Free Veiled Freedom by Jeanette Windle

see the ground, her peripheral vision only a few feet on either side, so she was constantly tripping. Without Jamil’s thin shoulders to focus on just ahead, she’d have soon been hopelessly lost.
    Or run over. Amy stumbled back as a bus barely missed her. How did countless Afghan women do this every day?
    There were plenty of burqas drifting through market stalls, begging at car windows, as well as the black chadors Amy had glimpsed at the New Hope compound. But other women were less constricted in enveloping headscarves but bare faces, long-sleeved tunics over pants, and ankle-length chapans , embroidered, button-up overcoats. As soon as I get my luggage.
    Amy swerved to avoid two burqas squatting on a street corner, skeletal hands outthrust, several small children huddled close. Bruce’s snide comment sprang to her mind. “This country’s crawling with starving widows and children.” Had she just stumbled over the first candidates to revive New Hope’s mission?
    â€œJamil?”
    Amy almost collided with her escort as he spun around. Jamil had remained a stride ahead with only the occasional gesture to indicate when there was a street to cross. It seemed women were expected to be mute as well as anonymous. Now his tone was taut with irritation as he snapped, “What is it?”
    â€œHow much farther?”
    Jamil was suddenly too close. “Be silent!” he hissed near a cloaked ear. “Do you wish the entire world to know you are a foreigner on foot?”
    Only that Jamil was right, the note of fear in his voice, excused his harshness. Though Amy’s English had hardly been loud, it had attracted unwanted attention, the narrowed stares turned her way ranging from interest to hostility. From somewhere a globule of spittle landed on the mesh grille.
    â€œKafir!”
    Infidel.
    Amy hastened to follow as Jamil started forward again.
    â€œThe place you seek is over there.” The jerk of his head indicated a long army green wall topped with concertina wire across a wide, busy avenue. “We can cross here, but you must be careful. No, wait!”
    An armored convoy was coming down the boulevard fast, soldiers in body armor at gun turrets, others braced in open hatches, lethal-looking weapons cradled in their hands. ISAF was lettered across door panels. Then Amy spotted a pale blue form sprinting toward the convoy instead of away. She had time to wonder how a woman in a burqa could run before the explosion knocked her from her feet.
    Amy was blind, the burqa twisting in her fall so that she was choking too. Around her, angry shouts had become panicked shrieks, the thud of running footsteps. Short bursts of gunfire spattered the screams. Amy scrambled backward until she felt a wall behind her. Not caring anymore who should see her, she pushed the burqa up until her face was free.
    The street was pandemonium, traffic jammed to a stop, the armored Humvee leading the convoy now twisted metal. Despite a bloodied face here and there, its contingent didn’t seem seriously injured. The shooting Amy had heard must have been in the air because the only still shape was the pale blue and scarlet heap that had been the suicide bomber. But there were plenty of gashes and abrasions, blood-splattered clothing and cries of pain. A yellow Toyota Corolla was in flames.
    â€œGo, go, go!”
    The damaged Humvee’s contingent had clambered to safety among the other vehicles. And now, Amy realized incredulously, they were leaving. The stalled traffic made maneuvering easier, but more than one vehicle was simply pushed aside by the weight of an armored personnel carrier before the convoy disappeared around a corner.
    I don’t believe it.
    Hers was not the only furious response. Raised arms and voices chased the departing convoy.
    Amy looked for her guide. She couldn’t spot Jamil anywhere, but across the street was the gated entrance to her original destination, and without