Free Born of War by Anderson Harp Page B

was and what was not Somalia. It was not like the United States and Mexico.
    â€œWhen will we see patients?”
    DuBose let out a big laugh.
    â€œYes, you are a rookie!” There would be no shortage of patients. The children had scars on their faces from smallpox and other diseases that they had survived. Some would limp in from the west of Somalia with poorly bandaged wounds from random fighting they had innocently stepped into. Many sought the refuge of the remote village of Ferfer simply because it was far from anything that should matter.
    The MSF camp was on a flat area amid a round of rocks that overlooked the valley and the riverbed. The village of Ferfer was just beyond. When the doctors opened up for business, the line of patients wandered up the hillside to the gathering of white tents. She had her wish granted. There was plenty to do. She had no shortage of patients in the encampment.
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    After unloading the vehicles, Dr. Stewart fell asleep in her new tent for several hours. As the sun began to set, the chill of the desert set in and with it she awoke in near darkness. She leaned forward in her bunk and got a face full of net as her mind recognized where she was. It was a hard sleep. Her face was wet. She felt her pillow and it was also wet. The days of travel and riding in seats that didn’t recline had taken their toll. Stewart pulled the net back, turned to put her feet on the ground, and then felt for her boots. She had already learned to hit her boots together to make sure there were no scorpions that had climbed into the warmth of the boots. Like all the insect and animal life on this continent, the scorpions had a bite that was far worse than just being painful. She had brought a small LED flashlight with her, and with it she dug through her backpack until she found a Polartec jacket. As she left the tent, a cold still night air struck her. She pulled a scarf over her head for both warmth and as respect for this new world. She had learned already that a woman must wear a scarf or covering at all times.
    It was the evening prayer. Stewart stopped as the song of words echoed off the rocks. She could hear the call from the village below. Stewart climbed onto a flat rock that let her look out over the valley and beyond.
    She smelled smoke from the other side of the MSF encampment. There were a dozen white rectangular tents all with the markings of Médecins Sans Frontières. Below each sign there was another: a red machine gun in a circle with a line through it. It was meant to signal they were an unarmed encampment. The tents were not in any particular line or row.
    I will remember where everything is. More important, she noted the latrine, which was outside the tent and behind one large rock.
    She followed the smoke to a small campfire where the guard and Dr. DuBose were sitting. They were speaking in the guard’s native tongue.
    â€œHello!” She pulled up a campstool near the fire.
    â€œThere is our rookie!”
    DuBose was comfortable in this setting.
    â€œHello, Pierre.”
    â€œPlease call me Peter. I did my residency at Presbyterian in New York.”
    â€œYes, okay.”
    They had traveled for two days together in an odd combination of small airplanes and Land Rovers but hadn’t had the chance to really talk.
    â€œShaata wants you to meet someone. Do you feel up to it?”
    â€œSure, I guess so.”
    â€œWe will go meet the village leader.”
    She followed the guide and DuBose down a path to the outskirts of the village where one clay-and-mud structure stood apart from the rest. To the side of the entrance a curtain was drawn over the opening. The guide called out some words and a young villager pulled the curtain aside.
    An old man with a large curved nose, a scarred face, and little hair waved his hand to signal they were allowed to enter.
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    â€œ Al-salamu alaykum .”
    The greeting was returned.
    â€œ Wa alaykum s-salam