We all rise in unison, needing an update. “Staff Sergeant Mattis made it through surgery,” she informs us. We exhale as one, a steady, momentary breath of relief. “But we had to take the entire leg up to the hip. There was no way to save what thigh he had left.”
“Is he awake?” Damon asks.
“No. Not yet,” she replies. “He’s sedated. He’ll wake up in a few hours. You can see him once we move him to recovery. Two at a time.” We nod, and she excuses herself to deal with other patients.
“Go get cleaned up,” Damon insists, before gesturing between him and Gunnar. “We’ll stay in case he wakes up.” I may pull rank here, but I’m not going to argue. They are the closest to Mattis, in rank and in friendship. The three of them went through basic and OTC together.
Jagger claps my shoulder as we walk toward our barracks. They aren’t far away, but tonight the distance seems to stretch with every step. “You good?” he asks. All I can manage is a shrug. “A shower and fresh BDUs will help.” He’s probably wrong, but I’d rather not spend the rest of the night covered in Mattis’s blood.
When I step inside, my boots cement to the floor. My heart jumps into my throat, and my stomach drops at the sight in front of me. I just held my friend together after watching his leg get blown off his body. Yet, what’s before me is more harrowing than anything I’ve ever seen on a battlefield.
CURRENT DAY
After sliding out of the Humvee, I squint against the harsh sunlight. Even though it’s still low in the sky, it’s blinding as it reflects off the sand. The morning air is thick with dust and the faint smell of smoke and oil, a combination I’m pretty sure has permanently taken hold in my nostrils since I got here a little over a month ago. The purr of distant generators and the occasional playful collective scream of children in the distance make this place feel alive, barely.
I raise my camera, the metal warm against my cheek, and try to capture the crumbling beauty of the small village before me. It’s remarkable—cracked walls, faded peeling paint, and the soft shadows the morning sun casts across the street.
A small caravan of military trucks rumbles past, their tires kicking up dust clouds that swirl around the narrow streets. Following behind them, I watch—partially through my camera lens—as the soldiers climb from the vehicles. They move with purposeful steps, joining the crowd ofcamouflage already diligently at work. The soldiers speak softly, trying to calm the anxious families who clutch what little they can carry as military personnel help them load their belongings onto battered pickup trucks or old carts. The military presence here isn’t only about security from local insurgents. It’s clear they are helping to facilitate this relocation, uprooting entire villages to make way for the pipeline threading through the country like a vein of greed.
Moving slowly and quietly, I am careful not to disturb the small crowd and snap a few more shots. My boots kick up little clouds of dust and crunch on the uneven, dirt road beneath me. After lowering my camera, I pull out the small notebook tucked in my vest pocket and scribble down a few notes to send over to my editor with today’s photos.
This isn’t the career I envisioned for myself when I graduated from college nearly a decade ago. Photographer small town events was what I expected as a photo journalist, not war-torn countries for one of the largest media outlets in the world. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually love my life. Living out of a duffel bag. Combat showers with water pressure that is barely a trickle and temperature swings from boiling hot to freezing cold without warning. Sleeping on cots and the backseats of Humvees. But every time I raise my camera and capture a moment—the fear in a child’s eyes, the determination on a soldier’s face, the haunting emptiness of a deserted village—I feel alive. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. The military bases and combat zones I spend my time in feel more like home than the tiny, barely furnished apartment I keep in New York City.
As I’m shoving the notebook back into my pocket, a cautious but curious voice whispers behind me. “Labarai?News?” The woman, who’s maybe a decade older than me, steps out of the shadows of a nearby building. Her eyes are sharp but tired. She is dressed in worn clothes, the fabric showing the distress of having seen too many seasons. Looking me up and down, she nods timidly and points at the press badge clipped to my vest, before repeating herself, “News?”
“Yeah. I’m a photo journalist,” I answer softly, giving a small, reassuring smile. She looks at me inquisitively, and I realize she isn’t quite understanding me. I tap my badge. “Yes. News.Labarai.”
Her expression softens a little. “You… you know… Village. Gone. Everyone gone. No one left. My daughter.” She pauses, searching for the words in broken English. “My daughter. She was there. Now… No one.”
I raise a brow, curiosity and concern prickling my skin. “Do you know what happened?”
Her eyes dart around nervously, as though she is afraid someone might be listening. “Just gone. No one left.”
“Where is this village?” I ask, keeping my voice soft as I reach out and gently touch her arm.
She hesitates for a moment, then pulls a small scrap of paper from her pocket. “Here.” On the paper, the name of a place I don’t recognize is scribbled. “Near oil. Past military. But far.”
I give a polite smile, memorizing the name as I put the pieceof paper in my pocket. “I will try to find out what happened to your daughter…”
“Military… You help?” She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder. “Moving people. For oil. Lose home. They say no choice. Have to go.”
This information catches me off guard.That is not the narrative they’ve been feeding to the media.“They’re making people leave their homes? Not asking?”
“Yes. Soldiers bring trucks… say safe. But many… angry. Some fight. Some hide. My daughter… maybe moved?”
I frown. “When was the last time you heard from your daughter?”
She shakes her head, lips trembling. “Week.”
Her fear is palpable, and it settles like a rock in my stomach. “What is your daughter’s name? Can you tell me what she looks like? Or do you have a picture?”
Her eyes meet mine, full of desperation. “Nia.” She says the name slowly, making sure I understand. Tapping her chest, she adds, “Adeya.”
“I will try to find out what I can for you about Nia, Adeya.”
Back at the military base, I walk with purpose to the tent I share with three other women. It is small, functional, and smells faintly of sweat and disinfectant. On the far side, my narrow cot is pushed into the corner, a metal locker beside it, and the small table making do as my desk. It is cluttered with my camera gear, laptop, and notes for possible leads. A single, flickering bulb hangs above it, casting long shadows over my belongings.
I drop my bag on the cot and pull off my bulletproof vest, tossing it beside my bag before taking a seat at the table. As I flip open my laptop, the screen glare is harsh in the dim light. I pull up the name of the village the woman mentioned. It is located just outside the documented US military zone, tucked between two mountains, and along the path of the pipeline.
