The Angel Medallion

Rating: PG/PG-13 for some violence.

Summary: Rachel Harmon is a Christian relief worker traveling with a team to bring supplies and aid to the people of Iraq. When they are captured by a group of rebel insurgents, facts say that hope is lost.... but sometimes, faith can have surprising results.

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The Angel Medallion

How had I gotten myself into this? What was I doing here?

I was supposed to be with a mission team in Kenya, helping to build a school. Instead, I was in a jeep with another team of three men and one woman, listening to a CD of Christian praise music. We had left our temporary base in Al-Jarrah, Kuwait, at 5:30 that morning, and we were bound for Baghdad, Iraq.

We would be spending the next two weeks in Baghdad, working alongside a squad of US Army medical personnel to bring food and aid to the Iraqi people.

“Come on, Rachel,” Jeff had said a few weeks before, when we had first learned of the brief assignment. “These people need our help. It’s only for two weeks. We won’t be near any fighting, and we’ll have guides with us. We’ll be safe.”

I shook my head incredulously. “I'm twenty-six years old, and I would really like to live to be twenty-seven. I also have a family to think about. I’m not going.” But here I was, in a jeep, with crates containing boxes of food and supplies packed into seemingly every empty space. There was almost no room to move, and my legs were stiff and aching. I longed for a chance to get out of the cramped car.

Our guide was an Iraqi Christian man named Khalid Yussef. His words at the beginning of our journey had sent chills down my spine. “Roads are dangerous places in Iraq. When you are on the road, you are out in the open. It is much harder to hit targets that move, so you must always keep moving. Do you understand? Good. Let’s go.” I wished that I was carrying my husband’s police pistol. Instead, we had boxes of food and medical supplies, our satellite phones, a map, and our Bibles.

I slipped my phone out of the pocket of my traditional long skirt, and sent a hasty text message to my friends and family: “Headed into Iraq. PLEASE pray for safety. Rachel.”

After almost three hours of driving through the vast, empty desert, we passed a sign marking our entrance into the small city of Al-Hillah, two hours south of our destination in Baghdad. As we rounded a bend in the narrow road, a flash of white in the rearview mirror caught my eye. A nondescript, unmarked white van had suddenly pulled in behind our jeep, and was now following us closely. “Hey, Khalid,” I spoke up. “That van wasn’t behind us earlier, and I don’t see any relief ID on it. Could that be a group of our people.... or do you think they’re Fedayeen?”

Kaitlin glanced up. “Fedayeen?”

“Iraqi insurgents,” Khalid and I said in unison. “I cannot tell who they are from this distance,” Khalid answered me, “but I do not want to take a chance.” Our jeep sped forward, rattling and bouncing over potholes and massive ruts in the road. I clung to my seat as the incessant jolting flung me up and down like a rag doll. My head slammed against the roof of the car, bringing tears to my eyes and making me yelp in pain, but I gritted my teeth and didn’t complain.

The van pulled closer to us. “They’re following us,” I commented. Khalid nodded grimly, and sped up again.

This time, the van pulled alongside us. I glanced quickly at its occupants, and froze. “Khalid,” I gasped. “They have AK-47 assault rifles. Only insurgents carry those. These guys are Fedayeen.”

Khalid nodded tensely. “I see them.” He made one last desperate attempt to outrun the Fedayeen van.

It was too late. The van swerved in front of us, blocking our escape route. A chorus of protests rose from all of us as our jeep swerved violently to avoid a collision, sending us all tumbling sideways. We watched as the group of veiled insurgents stepped from their van and surveyed our convoy.

One of the men motioned for the two other cars in our small convoy to move on, but held up his hand and ordered us to stay put. It was impossible to miss the reluctant and horrified expressions of my team members as they cautiously drove away.

“What?” Eric spoke up. “He’s letting everybody else go; why not us?”

Khalid shrugged. “Insurgents have very complicated, twisted minds. Do not waste your time trying to understand their methods.”

I was trembling now. What did these men want? Sometimes, their goal was simply to plunder and steal anything and everything that they possibly could..... but they also frequently took prisoners to use as bargaining chips and propaganda pawns. We had all seen the grisly videos of horrific torture and gruesome executions that Al-Jazeera TV displayed with pride.

Khalid’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. He was terrified. Instantly, with horrifying clarity, I understood why. He was an Iraqi working with Americans; a traitor in the insurgents’ eyes. And traitors were usually brutally executed. I offered up a silent, fervent prayer for his safety—and ours.

Kaitlin eyed the group of insurgents. “What’s Arabic for, ‘Don’t shoot’?” she asked nervously.

“Laa tapar,” I replied with a harsh, bitter laugh.

