Kashmir
afternoon, a driver took Jethro Knights to Kundara. It was his last scheduled
stop before boarding a flight later that night to his boat in Singapore. Jethro
was anxious to sail again.
Along the way, his driver described
some of the main sites of the village: a bullet-ridden century-old mosque, a
small functioning school, a hospital tent where children are born and soldiers
are operated on by a Western doctor.
“The doctor is a strange woman with
powerful green eyes,” the driver said simply, unassumingly. He concentrated on
the road, agilely swerving around numerous two-foot-deep bomb blast craters.
“The local oracle says she is friendly with ghosts.”
“Fine. Maybe we can do a quick
interview,” Jethro replied, looking out the window to see if the light was good
for photos.
When they arrived, they parked in
front of the village’s white hospital tent. The 1000-square-foot structure bore
a huge, painted red X on its roof to protect it from air raids. Dr. Zoe Bach
was inside, working in bloodstained scrubs and delivering a baby. It was her
third one that week. But this was a good week, she thought. Each baby and
mother had survived so far—better than last week. Much better.
Above her, a rickety lamp tied to
the ceiling of the tent swung gently back and forth. The wind outside was
perpetually seeping in, moving the light and casting dancing shadows on the
operating table. The Kashmiri nurses struggled to keep the tent as airtight and
dust-free as possible for surgeries. The floor was dirt, but Zoe's few
instruments were spotless, a condition she always insisted on. She called for
the scalpel and severed the newborn’s umbilical cord in one swift, expert
moment. With blood everywhere, she handed off the wailing infant to a nurse,
who then began cleaning the healthy child.
After taking some pictures of the
bombed village and its school, Jethro Knights ducked his head into the hospital
tent. The hanging lamp inside swayed wide; the sun's rays and wind following
him in. Zoe noticed the strong draft and thought, What the hell? When she
turned, however, Jethro's luminous blue eyes met hers, and she felt stunned to
be looking at a light-skinned man only a few years younger than she. The
tingling on the back of Zoe’s neck told her he was neither handsome nor ugly,
but intensely compelling. She felt aroused, and unconsciously adjusted her
legs. There was a spiritual and nebulous connection she felt as well, but it
was too much for her to immediately fathom.
Jethro answered her surprise with a
masculine smile and a slight nod.
An irritated nurse quickly pointed
for Jethro to wait outside the tent, to give the patients privacy and to keep
the wind out. Half an hour later, Zoe appeared, escorting the wheelchair-bound
mother and her newborn out of the hospital tent to her waiting family. In Urdu,
Zoe instructed the mother to come back the following morning for a checkup. A
minute later Zoe returned and invited Jethro into the tent.
“Greetings to a stranger. We don't
get many this far along the Line of Control. S’il vous plait, Francais —or
do you speak English?” she asked, pulling the surgeon's cap off her head and
shaking her hair freely.
“Je parle deux. Mon nom est
Jethro Knights. It's a pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance
too,” she said, delighted. “What brings you out here? Though the camera on your
neck and the International Geographic hat give you away.”
Jethro, grinning, shrugged his wide
shoulders, and Zoe thought it strange that she noticed his strong, straight
teeth.
“I'm a journalist researching a
story on refugees.”
“Well, how can I be of service? I
like your magazine.”
“Do you have some free time for a
short interview? Maybe a walk through the village?”
“Sure, you have great timing. I'm finished
here for the day unless something else comes in. I just have to help clean up.
Give me ten minutes.”
They walked all afternoon, both of
them
afternoon, a driver took Jethro Knights to Kundara. It was his last scheduled
stop before boarding a flight later that night to his boat in Singapore. Jethro
was anxious to sail again.
Along the way, his driver described
some of the main sites of the village: a bullet-ridden century-old mosque, a
small functioning school, a hospital tent where children are born and soldiers
are operated on by a Western doctor.
“The doctor is a strange woman with
powerful green eyes,” the driver said simply, unassumingly. He concentrated on
the road, agilely swerving around numerous two-foot-deep bomb blast craters.
“The local oracle says she is friendly with ghosts.”
“Fine. Maybe we can do a quick
interview,” Jethro replied, looking out the window to see if the light was good
for photos.
When they arrived, they parked in
front of the village’s white hospital tent. The 1000-square-foot structure bore
a huge, painted red X on its roof to protect it from air raids. Dr. Zoe Bach
was inside, working in bloodstained scrubs and delivering a baby. It was her
third one that week. But this was a good week, she thought. Each baby and
mother had survived so far—better than last week. Much better.
Above her, a rickety lamp tied to
the ceiling of the tent swung gently back and forth. The wind outside was
perpetually seeping in, moving the light and casting dancing shadows on the
operating table. The Kashmiri nurses struggled to keep the tent as airtight and
dust-free as possible for surgeries. The floor was dirt, but Zoe's few
instruments were spotless, a condition she always insisted on. She called for
the scalpel and severed the newborn’s umbilical cord in one swift, expert
moment. With blood everywhere, she handed off the wailing infant to a nurse,
who then began cleaning the healthy child.
After taking some pictures of the
bombed village and its school, Jethro Knights ducked his head into the hospital
tent. The hanging lamp inside swayed wide; the sun's rays and wind following
him in. Zoe noticed the strong draft and thought, What the hell? When she
turned, however, Jethro's luminous blue eyes met hers, and she felt stunned to
be looking at a light-skinned man only a few years younger than she. The
tingling on the back of Zoe’s neck told her he was neither handsome nor ugly,
but intensely compelling. She felt aroused, and unconsciously adjusted her
legs. There was a spiritual and nebulous connection she felt as well, but it
was too much for her to immediately fathom.
Jethro answered her surprise with a
masculine smile and a slight nod.
An irritated nurse quickly pointed
for Jethro to wait outside the tent, to give the patients privacy and to keep
the wind out. Half an hour later, Zoe appeared, escorting the wheelchair-bound
mother and her newborn out of the hospital tent to her waiting family. In Urdu,
Zoe instructed the mother to come back the following morning for a checkup. A
minute later Zoe returned and invited Jethro into the tent.
“Greetings to a stranger. We don't
get many this far along the Line of Control. S’il vous plait, Francais —or
do you speak English?” she asked, pulling the surgeon's cap off her head and
shaking her hair freely.
“Je parle deux. Mon nom est
Jethro Knights. It's a pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance
too,” she said, delighted. “What brings you out here? Though the camera on your
neck and the International Geographic hat give you away.”
Jethro, grinning, shrugged his wide
shoulders, and Zoe thought it strange that she noticed his strong, straight
teeth.
“I'm a journalist researching a
story on refugees.”
“Well, how can I be of service? I
like your magazine.”
“Do you have some free time for a
short interview? Maybe a walk through the village?”
“Sure, you have great timing. I'm finished
here for the day unless something else comes in. I just have to help clean up.
Give me ten minutes.”
They walked all afternoon, both of
them
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