For the most part, everyone was in high spirits, but the premature baby was unusually lethargic. He was on a drip, and Bower was worried about him. His mother sat there rocking with the motion of the truck, stroking the child's head gently in the sweltering heat.

  "Hey Doc," Jameson yelled out, leaning out of the window and lifting the canvas. "There are signs for a Red Cross station up ahead. Looks like they’re as stubborn as you. We're going to take your folks there, OK?"

  "Yes. Please," she called back over the sound of the diesel engine roaring as Elvis pulled out into heavy traffic, crossing a main thoroughfare.

  The roads in Ksaungu were lined with asphalt, allowing them to open the canvas back and let air circulate more freely within the rear of the truck.

  The buildings in Ksaungu were pockmarked with the scars of war. Bullet holes straddled the rough concrete walls. Large chunks of masonry marred the streets, marking where tanks had once battled for control of this provincial capital. Power lines ran down one side of the street in absurd bundles of ten to fifteen wires running from lamppost to lamppost. Numerous other wires peeled away from the posts in what looked suspiciously like illegal wiring. At least, Bower thought it was probably unregulated, with little regard for safety, but in Africa that didn't mean it was an illegal tap. Amidst the cars and trucks, horse-drawn carts trundled along carrying vegetables and meats to the markets.

  The impromptu Red Cross hospital had been set up in an abandoned train station. Several of the staff came out to greet them as they pulled up.

  "Americans," one of the Red Cross doctors said in a distinctly Australian voice. "Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought you'd all done a runner."

  “We have,” Jameson replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice as he led the Australian around to the back of the truck. “But we had a bit of unfinished business. Had to get some civvies to safety.”

  “And you think Ksaungu is safe?” the Red Cross official replied.

  “We’re trying to get these folks to Mozambique,” Bower said as she helped a patient down from the truck.

  Jameson added, "We had in-country staff and patients we couldn't abandon. We're headed to Lilongwe for evac."

  "Lilongwe?" the Red Cross doctor asked. "You might want to rethink your plans. Lilongwe is under siege by the rebels. Last I heard, several suburbs had fallen to the uprising but the government isn't giving up without a fight."

  "What about the Red Cross?" Jameson asked as Bower stood beside him. "Are you pulling out?"

  "We've removed all non-essential staff. If the fighting gets close, we'll pull back across the border, but for now, there's too much work to do."

  Bower shook hands with the doctor, as did Alile. Kowalski wasn’t bothered with pleasantries. He just waved as he moved the patients out of the sun into the shade of an overhanging first-floor patio.

  "We're going to hold up in the Hotel Ksaungu," Jameson added. "And try to make contact with US forces at sea."

  "Good luck with that," the doctor replied. "We haven't seen sight nor sound of US or UN forces since they announced that bloody alien spaceship had arrived."

  “Do you have contact with anyone in Mozambique?” Bower asked.

  “We have a couple of old buses making daily runs to the border. We can get your people on one, so long as they’re fit to travel.”

  “Wonderful,” Bower replied, smiling. Alile smiled as well, but without the same measure of conviction.

  Bower and Alile followed the doctor inside the Red Cross station. When she came outside an hour or so later, the sun was setting. The Rangers were lounging around, sitting on the hood of the truck or playing cards in the shade. Their M4 rifles were never out of arm’s reach. The Hummer was gone, presumably to the hotel.

  "So what's the plan, Doc?" Jameson asked. "Are you and Dr. Kowalski going to stay here with the Red Cross?"

  She hadn't really thought about it, but Jameson was right. They were part of an NGO and not even from the same country as the Rangers. In that moment, she saw a glimpse of the valor with which the Rangers served. They had no official responsibility for her. They need not have escorted her to Ksaungu, let alone have hung around outside the makeshift hospital. Although with bands of thugs roaming the streets in pick-up trucks, brandishing automatic rifles, their presence had ensured the Red Cross outpost had remained orderly.

  In private, Bower had previously been critical of the military intervention in Malawi, saying what was needed was civil engineers and teachers, not more guns and bombs, but now she saw things in a different light.

  His was a good question, what were they going to do? In essence, Jameson was asking if she wanted to be released from his military care, and that was a novel thought, one with potentially profound implications.

  Somewhat absentmindedly, she said, "Ah, I'm going to have to consult Mitch on that." And she turned and walked back into the rundown building.

  Kowalski was working with Alile to clean out an infected wound on the leg of a young boy. Bower didn’t recognize the boy; he must have been a local.

  "Shrapnel wound. So bloody messy I can't tell if there's any metal still in there."

