The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  “In there”—Najeela pointed at the filing cabinet—“are the vaccination reports and statistics. You’ll need to spend some time going over those numbers so you’ll understand what you need to report. Did they explain that to you? Does it make sense?”

  “I think so. I guess I’ll have to look through everything, but in Geneva, they went over the paperwork and statistics, so I think I’ll be okay.”

  Najeela reached into her pocket for a key and unlocked the cabinet and the drawers in one desk. “I moved your blank reports and papers here to this desk.” She pointed to the one she’d unlocked before slipping the key back into her pocket.

  “Will I need the key?”

  “No, no. It’s best if you keep it open. That way you can work anytime you like.”

  “Okay. What about the other desk? Is it locked?”

  “Yes, but I think you’ll need only the one desk. Otherwise you’ll work too hard, and I . . .” Najeela dropped her voice to a whisper though Hana was all the way down the hall. “I use that desk for my own things.”

  “Will you be working in here with me?”

  Najeela giggled. “I’m the administrator for this suboffice, and there isn’t much for me to do. I mostly go to meetings and listen to dull men speak about their dull plans.”

  Abby smiled. “I’ve never thought of the UN as dull.”

  “Wait till you’ve been here awhile.”

  Abby relaxed. She hadn’t expected Najeela to be so friendly and open and, well, so like herself in many ways. She’d expected a very foreign woman, not this ebullient person who acted more like a girlfriend than a colleague. Abby sat in the chair and listened as it creaked and groaned. This room had been unoccupied for a while, she supposed. She clicked the computer to life. “If you’ll show me where I can find the documents and files in this computer, I’ll get started.”

  Najeela leaned in and typed UN Vaccination Program, and the old monitor exploded with an endless list of files and folders.

  “This is everything, Abby, everything the UN orientation group showed you in Geneva—it should all look familiar to you. So, spend some time going over the files to be sure you have what you need, and then we’ll go out. I’ll take you to see the city and the refugee camp and maybe we can shop as well.”

  “Is there Internet access? I’d like to e-mail my mom and a friend or two so they’ll know I arrived safely.”

  Najeela leaned in and pointed out the Internet icon. “Just click here, and you’ll be connected.”

  Relieved that she’d be able to keep in touch with Emily and her parents, Abby nodded, eager to get started on her work. She bent to the computer screen, a pile of reports in her lap, and began to read and record the numbers. Before long the heat of the day seeped into the room. The trickle of sweat that had gathered on the back of her neck when she’d first sat was now a veritable flood of moisture running along her back. A quick look around confirmed that her little office had no air conditioner, not even a fan. Though she’d grown up in the soupy heat of New Orleans, air-conditioning had always taken away the sting, but here in the UN house, Abby would have to get used to sticky shirts and hair plastered to her neck. She could already see that in this room at least, the stifling heat enveloped everything. She decided against shutting the window—at least it offered some fresh air.

  Abby spent the next two hours huddled over the computer, checking objectives and target numbers, and finally she smiled to herself. “Now I see,” she said out loud. She stood and stretched. The time had flown, and she was stiff and hot. She clicked into the Internet and typed quick messages to her mom and Emily. That out of the way, she went in search of Najeela.

  “I’m ready for a break,” she announced, wiping the beads of sweat from her brow.

  Najeela smiled. “Let’s have a cold drink,” she said, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. “Is Coca-Cola good for you?”

  Abby nodded in reply. Her throat was parched.

  Once Abby had guzzled down the bottle of Coke, Najeela summoned the car and driver. “Ready, Abby?”

  Abby grabbed her bag and met Najeela at the door. A small, wiry man wearing an oversize shirt and the same big balloon pants as Hana and Najeela appeared and bowed to Abby. “Miss,” he said softly. “I am Mohammed, your driver.”

  Abby smiled and bowed in return. “Mohammed, we met last night, I think. You picked me up at the airport?”

  A gentle smile creased Mohammed’s face. “I am thinking maybe you too tired, maybe you forget.”

