The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2004

skirt was pulled up around her waist, and blood cov- ered her legs. She looked up at me, brow furrowed with worry. I hadn’t even known she was pregnant. My hand flickered across my own belly, absent of scars, but once knowing that same loss, and I was frozen for a moment, unsure what to do. “Awa, stay there. I’ll get help.” My heart pounding, I sent the child to find Namory, and I ran to the clinic to find the nurse. An hour later, we were helping Awa onto the narrow metal luggage rack on the back of her husband’s motorbike for the long, bumpy, 20-mile ride to the nearest hospital. She was dignified, but silent in her sorrow. Her shawl was draped delicately around her head and shoulders, sheltering her small frame. Her eyes looked downward. I couldn’t believe this was the only option. “Wait!” I ran home and returned with a small cush- ion for her to sit on. They roared off, leaving us behind in dusty silence. A couple of days later, Awa was back. When she saw me, she smiled as if nothing had happened, and went about her work. Other women did not speak of Awa’s miscarriage, lest they recall their own similar incidents, or curse themselves by saying one wrong word of hope. F O C U S J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 4 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 29 Every second feels like an eternal minute, and it’s all I can do to restrain myself from screaming out, “Why here? Why now? This would never happen at home!”