Afghan Rape - Part 1 (2)////////////////////
The march was like a nightmare for Cathy. Stunned by the blast, she initially did not know where she was or who these men around her were. She allowed herself to be half carried, half dragged up the ridge and then down a valley to another steep ridgeline. Her senses returned only slowly. At first she thought these men were helping her; that there had been a crash and they were taking her to a hospital. Repeatedly she ask in a dazed voice about the others in her crew, but found no one who could, or would, respond to her English. Only slowly did she remember the forced landing and the sudden explosions. It was the worst shock of her life when Cathy finally understood what had happened and realized that she had been taken prisoner by men she had to assume were at best Taliban and quite possibly Al Qaida fighters. The realization that her men must be dead washed painfully over her. It took all her willpower to put aside the feelings of guilt she felt and focus on surviving. She continued to pretend that she was still in shock in hopes of finding an opportunity to escape. Cathy waited until just before darkness, then she made her attempt. Pretending to stumble against the man on her right, she drove her knee into his crotch, bringing him to his knees. Then she tried to use her left elbow to smash into the face of the other man. That blow miscarried when he was able to hang onto her arm. As she struggled with the second man, the tall dark man walking in front of them spun around and brutally drove the muzzle of his rifle deep into her stomach. With the air knocked out of her, Cathy was easily brought down by the man with whom she was struggling. As Cathy screamed and cursed at them, more hands grabbed her, holding her arms, punching her in the stomach and breasts, and finally twisting her over onto her stomach, then pulling her hands behind her and tying them tightly with a length of rope. While one knelt on her back to hold her down, others tied each end of a short length of rope to each leg, creating an effective hobble if she should try to run away again. When she was again hauled to her feet, the bound and battered Cathy found the dark clad man standing in front of her, another length of rope in his hand. To her surprise, he addressed her in perfect English,
" What is your name, girl?"
Despite her surprise at his use of English, Cathy responded as she had been trained- with name , rank, and serial number.
" Harper, Cathy C. ,Captain , United States Army, 409-67-0221"
" No. You are wrong. That is not who you are. You are no longer Harper, Captain, United States Army. You are now the slave Cathy. I am your Master. A merciful master, once you have learned to obey. A merciless one if you do not. I know Western women like you , Cathy. I know that obedience will not come easy to you. But you will learn your place. With God's help, I shall see to that."
For a moment Cathy was rendered speechless by the man's bizarre words . Then she straightened her back and snapped defiantly back at him:
" I am an officer in the American Army. I may be a prisoner of war, but no man is my master."
" I shall be, God willing."
The Arab reached up and put one end of the rope he carried over Cathy's head. The noose encircled her neck. He pulled it tight, tight enough to make breathing just a bit difficult. The other end he kept in his hand. Without another word he walked away, jerking Cathy after him by the noose around her neck. He led her like that for the rest of the night, pulling her along behind him as one would a reluctant donkey. He ignored her, never looking back at her. He simply walked forward forcing her to follow or to be dragged over the rocky trail. When Cathy tried to protested vocally or balked, the man walking behind her- the man she had kneed- would use the muzzle of his rifle to prod her forward, jabbing it painfully hard into her kidneys. Not as painful but even more humiliating was the way the man would grab her ass every time she began to lag even a little. Put off balance by the arms bound behind her back, jerked, groped, and prodded forward, her legs hobbles forcing her to shuffle along behind the Arab at a half run, Cathy was soon exhausted by the effort required of her. Her thermal underwear and flight suit quickly became soaked with her sweat despite the cold. Her lungs struggled for each breath in the thinner mountain air . Her strong leg muscles, accustomed to regularly running hard for an hour on the treadmill, felt weak as water. It was all her strong will could do to keep herself on her feet, moving forward. All thoughts of escape were put aside as she struggled simply to keep up with her captors. By the time they reached the cave in the early morning hours, Cathy was too exhausted to want anything other than to lie down and sleep. The Arab led her into one of the interior rooms of the huge cave and tied one end of the rope around her neck to the wooden frame of an elevated dirt sleeping platform. He did not speak; he only watched. Cathy collapsed onto the cold floor of the cave, quickly falling into an exhausted sleep. She lay there on the rocky ground, curled up into a fetal position on her side, her arms still tied behind her back, her feet still hobbled by the length of rope, tied like a dog on a leash.
