The Little Girl with the Steel Bowl - 1. Story

The Little Girl with the Steel bowl

by Jovian W

What is the price of innocence in a war-torn country?

**Dedicated to David McLeod for being a wonderful editor and, more importantly, a trustworthy friend **

--

“Have you seen the little girl with the steel bowl?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

--

In Hong Kong, money defined everything – from fashion to law and to religion. Without money, society would fail; however, that idea was incomprehensible in Afghanistan. Here, the battle for survival had long dominated the lives of the Afghan nationals. Following the fateful September 11^th attacks, an international political agenda converted the once sacred country into a more secular nation. Among the squalid, overcrowded apartments and slums of Afghanistan’s rural villages and towns, the city of Kabul was this country’s only saving grace – and, perhaps, a remedy. Transformed into a heavily guarded foreign-invested playground, Kabul reaped its fruit from its reasonable economic growth, while the rest of Afghanistan remained in an impoverished state. Such economic blasphemy only served to anger many of its citizens.

My stay at one newly built and lofty hotel generated a great deal of gossip among the hotel staff. Perhaps they had seen my reports on the BBC global news channel – although I doubted they received that channel in this Middle Eastern country. Nevertheless, I was treated like a star, even though I did not get any special privilege, except a room with a window in the first floor of a virtually vacant hotel. Funny how of the fifty rooms, only three were occupied: one by an American female counterpart and me, another by the male crew, and the last by someone unknown to me. Even though we wealthy foreigners were the source of Kabul’s economic transformation, the poor services in the hotel were a source of constant complaints. However, it wasn’t only the poor services that irked my crew. I soon discovered the real reason for my crew’s affliction: they did not get to stay in the executive suites, which I heard were more expensive and more resplendent.

“Li Xueman,” the bellboy asked. “You are doing well?”

In Mandarin Chinese, Xueman meant snow, and I often wondered why my parents gave me such a name for I had the temper of a tiger and the mouth of a lion. I guess they had to find a name that was suitable to the East Asian stereotype of a lady: she had to be delicate, soft-hearted, and ‘pure’ – a social construct that was, in every way, different from that of a man. Yet, I was different: I saw myself as a career-driven, goal-orientated, and highly motivated individual. The only things of interest to me in Hong Kong had to do with social power. So, it was no surprise that I married someone whose masculine qualities were muted. While my name contradicted my personality, my husband’s complemented his: Wang-Chong Lin was a “very serious” person, indeed. His profession spoke to that. He was an accountant. Nonetheless, we complemented each other well.

“Yes, I am well” I said. Yet, I lied. In retrospect, however, leaving the girl I had met in Farah was the biggest mistake I had made during my stay in Afghanistan. As a result, I found myself carrying a heavy load of emotional baggage back to Kabul. Now, however, the news that we would be returning to Farah had become the only glue that could piece together the fragments of my heart.

Although we were nearing the end of our stay in Afghanistan, the regional news director had asked us to return to the Farah Province. Much to my dismay, he refused to tell to us the reason for our return: they had only told us to return to Farah for a debriefing. Regardless, it signaled another chance for me find the girl and adopt her. I had left a photograph of her with a teenager I had met in the Farah city District. He had promised me he would never leave the spot where I had met him at, and would call me should he see the girl. So far, I had not heard from him.

Again, as on the first trip to Farah, we complained about how small the van was: there was no room for our legs and the stench of the perspiration of my crew seemed to drive the oxygen from the air; furthermore, the faulty air conditioner served only as a path for the sand outside to infiltrate and exact its fury upon us. Breathing the sand-filled air was like breathing fire ants into my lungs. I often marveled at how the Afghanis eked out an existence under such harsh conditions. It may have taught them resilience and patience, but it only irritated us, as we suffocated in the van.

Before coming to Afghanistan, I would not believe that I could last a day under such harsh weather condition. I was proud to have debunked such a ridiculous idea. With the help of the little girl, I had managed to overcome my negative mindset.