  “No, I remember you. It’s good to see you again.” Abby and Najeela settled themselves in the backseat, and Mohammed guided the car out of the long driveway, through the gate, and into the street.

  “This area,” said Najeela, “is University Town. The UN and most of the aid groups have offices and homes here.”

  The homes and offices were hidden behind high stucco walls, all painted white and all bearing engraved business signs announcing just who resided there. Abby read as they drove. She saw the offices for UNICEF, the World Health Organization, the International Rescue Committee, and the Red Cross—though here it was called the Red Crescent.

  They turned a corner and drove smack into the middle of a chaotic, dizzying scene. The narrow street heaved with a crush of veiled women, pitiful beggars, wobbly pushcarts and rickshaws, donkeys, even a camel. The men all wore pajama suits—oversize shirts and the same billowy pants the women wore under their dresses and veils. Music blasted from everywhere—the sounds of lilting Indian flutes and guitars and singers with high-pitched voices mingled with the braying of donkeys, the tooting of rickshaws, and the honking of cars. The noise was earsplitting.

  Along the edges of the road, crowded storefronts spilled their wares—bolts of cloth, gleaming silver teakettles, and burlap sacks filled with rice and sugar. Abby watched as harried vendors bargained with sharp-tongued customers. Everywhere, power lines and antennas looped precariously through the air connecting crumbling archaic buildings to the modern world. The frantic scene was spellbinding—not even Mardi Gras had been this packed.

  “This is the bazaar,” Najeela said. “Here you can buy anything you might need—even blood for transfusion.”

  Abby looked skeptically at Najeela and pulled herself forward, craning to get a better look. Then she spied the large sign: BLOOD TRANSFUSIONS AND DONOR BAGS AVAILABLE HERE. Abby’s mouth fell open. “Wow, you weren’t kidding.” She wished Emily were here to see this.

  Najeela laughed. “Peshawar is not like Boston or Paris. If you are sick here and in need of blood, you must get it yourself. Only a very few hospitals provide blood.”

  “I’ll have to stay well.”

  Abby watched as the car squeezed through the narrow streets, people and animals walking in a crush alongside. Little girls wearing head scarves and little boys wearing grown-up scowls pushed up close, peering into the car. The car glided along the street before finally pulling out onto a wide boulevard, where it picked up speed.

  “The camp is just beyond the main city,” Najeela said, touching Abby’s hand. “We are almost there.” Soon thereafter, the car pulled into an area surrounded by a high, white fence. A sign painted there read SAFAR REFUGEE CAMP. “Safar,” Najeela announced, “means ‘journey,’ and for the people here, this place is a stop on their journey home.”

  The car pulled into the camp, depositing its two occupants. “Wait here, please,” Najeela directed Mohammed. She and Abby stepped out of the car and onto the camp’s main road. The sun’s glare sliced through the morning sky, flooding everything in its path. Abby squinted. The bright blue sky was utterly cloudless; the sun was so intense that the heat seemed to tuck itself into every corner. She drew her sleeve across her sweat-stained face. The air here was thick and soupy and not unlike New Orleans before Hurricane Katrina blew through. Abby shivered at the memory and hoped that wasn’t an omen.

  Najeela walked up the dirt and gravel path with an enviable spring to her step. Abby hurried to keep up.r />
  “This is your first refugee camp, yes?” Najeela asked.

  Abby nodded and tried to take it all in. An endless sea of dusty tents spread to every corner of the camp. Some were held up by sticks, some were tethered to the ground with long ropes, and some were covered with heavy plastic tarpaulins. Scattered in between were small brick-and-plaster buildings, offices maybe. People, mostly women and children, milled about.

  It was an image of pure desolation. Abby supposed New Orleans hadn’t been so different after Katrina, but she’d lived north of the city, and she hadn’t seen it except for the images that had flickered across her television screen. A tiny twinge of guilt touched her. She should have stayed after the hurricane. She could have helped. She sighed heavily. This time, she’d stay, no matter what.