The Arab stood over her, intently staring at the face of the sleeping figure, thoughts of jihad replaced now by thoughts of earthly pleasure. He watched her face for a long time, the earlier anger on her face softened by sleep and the soft light of the lantern on the table. She was beautiful, he thought, far more so that any woman he had ever been with. She was strong as well as beautiful. And proud. Far too strong and too proud for a woman. She was everything he found both attractive and repellant in a woman. He would change that, he vowed. This would be his new jihad. He would make her into the perfect woman, submissive and beautiful. One who lived to serve the man God had placed over her. There were places he knew of , places in Yemen not too far from his homeland, where the old ways were still alive. There slavery was still practiced, as the Prophet, blessed be his name, had said it should be. There, in Yemen, the Law was still pure, unlike the law in his homeland where the Westerners and their Saudi puppets had corrupted it. If he could get her to Yemen, he could enjoy his slave in safety. To keep as a slave a Western woman - a woman who was also an officer of the infidel army as well as captured in battle- would be a deed worthy of his ancestors. And a strong blow for the true faith. And a deed which would win him much praise from those few righteous men with whom he could safely share his achievement. Men like Osama bin Laden, who, the Arab was convinced, was now hiding there in Yemen. Men with whom he could share his stories of jihad. And perhaps even his slave. Yes, to Yemen. There, God willing, he would have the time he needed to train this Cathy to accept her proper place. The thought made him smile. On a personal level, it would be a fitting revenge for the humiliations he had suffered from the whims of an American woman when he had been young and foolish. When he had been in love with the power and vitality of the Americans . Before he had found that there was no place for him there. But, like all women, he knew that she would bring dissension in her wake. He had seen through Kehalis' pitiful attempt at deception. Kehalis wanted the blonde woman for himself, as though an unclean pig like him had any idea of what to do with such a treasure. For him to have Cathy would be a waste of Gods largess. Kehalis merely wished to rut with her; he had no idea of how to truly possess her. To get her, Kehalis will no doubt try to stir up the other men, men of his treacherous blood, to betray him despite the money they would lose by killing him. It was in the nature God had given those fools to see only the prize to be taken today, never the larger prize. They would forget entirely about the money when Kehalis aroused their lust for the infidel woman. But Kehalis would not be able to keep Cathy for himself. Once aroused, the men would all want her and quarrel among themselves over her until all but one of them were killed fighting over her. And then that lone survivor would probably be deceived and killed by the blonde. No, he could not allow that to happen. God willing, he would prevail, using his guile to defeat their numbers.
The Arab leaned down and shook the sleeping woman, arousing her only with difficulty. Cathy instinctively shied away from him as soon as enough of her wits returned to make her aware of who he was and where she was. She tired to raise to her feet to confront him, but the rope tied around her neck prevented that, forcing to remain on her knees in front of the standing man, forced her to stare up at him as he towered over her. With her hands still tied behind her back, there was nothing else she could do. The Arab pulled a jambiya, large curved knife common to Arab lands, from his belt and held it in front of him as he leaned over her. Cathy instinctively braced herself. But, to her surprise, the tall man only reached into the open neck of her flight suit and pulled out her dog tags. He used his knife to cut through the plastic covering and the light metal chain which held it around her neck and then retreated a step and began carefully examining the information found on her two dog tags. Cathy was surprised and a little frightened at the ability of his knife to slice through the chain holding her dog tags like that,. Nevertheless, she sat quietly on her heels, determined not to speak until he did. She studied the man who held her. He appeared Arab to her rather than Afghan or Pakistani. taller than the local men she had seen. His countenance was dark; everything about him was , in fact, dark- his hair, his short beard, his eyes, his skin tone, and the clothing he wore. Seen in other circumstances, she might even have called him handsome in a dangerous way. Seen here, under these circumstances, he appeared very frightening to her. While she was intently studying him, he appeared to be ignoring her, seemingly intent upon reading the scant information- name, rank, religion, blood type- contained on her dog tags. After a moment, he casually pocketed the dog tags as if they were no longer of interest to him and turned his interest to his blonde captive.
" You did not flinch at the sight of my knife. You have courage .. for a woman. Nor did you speak without permission. You have learned your first lesson. That a woman - particularly a female slave- does not question a man.. I am pleased, slave. "
Cathy stiffened noticeably at his use of the word "slave".
" I am not your slave. I am a prisoner of war, and as such I am entitled to be treated as a soldier. NOT AS A SLAVE!. I don't know who you think you are, but you better think twice before you do something you will regret later when you're sitting in an American prison. "
" You are my slave, Cathy. You are no longer a soldier, if you ever were. All that you knew is gone. You are simply my property under the Law to do with as I wish."
" Who the fuck do you think you are? You can't own another human being. There aren't any slaves anymore. They're.... not legal! And I am Captain Harper to you, not "Cathy". A Prisoner of War has the right to be addressed by her rank. You need think about your situation here. They're looking for me now, you know. The American Army. What do you think will happen to you if they find you haven't respected my rights as a POW?"
He did not raise his voice or show any outward signs of anger as he replied, which strangely frightened Cathy more. Instead he spoke slowly and distinctly as one would speak to a very young or particularly slow child.
