When Aziza thought about the tough conditions her grandmother survived and her mantra, God helps those who help themselves, she knew quitting was not one of the choices open to her. Aside from that, she wanted to lay eyes on her family. Giving up wouldn’t accomplish that wish.
She desperately wanted to know what was happening outside, but there was no way ... unless she could see through the glass paneling at the top of their prison. Whoever came up with the design knew exactly what they were doing because none of the glass had shattered. Everyone in the forty-foot housing was sealed away, as if in a tomb. Except for that rusted section near the bed Hamid occupied.
Next to her, Naima stirred and her thoughts changed direction.
“I do not think they will give up,” she said. “What are we going to do?”
“What we’re not going to do,” Aziza hissed, “is give up.”
On Naima’s other side, Ahaba sniffled.
“You don’t have time for that now,” Naima said in a gentle voice. “We need you to focus on what’s going on out there. Can you do that?”
In the haze that signaled dawn, Aziza caught the girl’s nod.
“Do you understand what’s being said?” Naima asked, “and why they’re screeching like that?”
A few more seconds went by as Ahaba changed position and tipped her head closer to the wall. After a moment, she said, “I think the men who were trying to get us are still out there. And there are some others.”
Aziza bit down on her lip to contain her impatience. She had figured that out already. “Tell us what the crying is about.” She swallowed the for-heaven’s-sake part of the sentence.
“One of them is saying that he is blind, the other is saying that he is not willing to die for these ... “ She hesitated. “He just used a nasty word to describe us.”
“We need to figure out who those other men are,” Aziza whispered to Naima. “I’m hoping they are friends and not foes.”
“Do you have friends on this side of the world?” Naima asked. “We are in desperate need of some right now.”
The gunfire continued, punctuated by intermittent screams. A few more women raised their heads. Others sat up, wrapped their arms around their knees, and rocked backward and forward, comforting themselves.
The cot across from them creaked as Hamid stirred and groaned. His head fell back to the bed and he sobbed.
Naima looked away, because he was little more than a boy. A boy in agony, as evidenced by his continued cries. Since she hit him, things kept getting progressively worse for him. But he had made his choice. She closed the door on her sympathy and turned her attention to Ahaba.
One more burst of gunfire came before a man bellowed in Arabic.
“What is he saying?” Aziza all but yelled.
Ahaba’s voice quivered, but she continued, “He said, ‘I surrender.’”
Aziza smiled, then whispered, “Dear God, let their enemies be my friends.”
She contained her excitement, and reached for the gun. No matter who was outside, they still needed to stay alert.
The attack on the door was nothing compared to the previous assault. Her fellow prisoners scooted toward the back and huddled together in a shivering clump.
“What are we going to do if they break down the door?” Naima asked, her eyes wild in her narrow face.
“Let’s think about that bridge when we’re ready to cross it.”
As the pounding continued, Ahaba covered both her ears. Naima went to her side and hugged her.
Aziza positioned herself in front of the women. She was no Superwoman, but she would do what she could to protect the more vulnerable among them, especially the young girls. Yesterday evening while they waited out the men, the youngest girl, Sunita—almost a baby at ten years old—had broken down sobbing. Her tale of repeated assault, after her father sold her, made Aziza’s eyes sprout tears of anger while her blood boiled.
The silence, when it descended, was almost deafening. Hamid’s moaning was the only noise interrupting the early morning calm. Aziza could almost believe everybody outside had left. The lack of movement stretched her frayed nerves as she waited, for what, she didn’t know.
Abdul chose that moment to start shouting.
“He is telling them how many of us are in here.” Ahaba’s voice reeked of desperation.
Throwing aside caution, Aziza got to her feet. Propelled by anger, she thumped Abdul’s forehead and yanked the fabric back over his mouth. Leaning in close, she said, “We don’t know who is out there, but you better pray to God it’s your people and not mine.”
His yellow-brown eyes flashed hatred, but that was the least of her concern.
She didn’t know why she was warning him, but the snatches of English stirred the hope that somehow they would be delivered out of this hellhole where they’d been imprisoned for nearly a week. Her focus returned to Abdul, and she kept her voice even. “You better shut it before I punch you again.”
She flexed her sore fist, then dashed back to where she left the rifle leaning against the wall. Ignoring the pain in her hand and the tension pulling at the back of her neck, she hefted the rifle.
A husky and commanding voice rang through the air. “If you can hear me, my name is Nicco Wolfe and my team and I are here to help you.”
Aziza’s gaze shot to Naima, who stared back at her. Then a grin split her face. She sprang to her feet but Aziza pulled her back down. “We don’t know for sure he is who he says he is.”
Despite her doubt, Aziza stood and took unsteady steps toward the entrance.
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
Aziza stumbled and stopped herself from retreating to the safety of the group.