  "Mitch," Bower said, and the tone of her voice got his attention. He seemed to understand what was coming next. "The soldiers ne
ed to move on. What do you want to do?"

  You, it was a word pregnant with meaning. She hadn't said we, she already knew what she wanted to do, but she wanted to hear Kowalski's perspective. She liked to think he could persuade her to continue providing medical assistance at the makeshift hospital, but deep down she already knew she was going to leave with the soldiers. She was hoping he would say something that would make her decision easier, some justification she could cling to without feeling like a traitor.

  "I can't say I've ever been too fond of men marching around with guns," Kowalski replied. "But they saved our ass up there in Abatta."

  He pulled his gloves off, took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose, lost in thought. He turned to Alile, saying, “Can you finish up?”

  Alile just nodded.

  Bower took a sip of water from her canteen.

  "It's one of those moments, isn't it?" Kowalski said. "We’re at a crossroad, where we can go one way or another, but it’s a crossroad we can never revisit if we change our minds in the future. Right now, we can go on either path, but this luxury won’t be around for long."

  Kowalski had used the pronoun we in his reply. He was more circumspect than Bower. She struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.

  "What do you think?" Kowalski asked.

  Bower looked around. The field hospital was already overflowing. Patients lay on metal gurneys in the hallways, quietly enduring until someone could tend to them, although tending was a misnomer. Beyond basic surgery, cleaning and bandaging a wound, there wasn’t a lot that could be done.

  "I need a crystal ball," she said. "I mean, we're trying to make a decision based on information we don't have, information that can only come in the future. Will the government of Malawi prevail? Will all this play out in a matter of days or weeks? Or will the war be protracted and go on for years? Will the UN ever return, and if so, when? But perhaps most important, what difference will that bloody alien space ship make?"

  Bower looked at Alile working away quietly on Kowalski’s patient. Alile didn't have to say what she was thinking.

  Neither Alile nor the boy could flee. The best they could hope for was to get across the border into Mozambique as refugees. They were trapped by the cruelest of circumstances beyond their control: the country in which they were born. Bower felt sick. What a stupid, fucked-up world, she thought, there was no merit, no compassion, no understanding, nothing any of them could do about this artificial distinction that could make the difference between life and death. That Alile’s fate was arbitrary and whimsical was barbaric.

  "You should go," said Alile in her distinct African accent. "You came here to help us with our mess. You have helped. You can do no more. You should go while you still can."

  ‘Our mess,’ there was another pronoun coming into play: you, we, our. Each pronoun revealed more about its speaker than Bower had ever realized before, although ‘our’ wasn't entirely accurate. Malawi may have been where Alile was born, but the problems the country was going through had nothing to do with her personally, and Bower understood that. Her heart went out to the brave, young nurse. Bower could see Alile was being kind, giving them an out. The reality was, these artificial designations of country and race held no bearing other than what man made of them. Bower felt like a heel taking the easy way out.

  "There is too much suffering in this country," Alile continued. "You have done all you can. But it is we who must end it. You can go. You should go."

  Kowalski was silent.

  “I will arrange for the others to go on to Mozambique tomorrow,” Alile said.

  “But what about you?” Bower asked.

  “This is my country. If I leave then I am giving up on her. I cannot do that. If all the good people leave there will be no one left but the evil, and I cannot stand that thought.”

  Bower was silent.

  Kowalski went to say something, but Alile cut him off with one, sharp word.

  "Go."

  It wasn't a request, neither was it an order. It was a plea.

  Kowalski stood up, rubbing his hands over his face, rubbing his fingers in his eyes as though he were clearing out grit.

  "Promise me," Bower said, talking to Alile. "Promise me you will leave before it’s too late. Promise me you'll make a run for the border when the time comes."

  "I promise."

  Kowalski hugged Alile, which took the young lady by surprise. She held her hands away from his body so her bloodied gloves didn’t mar his clothing. Kowalski didn’t seem to care. His face was set like stone. Bower hugged the two of them, tears running down her cheeks.

  After a couple of seconds, Kowalski pulled back. Bower stepped away as Kowalski took Alile by the shoulders saying, “With people like you, there is hope for Malawi.”

  Alile nodded.

  Bower felt her lower lip wavering as she went to say goodbye. The words never came. She leaned in and kissed Alile on each cheek.

  “It is OK,” Alile said. “You have done more than could have been asked of you. Thank you. One day, Malawi will be free, and we will meet again.”

  Bower acknowledged her without saying anything. Words felt cheap.

