So during the last air raid (that we know of) a bomb hit the Save the Children compound. One news source said the government is intentionally targeting humanitarian workers now, keeping foreign help (and eyes and voices) out. (But then again accuracy takes a big hit when you are just rolling your bombs out of a plane by hand so who knows what they were targeting.) The Save the Children compound is 200 meters from my living room. Two days before we evacuated Annabelle and I took a walk down the path that runs past their compound and down to the seasonal river with shin-deep water the color of chai. My plastic flip-flops were rubbing between my toes so I took them off. It had rained that morning and the skin of the earth felt intimate under my bare feet. We saw lots of red bishops along the way, their feathers so brilliant they looked like they were plugged in to a neon light.
All I have is my imagination now to give my emotions form. My made up thoughts fill the void left by memory or experience. I see the planes droning in high and small in the sky. I hear the bombs falling, making a silly whistle a la Wylie Coyote as they near the ground, followed closely by loud explosions and the hiss of shrapnel. In my mind all the women and children are gone by now but I hear men shouting in the spaces between the explosions. Or is there just jarring silence, awkward and unreal? And at what was once my house I see Nimir stretched out on an old mattress in our tukul, his black fur still shiny from a steady diet of rats and lizards. He yawns, caring as little for the chaos outside as he is by the fact that we have abandoned him. At least that is how I imagine it.
George Clooney’s satellite tell us all now that the government forces are much stronger than we thought and will likely be on the ground in our hometown sometime this week. Thanks George. This news is discouraging. Even our friend the doctor is pulling out and the hospital is left little more than a cluster of cement buildings full of injured soldiers left to contemplate life. I know the doctor would never leave unless he thought he would die if he didn’t. He has too many dying people still to live for.
I’ve imagined my house getting bombed a million times or even repossessed by the rebels for the advancement of the cause. But to be honest I haven’t really thought about government soldiers looting it or setting up camp in my garden. The scene is actually a bit comical, whether or not if ever actually happens. Rifle butts busting the locks of off our front door and rough hands sifting through unexpected things: a collection of Dr. Seuss’ best stories, a pile of pink newborn onesies, jars of Thai curry paste, a “Would You Rather?” board game, a heavy blue-bound copy of Norton’s Anthology of Literary Criticism (not my most practical choice for a round-the-world move but not one I have regretted before now).
I wish I would have given my pots to Aisha before we left. If only I had known we probably wouldn’t be back anytime soon (my mind refuses to budge beyond that). They were a wedding present from my mother-in-law that we lugged around the world with us. How many times had Aisha held them up by their handles as she helped me wash dishes on the back porch, bobbing them appreciatively in her soapy hand? These are so heavy! You can’t get pots like this here. They must have been expensive. I’ll send you with some money when you go back to America to visit so you can bring me back one. Will 10 pounds be enough? Maybe I’ll send you with 15.They must have been really expensive! I can just see her squatting next to her cooking fire stirring sorghum mush in my stainless steel pot, grinning at how much nicer her kitchenware is than her neighbor’s. But as warm as the image is, it is silly. Even if I could have given her my pots she would never have used them. They were much too heavy for her to have carried when she ran away.
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