  Najeela seemed to sense Abby’s trepidation. “In a very short time, you’ll get used to this, to the sights and the scents here, but it is overwhelming when you first see it. On my first visit, I fell quite ill with the sight of it.” Najeela paused and looked around. “I thought I could never come back, but I have trained my eyes to look away from the sadness.” She turned, and as if to emphasize that, she looked away and smiled broadly. “And now that we are here, you can see why we need you.”

  Abby took a deep breath and nodded. That much seemed clear.

  Najeela turned back to the road and her tour. “This camp has been running for over twenty years. I don’t think anyone thought it would still be needed.” She pointed down the long road. “You know that we still have refugees from Afghanistan, and now some Pakistanis as well. Flooding has forced thousands upon thousands of Pakistanis into Peshawar. That crisis, coupled with the lingering presence of thousands of Afghan refugees, means that vaccinations are a priority. The UN keeps track of and administers the vaccines. Everyone has to be vaccinated. Did you know that an outbreak of measles can wipe out a camp in weeks?”

  Abby nodded.

  Najeela giggled. “I’ve just memorized those statistics. How did I sound?”

  “Impressive, Najeela. You were definitely convincing.” Abby turned her attention back to the primitive road that wound through the camp’s center, rows and rows of tents stretching out on either side. The terrain was desolate—just dirt sprinkled between the tents and huts. Abby’s shoulders sagged as she looked around. She hadn’t imagined that a place could be so sad, so filled with misery. Barefoot children in threadbare shirts and pants watched her warily.

  Abby smiled. “Hello,” she called out. A few children giggled in reply and ran off. “There are so many children here. Is that usual or is it the floods?”

  “This is the area for separated children, for those children whose parents have been killed or are lost.”

  “Oh,” Abby sighed, “poor kids. Who takes care of them?”

  “The UN does, and the staff here search for their families. UNICEF has an office—well, a tent, really—where they work with the Red Crescent to reunite lost children with their families, and to protect those children who are alone. They keep files and photos of the children here and of those who are still lost so that people might come or reconnect and provide information. It is a complicated situation.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “The staff here will try to place them with family or people from their own villages, but that can be risky. It’s the hardest part of the UN’s mission—caring for the lost children. They are easy prey for the evil ones. At least here, they are safe.”

  “Evil ones?” Abby asked. “That sounds ominous.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? We won’t speak of such things today.”

  When Abby turned her attention back to the road, she saw women clad in the full covering of the burka, the tentlike garment that she’d seen in photos. They walked in small clusters through the camp. “Do they have to wear that?” Abby asked, motioning to a woman nearby.

  “If they were in their own villages, they would probably wear only the head scarf, but here in the camp, there is no privacy to speak of. They are without the high walls that shield them from the outside. So here, the burka is their wall, their security from prying eyes.” Najeela sighed heavily and smoothed her hair. “At least that is what they believe. I think the burka is primitive. Come, enough of that.” She turned off the road toward a thatch-roofed, plaster building. “This is the Immunization Clinic. Two days a week, UNICEF vaccinates the children. It’s closed today, but this is where you’ll come to pick up your reports and statistics. You can help out if you’d like. It will help you to get used to everything.”

  Abby nodded and peered into the darkness of the small space. “I’m looking forward to being here when it’s open.” She smiled. “Vaccines and clinics—the stuff I know, makes me feel that I can help, not just with statistics, but with these poor people.”

  Najeela took Abby’s hand and squeezed. “But they are not so poor—they are here and they are taken care of. Come, we’ve seen enough for today. This place is too sad for you, I think.”

  “I . . .” Abby started to say that she wanted to see more, but already Najeela was dashing away. I guess it is awfully sad, Abby thought. Everything here was sad, the sheer numbers of people and the unrelenting misery, all of it more pitiful than anything else she’d ever seen.

  Chapter 3

  Abby followed Najeela to the car, where a flushed Mohammed stood waiting in the full glare of the sun. “Oh, Mohammed,” Abby said, “you look so hot. Wasn’t there any spot of shade?”

  He didn’t answer and simply looked at Najeela. “It’s important that he watch the car,” Najeela said as she turned and slid into the backseat. Abby followed, grateful for the bit of shade the car offered.