  She and Kowalski stepped out into the twilight as the Hummer pulled up, parking in front of the truck. Walking down the stairs leading out of the station, Bower felt as though she was sinking deeper in despair with each downward step. She’d done all she could for Alile and the other staff and patients, and yet guilt gnawing at her heart condemned her for leaving them.

  "This is shit," Kowalski said, turning to Bower as they walked toward the waiting soldiers. "Some bloody world we live in. Someone comes from another world to visit, and we abandon each other, we panic and abandon our sense of humanity. What did these aliens come to see? Mindless animals? Because that's all there is here, that's all they'll find."

  Bower swallowed the lump in her throat.

  The roar of the diesel engine sprung to life, breaking the moment. Bower climbed up in the cab of the truck trying not to cry. Kowalski got in the Hummer. It was only when Bower got seated she realized he'd not followed her. She could see him sitting in the rear of the Hummer with his back to her. It was nothing personal, she understood that, and yet it hurt just the same. Kowalski was probably as disgusted at himself as she was at herself for taking the easy way out. By separating from her, though, she couldn’t help but feel condemned for abandoning the hospital. In reality, she told herself, his decision was probably unthinking and practical, as there wasn’t a lot of room in the cab of the truck, but it hurt her nonetheless. For her, the tension between them felt unresolved.

  As they pulled out of the courtyard, Bower saw Alile standing there, her arms limp by her side. A pang of guilt struck at Bower’s heart. She wanted to wave to her, but she couldn’t. There was no joy in this parting, none for either of them.

  The hotel was less than four miles away but the journey took several hours. As they drove through the darkened streets, sporadic gunfire broke out, echoing off the buildings. In the distance, up on the hinterland, Bower could see flashes of light, explosions rocking the jungle road they'd traveled during the day.

  The staff at the hotel were pleased to see them pull up, making a fuss of the soldiers, telling them they could stay for free. Jameson commented quietly to Bower that he hadn't even thought about money until they'd pulled up out front of the aging building, and he’d wondered if they'd take an IOU from the US Army.

  From the hotel's perspective, having US soldiers on the premises provided a degree of security in a city slowly sliding toward anarchy. The hotel gave them five rooms at one end of the third floor. Jameson arranged for his soldiers to pull sentry duty and set Bower and Kowalski up in the middle room, with strict instructions to stay clear of the windows.

  Bower had the first shower. In the sweltering heat of the early evening, a cool shower felt refreshing while the soap seemed to clean more than just the pores in her skin. After getting dressed, Bower stepped out of
the bathroom, determined to talk further with Kowalski.

  Kowalski was sitting on the bed. He handed her a can of Coca-Cola, saying, “It’s a little hot.”

  “Isn’t everything in Malawi?” Bower asked, popping the ring on top of the can. “Mitch, about what happened back there. I -”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Kowalski said. “It’s a triage decision, isn’t it? You can’t save everyone, so you choose those you can save. And you choose them based on those with the best chance of surviving. You’ve got to be cold, you’ve got to be clinical, you’ve got to be realistic.”

  Bower sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. Actually, she wasn’t going to say that at all. She wasn’t too sure what she was going to say, only that she was struggling to separate selfishness from self-preservation. She felt conflicted. For years, she and her right-leaning brother back in England had argued about the role of altruism. He’d taken the position that self-preservation trumped all other notions, that when it came down to it, people would do whatever they had to in order to save their own hides. She’d disagreed, saying she was giving her life in medical service to others less fortunate, but when the crunch came all her idealistic platitudes had proven worthless. Did that make her weak? Did that make her bad? Flawed? Or just human?

  She was silent.

  Kowalski breathed deeply. “It just sucks, you know?”

  Bower nodded and sipped at the warm Coca-Cola. It tasted disgusting, but she was past caring. Kowalski was staring at her, but his mind was elsewhere. His voice was soft, considerate. A glazed look sat behind his thin-rimmed glasses.

  “While I was an intern in Poland, so very many years ago, we had a football stadium collapse. High winds brought down part of the roof, trapping several of the spectators, but that wasn’t the worst of the incident. People panicked. They must have thought the whole place was going to cave-in. They ran for their lives. They pushed, they shoved, they fought to get out of the stadium. Eighty-four people died, crushed to death in the stampede.”

  Bower swallowed.

  “I was supposed to be working the graveyard shift in the emergency department but they called me in when the casualties started piling up in the ambulance bay. My mentor was an old German doctor by the name of Hans Grosen. I turned up and he gave me a whiteboard marker. He told me to start numbering the patients outside, grading them from one to five based on the severity of their injuries, writing my medical opinion on their foreheads in the form of a single number. What he didn’t tell me was why.”