Impossible Odds

future with this work.
    I realize Erik’s back is to the wall with his concern for me. Most of the time he is a big teddy bear who embraces the role of taking care of me, and I can see he’s trying hard to do that now. But six months earlier, a busload of passengers—including women and children—was bombed on the same road we’ll be using, innocently caught up in someone else’s dispute. He reminds me, now; it’s only been six months. I have to resist his objections. I tell him (and myself) that in the months since the attack on that bus, the roads between North and South Galkayo have remained calm. I add the helpful fact that earlier today, my NGO’s security advisor cleared me for safe travel in that region. After all, if we don’t rely on their information we can’t do the work.
    Shortly before my scheduled departure Erik reluctantly gives in and turns to me with a heavy sigh. “Look, Jess,” he tells me, “youknow I want you to do the best work you can, to feel right about it. I don’t know, maybe I’m being too protective . . .”
    I beam back at him. “So you won’t be upset with me if I go?”
    “I wouldn’t go that far,” he replies, then laughs and adds, “Of course I can’t be upset with you. I get that you need to do this. Just listen, please : Don’t trust anyone’s judgment but your own. Don’t trust anything but your own intelligence. Stay aware and listen to your gut feelings.”
    He takes a deep breath. “So just go get it done and get back here safely and let’s move past all this, okay?” He opens his arms for a hug. I throw my arms around him, grateful for his style of loving support. Of course I’m also instantly concerned that this now means the trip is really going to happen.
    But neither of us wants to argue; we’re secretly nurturing a hopeful glow that after more than two years of marriage and recent efforts to have a baby, I might be pregnant. I’m only a few days late in my cycle, but hopes are high for both of us. I know how much he prefers for us to stay close and cocoon at home, to focus on willing this child into our lives. But part of Erik’s loving nature is that he really does want to give me the space I need, so even though it goes completely against the grain for him to relent on this, he somehow manages to send me off with a smile.
    My colleague Poul Thisted and I bring along a few small work bags holding computers and training materials, plus one small personal bag apiece. That’s about it. He’s already left, so I grab a UN flight of several hours to the town of Galkayo. We spend the night at the NGO guesthouse just to the north side of the Green Line, in the safer zone. From there I send Erik two text messages that will always stick in my memory.
    If I get kidnapped on this trip, will you come and get me?
    He responds, Nah, of course I will come but nothing will happen!! Make sure it doesn’t, ok? Love you too much to even think about that, so make sure you will be super safe.
    “Safe” is a word whose meaning varies in our part of Somalia. I’m continually reminded of that after we arrive at our southern office and the training session plays out. Outbursts of urban violence can be heard all around the building. The gunfire becomes so bad outside the compound, people avoid sitting outside on the veranda for fear of a random bullet strike.
    I spend the whole trip eager to be out of there and back home, feeling like time is just dragging along. Of course I do this still unaware of the very long and hard way time can truly drag. So far in life I have experienced time, at its worst, as a form of slow boredom—never as a form of torture.
    Once we finish the training session and we’re ready to be on our way back to the safer northern zone, I send Erik the second of those two text messages. Sadly, this one is to let him know I’m cramping and it looks like I was wrong about the pregnancy.
    Started period : ( Guess there’s next month. Love you and miss you so much.
    I assure myself that we’ll just have to keep trying. I’m only thirty-two years old. There’s plenty of time— we have all the time we need.
    Before Erik has a chance to respond, our convoy arrives to whisk us away from the south office and back to our guesthouse on the north side of the Green Line. The distance isn’t far, maybe twenty minutes of driving time. It’s going to be a relief to get out of there.
    And so at 3:00 p.m. on October 25, I toss my small bag in the