And Labour Pains Came Upon Her in the Far Western Deserts

Omaima Abdullah

For the sake of a woman who was forced to leave her town, carrying in her womb a fully developed embryo. She gave birth to her baby inside a burned-out military vehicle in the far western deserts under scorching heat like flames. She looked around and found no one, not even a tree trunk. She buried her afterbirth in the sand and lay down without eating a single fresh date… For her and those like her, I write.

It was summer, and the time of her departure was at dawn. Her destination was the Kalma camp. She knew nothing but patience as her companion, surrounded by ash and misery steeped in suffering. She walked alone, gripped by fear. The baby in her womb was about to be born. She wished she could reach her family before labour began, as it was approaching. She felt it now more than ever before. She had left them in search of her absent husband, lost and drowning in the illusion of building a life with weapons. Since she married him, he had given her nothing but promises and dreams, and she had no choice but to believe him immediately due to her youth and lack of understanding of life’s complexities. Yet, her pure nature told her that violence never brings any good and that weapons do not bring justice.

She walked weakly, looking around, but neither green nor dry land was in sight. The road was long and exposed to the sky, blending with the horizon in the distance. The sun overwhelmed her with a wave of longing for her family. We yearn for a safe embrace, comfort, and warmth in moments of weakness. She wished she could go back to being a child, wished she had never grown up, never been consumed by hatred and bitterness. She wished her husband would return or she would never have married so young. Her womb was filled with sorrow and painful grief, and now here she was, delivering it as a child on the scorching sand.

The labour pains began far apart, but soon they came closer together. The life inside her struggled to emerge, a numbness spread through her legs, and her heart fluttered like the wing of a slaughtered dove. Warm water flowed from her. She knelt on the ground for a few seconds; the pressure of the baby inside her was overwhelming. She crawled on her side towards the burned-out military vehicle. The pain intensified; she needed to hold onto something, to scream. Her heart pleaded with her Lord, “There is no god but You; indeed, I have been of the wrongdoers.” The prayer of Prophet Jonah in the darkness, for she was enveloped in darkness.

God had helped them long ago, Jonah and Mary, but there was no palm tree trunk for her to shake, no branch—just sand, sand above her and sand below. She reached the burned-out vehicle, crawled inside, and settled on the back seat. The pain didn’t give her a moment’s rest. She looked around, but there was nothing but the scorching wind. She spread her legs apart and began to push. The two cries met, one for death and one for life. He emerged safely. She held him after tearing her dress, wrapping him in one half and covering herself with the other. She buried her afterbirth in the sand.

I wrote about her, knowing full well that she would never know I carry her in my thoughts—a woman of patience. I wish I knew what happened to her. My friends found her in that burned-out military vehicle an hour after she gave birth. They frantically asked her to accompany them, but she refused, as her bleeding was still ongoing. They left her after giving her all the water and canned food they had.
And if only you knew how life is created and granted!