Afghanistan

She scrambled for our Land Rover, squealing for help in her native tongue, clawing at air for a freedom she could never possess. Her entire body was covered in a grey burka. Joa, my driver, ignored the Afghan woman’s pleas and accelerated as my camera clicked and whirred. A man wearing a green turban aimed his AK47 at us. She scrambled in the dust behind the vehicle and her language suddenly changed to broken English.

"Please, to help me! Take me with!"

I heard the fear in her voice.

I felt her heart breaking.

I screamed, "Stop Joa. Stop the damn vehicle!"

A bullet ricocheted off the vehicle. Joa accelerated.

I couldn’t let this woman stay here to suffer a moment longer.

I lashed out at him with a fist to his head. He applied brakes, not quite stopping, just enough for her to catch up. He accelerated as she grabbed my hand. I pulled her up as another shot rang out and clutched her to my chest.

She was safe.

Safe from forced marriages, from being denied basic education, from being poisoned if she dared allow her daughters to go to school. Safe from the aim of an AK47.

We stopped ten miles away, and she was still in my arms.

I released her gently. She fell off the seat onto the soft desert sand, a gaping hole in the side of her body.
She had been so still in my arms.

So still.