I looked out the window and sighed. During my stay in Kabul, I hadn’t had much sleep. My mind had been preoccupied with the images of the little girl, and every thought of her seemed to drain my soul. I rested my head against the backrest of my seat, oblivious that my weary mind was gradually cradling me to sleep.

Yet sleep, I did, and had a rough and dreamless nap before I felt my body propelled forward. I jerked and turned my sore head towards the window. Apparently, the driver had stopped for a short toilet break at the heart of the village in Khaki Safed. Upon awakening, I forced myself to come to terms with reality again. And reality did not present itself with a pleasant sight: I saw two malnourished children – a boy and a girl, hand-in-hand –nearing the vehicle. It didn’t take me long enough to recognize them as siblings, or perhaps twins. They were dressed in T-shirts, and while the boy had on shorts, the girl wore her Tee as a substitute for a dress; it was big enough to cover her knees.

Something in their hands struck me. Like the girl I had met in Farah, these children were carrying the same, identical bowls.

But, before they could reach the van, I heard quick steps towards the vehicle. Within seconds, the engine rumbled and we were on the road again.

“Hey, wait!” I exclaimed.

The Afghani driver snorted. “You know these damn Farah kids. They are pawns for the Taliban, blowing up this and that. You be lucky that you are sitting here in the van and not get blown up to bits by them.”

Those words - those indescribably insensitive words –raped my emotions. If I could have bludgeoned the driver until he begged for mercy, I would have done so.

“What are you talking about? They’re innocents.”

“Not in Farah, they aren’t. They are terrorists.”

I kept my composure and allowed him to wrong me for fear that if I continued to protest, I would be thrown out of the vehicle and left in the middle of nowhere. The sight of those children broke my heart, but they evoked a more depressing thought: the little girl. For the remainder of our trip, I relished the memories, the joy and the sorrow I had shared when I had spent my time with the little girl with the steel bowl.

--

For the record, the little girl with the steel bowl had never told me her name. I wondered if she had one. What was most striking in my mind, though, was that I had met her in a wasteland. The ground on which we stood seemed like piles of steel and aluminum mixed with uneven bricks and sand. I had wondered far from the designated location where we were supposed to film. But that girl – dressed only in a tattered brown shirt, a make-do for a dress – caught my attention. You could say I was a sucker for children, but I did not believe such an innocent soul should be out here on the battlefield. I still could not believe that these people had their one chance on earth stripped from them by fate – and a quirk of geography. As I approached her, I heard a faint siren in the distance.

“Probably a heist!” my crew jested. But, I was disinclined to laugh at their frivolous and unintelligible joke.

I turned around to see if the driver was following me and my crew. Thankfully, the driver was out of sight, and that gave me ample opportunities to spend time with the girl without any interference. As I neared the girl, I realized that she was wearing a steel bowl over her head. What caught my interest, however, wasn’t her bowl, which appeared to be a simple mixing bowl one might find in any kitchen, but her laughter: she was laughing for no apparent reason. .

“Hi, little girl,” I said. She did not seem to care much about my presence. She only seemed to be interested in her steel bowl. Under the sweltering heat of the sun, the incandescence of the metallic bowl stung my eyes. I felt compelled to shade my eyes from the girl and walk away, but something about her laughter and her freewheeling attitude forced me to stay. “Why are you so happy?”

She titled her head and beamed. “I like to be happy.”

In Hong Kong, if a child were to exhibit such a frivolous and happy-go-lucky state, questions would circulate about the child’s mental condition. The few adults nearby seemed to ignore this little girl. For her part, however, ‘happy’ was the only word that seemed to be ensconced in her vocabulary.

“Where are your parents?”

She lowered her head, as though I had asked her a very private and personal question. Nevertheless, it did not take her more than a few seconds to spring back into laughter and her usual self. “They are somewhere.”

It was not a very convincing answer, but I took it that she meant her parents were irresponsible, and had left her alone in this dangerous place. Yet, she seemed completely unaffected by their absence. She was lost in her own world.

I watched her as she played with her bowl, and I video-taped her actions. I was astounded by the capacity for creativity exhibited by a child that age.