" The word of God, the Qur'an- what you foreigners call the Koran- tells us that unbelievers captured in battle by the warriors of Islam become slaves. They and all they possess become the property of the chosen Believer. The law is merciful as it is laid down by God, most gracious and most merciful. The law allows such slaves to have their freedom bought back by ransom or by the surrender of the remaining Unbelievers. Or eventually to be manumitted by the Believer whose slave they are, if the slave truly embraces Islam, the one true faith. But I do not see either your President paying for your freedom or surrendering to the Faithful. Nor do I see a Western whore like you surrendering to the truth of Islam and accepting your proper role as a woman. The Law also states that a woman taken by the right hand of a Believer -captured as a result of battle- are slaves. They too can be freed by ransom or accepting the True Faith. But they have another alternative; they can seek freedom through marriage, seek it by becoming a pleasure to their Master. Perhaps that alternative is one you should consider. For you most assuredly are a slave. You are not longer Captain Harper of your Godless army. You are the slave Cathy. Nothing more. And I am your Master. That is how you will address me, as Master. I control everything about your life now. I control whether you live or die, and everything you do - or that is done to you. Every breath you draw is a boon from me. Every necessity you receive, food or water or even being allowed to relieve yourself, is a gift from me, not a right. To receive any of these necessities, you must humbly ask for them from me. And to do so, you must address me as Master. Only that word will find my ear. I am deaf to all others. "
" No, I am a prisoner of war. You cannot make me a slave. This is the 21st century. There is no slavery now. No one can own another human being. Slavery died centuries ago. I am a prisoner of war."
" Your slavery is God's will, Cathy. No mere passage of time can change the will of God. Nor can man forbid what God in his Holy Law, the Shari'a, has permitted. What was his will before is his will now. As the Faithful enslaved your Frankish crusaders and freed the Holy places in the time of the true Caliphate, so today shall the Faithful enslave you and those crusaders like you who fight against the Faith and shall once more cleanse the Holy places. I grow impatient with you, slave. It is God's will. And it is not the place of a woman to question God's will. Do you desire water.. food ..after your journey?
His words made Cathy realize how thirsty she was. And hungry after the long night march. But she still shook her head and replied,
" I will not call you Master! Never! You cannot deny a prisoner of war food and water under the Geneva convention. "
" You are not a prisoner of war. You are a slave. You have no rights. Do you want a drink of water, slave?"
Cathy struggle to control her temper. She knew she should not provoke the man. He was obviously a madman. But she could not bring herself to call him "Master". And she hated the demeaning way he called her "slave". Even his use of "Cathy" made her feel that he was talking to a child rather than a grown woman and an officer in her countys Army.
" Yes, I do. But I will not call you master to get one. I have no master. I am not a slave. I am a prisoner of war, and I demand to be treated as one. Starting with being addressed by my rank."
The dark man simply shrugged and picked up a large water bottle from a crudely built table near the sleeping platform. As Cathy watched, he took a long drink. Then he set the water bottle down just out of her reach on the cave floor and lay down on the sleeping platform above her. In moments, he seemed by his regular breathing to be asleep. Cathy struggle with the rope on her wrists, but could not loosen it in the least. She tried rubbing it against the sharpest thing she could find within her reach, the corner of the platform, but the ropes held. She gave up eventually. She simply sat on the floor, leaning with her back against the platform and her legs out in front of her, her eyes unable to look away from the water bottle. With it right in front of her eyes, but out of her reach, her thirst quickly grew from a discomfort to a torture. The dark man's words confused her. He had shown no interest in learning anything of military value. He had not ask her a single question about her mission or her unit. This ran counter to everything Cathy had been taught to expect if she was taken prisoner. She did not understand what he wanted from her. Or how she was supposed to resist him other than the obvious answer of escape. Between her thirst and the terrible uncertainties running through her mind, she could not get back to sleep, tired as she was. She was still staring at the water bottle hours later when she heard the man begin to stir.
She watched him rise and move to the other sleeping platform against the opposite wall of the room. He appeared to take no notice to the bound American woman. She watched as he opened the small rucksack lying on the platform and took out a piece of the local unleavened bread and ate it, then begin to nibble on some dates. After a few moments, he picked up the water bottle from where he had put it on the floor and took a long swig. Cathy could stand it no longer. Why, she thought, did it matter what she called this man. If she had been captured by members of a real army, She would have had no problem addressing a senior officer of their army as "sir" or by his rank title. How was that different than calling this man by the title "Master"? She told herself that simply saying the word " Master" did not mean she was accepting his dominance over her, only yielding to superior force for the moment, until the opportunity presented itself to escape. She had to have water if she was to survive. And as long as she gave him no information which might endanger American forces, what did it matter what she said? Slowly. Cathy convinced herself that playing along with this madman was the wisest course of action. In reality, the young female officer had over the last few hours made the very basic gut level decision that she wanted to live. From that followed the need to do anything demanded of her by her captor, however repulsive to her. Cathy rationalized that to survive, she would have to give up her pride and humor this madman, though only for the moment, only until she could escape or was rescued. Though she almost choked on the words, she forced them out: