Peter Cawdron - Xenophobia

The impromptu Red Cross hospital had been set up in an abandoned train station. Several of the staff came out to greet them as they pulled up.

“Americans,” one of the Red Cross doctors said in a distinctly Australian voice. “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought you’d all done a runner.”

“We have,” Jameson replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice as he led the Australian around to the back of the truck. “But we had a bit of unfinished business. Had to get some civvies to safety.”

“And you think Ksaungu is safe?” the Red Cross official replied.

“We’re trying to get these folks to Mozambique,” Bower said as she helped a patient down from the truck.

Jameson added, “We had in-country staff and patients we couldn’t abandon. We’re headed to Lilongwe for evac.”

“Lilongwe?” the Red Cross doctor asked. “You might want to rethink your plans. Lilongwe is under siege by the rebels. Last I heard, several suburbs had fallen to the uprising but the government isn’t giving up without a fight.”

“What about the Red Cross?” Jameson asked as Bower stood beside him. “Are you pulling out?”

“We’ve removed all non-essential staff. If the fighting gets close, we’ll pull back across the border, but for now, there’s too much work to do.”

Bower shook hands with the doctor, as did Alile. Kowalski wasn’t bothered with pleasantries. He just waved as he moved the patients out of the sun into the shade of an overhanging first-floor patio.

“We’re going to hole up in the Hotel Ksaungu,” Jameson added. “And try to make contact with US forces at sea.”

“Good luck with that,” the doctor replied. “We haven’t seen sight nor sound of US or UN forces since they announced that bloody alien spaceship had arrived.”

“Do you have contact with anyone in Mozambique?” Bower asked.

“We have a couple of old buses making daily runs to the border. We can get your people on one, so long as they’re fit to travel.”

“Wonderful,” Bower replied, smiling. Alile smiled as well, but without the same measure of conviction.

Bower and Alile followed the doctor inside the Red Cross station. When she came outside an hour or so later, the sun was setting. The Rangers were lounging around, sitting on the hood of the truck or playing cards in the shade. Their M4 rifles were never out of arm’s reach. The Hummer was gone, presumably to the hotel.

“So what’s the plan, Doc?” Jameson asked. “Are you and Dr. Kowalski going to stay here with the Red Cross?”

She hadn’t really thought about it, but Jameson was right. They were part of an NGO and not even from the same country as the Rangers. In that moment, she saw a glimpse of the valor with which the Rangers served. They had no official responsibility for her. They need not have escorted her to Ksaungu, let alone have hung around outside the makeshift hospital. Although with bands of thugs roaming the streets in pick-up trucks, brandishing automatic rifles, their presence had ensured the Red Cross outpost had remained orderly.

In private, Bower had previously been critical of the military intervention in Malawi, saying what was needed was civil engineers and teachers, not more guns and bombs, but now she saw things in a different light.

His was a good question, what were they going to do? In essence, Jameson was asking if she wanted to be released from his military care, and that was a novel thought, one with potentially profound implications.

Somewhat absentmindedly, she said, “Ah, I’m going to have to consult Mitch on that.” And she turned and walked back into the rundown building.

Kowalski was working with Alile to clean out an infected wound on the leg of a young boy. Bower didn’t recognize the boy; he must have been a local.

“Shrapnel wound. So bloody messy I can’t tell if there’s any metal still in there.”

“Mitch,” Bower said, and the tone of her voice got his attention. He seemed to understand what was coming next. “The soldiers need to move on. What do you want to do?”

You, it was a word pregnant with meaning. She hadn’t said we, she already knew what she wanted to do, but she wanted to hear Kowalski’s perspective. She liked to think he could persuade her to continue providing medical assistance at the makeshift hospital, but deep down she already knew she was going to leave with the soldiers. She was hoping he would say something that would make her decision easier, some justification she could cling to without feeling like a traitor.

“I can’t say I’ve ever been too fond of men marching around with guns,” Kowalski replied. “But they saved our ass up there in Abatta.”

He pulled his gloves off, took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose, lost in thought. He turned to Alile, saying, “Can you finish up?”

Alile just nodded.

Bower took a sip of water from her canteen.

“It’s one of those moments, isn’t it?” Kowalski said. “We’re at a crossroad, where we can go one way or another, but it’s a crossroad we can never revisit if we change our minds in the future. Right now, we can go on either path, but this luxury won’t be around for long.”

Kowalski had used the pronoun we in his reply. He was more circumspect than Bower. She struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.

“What do you think?” Kowalski asked.

Bower looked around. The field hospital was already overflowing. Patients lay on metal gurneys in the hallways, quietly enduring until someone could tend to them, although tending was a misnomer. Beyond basic surgery, cleaning and bandaging a wound, there wasn’t a lot that could be done.

“I need a crystal ball,” she said. “I mean, we’re trying to make a decision based on information we don’t have, information that can only come in the future. Will the government of Malawi prevail? Will all this play out in a matter of days or weeks? Or will the war be protracted and go on for years? Will the UN ever return, and if so, when? But perhaps most important, what difference will that bloody alien space ship make?”

Bower looked at Alile working away quietly on Kowalski’s patient. Alile didn’t have to say what she was thinking.

Neither Alile nor the boy could flee. The best they could hope for was to get across the border into Mozambique as refugees. They were trapped by the cruelest of circumstances beyond their control: the country in which they were born. Bower felt sick. What a stupid, fucked-up world, she thought, there was no merit, no compassion, no understanding, nothing any of them could do about this artificial distinction that could make the difference between life and death. That Alile’s fate was arbitrary and whimsical was barbaric.

“You should go,” said Alile in her distinct African accent. “You came here to help us with our mess. You have helped. You can do no more. You should go while you still can.”

‘Our mess,’ there was another pronoun coming into play: you, we, our. Each pronoun revealed more about its speaker than Bower had ever realized before, although ‘our’ wasn’t entirely accurate. Malawi may have been where Alile was born, but the problems the country was going through had nothing to do with her personally, and Bower understood that. Her heart went out to the brave, young nurse. Bower could see Alile was being kind, giving them an out. The reality was, these artificial designations of country and race held no bearing other than what man made of them. Bower felt like a heel taking the easy way out.

“There is too much suffering in this country,” Alile continued. “You have done all you can. But it is we who must end it. You can go. You should go.”

Kowalski was silent.

“I will arrange for the others to go on to Mozambique tomorrow,” Alile said.