“I love Barbie.” She said suddenly and giggled as she buried her head in the steel bowl with such jolly laughter that only a child could have comprehend it. In the heat of the Farah City District, her laughter quenched my thirst for more interviews or filming. I spent a lot of time with her, much to the disappointment of my crew members.

“You know what a Barbie doll is?”

“On buzz-buzz!” I took what she meant by buzz-buzz to be a radio when she placed her bowl against her ear and waltzed. “But, no Barbie here.”

For the little girl, that steel bowl had a million different uses, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had substituted it for a doll. The way she fiddled with it – pretending it was a toy car at one moment and a cap in another – was not only a joyful sight but it also served as a painful reminder to me: a lesson that pinched my earlobe and fed a different perspective into my eyes. It forced me to appreciate the things I had taken for granted. Her jolly laughter was in stark contrast to my childhood years. To the twelve year old me of my past, a Barbie doll was not enough – it was a slap in my face. I had demanded more from my parents.

“I’ll get you one.” I told the girl. “I promise.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“No,” she said and broke into a hysterical laughter. She skipped around me before placing the bowl on her head. “What is promise?”

She was right. It was a word so easily said, yet hard to define.

“It means I will come back for you with a Barbie doll.” I said. Even as I said this, I thought how insane those words were. It was such a silly and unlikely promise I had made to this little girl..My heart, on the other hand, would shatter if I did not see that girl again.

“Same place?” she asked. “Same time?”

I nodded and she giggled at the sight of it. She smiled and kissed me on my cheek before hopping away with glee, disappearing into the crowd ahead.

--

That same night, under a myriad stars, I pondered my previous encounter with the girl. A part of me wanted to cast aside my education and my years, so I could experience again what and how it felt like to be a child. I wanted to experience my childhood again before my culture’s social norm forced it to come face to face with an unforgiving reality.

“Dinner, Xueman?” my American tent-mate asked. “We have a big day tomorrow.”

I wished that little girl were here. Sure, there was something about her appearance that captivated me, but it was ultimately her personality that counted the most. I longed to see her again. I felt like I had shamed myself into the next century: comparing her behavior to the people in the city who complained about insignificant things such as the slowness of one’s computer, she was more civilized. Nonetheless, I couldn’t comprehend the little girl’s euphoria when everyone around her was salvaging the remnants of their lives and battling for their survival.

“You know what my dad would do to keep me happy whenever I was down?” I replied.

My American workmate frowned. “That would be the response from someone who hasn’t eaten since afternoon. Come on, we should head out for dinner. I’m starving.”

Without hesitation, I reached for my bag pack and unzipped a small compartment. I fished out a strip of stickers, much to her surprise.

“Hello Kitty Stickers?” She restrained her laughter. “You mean to say you carry stickers around wherever you go?”

“I don’t know. Call me weird, but for some reason, they make me happy.”

“No, thank you. That made me happy, believe it or not. At least now there’s something to talk about at the dinner table.”

I did not feel any regret showing her those stickers. Instead, I felt rejuvenated. Running my fingers through them invoked my childhood memories. Also, those stickers became my only escape from a deplorable reality – a grown-up’s harsh reality. I asked myself: would a society run by children be any different from the adults? The only thing that came to my mind was Lord of the Flies.

But Lord of the Flies was a world constructed and written by an adult, not a kid. Something else came into my mind that perhaps was evoked by my childish imagination: the acronym of each word formed the phrase Land of the Free. Is it an irony, or a coincidence?

--

It was no surprise that the campsite was heavily guarded for our protection. However, that was the least of my concerns for I was more worried about the safety of the little girl with the steel bowl.

We spent the mornings filming near the ruins of the Farah town square. While broadcasting live, my crew – and perhaps millions of people around the world – noticed the jitteriness in my reporting. I couldn’t explain my nervousness for I didn’t know what was making me shudder. But, I was fortunate that I survived the broadcasting.

My worry was quelled when I saw the little girl at the same spot again. She had not changed a bit. Still in her perkiness, she was experimenting with her steel bowl. This time, she had turned it into a telephone.

