I am sitting up in the cot of the birthing hut. On one side of me is Malati, holding my shoulders in her arm. On her lap is little Honano, who looks at me with terrorized, overly-large eyes. Clara the midwife is here. Old lady Amana is here. Yenata and Amahi and Afeena and Faya and Liva are here. The whole room is packed with women from the village. They're all here for me and, as always, I'm glad they're all here for me. 

But I can see the cold, unrestrained dread etched in all of their faces. No matter how they try to hide it, I can see it there, clear is day. They are a lot more fearful than they are hopeful. Usually the fear and the hope mingle together in equal parts. But they all know that this baby does not have a chance. They all know that my baby does not have a chance. 

Even little Honano knows, as young and as innocent as he is. As innocent as we try to keep him. He still knows. And it's too much for his tiny little heart to carry. It's too much for his tiny heart to carry and yet still he carries it anyways. He carries it because he has to carry it. Because that is the way of our village. That is the way of our lives. 

It shapes everything about our lives. It shapes everything about our development. It shapes everything about our love. 

I'm not going to give birth to this baby. No matter what happens, I'm simply not. Because my baby's not safe. My baby's not safe out here in the outside world where it can get them. My baby is only safe inside me, only safe inside me, only safe inside of me where it can never reach no matter how hard it tries. I have to keep the baby inside of me no matter what my body tells me. No matter what the others tell me. 

My entire body is exhausted and is burning in energy both at the same time. My entire body is focused on the birth. My stomach and back and hips twist and burn with agony. With so much agony. But all this agony doesn't hold even a candle to the agony that I am feeling inside. It doesn't hold a candle to the dread and the worry. And so I don't listen to the agony in my body. I don't listen to it. And no matter how hard it tells me to push, I don't push. 

I don't push. I don't push. I can't push. Not here. Not now. Not like this. I can't inch my dear little baby even an inch away from the protection and sanctuary of my womb. I can't push them even an inch towards the harshness of the world and all the evil that's within it. All the evil forces against which us tiny, tiny, infinitely insignificant people are absolutely powerless. 

I can't summon it. I can't summon the thing which all parents and grandparents and neighbours and friends dread each time there is a new baby in this world. I can't summon it. No matter what. 

And so I clutch Malati's hand so hard that I can feel her bones shift and squeeze underneath me. I squeeze her hand so hard that I'm sure she must be in incredible pain. I squeeze Baira's hand equally hard with my other hand. And I grit my own teeth so hard that it gives me a headache. And I fight against my body. I fight against the contractions coming upon me in waves upon waves upon waves. I fight with everything that I have. 

"You have to push, Stara. You have to push." Clara's words are soft and sad and urgent. But I don't listen to her. I don't listen to her. I don't say anything as I simply don't listen to her, gritting my teeth in determination. 

"Stara," she continues, "You have to push. You have to push. It's the only hope we have. If you don't push, then the baby will die inside of you. The baby will die if you don't push."

"The baby is safe with me," I manage to get out through pants. The baby is safe with me. The baby is safe inside me. I am the only one who can protect the baby. I am the only one who can save the baby. Clara means well, but she can't protect the life I have carried inside myself for so long. She can't protect my child. Amana can't protect my child, Afeena can't protect my child, Amahi can't protect my child. Yenata can't protect my child. Liva can't protect my child. 

Not even Baira, who's been silent this whole time, whose hand has been on my shoulder this whole time, whose other hand has been held in my own, not even she can protect my child. Not even Malati, the other mother of my child, can protect them. It all rests on me. 

"Stara, please," Amana's voice calls out, urgent, "You have to push. You have to give the baby a chance at life."

"No," I cry out, through the pain in my body and the pain in my mind, "the baby will die."

"The baby will die if you don't push," she replies. And I can barely hear her reply. I can barely hear it but I can hear it. But I don't care. I don't care. She's wrong. 

"The baby will die and so will you," Amana continues. "Do you want to die? You can't let yourself die. You can't let yourself die when you have a young child to take care of. When you have a community full of people who love you and who need you."

"I don't care," I reply, panting. I can't let my baby die. I can't let my baby die. I just can't. Everyone else will live without me. Even sweet little Honano, who will be so heartbroken, will live and will have his other mother to care for him, as well as the rest of the village. But this new baby. This new baby who grew inside my body, this new baby will not live.

"Stara," Afeena speaks pressingly, "Stara, we can't lose you. We can't let you die. Everyone needs you. Everyone loves you. Please push." 

I fight against the new wave of contractions, in too much pain to answer. Too focused on fighting my own body to answer. My body is screaming at me the exact things that everyone around me is telling me. But I can't let my body have its way. I just can't. So I fight through the screaming, burning, aching pain. And I scream so loud that my ears hurt. 

"If you love me," I rush our breathlessly when the contractions finally subside, "don't make me push." They have to understand, they have to understand what I'm going through. 

After all, so many of them have had children. So many of them have lost children. So many of them have had their friends and neighbours and family members and community members lose children. They know how it feels. They know the terror. So why are they not on my side? 

"Please, understand," Liva avers to me. "Please understand that you and your baby will die if you don't get the baby out. This is the only chance the both of you have." 

"I can't." I breathe out. 

I can see that baby Honano is crying. This must all be too much for him. It must be way too much. The young kid is only seven. But still, he needs to be here. If this is the last time he sees his baby sibling or me again, he has to be here. He has to spend as much time with us as he can. 

He's not saying anything, even though he's crying. It breaks my heart to see his round eyes filled with tears. Malati is holding on to his chest, and he is leaning back against her, leaning into the comfort and the protection that she provides. I'm glad he has her. I'm glad he has his mother. 

"Stara," Liva presses, "push."

"Stara you have to help us. You have to help your baby. You have to help yourself." Clara's voice is insistent. 

"Stara, think of your other child," Afeena insists. 

"Having the child is the only way to have hope of saving them," Faya asservates. 

"Stara."

"Stara."

"Stara."

"Push."

"Have the child."

"Push."

All the very many voices melt together into one delirious, many-voiced, many-toned unison as my body becomes more and more desperate to pass the baby through. I barely know what's going on around me anymore, I barely know what's going on inside me. All I know is that they're telling me to push, they're all telling me to push. I do not even know who is talking when. All the very many worried, concerned faces blur as the world tilts off its axis and becomes increasingly dizzying. 

Still I focus on fighting my body with everything I have, I focus on fighting my body with everything I am. And that makes me even more delirious than before. All that I can focus on is the pain. All that is real is the pain. All that's inside me is inatinct. Two different instincts pulling me two different ways. Both instincts crying out for me to protect my child. 

The world tilts dangerously far all around me and my mind seems to be swimming. I feel increasingly woozy. But still, still I force myself to fight on. 

Until all at once, everything goes black.