Impossible Odds

CHAPTER ONE
    Jessica:
    Erik tells me for the umpteenth time, “I just don’t like it, Jess.”
    “And I still agree,” I tell him. “I’ve just got no choice.”
    “Oh, come on. There’s always a choice. You can get around it.”
    “I’ve canceled three times already and I can’t get around it, at least not by complaining about security anymore. I’m not sick, so what do I tell them?”
    This stops him for a minute, but I can see it does nothing to make him feel better. The sense of danger has gotten to us. It’s no help that neither of us has been sleeping well. We acknowledge that much; the question is what to do about it. I know it’s not the best time to leave our home in the city of Hargeisa, Somalia, and make the journey 480 miles southeast. My NGO (nongovernmental organization) keeps a field office there, next to a dangerous border called the Green Line separating territories partially controlled by the Islamists from those still controlled by the official Somali government. The Green Line is invisible, known best by the people it divides, never included on official maps of Somalia. I’ve had my eye on the violence down there for a long time. It isn’t something I actively fear; I watch it the way a farmer keeps an eye on the horizon.
    Our destination is only a short distance from territories controlled by the Islamist group Al-Shabaab, which rules major parts of southern Somalia and imposes Sharia law with terror tactics. Local unrest is potentially explosive, rolling across the region in waves, but I’ve never been the soldier of fortune type. I started my life in Kenya as a grade school teacher a few years ago and ended up here in Somalia, developing classroom materials for a Danish NGO and working throughout eastern Africa. Our mission is to instruct local people how to avoid the rampant war munitions and land mines that have created a generation of amputees here.
    But I realize doing charitable work is no protection from local violence. Criminals are indifferent to social work, and to those who traffic in hate I am a Westerner, which is bad—an American, which is worse, and both my appearance and my occupation are equally repellent in my status as infidel . To me this morning’s destination feels too close to their home territory, where many of their people are violently opposed to the presence of Westerners in their region. No matter how modestly a Western woman dresses or covers her hair, those who traffic in hate don’t see a gesture of cultural cooperation. They see an example of Westerners wearing disguises aimed at lulling the faithful into accepting foreign sacrilege in their homeland. And while bigotry exists all over the world, this is a region where people can really lose their heads over it, generally between the chin and the shoulders.
    My continuing concern is getting caught in the crossfire of any one of the countless acts of clan warfare or random hooliganism that plague southern Somalia and keep it in a state of general anarchy. For potential robbers, Westerners may represent a chance at fast money. This is a part of the world where hardly anyone has any, with an average per capita income of $600 USD. Many people have far less. But then that’s why we never wander the region without good cause and we always travel with security.
    The sticking point is simple: My NGO thinks this is animportant staff training session, while on top of my concerns over civil unrest, my husband Erik’s concerns are stronger still. He has worked in the local political arena here for the last six years, and his sense of the local mindset is good.
    My NGO’s plan is for me to fly from Hargeisa to North Galkayo where, for safety, the excursion from North to South is to be made in a three-car caravan. The security caravan is our standard mode of travel, and I’m not at all surprised to be using it now. But what my colleagues have neglected to tell me is that there is a kidnapping threat for expats in the area, and that our destination is situated about five hundred meters from a known pirate den. My sense of dread is strong, even without factoring that into my decision.
    Nevertheless, I love my job in spite of these moments of concern. The very fact that it is unsafe is what maintains my concern for the children who have no choice but to live there. Every time I think of quitting, I consider the lives we’re saving with this mine awareness program and the mutilations we can prevent in the