“Who are you calling?” I asked. She heard my voice and turned around to face me.

She brought the steel bowl to my face. “Talk into the phone.”

“Who’s on the phone?”

She laughed and pointed towards the sky. The ocean sky, amassed with fluffy white clouds, evoked the image of heaven. Directly above everyone, the blue sky was a symbol of hope for the tatterdemalion villagers, but only the girl had taken notice of it. Right in the heart of a ruined district, she had opened my eyes to the beauty of the skies above, which I wouldn’t have otherwise seen.

“God?” I replied.

She nodded. “I like the sky.”

“Looks like an ocean, doesn’t it?”

She smiled. “It makes me happy.”

On the topic of being happy, I fished out the strip of Hello Kitty stickers from my pocket. Peeling out one carefully, I pasted the sticker on the outside of her steel bowl. “This is how I’ll remember you.”

At the sight of that sticker, she became thrilled. She wrapped her arms around me and said two lovely words that battered my already jangled nerves.

“Thank you.”

For the next few hours, I whiled away my time with things child-like. At times I even forgot why I was there in the first place. We played hide-and-seek and improvised with her steel bowl. Also, I told her fairytales like Snow White and Cinderella. I found myself drifting further away from my role as a news reporter. I found myself transforming into a child. My task as a news reporter was to report on the horrifying scenes of the village. I was supposed to film the ruins and the ugliness of the Farah province. I was supposed to show the world of just how cruel this place was. I was supposed to broadcast the filth of this place, and make sure no other foreigner would set foot into Afghanistan.

The little girl with the steel bowl had changed that perspective for me. She had become the subject for my report. Who could have ever thought that such a little girl would have such an effect on an adult?

“You will come back?” she asked.

“I promise.”

--

Twilight fell but I still hadn’t filmed anything worthwhile after my embarrassing live report. My crew was getting annoyed with me; even my driver, who had nothing to do with this, chastised me for not fulfilling my role as a reporter. I dreaded the thought that I would be sent back to Hong Kong. It sounded ironic – especially to my roommate – because a few weeks ago, I had been begging to return to that city. I named this place a “hellhole”, and was eager to do anything I could to get back to my normal life.

However, since I met the little girl with the steel bowl, my views had changed. Among all the children I had met, she was the most entertaining and welcoming of all. She had not once complained about her poverty. Then something struck me hard: I wondered where she got her food. She had never told me anything about food or water. I thought of her starving, and just looking at the plate of roast beef on the dining table made my stomach flop.

“Some big day today was, huh?” my roommate asked. “So what did you do besides handing out stickers to some poor kid?”

“I made a poor soul feel happy.” Or perhaps, it was the other way around.

I felt like I was being interrogated. With all eyes on me, I felt regret at not being able to fulfill my duty as a reporter; yet, amidst the tension, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I had given hope to a girl. I had brightened her day, and there was nothing better to compensate for my lack of reporting than the happiness of the little girl with the steel bowl.

I could not deal with the feeling of confrontation. Excusing myself from the table, I left the heated dining shelter and scouted in the darkness for my tent.

My hasty, and lone departure from the dining shelter created another situation. On the way back to my tent, I noticed the silhouette of a teenager approaching me. Initially, I hesitated to acknowledge his presence for fear of being robbed, but when he emerged from the darkness and drew closer towards me, I saw a timid, shy boy, whose sweat-and-bloodstained T-shirt hung loosely from his shoulders.

“The little girl you talked to today. Her parents, they are dead.”

Shocked by his words, I sank to my knees and put my hands on his shoulders. My jaws was slack as I whispered, “How do you know this?”

“The airplane and explosion on our village.” An airstrike. “She is still looking for them.”

“How do you know that they’re gone?”

“I want to get out of here.”

“How did you know that her parents were gone?” I repeated my question.

The teenager lowered his head. His body started to shake. As soon as he planted his head onto my shoulder, I heard a sniffle. He choked, but he managed to get his message across.

“They were in their house when it exploded. I saw them die...”

