No Place for Females

Chapter Five

I was staring down the barrel of an AK-47.

Well, wasn't this just awesome. I wondered if the boy was going to shoot me. Is he Taliban? Is this it? Could I draw my rifle fast enough to kill him. Some small part of me didn't want to have to do that. Maybe I could talk to him.

"As-salaam alaikum," I said. I hardly knew any Pashto, only the three phrases I had learned from Maria, while we were sitting around.

I studied him. What did he want? He inched closer.

He spoke, pointing at my rifle. I didn't understand what he meant. He kept pointing at it, and he began to get agitated. By now, I was really getting scared.

I realized he wanted me to put my rifle down. Moving slowly--my side was still hurting and I didn't want make any sudden movements--I laid my rifle on the ground, wondering if he had noticed the nine-millimeter strapped to my leg.

He started yelling at me. My hands were still up, but my left side was throbbing, and weak from the injury. He jabbed his rifle in the direction that he wanted me to move. I made my way through the flock of sheep. When I stopped walking, I felt the muzzle digging into my back and heard more harsh words, so I resumed walking.

I wondered where we were going. I was trying to suppress the sense of panic, but I could feel it rising up inside me. Would he lead me to my death? Would he hand me over to the Taliban? I wondered if I should try to grab the rifle from him. I mean, what was he--nine, maybe ten? The size of Afghan people could be misleading. They were so slightly built that I had mistaken grown men for twelve-year-olds.

However slight, they were strong. And swift. If I tried to grab his rifle, chances were that the boy would shoot me. But if he was taking me to the Taliban, death might be the better option.

No. Don't think like that. Think about survival. The guys are coming for you. They won’t stop looking for you. My mind began to fill with doubt. How would they even know where to look for me?

We walked on. Every so often, the butt of the rifle jammed against my back. Not only was I frightened, I was starting to feel annoyed.

After what felt like twenty minutes, we arrived at a small hut, surrounded by large boulders. It looked like a typical Afghan house, made of mud bricks with dingy white cloths hanging as window coverings. It was very small, one room, perhaps two. The boy ran around in front of me and pointed the rifle at my face. I froze. I saw that he also had carried my rifle on his back. With his rifle still trained on me, the boy yelled something over his shoulder. There was silence. I waited. Would a Talib come out and take me away to be executed? Or worse?

Being a female prisoner of war would be very bad. I had heard stories about what happened to female prisoners. The Taliban showed even more cruelty towards women, because they considered it an insult to be engaged in combat with them. I didn't know if it was true, and I didn't want to find out.

He shouted again. A little girl in a bright blue hijab came out of the house and walked towards us. They began to talk to one another, and the boy kept his rifle trained on me, sometimes gesturing with it as he spoke.

Without warning, the girl reached out and grabbed my hand. "Brit-ah-ney Spears?" she said.

What? Wait. Oh.

Oblivious to the rifle that was still pointed at me, she began to tug me by the hand towards the hut. This was quite bizarre.

"Brit-ah-ney Spears,” she said.

"I'm not Britney Spears. Let me go."

The boy made a threatening gesture with his rifle. I walked into the small house, with the little girl holding my hand. The boy followed, still aiming the rifle at me. It seemed he didn't trust me quite as much as she did.