For Nancy


A Year of Silence:  27 February 2025 - 27 February 2026

The last time I saw her she looked like a baby swallow being swallowed up by the darkness of the night walking toward whatever darkness awaited her. Slightly built, wearing her hijab, she followed her father back into the home.  Unarmed with anything but her charm - that which God allows for the protection of the female species - she was no match for the hatred against my faith. It was a hatred which was felt in greater manner than it was spoken, in that moment of time.  A friendship with the family which spanned 12 years was breached by hatred because of a simple act:  an adult daughter was engaged in volunteer activities at my church.

On the threshold of life, she disappeared into the unknown on 27 February 2025.  She had courage.  She called me to let me know she could not have any contact with me. I was the Christian enemy.  I told her that I loved her.  To never forget that she was an American woman.  I had made her in my image over the prior five years because I taught her the meaning of liberty.  My final words to her included, "Remember that you are an American woman. You are free."

Tonight, I am left with an archipelago of emotions; the unfamiliar territory of my psyche which I did not even know existed.  What happened to my friend?  Was she windmilled to the floor, crouched like a quadruped?  Or like my night dream, had there been a cord placed around her neck  and was she stuffed into an old appliance?   I later found a Facebook page with her name.  The image?  Old, disused laundry appliances in Africa. I shuddered.

Is she alive? Or I am just the crazed woman in need a good round medication?  I doubt it. Regardless, what is the panacea, the medication for grief?  Apparently, it does not exist. Because grief creates a unique form of "craziness".

My journey has had elements which are incomprehensible.  Texts from a cell number which is not her own. Gas lighting e mails. Promises to see me. Promises to do volunteer work again. A short e mail requesting that I meet her at a location with no specific time given for the meeting.  This was an invitation to a garage sale.  She knows I hate garage sales and I never took her to a garage sale. Here is the attachment.  Gas-lighting cruelty.


Each time she promised to see me, the response was simple enough.  "Present yourself on my doorstep".  I needed proof of life. There is none.  It has been  a year of silence and a year since I have heard her voice and lilting laughter.

Different e mail addresses made an appearance, one used just one time.  And then, no further communication.  Early on, her name was erased from the home address.  She was no longer a daughter... a sister... a cousin. Everyone else was still under the (digital) roof. But it is like she no longer existed. Other unusual digital footprints made an appearance after she was forced from my vehicle. She is a nanny.  She is still studying at the university. Watch her study!   And then - the Facebook page completely disappears.  But not before a mosaic of images appeared:  bloodshot eyes, sad eyes spilling tears.  And then - the frightening entries on her Instagram account with ayat about Hell and the people who rejected the faith and deserved to be in hell. Were these posts written by her accuser?

My journey has been laden with emotional cruelty.

Unlike the disappearance of Nancy Guthrie, there is no ring cam footage. No ransom note demanding BitCoin.  I have not given interviews begging for her return. This situation has complexities the journalist cannot share.  But.... 

I know that they know that I know.  I know she is gone. The lies persist. Like Nancy, she is "Status Unknown".  In my case, I cannot truly declare her missing.  Might she just be missing from my life?

So for Nancy... and for this emotional journey in which I have stood apart-but-close to Nancy's family with my own prayers.  I know.  I deeply understand and I know how to pray.

So for Nancy  - with an acknowledgement of my own re-opened wound, because wounds of this depth cannot be grafted; they merely continue to seep.  There is no healing; only desolation.  And a smile hides a broken heart.  It is an unusual choice for a mask.

So for Nancy - because survivors slowly learn to cope because others recoil if we share our story.  They do not want to be reminded - certainly not of the vulnerability of women.  And we must not discuss the vulnerability of Muslim women. 

So for Nancy - because soon enough it will not matter whether she existed or not. We spin on the axis of our own lives, don't we?  Nancy, and each one represented by Nancy is just a passing mist.

So for Nancy... for Madad... and for every female form which has graced our planet who is now "Status Unknown" -  I understand the devastating opacity which is attached to each unique setting when a woman or a girl goes missing.

The last thing I saw of Madad was her back, wearing her hijab, following her father down the sidewalk back into her home.  Something in me died when she was taken.   Something has also died in Savannah Guthrie.  I can see it in her eyes.  These things claw away a chunk of the soul.

Something died in me but a Survivor's Syndrome emerged.  The journalist asks, "Why"?   Why did I not get out of the vehicle when she was forced out?  Why did I not challenge him to hit me, take his best shot at me?  Black my eyes. Choke the life out of me.  It might have been preferable.

I cannot bring Madad back.  Nancy - will also  not be coming home.








 



https://thelastenglishprince.wordpress.com/2025/04/13/status-unknown/

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