Part Three
The mother, in the back seat, is separated from her daughter by a wall of metal. Her daughter’s hair is damp from perspiration and clinging to her swollen forehead, which is garishly reddish and purple. With 45 percent of her body ravaged by third degree burns and with multi-organ system failure there is little hope.
As the sandy landscape opens up below, the mother slaps her thigh with an open palm and then raises it to the ceiling with her eyes shut and her chest heaving. Tears fall from her dark eyes and trickle down the wrinkled valleys of her cheeks. She splashes water from a plastic bottle over her cloth-covered hair and pours handfuls of water over her heart as if she could wash away the pain. She murmurs softly to herself. Her shoulder blades, no bigger than a newborn’s fist, protrude from her back and her sobs rise above the deafening Blackhawk engine. At 120 knots, the Blackhawk will arrive at Ibn Sina Hospital in Baghdad in 45 minutes.
I skit beside her on this trip, the minutes are drawn out and I imagine all clocks thrown into a worm-hole lost in space where minutes on the clock are huge pieces of taffy stretched into the deep blackness of the universe.
“Remain objective, don’t get to close to the subject,” I tell myself. “It’s the only way to report the truth.”
But I want to be anything, but a reporter yet I have nothing to offer this woman. I can’t speak Arabic and if I did my voice would be lost in the engine’s roar and what would I say anyways, “I’m sorry.”
So I put my arms around this tiny woman and I hold her.
I find it odd when journalists say, “I didn’t want to take the picture, I felt bad, I took the picture.” I prefer the silent journalist with no explanations, but that’s not me. I need to purge. I am what I loathe.
As I hold her all I can think about is if I should I ask her if I can take the picture, is it worth it? I take a breath and move away from her, holding up my camera, pointing to her and it. She nods, yes and sorrow is history, isn’t it?
As I hold her all I can think about is if I should I ask her if I can take the picture, is it worth it? I take a breath and move away from her, holding up my camera, pointing to her and it. She nods, yes and sorrow is history, isn’t it?
Don’t worry I am here to exploit, but for the greater good. She looks up at me, her weeping eyes ready for the click, as if she is ready for a gunshot. Click. I take the photo.
After nearly an hour, the Blackhawk lands and she grips my hand like I could save her from the shuddering of the aircraft shaking her child-like knees together like cymbals as we land.
The mother is escorted out of the aircraft first. Her long, dark skirt billows in the gusts of air produced by the rotor blades. The crew chief takes her hand and he escorts her to an ATV. She huddles in the passenger’s seat. She seems to shrink as they pull her daughter, on the litter, out of the aircraft. The mother with furrowed brow, trembling hands, looks down at her child, loaded onto the bed of the vehicle. There is nothing she can do, but sit and watch. Her daughter’s hands are covered in layer of cloths. Most of her body is severely burned, tubes, plastic and machines stop mother from being able to embrace her child.
In the hospital the mother extends her hand to me and I hold it in mine as she follows her daughter wheeled into a small room. She heads for the closing door. I don’t stop her because I have no idea where we are or what to do? The medics are busy with the patient.
A nurse blocks our way.
“You can’t go in there,” she says.
I steer the mother in another direction. Thankfully interpreters are waiting and sit her down so she can wail and rock in grief. Does she know her daughter’s on her final breathe? I lean against the wall, waiting for what comes next.
I won’t find out. The medics motion that it is time for us to leave. The soldiers have done their job, depositing a burn victim into a higher level of medical care.
I say goodbye to the weeping mother now infolded in the interpreter’s arms. The mother pulls me closer and kisses my cheeks.
Back at the base I learn that the family reported the girl’s burns as a result of a propone explosion, but there are no shrapnel wounds on her body. The final report to the medics is that the girl is pregnant and burned, report closed. The MEDEVAC Company has already picked up several burned patients in the last 30 days. There is talk of “honor burnings,” The medics have to draw their own conclusions.
“The patient was essentially set on fire,” says one medic. “…Its not a quick death. Its very malicious, it’s very crude and archaic and to have someone do that to you… I can’t imagine being doused with something and then set on fire.”
It’s hot outside, so hot, it’s hard to breathe, hard to think. I look at the helicopters sitting still on the airfield and the high concrete walls topped with barbwire and I think of the mud houses and women dressed in black outside these walls and it makes me want to shut my eyes and sleep.
“There are things I’m gonna be thinking about for the rest of this whole time,” says the medic, his green eyes wide like the moon. “How could someone do that to someone else, another human being?”
I walk away from the airfield and into an air-conditioned trailer, thinking, “How could they?”