The Fedayeen leader reached for the door handle and yanked open the driver’s door of our jeep. His face was hidden beneath a black-and-white khaffiyeh veil, and his eyes were all that we could see through a narrow opening in the wrapped cloth. His ink-black eyes glittered with malice as he stared coldly at all of us. “You,” he barked in Arabic, indicating Khalid. “Get up. Come here.” Khalid obeyed without a word. The man nodded to the other Fedayeen. They surrounded us and began to pull us from the jeep.

Kaitlin resisted as one of the men grabbed her arm. “Hey! Ouch!”

“Shut up,” the soldier snarled in English, roughly hauling her out of the car. “Walk.” Biting her lips, Kaitlin stumbled after him. Numb with shock and fear, we stood silently before our captors.

The leader pointed to himself. “I Nasir.” He gestured to us. “What you name?” He was speaking the heavily accented, broken English that was common among the Iraqi people. We muttered our names, being careful to avoid making eye contact with him. He seemed satisfied, and stepped towards me. I flinched, anticipating a slap.....or a gunshot. Instead, he motioned to my skirt. “Empty pockets,” he ordered.

I pulled out a photograph of my husband and young children, my satellite phone, a tiny traveler’s angel medallion, and a mint. “That’s all I have,” I said in Arabic. “No money. Nothing else.”

Nasir gave no indication that he’d heard me. He grabbed the picture of my family and examined it closely. Watching my face for a reaction, he slowly and deliberately tore the photo into several pieces. I gasped slightly and bit my lip, but Nasir’s only answer was a harsh laugh. He thrust the pieces of the torn picture into my hand, pocketed my phone and the angel medallion, and moved on to Jeff.

Silently, I watched the men search everyone else. “What do they want?” Kaitlin whispered out of the corner of her mouth to Khalid.

“Money and valuables,” he answered. “Jewelry, watches, phones....anything that can be sold or traded; anything of any value at all. It will likely be sold on the black market and traded for weapons.” We all grimaced at the thought.

Nasir seemed annoyed that he couldn’t get many valuables from us. He motioned for us to climb into their van. I tried to ignore the stone-faced man that had the barrel of his rifle pressed firmly into my back. It hurt, but I didn’t dare protest. Silently, we all climbed into the van and took seats.

Nasir reached for the volume knob on the radio and turned it up. The music was blaring, and he had made his statement clear: We were at the mercy of his men, completely helpless. We could only sit silently as the van turned and began driving back the way that it had come.

One of the men addressed Jeff, asking him a question that I couldn't hear. “I-I don’t understand....” Jeff stammered. The man slapped him across the face. “Ow!” Jeff exclaimed. “What was that for?” The man’s answer was another slap, this one even harder. “Hey, Rachel? Khalid?” Jeff said quietly through gritted teeth. “Will one of you please translate for me?” I nodded. “Tell these guys that I don’t speak Arabic, and that yelling at me and slapping me is not going to help me understand them.”

I faced Nasir and spoke to him in rapid Arabic. “Laa ata’kallum al-Arabiyya. Ya a’arfish. He doesn’t speak Arabic. He can’t understand you,” I explained.

Nasir smirked. “Ana ma’lesh,” he answered scornfully. He craned his neck to look Jeff in the eye, and spoke directly to him in English. “I....don’t....care.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, wanting to be sure that we understood clearly.

Jeff grimaced. “Thanks for trying, Rachel.” I nodded silently.

The drums from the blaring Arabic music pounded in my ears, and I gritted my teeth. The heat and noise were making me nauseous, and I was quickly developing a splitting headache. I longed for the Advil that I had left behind in our jeep. With a ragged sigh, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

We were far into the desert now. “Where are they taking us?” Kaitlin spoke up. “Mars? We’re on a little road in the Iraqi desert, in the middle of nowhere.”

I sat up just quickly enough to catch a split-second glance of a small sign as we passed it. “We’re in northern Iraq, near Kirkuk. There are checkpoints here, but we’re probably going to avoid them.” I sighed. “We’re going to reach Mosul in a few hours. There are coalition troops there, and a few checkpoints, but Mosul is unofficial insurgent territory. These guys will be home free then....and then they can do whatever they want to us.”

Everyone grew silent and somber as realization dawned. Next to me, I heard Eric whispering, “ ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want....He makes me lie down in green pastures....’”

Grimly, I acknowledged the thought that had been at the back of my mind since the Fedayeen van first stopped us: I might not make it home. Our lives were in the hands of the Fedayeen, and it was their decision whether we lived or died. No.... It was a silent but desperate cry. I don’t want to die like this! Please, God, help us!

The fast-paced upbeat rhythms of the Arabic music were all that could be heard. We hostages were silent; praying and hoping desperately as we grimly watched the vast desert flash by outside the van windows.

