Behind the greatest of heroes are often a network of people who rarely receive the praise they are due.
Thus, in Spencer Compton’s latest novel, The Saint of Boerum Hill, he explores the life of Theo Lamb, who serves as an NYPD chaplain to officers.
Charged with spiritually and psychologically advising those who protect citizens day in and day out, Theo is often the one looking out for others.
And despite facing routine danger on the job, she is prohibited from carrying a weapon to protect herself, as is the case with chaplains.
On top of all this, Theo is a single mother, haunted by her time overseas deployed in the Afghan war. Each day, Theo tries to leave the past behind—but soon her trauma threatens the stability she’s created in her present life.
And when her meds give way, summoning a voice in her head claiming to be God, Theo will have to do everything in her power to get her life back on track—including confronting the demons she thought she dispelled.
In an intricate blend of thriller and urban crime, explore the flawed, deeply real character of Theo—as she is forced to contemplate her faith, duty, and above all, her purpose.
Read this excerpt from The Saint of Boerum Hill
Orphan has a different meaning in Afghanistan than it does in the United States. Under the Taliban, women are prohibited from working outside the home except in the most menial jobs. Families have many children, and if one parent dies, it’s as if those children were orphaned because the surviving parent can’t possibly earn enough to feed them. In those circumstances, parents struggle to get their kids into orphanages. Sadly, because there is still one living parent, few of these children will ever be adopted.
Every few days, one of our squads passes by the Lassi Orphanage, a few miles off base. This morning, Baby, Eva and I, all helmeted and flak-vested, piggy-back onto Sergeant Lively’s squad. It’s a difficult march through scrub and desert with frequent pauses to check for hostiles. It takes us several hours to reach the orphanage.
As we approach, I can see a battered VW bus waiting outside the main building with its motor running, filled with laughing boys throwing around an empty plastic water bottle. A stern-faced adolescent stands at the vehicle door, arms crossed, refusing to board. The turbaned driver gets out, sweat glistening in his beard, and screams at him in Pashto. The boy whimpers back, pleading. Eyeing us as we come closer, the driver lowers his voice to a hiss and finally forces the child aboard. They drive off in a cloud of dust just as we arrive.
The orphanage’s goggle-glassed matron greets us on her doorstep. “Salam Alaikum, chaplains.” She includes Eva in her welcoming smile.
“Salam, Matron Alakozai. Why are all the boys leaving?” I ask. There are only about a dozen orphans left—all girls. “Where are they going?” She looks at me blankly. “Oh, they’re moving to a better institution. Better for their lessons. And boys like to be together.”
While others stand watch, a few of our soldiers play outside with the Afghan kids, kicking a ball or pushing them on swings. The matron ushers Eva, Baby and me inside the large house that is their parwarishga or foster haven. Her assistants are mostly widows who otherwise might be destitute. We sit cross-legged on the mat floor. They serve us tea off a diesel oil stove which has blackened the walls and leaves a heavy smell. A plate of chocolate shirnee sweets appears. To our surprise, the women take off their hijabs, letting their hair flow free. It’s the most welcome any of us have felt since we arrived in Afghanistan.
I stand and bow to our hostesses who grow quiet. “We hope you will accept this token of friendship from the United States Army,” I begin. Afghans enjoy formal language and ceremonies. I look at Baby and Eva who are quietly sipping their Kahwah. I smile remembering their fierce combat only a few days ago. “These two women have worked hard to raise this money as a donation to your orphanage.” Baby and Eva raise their tea glasses in a toast as I press the envelope stuffed with brightly colored Afghani notes into the matron’s hands. Her eyes grow as wide as her smile.
“Tashakkor! Oh, thank you, misses.” The matron and her assistants begin happily jabbering to one another. She turns back to me and squeezes my arm. “We will use this for our MHM program and to improve our bathroom.”
“MHM?” I ask.
“Menstrual hygiene management,” Eva whispers to me. “It’s a UNICEF sanitation initiative for Afghan girls.” The warmth I feel is not just from the tea and good company. The money we’ve raised will offset a little of the hell on earth that’s an Afghan girl’s daily life.
We promise to return soon. The squad has to return to the base.
Her weapon at the ready, Baby protectively drops a few paces behind Eva and me for the long dusty march back.
“I wonder where that bus was actually taking those boys.” I ask.
“Bacha Bazı,” Eva replies.
“What’s that?”
“We’re supposed to ignore it. It’s a cultural thing. We look the other way.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Eva looks hesitant. “It’s a centuries-old Afghan and Pakistani custom.”
“Ok. And what does Bacha Bazi mean?” I ask.
“Dancing boys.” Eva looks embarrassed. “Afghan women are banned from dancing, so preadolescent boys from poor families serve as…entertainers to important Afghan men, usually warlords. They dress as girls with bells tied to their feet and scarves covering their faces. They dance for their masters…who then take them…for sex. It’s how the boys support their families. Sometimes they’re kidnapped, raped, trafficked and sold as sex slaves. When their beards start growing, they’re no longer desired and they’re released, psychologically damaged, trying to reintegrate into a society that doesn’t want them. There are laws against the practice, but they aren’t enforced.”
“Why not?” I’m feeling sick to my stomach.
“After the US invaded, the mujahideen commanders became governors, ministers, police and military chiefs. They supported Bacha Bazi. They normalized it—practically institutionalized it—and the corrupt Afghan government has done nothing to stop it.”
Sudden rapid gunfire. A sniper attack. Baby pulls Eva and me to the ground and leads us crawling to a broken wall where we take cover. My heart clatters in my chest. My hands are scratched and bleeding. Stone fragments from bullet hits rain down on our heads.
Please God, not today, I think. Facing death melts every agnostic’s conviction.
Sergeant Lively spots movement and points, “Up on the rise!” More gunfire—ours—then a scream. Two bearded Taliban fighters scramble away, but a third lies motionless. Baby and I follow the squad to where the man is alive but bleeding from a shoulder wound.
Lively holds his medic back. “Wait! He’s wearing a vest.”
“Shoot him,” someone shouts. A Taliban wearing a suicide vest is often just shot at until his vest explodes.
“No,” I blurt. The bearded man is waving his good arm, pointing at the trigger mechanism laying at his side. “He dropped the igniter. Just slide the vest off.”
“You want to do that?” Lively sneers.
“Ok.” I take a step forward. Baby tries to stop me, but I push past her. “No, sergeant. This is on me.” I approach the prisoner and drop to one knee, looking into his pleading eyes.
“Yarhamuk Allah,” I say. He nods back. He smells of saffron and sweat. As I reach for the top of his suicide vest, he grabs my arm tightly and a smile crawls across his face as if to say, I’m taking you with me.
The thing about hand-to-hand combat, if you’re taught it right, is instinct. Without thinking, I ram my free hand into his groin, grab and twist. He gasps but I keep twisting. He lets go my arm and I quickly peel the vest off his shoulders, then throw it over the rise. Someone shoots at it until it explodes harmlessly into the hillside.
“There’s no medal for saving the life of an enemy combatant, padre,” Sergeant Lively points out as we head back to base. “He might’ve preferred death to life in Gitmo.”
“Every human has a soul, sergeant.”
Lively nods reluctantly.
Baby and Eva give me a thumbs up.
But all I can think about is the boy who didn’t want to get on that bus.
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