“She’s lovely is she not?” the nun asked Hanley.
“Yes, she most certainly is. Her features look as if she has something other than African in her. Is she local?”
“She is from west of Rumbek, more toward the Darfur region. Her name is Naja. What you see is the result of the rape of her mother by men from the north. This war is old but the consequences of war are still young. She is here now because her mother was raped again and then murdered; beaten to death with an axe handle, her sister also. She ran off and was not molested. A miracle. The women go into the brush outside the villages to gather firewood and sometimes wild food at a great risk every time but these are necessities for their families and so they do it. Heroes are not always in movies Mr Martin. When life is difficult, they are sometimes everywhere.”
“Yes, I once saw a political cartoon that showed a professional basketball player standing next to a shabbily dressed woman holding a bucket. Under the basketball player was the description, “Paid millions to play a child’s game;” under the woman was the caption, “Single mother who put three kids through college.” Under both was the question, “Who is the real hero?” Maybe, when times are tough, just doing what needs to be done is a bit heroic,” Hanley said.
“This has all turned to madness. I’m certain there are reasons that God will not show us, but the faith required is great, greater than I can maintain at times, if I have enough at all. We believed we are what we should be but most of the time we delude ourselves. Delude is the correct word is it not? Oui? Bien. So, what do I do to understand all of this? Tell me. Americans have all the answers, or so they say.”
“Who says? I doubt that I or any American have answers for you. I have none for myself most of the time. I believe the rest of the world doubts that America knows what it’s doing. At least they don’t seem to think so, not to me, not anymore. Do you want to know what Americans don’t understand? Why do people dislike us so until they need our help? I mean, when people do need help, then they call on us first. When things are good, we are the people everyone hates.”
“Hate? I don’t think Americans are hated. The actions of your leaders are questioned and often misunderstood. Your country does more than most. My own country does little for the people here and in other parts of Africa. America is not doing what it should. No one is. America shares its indifference towards Sudan and Africa with the rest of the world. I think Rwanda was a lesson no one learned.”
“They had only people and not oil, which was their problem. Even in the Balkans, everyone hesitated to become involved until it was late in the day. I think the US’s involvement had more to do with the politics of appeasing Muslims as with humanitarian matters,” Hanley said.
“That may be true but it seems so cynical don’t you think?” Sister Marie Claire asked.
“Every decent, reasonable man is ashamed of the government he lives under or should be,” Hanley said.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Maybe. It’s a quote from H.L. Menken, I…”
The wood of the doorframe above the head of another nurse exploded, raining splinters over everyone nearby. Just as the wood began filling the air around the door, Hanley heard the faint crack of a gunshot; the distance was significant as the report was faint. Someone screamed, a child, but only one. Everyone in the clinic reflexively squatted down to the floor, everyone but Hanley. Sister Marie Claire hissed, “Get down” to the American but he stayed up, and turned toward the sound of the gunshot, on tip-toe, trying to look through the small, high window for the shooter in the bush beyond the clearing. A second bullet hit the cement block wall with enough force that Hanley felt it through the dirt floor into his boots. It would have hit Hanley just below his rib cage but for the impenetrability of the block. Hanley ducked down, a feeling of nakedness a surprise to him as he wondered what he should do. He thought that perhaps only an American has a first reaction of regret at not being armed when faced with attack. He would trade anything for a rifle at that moment, the bigger the better he thought. There was another crack of rifle fire but this shot failed to hit the building.
“Stay down,” The nun instructed as she and the other nurses made certain the children remained on the floor and did not run for the doors. No one made a sound. The children did not cry but remained composed, their sullen expressions nurtured by a short life filled with the threat of violence. Another round struck the building and then the sound of automatic gunfire could be heard in the distance. Three short bursts, ten seconds of silence and then a single shot. No one moved for another minute or so. Hanley stood slightly and walked, bent over, to the door and went outside. “No,” the nun said but he was past her and out before she could move. Outside, Hanley moved down along the gray block, straining to hear any movement, the approach of men through the brush. He heard nothing. The entire compound had gone prone, waiting for the appropriate number of minutes to pass, a unit of time that experience randomly chose as enough. Hanley, bent over as he walked, made it to the corner of the building and surveyed the compound. He saw several people lying on the ground, others sitting behind trees, away from where they believed