  “I don’t know about you,” Najeela said, her tone petulant, “but I’m hungry. Let’s go to the Pearl for lunch.” She spoke curtly to Mohammed in Urdu, then turned to Abby. “The Pearl Continental is Peshawar’s finest hotel. We can have a civilized lunch, even a glass of wine if you’d like.”

  Abby could only nod in reply. Her mind was still on the camp, the lost children, and the sheer misery of the place. Tucked inside the comfort of the air-conditioned car, she found it almost unreal. She closed her eyes. “You were right, Najeela. The misery in Safar is almost too much to absorb.” She paused. “I can’t even imagine how difficult life is for those people.”

  Najeela patted Abby’s hand. “The villages they came from really weren’t so different from this place—dusty roads and mud houses.” Najeela flashed a smile. “But enough of refugees today. You need a good lunch, Abby, and you’ll feel better.”

  And just like that, Najeela steered the conversation away from the refugees. It was, Abby supposed, a kind of defense mechanism. If you thought about it too much, you probably couldn’t work here.

  As the car pulled away from the camp, it was surrounded by a large group of beggars, their faces peering in, eyes open wide, noses pressed to the windows, their hands held out. Abby sat forward and fished through her bag for money.

  “No, no!” Najeela exclaimed, her voice loud. She pulled Abby away from the window. “Mohammed, speed up please.”

  “But I have some change,” Abby pleaded, “and these people look so desperate.”

  “They are desperate for your money, Abby. Many of them are professional beggars. See that woman.” Najeela pointed to a legless woman who sat atop a wheeled platform, a child at her breast. “She likely had her legs amputated to help increase her income, and her baby—she will likely do something terrible to maim him, to make him more sympathetic.”

  “Oh, Najeela, you can’t be serious.” Abby was unable to hide the irritation that had welled up in her voice. “That woman has no legs. Good God, I don’t think she did that to herself.”

  A frown creased Najeela’s face. “Suit yourself, but please don’t give them money when you are with me.”

  Abby sat back, defeated, and Najeela, seeming to sense that she’d gone too far, gripped Abby’s hand. “I know it seems cruel, b
ut trust me, handing out money only makes the situation here worse.”

  Abby, dazed and speechless at Najeela’s point of view, could only nod in reply. The car ground to a stop, and when Abby gazed out, she saw a group of young men glaring angrily at her and Najeela. A small shiver ran up her spine. “What’s that all about?” Abby asked, nudging Najeela.

  “Oh, they’re probably radicals. You know—fundamentalists. Pay them no mind. They’re angry that women can do things on their own.” Najeela shook her head and turned away from the window. “Maybe, if you’re not too tired, we can shop after lunch,” she said, her tone suddenly happy as if the beggars and the angry young men had never happened.

  Abby opened her mouth to speak, to say, Not today, but Najeela piped in. “Here we are,” announcing their arrival. Abby’s mouth fell open. The hotel was ornate and gracious and, well . . . beautiful. Surrounded by lush green lawns, it seemed to have been plunked down in the midst of misery and squalor by some cosmic mistake. Abby followed Najeela through the lobby to the restaurant, a quiet, elegant place. They could have been at the Ritz in Boston. Maybe this was why those young men had seemed so angry. It was rich women they didn’t like, and they could peg Najeela a mile away.

  “How many?” the man asked Najeela.

  “Two,” she replied, holding up her fingers as if unsure he would understand her words. They followed the man, who led them to a table near the back. Najeela sat facing the large room. “I like to see who comes in,” she said, picking up the menu. “I’ll order, if that’s okay? The kebabs and biryani rice are wonderful. Yes?”

  Abby nodded. She was hungry. Maybe Najeela was right—all she needed was a good meal.

  When the food came, Abby inhaled the fragrant aroma of the spices. Though she’d never been much of a cook and had no idea what she was eating, she did know that it was delicious, filled with spices and seasonings she’d never be able to identify. “Hmm,” she muttered in between bites, “you were right, Najeela. This is really good.”