That shrieking will be with me forever. I removed a dirty woolen blanket seeped in pus from around her chest. Her three year old large, brown eyes searched into mine for an explanation of the pain. I had none for her and none for her father, as I held him in my arms, he sobbed because his capable hands had been tied by the worst accident. A pot of boiling oil on baby skin. What can I do or be, a doctor, a student, an anthropologist, a comfort? Nothing, but I am expected to be a wife, the tradition of my temporary home crushing my independence in this far away land. I held the father and I washed the little girl; her screams haunting me as I did what needed to be done to save her life. The hospital is days away. I cried as hard as she did when I had to free her arm for the burn.
Days pass, and she cries whenever she sees my face. I have no words to tell her that I m not the pain she feels. That I want her to live and heal. Nothing but tears. I gave her first bath in water warmed by the high altitude, mountain sun. More tears for the newness of it all, she heals, kicking and punching men with all her pain. Fight, fight little one, I love you more than you know. I found her left nipple today under layers of dried blood, pus, and skin, and the relief coursed through me. She is someone's wife at age three, and the breast is important. She must be the mother of sons, and she was bought by her husband's family for her breeding potential. Disfigurement could mean malnourishment for her children and mockery for her. The smallest inadequacy from a terrible accident could result in abandonment or battery. I learned that husbands expect what they pay for.
The horses here are all skinny from the winter's fast. The rain seeps through the thatched roof of my room. The women have diverted the electricity to run the flour mill, so until they are done we all wait for the light. A man is in the other room singing classic rock and roll out of tune. The story I heard was about this singing man who make a baby with a child, and that baby was thrown into an ice cold river for a clear conscience.
I shut my eyes to tune out his music and think how that burn will continue to heal long after I leave. I wonder again about the singing in the woods. There are no over 200,000 girls missing from this country, statistically born but mysteriously absent. I believe now that they have run behind a pine tree. Deep in the forest they find shelter from pre-arranged husbands and expectations, shelter from restrictions. They sing and dance together in independence without fear. Were they calling me to join them? Why couldn't I understand? I realize now that if I just had the words to ask the burnt little girl and the baby that may or may not have died in that river, they could have taken me deep into the forest to sing and dance away the injustices of some days.