--

The next morning, I ventured out to the Farah City District to look for the little girl. This time, I was set on adopting her. She needed a real home. At the thought of that, I paused to wonder at the notion of a “real” home. What makes a home, truly a home?

When I saw the girl again, her face was pale and her eyes were dry and yellow. Nevertheless, she retained her jolly self and played with her steel bowl. This time, she had transformed it into a driving wheel. She coughed, but she did not let her sudden malady affect her good humor.

“Are you OK?” I asked, out of concern.

She smiled and nodded, as though she could discern nothing wrong with herself. “I’m driving.”

A part of me wanted to interfere with what she was doing. I wanted her to see reality the way it was, and that her child-like behavior had no place in this condemned place. Yet, I suppressed that urge and allowed her to continue in her make-believe world.

“Where are your parents?” I asked. I immediately regretted asking such an insensitive question. Yet, the girl did not respond by wallowing in a fit of anger, remorse or sorrow like any normal individual. I had expected her to yell at me or bury her teary face in I my shoulder as the young boy had done yesterday. Instead, she continued to maneuver her pretend steering wheel.

“Little girl,” I said. I was very anxious to know about her. I wanted to understand where she was coming from. “Are you OK?”

She sniffled and rubbed her little nose with her thumb. She nodded and smiled. “Where do you want to go?”

“Where can you take me?” I asked, for the sake of playing along in her game.

She raised an eyebrow and pondered. “Barbie land or the sky?”

At this point, I was very much convinced that this little girl had lost her mind. Her ludicrous happiness could be her way of suppressing her hidden emotion. Yet, I was in no hurry to fish out those dark secrets from her – if there were any in the first place. Could her happiness really be a sign of insanity? What else could be the reason for her ridiculous gaiety in such a desolate environment? I was determined to find out, but she was not keen to provide me with any straightforward answer.

“Do you know where Hong Kong is?”

“Roar!” I took it she meant King Kong.

“No, not King Kong, Hong Kong. It’s where I’m from.” I told her.

She did not seem to acknowledge my response. Instead, she proposed a very different one. Pointing towards the skies, she said, “Let’s go there.”

“Little girl,” I became frank with her for I could no longer accept seeing her in this delusional state. If I had to break her illusion to get her back to Hong Kong with me, I would do whatever it took to accomplish that goal. “I want you to come. You have to come with me.”

For the next few minutes, she became silent. I was afraid now that she had her mind so fixed in her imagination that any attempt to draw her from her lost world would damage her. For a moment after she lowered her make-believe steering wheel, I thought I heard her squeak.

“You will come back?” she muttered, almost as though she had sensed something out of the ordinary from the predictable me. I was silent, and that was enough to rouse her suspicion. She brought the steel bowl close to her chest and lowered her head.

She did not budge; she refused to move. She remained in the exact same spot. It was then that something about that spot struck me. It could be the very reason why she had escaped from reality. However, with that thought, I had subjected myself to an adult interpretation of a child’s imagination. Nonetheless, I was horrified at my late realization. At that instant, I felt like the world had betrayed the little girl. She had owed society nothing. She had lost everything but the steel bowl. I discovered that the spot I had been standing on for days used to be her house, but now was nothing more than a makeshift grave for her dead parents.

---

I did not return to my campsite that night. Instead, I retreated to the girl’s hideout: a large pipe, big enough for me if I were to crawl on my knees. Admittedly, I had trouble entering the space, not because I was too tall for it; rather, I was afraid I was going to get my working attire messy. Despite all that had happened, I was still concerned about my appearance. From the entrance of the pipe, I cringed to see her stored possessions of family albums, teddy bear and pillow.

“Come,” the little girl beckoned. I felt like I had no other choice but to follow her into her world.

“Papa and mama,” she took a picture from her family album. The cover was rusty and tattered. She did not stay very long on that topic, and it pained me to see how quickly she changed the subject. She had a hungry mind. She was eager to show off her teddy bear and her pillow. During her show-and-tell, I realized something peculiar about her: her steel bowl never left her hands. She held it in one hand, even as she cradled her teddy bear in the other. I thought that if I were her, I would have chosen the teddy bear over the bowl.

