The Afghan Woman

She scrambled for our Land Rover, squealing for help in her native language, clawing at air for a freedom she could never possess. Her face, arms and legs were covered in the Burka.  Joa, my  driver, ignored the Afghan woman’s pleas and accelerated as my camera clicked and whirred.  A man wearing a green turban aimed his AK47 at us.  She scrambled in the dust behind the vehicle and her language had changed to broken English. 

"Please, help me! Take me with!"

I screamed,  "Stop Joa.  Stop the damn vehicle!"

I heard the fear in her voice.

A bullet ricocheted off the vehicle. He accelerated.

I couldn’t let this woman stay here to suffer a moment longer. 

‘Stop!’ I yelled. He applied brakes, not quite stopping, just enough for her to catch up and he accelerated as she grabbed my hand. I pulled her up as another shot rang out and clutched her to my chest. 

She was safe.

Safe from forced marriages, safe from being denied basic education, safe from being poisoned if she dared allow her daughters to go to school.

We stopped somewhere in the middle of the desert, and she was still in my arms. 

I released her gently and she fell off the seat onto the soft desert sand, a gaping hole in the side of her body.