~Karuna Chettri ‘Sitara’~
The single light bulb swung from a naked wire attached to the low ceiling. The glare penetrated the blindfold as it moved back and forth like a pendulum. The heat from the fine filament seared the tip of the woman’s nose every time the bulb swung close to her face. The room reeked of urine mixed with sweat. But for the blindfolded woman, the stench of past terrors penetrated her nostrils every time she heard the sounds of boots approach her—near, almost touching her. She smelled his breath — tobacco and beetle nut.
She sat straight
on the cold metal chair. Her head held erect and pushed back as if against an invisible wall. Her eyes were shut tight, bound by the band of rag knotted at the back of her head. Her hands were on the table with palms flat and fingers spread out like fans. She knew the table was placed directly under the swinging light bulb because the skin on the top of her hands felt hot–unbearably so. Somewhere towards her left, water dripped marking every passing second. From her obsessive counting of the drops, she had measured at least ten minutes she’d spent in the room–six hundred water drips and still counting. The sounds subconsciously triggered an urge to urinate but she was bound to her chair. The rope which secured her felt roungh–perhaps, made of coarse coconut husk. Her head throbbed as if she’d landed on a bed of nails. She had, almost. She’d landed on a thorny bramble bush when she’d jump from the moving bus crawling up the rugged hillside. Her pursuers hot at her heels.
The stomp of boots stopped once again. The man put something hard and sharp against her chin and snapped back her head–forcing her to face her captor.
“So, Miss Mina, I believe you are a journalist?” he inquired softly as he applied more pressure on her neck. His voice was cultured. His English was faultless indicating an education abroad…India, perhaps. He had a slight accent–a bilingual marriage of British and Indian lilt.
“I can’t hear you! Would you repeat it?” He ignored her choked “yes”.
“Yes, I work for the Diaspora Online!” She struggled to raise her voice but given the angle of her chin, words were strangled, caught in the gurgles of her breath.
“Miss Mina, times are not safe for journalists, especially here in District 50. You could be kidnapped by Maoist sympathizers…mugged, raped or simply disappear!…Or didn’t you know?!” His voice turned softer as the intensity of the words increased.
Mina gritted her teeth in pain; it spead like a tongue of fire from her chin down to the base of her neck. Any more pressure and her vertebra would snap in two. If only she could rip off the blindfold and memorize the face of her persecutor, she’d have the satisfaction of seeing her killer before her final moments. Not that it would do her any good.
“You have beautiful fingers, Mis Mina…like an artist’s. Ah, but you are not one are you, you are a journalist—a journalist in search of a story.” He stroked her spread hands with one rough finger. Her skin crawled at his touch but she resisted her impulse to react.
“A journalist, rash enough to get her precious fingers possibly smashed to useles pulp. How old are you Miss Mina…twenty…twenty one?” She heard him rustle some papers.
“Aha! Here we are, Mina Davis–age, twenty four; address-Arlington, Virginia. And yes, how remiss of me…you are an American citizen. Does that mean you are protected by America? Not in District 50, you’re not. You’ve strayed too far from diplomatic or journalistic immunity. You have no rights here. This is the no man’s land. Here ,you are considered an infiltrator. I could have you pulverized, here, now, without a trace. And, no one would be any wiser. Your journalist friend…you haven’t heard from him have you? The newspapers said he disappeared 15 days ago… well, you won’t find him either!” He spoke every syllable with slow deliberation.
Mina froze in terror. She had interviewed and written stories about survivors of toture camps. Every twisted finger or missing limb spoke of unimaginable horror…of psychological and physical hell. Many of them had been innocent, neither belonging to Maoist camp nor to the RNA. They were ordinary farmers trying to eke out a living from the unyielding rocky soils of Dolpo. Those farmers were caught in the civil war between the people’s men and the king’s men. They had nothing to offer either camp and yet, both terrorized them at the slightest whiff of suspicion.
She, in her brief one month stay in the area, had accumulated enough information to be hung by either side. Mina had ventured into District 50 in search of her journalist partner who had been missing for the last 15 days. In their last conversation, he had implied that there was a major connection between the army and the Maoists. That he had an idea who was playing both camps. Dave never made it to their meeting place.
“No!”
Mina thrashed around on her seat. She was not going to be tortured every inch of her body. She suddenly wasn’t sure whose camp she had stumbled into. The propaganda had been that Ward 50 was a Maoist camp. Now, she had doubts. It dawned on her that perhaps, that was what Dave was trying to warn her about.
With a concentrated effort, she lurched forward and on to the sharp object held against her neck. As expected, the soft tissue of her artery ripped. Warm blood spurted down the front of her shirt. With a shock she realized she could get her wish—bleed to death rather than be subjected torture.
The man barked out a sharp command and Maya heard running footsteps—two, perhaps, three sets. The door clattered open. She felt pairs of hands pin her head down on to the table. At the change of position, the open wound dripped on to her thighs, seeping through her jeans, down her shins and into her hiking boots.
“Not yet, you idiot… you will die when we say so!” His voice was no longer soft; he sounded furious. He examined her neck wound as she faded into oblivion.
Two days later, the news was abuzz about the kidnapping of the Nepali-born-American journalist.
Three days later, Mina’s Davis’ body was arranged to be flown out of Kathmandu to her native Arlington, Virginia.
The Davis’ home was choked with reporters. Diaspora Online was furious at the disappearance and death of two of their journalists.
DIASPORA ONLINE
UPDATED SATURDAY, JANUARY 14, 2006 9:02 PM ET
Journalist’s Body Flown into Virginia Today
By ANDREW CREST
Mina Davis, the Nepali-born-American-journalist of Diaspora Online, was found dead with a bullet to her head and a ripped artery, ten miles from District 50, a dangerous area highly patrolled by both Maoists and the army. It is not known whether she was captured by Maoists or the army. Villagers have refused to testify against either party. The clothes she was found in were not her own. She was dressed in Maoist military fatigues. It is assumed that the army may have killed her mistaking her for a Maoist rebel. Both parties have remained shamelessly silent on this issue which has caused an uproar among international journalists. In the mean time, the disappearance of Dave seventeen days ago has caused much alarm among the journalists in Nepal.
*********************
(Source : Sajha.com)