“Thank you,” she said and wrapped her arms around me. Those words assured me that the little girl wanted a companion, and I felt more than honored to be the chosen one.

With all the gamboling and laughter, time was easily forgotten. More to the point, the play had made me forget about my career. These hours were a hiatus from stress. Perhaps what intrigued me most, was that this little girl had magically transformed me into a princess, a turtle, a lion, and had done it all with her steel bowl. I laughed to see how ridiculous I looked.

Then, amidst our time together, I again heard a familiar siren. This time, it was a little louder, but the girl eased my concerns and told me that sirens were common in the area. She continued her seemingly endless improvisation with her steel bowl. However, something about this siren was different. It wasn’t like any other siren I had heard before.

“It’s the men with big, big sticks.”

I nearly choked on my breaths. “What?”

“You know, they shoot.” I realized that she meant guns - literally. With the thought of that, my limbs started to shake. With that, I had forced myself back to reality. I knew her little fantasy world would never save us from these men.

“Here,” the girl smiled and said. “They will not come.”

Somehow, whatever she said did not rest my jittery soul. As much as I loved to remain in her little sugarcoated world, I couldn’t. When I heard screams and gunshots, reality forced me to reconcile with the girl and her make-believe world. I was willing to suspend her belief to get her to come with me. If I had to pull her away from her innocence and open her eyes to the existing state of affairs, perhaps she may feel compelled to follow me to safety. Yet, my legs rebelled.

“Sleep and think happy,” the girl said. I wanted to heed what she said, but my mature mind made my body shudder at how creepy those words sounded. “They do not attack happy people.”

Was that why she had been so happy all these while? No, I was imagining too much. I was seeing things from my perspective and assuming a lot. I had no other choice. If we were to escape, I had to take charge. I had to pull her out of her hideout and her world or we would be in grave danger.

“We have to go.” I took her by her hands and said.

I left her no choice to return to her hideout. Surprisingly, she did not rebel. She seemed almost willing to follow, or rather, to quell any doubts I had.

Our campsite was not too far from the little girl’s hideout. However, being a horrendous navigator, I had lost all sense of direction. It almost seemed like a joke: a city girl who couldn’t find a way out of a near barren land? I wanted to berate myself for that. I had taken too many things for granted. In Hong Kong, my father had even hired a chauffeur to take me to work. Here, in Farah, I had no such privilege and I found myself racing for survival.

At times, I felt like crying, but the little girl gripped onto my hands so resolutely, I couldn’t shed a single tear. I felt as if I could hear her telepathically telling me to stand up and be brave. I found myself comparing my impuissance to her courage.

The crimson sky of sunset charred with night after an hour of frantic search, but I still could not see any sign of my campsite. As thoughts of survival dwindled when the sound of gunshots and screams drew near, I turned to the little girl for support – for hope. Her grin and the Hello Kitty sticker on her bowl brought a smile to my face. And in the midst of my struggle for survival, I pondered the meaning of happiness. What did it mean for one to be happy under such dire circumstances?

The long walk had tired the little girl, but it did not stop her from smiling. If I were she, I would have yelled at this Chinese woman who had dragged me from my home but couldn’t differentiate between her left and her right. I stopped and took a deep breath. Not only had I drifted away from camp, I had lost all sense of time.

Nothing I had seen could have prepared me for what happened next.

A speeding vehicle skidded in our direction, splattering gravel and sand onto our faces. Then, too quickly for me to do anything but watch, armed men emerged from the truck and seized the girl. I thought I was going to be killed, but they seemed uninterested in me, and had pretended not to acknowledge my existence. In the dark, it was difficult to see who these men were or what they looked like. Their dark sky masks and bulk frightened me; I felt my throat constrict; I feared for my life. I wanted to flap my wings and flee like a chicken. However I could not flee; no matter the danger to me, I couldn’t let these men take the little girl away from me.

“Who are you?” I squeaked. The girl was beyond my reach, and I was frustrated by my powerlessness.

