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I look out the window as the Za’atari refugee camp flies by on our right. It’s so big, a city really. Layered with sand and trash and plastered with Arabic graffiti, it sprawls across the desert in a seemingly endless expansion, a firm reminder of what happens when power-hungry men rule the world.
The city-camp is sloppy yet beautiful in places. Well-tended yet ignored. Serene yet damning. Crude yet artistic. Metal trailers used to house people, homemade shacks, and rectangular buildings with sheeted windows press up against miles of fencing topped with barbwire.
The white-and-tan UN Refugee Agency tents, trailers, and buildings are dusted with sand, but there are also bright garments and splashes of colors everywhere—in the laundry drying on lines, in the hanging painted wooden signs, in the awnings of market trailers, and the elaborately colored women’s veils.
Salma turns in her seat. Her brown eyes, vibrant against the dark hijab tucked around her face, lock onto me. She points in the distance. “When we first started here, there were no shops or business, no hospitals or schools. But, after so long here, we have all that now. In fact, the aid workers call our business district the Sham Élysées, a play on the Champs-Élysées, like the street in Paris. But most who live here call it, simply, Market Street.”
Their Market Street is a big difference from the one in Philly. The trunks of electrical poles, brown, skeletal fingers draped in black wires, crisscross dirt and paved roads. Atop some of the trailer homes are satellite dishes.
Along with the wind coming through the windows is the sound of hammers on metal from repairs and the whir of saws from construction. Loud, but not the kind of loud I’d expected. “I thought it would be noisier.”
Salma laughs. “You expected bombs? Gunshots and screams?”
Embarrassed, I shrug. “I guess I did.”
“You will hear those things. And laughter. And prayer. And songs of joy and wails of grief. You will see streaks of aircraft across the blue sky and plumes of distant smoke. There are many good people here who are stuck in a very bad situation. People who, not too long ago, lived a much different life, much like the life most people live with family, home, and routine.”
Feeling too much like a war tourist, I turn my attention back to the interior truck, which smells of figs. Makes sense, since I’m stuffed into the back seat with box of the fruit and Sandesh. I feel suffocated with the presence of him, so I shift in my seat with a swoosh from my cargo pants. And even though we’re not touching—thanks, figs—Sandesh readjusts as well.
Good to see I’m not the only hyperaware one. Because, really, could there be any man more suited to wearing sunglasses? Doubtful. The desert isn’t the only thing hot around here.
His outfit is not even trying, but is succeeding. Desert-sand sweatpants ride low on his lean hips, a dark-blue shirt tight against his chest, and sexy, almost-a-beard stubble. This is the reason that I kissed him on the plane. He is irresistible.
Okay, it wasn’t only the heat of him on the plane that drove me to toss aside logic for lust. It was the sweetness of him. That whole rules thing and how he tried to backtrack when he could see my annoyance. Not that my annoyance lasted. I quickly realized, I’d warn me too, if I thought I did PR for a living, and badly at that. Besides, his warning gives me a reason to make an appearance and move on, since I need to be at the hotel where the Brothers Grim are meeting.
Thankfully, my self-preservation kicked in enough to override my libido. If Tony were here, he’d kick my ass for letting my emotions dictate my actions.
Oh, Tone, I wish youwerehere.Or Gracie. I need to talk to someone about how damn guilty I feel about involving Sandesh and the IPT. The man has enough to deal with.
A glance over shows me he’s busy texting his IPT partner, a guy named Victor. There’s been a flood in the Midwest of the United States and Victor is organizing volunteers and aid, already working with local centers to supply water and clothing.
Apparently, Victor—also ex-Special Forces—is some kind of strategic god. And good friends with Sandesh. When they’d spoken on the phone earlier, Victor’s voice had come through the cell. In a bone-deep friendly tone, he’d called SandeshSandman, a nickname that suggests a history. I’d like to know about it, the nickname, their friendship, and the IPT. Really, I’d like to know everything connected to Sandesh. He interests me, and that’s unusual for me. Also, right now, stupid.
The truck slows as a camp guard walks in front of our truck with a hand raised. My heart taps Morse code forGet readyagainst my chest as he makes his way to the truck.
There are a lot of ways things can go sideways in a situation like this, so I’m on high alert. Apparently, so is Sandesh, who puts his phone down and his attention on the action in front of us. The shift into soldier-mode is obvious. His whole body radiates menace. I like.
As Salma speaks with the guard, she slips him some money, and we’re let through. I relax, even though it irks me to think of the many men who pay to enter illegally and look for girls they can “marry” and then discard. Or “marry” off into sexual slavery. There are a thousand ways to take advantage of women and children already victimized by circumstance.
That’s why scum like Aamir and Walid are here, to take advantage.
And that’s whyI’mhere. Because trying to save people as Salma does is one thing, but stopping the hands—at least one of the biggest—that keep snatching those people away is another.
I can’t fail. I…won’t.
Which means snapping some “PR photos” here, interviewing a couple of women, and making my excuses, because—as Momma would undoubtedly remind me—reconnaissance always comes first.
12
SANDESH
Inside the trailer that serves as part of Salma’s training operation, I finally get a break from my cell phone and issues back home. Now, I can participate in what’s happening here. Not that I’m needed with Justice around. She’s put herself right into the middle of the everything, interacting with a dozen women being taught to sew and make bags for profit.
Despite the displacement and loss of what had been routine lives in Syria, these women are eager and attentive. Seated at a long, yellow laminate table, Justice asks questions about the simple patterns they’re using while joking with them in Arabic.
She continues to surprise me. One minute, she’s as tough as nails, putting down my business, and the next, she’s tender and understanding, sharing secrets on the plane to help put me at ease.
Salma stands beside me. “It’s crowded in here, but your recent funding has made it possible for us to take in many more women. I have already negotiated a larger place, one left by departing aid workers. There, women can sleep and work, receive therapy and care. The children can be watched over and attend local schools. The mothers can be taught a skill by us or attend higher education classes in camp.”
