On Dangerous Borders

I didn’t know whether to feel tenser or relieved to be in that little room that first day. I was glad to be out of jail, but I was still fearful that one of the guys might harm me. Who could I have called upon for help? They knew I was just a wall away and totally defenseless. There was actually a hallway between the room I was in and the rooms where they seemed to spend most of their time, which I assumed to be the living room and kitchen. I could hear their voices but not what they were saying—not that they spoke much English anyway. I never heard any female voices either. I suspected only one or two of the guys actually lived in the house and that the others were either friends or family members. I expected to see Ahsad at any moment, but she never appeared, and the guys couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell me anything. My guess was that they didn’t really know anything for sure. It probably depended on how closely her fellow law enforcement officials were watching her. After all, I had to be big news in Pakistan right then. I wondered if it was believed that I had somehow orchestrated the abduction, or if it was believed I had nothing to do with it. Well, I certainly hadn’t seen it coming. When Ahsad kept telling me that everything would be ok, I thought she meant she would somehow talk to her buddies connected to the jail or the courts to let me go. It was then I realized something bad must have happened—or was about to happen. I suspected it had to do with no one believing I had been taken to Pakistan against my will. Either that, or they did believe it but didn’t give a damn anyway. I was in a place where most people hated Americans. Why would the courts be any different? Haters were haters, and they existed in every profession under the sun. What I wondered most of all was how long I would have to wait in that tiny room for Ahsad, and then what would happen. I rose from the bed I had been lounging on, lost in thought, and walked up to the window. Slowly—ever so slowly—I dared push the side of the curtain that hung in front of the room’s one window just far enough to see outside. There wasn’t much to see. Just a small yard of mostly dirt with a few scattered clumps of weeds. A block wall kept me from seeing farther than about fifteen feet. The most I could see beyond it were a few treetops. I sat down at the small round table and pulled the old wooden chair in under me. Then I began to play a game on the small laptop that Ahsad had given the guys to give to me. I usually dealt with just Kasib, Ahsad’s brother, who appeared to be around thirty years old. I tried to find out more information on Ahsad, but he simply smiled and said he would let her explain once she came for me. It wasn’t long before I got bored with the game and flopped back down on the bed just a few feet from the table. My current living quarters were certainly more comfortable than jail had been, but I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take until I was driven completely out of my mind, holed up in that tiny room without ever seeing or speaking to anyone but this strange man. And that was only a few times a day, when he came to bring me meals and snacks. In jail, I at least got to see Ahsad several times a day, five days a week—not that I wanted to return to jail. Jail. I had actually come to be well-liked by some people there. Most of the guards seemed to feel bad for me. They were especially nice when it was discovered that I could sing. One night, the inmates were allowed to get together to put on a little talent show. Not to be judged, not to win anything, but to be “motivated.” Motivated for what, I wasn’t sure. Women of Pakistan were rather oppressed, and things didn’t seem even remotely close to changing for the better. So just what they were supposedly being motivated to do was beyond me. Nonetheless, when the chance came to sing, I sang. I liked to sing and I was good at it. I’d even had some training at one point. But life hadn’t exactly put me in the mood to sing lately, so I expected to sound rusty and strained. I didn’t, though. I belted it out with vibrant strength and clarity—enough to bring tears to the eyes of some of the guards and inmates, Ahsad among them. One day, I surprised Ahsad again by counting to ten in Urdu. She seemed delighted and asked what else I’d learned. “Not much,” I told her at the time. Looking back on it now, I wonder if she had encouraged me to learn Urdu because she knew things would come to what they had. After all, wasn’t I going to be spending an awfully long time in Pakistan? It wasn’t as though she—or anyone else—could simply bring me to the airport and send me home. Not that I still possessed my ticket home, or that it would have done me much good at this point even if I did. The days began to turn into weeks, and I was horrified at the thought of the weeks turning into months, much as they had in jail. Then, one day, there was a knock on the door. I looked at the clock. Odd time to be serving dinner, I thought. “Come in.” The door quickly opened, and in stepped Ahsad. She wore a colorful outfit in the traditional everyday style and a violet hijab loosely tied around her neck. “You’re here!” I exclaimed in delight, jumping up from my seat at the table. I ran the few steps it took to reach the tall, dark woman and throw my arms around her. She threw her own arms around me and laughed. “Yes, I am here.” After a moment of hugging and kissing, we pulled apart, and then Ahsad’s smile became serious. “Listen, my sweet one.” “Are you taking me to your place now?” “Uh, no,” she said with an unfortunate smile. “It is too soon yet. But I had to see you and make sure you were ok. I knew you would be, but I wanted to reassure you that I have not forgotten you.” “Oh, I know that,” I said sweetly. “But when? When can you take me home with you?” “I cannot say for sure, but I am thinking it may be ok—and not so risky—in another week or two.” Another week or two in that little room seemed like an eternity, and it was hard to hide my disappointment. “I know it seems like a long time, but it will pass. We must not make mistakes. We cannot take chances. We would both be in a lot of trouble if it were found out that I helped you to get away.” “I understand,” I said—and I did. Her eyes moved past me to the laptop on the small table. “You have not written anything about the situation, have you?” “No. There’s no word processor installed on the computer, and of course, there’s no Internet access either.” Again, she turned to me with seriousness in her eyes. “You must never, ever write about it—on or offline.” She reached into the pocket of her long shirt, which reached mid-thigh, and pulled something out. “For now, you said you cannot have what you want, but sometimes you can.” She handed me a chocolate bar. “Oh, thank you. Śukriyā. I haven’t had anything sweet in what seems like forever.” I took it from her and placed it on the table. “If I can make myself wait long enough, I’ll have it after dinner. It will be my dessert.” She smiled, pulled me toward her, and held me snugly against her thin, strong body. Then she kissed the top of my head and pushed me back. “Now listen to me. You trust me, and you be strong, ok?” I nodded, though tears welled up in my eyes. “It will not be long now.” And then she was gone before I could even ask her name.