The Journalist

Part 24: Opening the Closed Window

It had been half an hour after I had sent her comment reply, but I had not received any reply from her yet. I started to think, did she just not believe me when I said a woman?

I reopened his blog post of no more than ten posts in three years. I think it's natural that it's not easy to write in a war atmosphere. I opened a post that caught my attention this afternoon. Yes, a post embedded a photo of the desert. I tried to translate the title first.

"Finding Oase in the Desert" was the title I translated. At first glance, there is nothing interesting about the title. However, I still want to read the contents. Of course because his theme of the Desert blew my memory of that unforgettable event. Unfortunately, the results of the internet machine translation instead display chaotic and unclear language. However, I can understand if the 'Oase' referred to in the writing was referring to someone.

It doesn't feel like two hours have passed. I rolled around in the tent while waiting for her comment. I skipped dinner, refused to gather with the other reporters, not even to meet Yuna just to wait for the woman's e-mail reply.

Suddenly I remembered my purpose in coming to this place. I immediately exited the tent, treading the barren land leading to the international aid tent that always stood at the very end and a little away from the hustle and bustle of the refugee tent.

There were about fifteen minutes I was monitoring the tent while spending cigarettes between my fingers. There was no suspicious activity like in the camp I visited a few days ago. However, what is confusing is that the international aid tent is very quiet, not a single refugee comes as if they do not need anything. This is certainly very contradictory to the incident this morning, where the refugees are willing to jostle for the sake of scrambling for help from volunteers who come.

I decided to go back to the tent in the hope that he would reply to my comment. However, looking at Yuna who was outside the tent, made me decide to approach her.

"Doctor Sakurai, is he your lover you told us about?" said one of his friends who saw me walking towards them.

Yuna turned. A carefree smile from her lips became my welcome. He pulled my arm, asked to see medical friends.

"Hello ...." I greeted them formally.

I could hear the nurses whispering to each other inside the tent. "He was no less handsome than that soldier. If it's like this, it's appropriate that Sakurai's doctor would prefer it. You guys are a good couple."

"I thought the soldier was Sakurai's doctor's girlfriend because the man visited him more often and delivered food" said one of them in a louder tone.

"Ssttt ... keep your voice down!"

Yuna immediately pulled me away from them. Actually, I'm not bothered by their words. The soldier they were referring to was definitely Yoshizawa. I thought, it was already a duty and a mandate that the Commander gave him to look after Yuna. In addition, soldiers and doctors are always in the same field. In contrast to journalists who are busy traveling from one place to another to look for news material.

I returned to the tent after eating instant noodles together with Yuna in one container. I can't wait to open my laptop to check my comments. Right, he replied to my comment and immediately gave his e-mail. I copied his e-mail and started saying hello.

"Hi, can we make friends? You can tell me anything. I'll be a good listener for you. Don't worry, I'm a sympathizer for the victims of war in your country."

It didn't take long for him to reply. Instead of accepting a friend's invitation, he wrote a question as if he suspected me.

"Is your name really Khairunnisa?"

"Yes, is there anything strange?"

"Yes, because here the nickname for the woman named Khairunnisa is Nisa, not Khai."

My eyes suddenly opened. I scratched my head while typing again. "Yes, I am also called Nisa. Khai is my pen name. How're you? May I know your name?"

He didn't pay it back. Even after ten minutes have passed. It makes me think he's suspicious of me? To make her believe, I sent her a picture of Yuna wearing the Ameena veil I photographed this afternoon.

"It's me" I said as a photo caption.

"Yuna, sorry, I was forced to borrow your identity." My heart murmured a little.

About five minutes later he just returned my message. "You don't look like a Syrian. Your writing is also very formal and a little ambiguous. Are you a doctor?"

I laughed because he was so blatant. It was only natural that he could guess. Especially the picture of Yuna I sent wearing a doctor's suit.

"Yes, I'm a cross-border doctor assigned to this country. I'm from ...." I paused for a moment, I thought it was a little strange to say from Japan while my name did not reflect the identity of the country. "Originally from Indonesia" I continued typing.

He returned my message. "Oh, I see, it's only fitting that you can photograph the girl in the refugee camp."

"It's a good thing you're a foreigner, so even if your writing is hard enough in opinion, it'll be safe. As a woman, you can also be free to achieve the right to life" she said.

Her comment reply paved my way to start wondering at her.

"What's really going on? Can you tell me? I'm interested in knowing more." I tried to dig deeper.

"I can't tell you. If I get caught, maybe I could go to jail on espionage charges. Aren't you a doctor? Check their psychic too!"

I dare not force it. However, since that night we often reply to messages and exchange experiences. I make him believe and believe that I am a good friend to tell stories, exchange ideas, or complain.

I communicated with him using the Arabic translation of the internet machine. Although this was quite troublesome, but I enjoyed our meaningful chat times this. I try to respect his privacy by not asking or discussing unnecessary things. A few days after our friendship became more intense, he finally opened up to me more.

She introduced herself as Zaheera, a graduate of Al-Azhar University in Cairo. I don't know if it's his real name or just a pen name. However, he said he liked the name because it had the meaning of "a plant that had grown" which became his hope for the country after the war was over.

She also claimed to be a women's and children's protection activist, although she only joined a month after nearly being killed in a bomb attack. It's a fortune to me, because I really got the right friend and resource person.

He also provided astonishing and heartbreaking information that the media had never revealed. Apparently, women in this country often get sexual exploitation and violence. Many incidents of arrest, mass imprisonment, to rape. Their rights have been stripped of the various parties who played a role in this war.

Even more sad, violence and abuse is also common in refugee environments. Women in refugee camps often get exploitation for men who supply international aid. For the sake of getting the aid, the price the refugees have to pay is their own bodies. No wonder, if the shelter I visited last, chose to go to the reception center of assistance from the United Nations for fear of being considered to give their bodies.

"This is a heinous form of crime. Why don't they just make a report?" I don't think it out.

"Where do you report? If the place that was supposed to give us protection turns out to be part of the culprit. This is what made me choose to be a female activist. Unfortunately, I can't help all the women in my country with my own hands. I don't have the power and courage to reveal all this either" she said. I can feel the emotion in every word that is written.

"I know how to stop this savagery!" I said.

"How is it?"

"This crime must be exposed by borrowing the hands of the media! Take it easy, my friend is a journalist who also works here. I'll ask him to take this to the media. Just so you believe me, I'll be a supporter of your cause."

"Is your friend really a journalist?" tanyakanya.

"Yes. I'm gonna ask him to help us uncover all of this. But, of course we have to help him find evidence as a reinforcement of the news that will be released later."

"What is your friend's nationality?"

My forehead spontaneously frowned when he questioned the nationality of a journalist.

"He has the same nationality as me. Is there a problem with that?"

"Do you know any of the Japanese journalists?"

The reply to the message made my eyes widen instantly. Even my hands were paralyzed moving for a moment. Why would he suddenly question a Japanese journalist?

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Actually I want to give you the author's notes in this chapter, but ajar aja really busy, gays. 😂