“For your own good, leave,” one of the men said as another soldier tried to pull the bowl away from the girl. “If not, you will be arrested.”

I had not seen the girl cry until one of the men yanked the bowl out of her hand. He turned towards his men and ordered. “No, she will not have the bowl. It could be a trap.”

“Let her have her bowl!” I summoned my courage and demanded. “And if you don’t put her down, I’ll report you to the authorities.”

“You think we are scared?” I knew they weren’t, but I was. They could hear it in my voice.

He reached for the bowl on the ground and returned it to the girl.

“Where are you taking her?”

There was no reply. Instead, he forced the girl onto the truck that was packed with three other children and a dozen soldiers.

“Answer me! Where are you taking her?” I felt compelled to sabotage the wheels of the truck, but I couldn’t. Curse my helplessness!

“Don’t worry, she will be back.” I knew he was lying, yet my desperation for the girl’s safety blinded me from the truth, and I readily believed the lie. My heart skipped a beat when I heard the engine rumble. Within seconds, the vehicle disappeared into the darkness, leaving me to weep miserably and ponder my cowardice.

---

It was only when morning arrived that my driver spotted me at the outskirts of the Farah City District: Somehow, I had found my way to within a few yards of the campsite. I blamed myself for taking the girl out of her make-believe sanctuary. I had not only forced her from her fantasy world into reality and deprived her of her innocence, I had taken her from a very real shelter, and thrust her into the arms of those mysterious men. My attempts to help had incurred disaster. If only I had allowed her to remain in her world, she would have been safe.

“We have to go,”, the driver insisted. Those were the first words I heard. He did not even ask where I had been all night. “It’s an order from the Embassy.”

“Why?” I swiped my hands down my face in fury. “I’m not leaving this girl behind!”

“What girl?” he asked. He didn’t seem particularly interested in an answer.

“The girl with the steel bowl! Some men took her away!” I yelled. My voice caught the attention of the boy from before, the one who had informed me that the little girl’s parents were dead. When I collapsed on the ground in a paroxysm of anger and regret, he approached me and placed his hands on my shoulders.

“Have you seen the little girl with the steel bowl?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” I frantically fished from my pocket the only photograph I had of the little girl.

“I let you know when I see her.”

“If you find her, please take good care of her.”

“I will.”

I said a tearful goodbye and allowed my crew to help me into the van. On the way back to Kabul, I knew instinctively that the chance of ever returning to Farah was slim. Silently, I prayed, and then cried myself to sleep, knowing that I might never know the fate of the little girl with the steel bowl.

---

The van stopped at the same spot where we filmed during our previous visit to Farah. When the engine stopped, so did my heart.

Just like there are degrees of violence, there are degrees of ruin. The ruins of this city stood in sharp contrast to what I had seen a week ago: the bricks and woods of virtually every building had been blown to dust and splinters. Speculation filled my mind. Had we been evacuated because an airstrike was planned? Were the people who took the little girl the Taliban, and had they used her as a human shield? Were they security guards, who had taken her away to protect her? Whatever the truth, the only thing I could think of was where she might be, and whether she was safe. I clung to this hope.

I stared at the skies. It was no longer blue as it had been before. Thick fume had blackened the heavens and ash, dust, and residue lingered maliciously in the air. The air, itself, seemed to lack oxygen. Something had happened after we had left Farah – something unspeakable. But what? What could it be?

I saw the same teenager again. He must have recognized me because I was, perhaps, the only Chinese girl in the crowd. Nearing the van, his expression was incomprehensible –a mixture of joy and sorrow, perhaps – and when he returned the photograph of the little girl, I asked the same question from the time I left him.

“Have you seen the little girl with the steel bowl?”

“Yes.”

“Really!?”

The teenager handed me a steel bowl – he might as well have struck my heart with it because the instant I saw the tattered Hello Kitty sticker, tears stung my eyes. Then, pointing towards the skies, he uttered the words, which drained all hope and emotion from my soul, “She’s in heaven.”

-End-

© 2009 Jovian W

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