“What’s that?” Eric spoke up suddenly, squinting at something on the horizon. “It looks like some sort of building.” We all peered intently at the mysterious structure as our van drew closer to it.

Khalid smiled. “It is an American military checkpoint.” Incredible relief flooded through me, and I whispered a fervent prayer of thanks. The faces of my fellow hostages lit up with new hope, and I heard several quiet exclamations of praise and thanks.

Nasir and the other Fedayeen were arguing loudly in Arabic, and Khalid and I laughed slightly as we listened. Apparently, they had no recollection of this checkpoint being here. According to Nasir’s vehement protests, it hadn’t been here three days ago. I smiled, knowing that it didn’t matter whether the checkpoint had been here previously or not. It was too late to turn back. We would have to keep going.

My smile faded, and my heart skipped a beat as I scanned the interior of the van. “Everybody take cover. Protect as much of your body as you can. There’s probably going to be a gunfight before this is over.” We were rapidly approaching the checkpoint, and I braced myself and prepared to dive for cover.

The US Marine guard standing outside of the checkpoint booth waved to attract attention. Nasir ignored him.

The soldier held up his rifle in warning. “Checkpoint! Stop!” he shouted in broken Arabic.

Nasir ignored him. I closed my eyes briefly. Please, God....

Empty shell casings bounced across the windshield of the van as the Marines fired a volley of warning shots into the air. I pitched forward in my seat as our van stopped abruptly. Before I had time to process what was happening, the enraged Fedayeen shouldered their rifles and returned fire.

Heavy gunfire from both sides was now echoing around us. Surrounded by angry Fedayeen, we cowered on the floor in the back of the van and covered our heads and necks as best we could. Spent bullet casings and shards of broken glass rained down around us.

A sudden sharp pain tore through my shoulder, and I yelped in surprise. What was that? Had I been hit by a stray shot, or a shard of glass? Trembling, I curled into a tighter ball and huddled closer to the floor.

At last, with all ammunition spent, Nasir and the remaining Fedayeen climbed out of the bullet-riddled van with their hands raised in surrender. They were quickly and unceremoniously handcuffed and taken away. I tried not to look at the limp forms that were pulled out of the van along with them.

The Marines had clearly not expected to find five terrified hostages along with the insurgents, and they scrambled to help us out of the van.

I was trembling so violently that my teeth were chattering, and I could barely hold myself upright. Several pairs of hands eased me down into a folding chair.

A team of military medics offered granola bars and water bottles as they treated the cuts and bruises that nearly all of us had received. A blond ponytailed female medic knelt down next to my chair with a first-aid kit. “What did you do, go swimming in the broken glass?” she asked wryly, examining the dozens of small cuts that covered my face and arms. “Do they hurt?” I felt all of them, and they were beginning to throb and sting. I nodded. “We can fix that,” the young woman said cheerfully, gently smoothing ointment onto the worst of the cuts. I smiled gratefully.

Noticing the crimson stain that was spreading rapidly across the shoulder of my shirt, she carefully rolled up my sleeve. “You’ve got quite a nasty-looking gash here on your shoulder,” she said, frowning slightly. “It looks like a bullet graze wound. I’ll have someone take a look at it. For now, let me clean it up a little.”

I gritted my teeth as she gently cleaned the bleeding wound and deftly bandaged my shoulder in gauze and tape. “There. I’m going to see if I can find you an ice pack for those bruises. Would you like anything else?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. Thank you.” She smiled at me, collected her supplies, and stepped away.

Satisfied that we were in somewhat decent condition after our ordeal, the Marines turned their attention to helping us into a Humvee. We would be handed over to another unit, and stay at their base for a short while before boarding an airplane that would take us back to Kuwait, and from there to the United States.

In the pocket of my skirt was a small Bible verse card that I had kept from Nasir. As I settled into the backseat of the Humvee, I pulled the crumpled card out of my pocket and looked at it.

What in the world.....?

My head jerked up, and I stared at the medic that had treated me. She looked exactly like the angel on the front of the card.

I looked at the card, then at the medic, back to the card, and finally back at the medic again. She gave me a small, mysterious smile as she stepped into the walled checkpoint booth.

“Wait!” I called out desperately, but she was out of earshot. Before I could say anything else, our Humvee was pulling away from the checkpoint and into the streets of Kirkuk.

I never did find out that Marine medic’s true identity. Later, we were told that there were no Marines stationed in that area, and that our descriptions of the soldiers did not match those in any military unit.

Whatever the explanation, I know without a doubt that someone was watching out for us that day.

As for exactly who that female Marine was, I’ll let you decide for yourself....

-End-