Do You Believe in God?

Make an island unto yourself, make yourself your refuge; there is no other refuge. Make truth your island, make truth your refuge; there is no other refuge.

— Gautama Buddha

Unexpected ... Weather

Chills ran up and down my spine; my soaking wet sweater and my flowing Norma Kamali skirt now clung to my cold, trembling hips and legs. The torrential rain poured and poured; the water dropped on me, then dripped from me. Relentlessly the wind tossed, lashed my face with freezing strands of my own hair. I silently pleaded, No open wounds, please! Already I had six too many scars on my once beautiful face. And squashed inside my fashionable Lauren boots, my numb feet felt like two blocks of ice. That is it! I'll take whatever cab comes along, and God, Goddess, help me.

Just then a VW Bug sailed alongside, "Disponible" (available) on the sign. Automatically my hand waved to the cab. The door opened; I took a deep breath, quickly glanced at the driver through the downpour, than decisively dove inside. His plump brown face looked honest enough as I peeked again. My body collapsed onto the seat, but a sting arose in my belly. Breathlessly I uttered directions to my apartment in Colonia Condesa. He nodded reassuringly. As we drove on, the sharp sensation subsided.

More comfortable, I wondered why I hadn't looked for the fact sheet on the window. Why didn't I check his ID? But I was desperate. Should I ask him now? I debated with myself. Well, it is a little late, and he did look okay. And I am so relieved to be out of that downpour. It was so cozy inside the cab. I switched my thoughts. Remember positive thinking, Mira, I reminded myself — part of my own cognitive retraining. When I get to the apartment, I'll change, get my file and art materials out for my last session with Jose ... I organized my thoughts. Then out for some fun — dinner to celebrate my success. The turnout for my first workshop with Mexican mental health professionals on art and image in psychotherapy had been phenomenal. I had been compensated well over $20,000 pesos, roughly US$2,000. This was the first of many workshops I planned.

At seven o'clock in the morning when I had left the apartment, the weather was nice, brisk and sunny; but it had changed dramatically in the late afternoon and become a stormy eighteenth of October, 1998. I had waited at least half an hour in the arched doorway of Liverpool, an elegant department store, after picking up a new linen suit and stopping for coffee. With my new purchase and my professional portfolio in hand, still perked up by my delicious treat of cappuccino and concha (Mexican puff pastry), I had stood there patiently. Normally, people walked about leisurely; but they were darting about today, struggling with their umbrellas. Polanco, a chic business and residential district of Mexico City, seemed chaotic as the wind raged and water flooded the streets. In spite of it all, including the rumors that this city was the kidnapping capital of the world, I was still enamored with it, and happy to be living there.

But it had been an hour or more since I first stepped out, when I had immediately asked the doorman for a cab. His response, with upraised hands, had been one of futility. "Impossible — llubia." (Rain.) After a while he looked at me again, still waving his hands up in the air. My thought was, You could do better. I trudged over to the curb. I'll flag one down myself. Loaded with my portfolio, my trendy bag, and a wallet stuffed with $20,000 pesos, I had felt empowered — but I was getting tired. It had been a full day, from seven o'clock in the morning to now four o'clock. I had waited and waited as the stream of secured sedan cabs passed, all occupied; only the VW Bugs displayed the Disponible sign. What was preventing me from taking a Volkswagen cab were recent reports that some of these were illegitimate — that the drivers were caught in kidnapping crimes.

Finally my vitality had become sapped, and so had my patience. I needed to get home, get out of the wet clothes, and prepare for my final session. I also looked forward to a short nap, then a nice evening dinner with my good friend, Lorenzo. We had planned to dine at a gourmet vegetarian restaurant, El Bistro. Lorenzo was a graphic designer; he both worked and lived in his spacious apartment, which he generously shared with me. It was a great location in the artsy community of Condesa, only minutes from Polanco, Centro Historico, and all the shops, boutiques, theaters, museums, and yummy restaurants.

"What a relief," I muttered as the cab driver pulled up in front of my apartment building. I paid him, and he reached over and opened the door to let me out. The rain had subsided. I gathered my belongings and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Seconds after my feet touched down, a huge shadow came over me. Three men jumped in front of me, barred me from going farther. They pushed and stuffed me right back inside the cab. Two squeezed themselves in the back with me; the third jumped in the front alongside the driver and commanded him to speed away, yelled out directions. Reflexively my mouth opened, I began to let out a scream, than a large hand slapped over my mouth.

The men snarled at me, "No gritas! No gritas!" (Don't shout!) My eyes searched out through the windows, hoping to catch someone's attention on the street or in another vehicle to signal for help, but my effort was useless. Quickly, two of these swarthy thugs bound my feet and wrists while the third directed the cabbie. Stinking of perfume, the one on my right grabbed me by the throat. His icy fingers and sharp nails dug into my flesh. He pressed so deeply into my neck that he almost choked me. I gagged, couldn't breathe. He saw me struggling for air and slightly released his hold. I took small, imperceptible breaths to keep myself alive — conscious yet frozen with fear.

The cab came to a jolting stop on a deserted street where buildings staggered in various stages of demolition. Creeping along my arms were the two sweaty hands of the thug on my left — he groped and grabbed my body, found jewelry, snatched it off. I moved from side to side, squirmed, and struggled, but then he tightened his hold. Again a scream escaped from my gaping mouth. The burly hood in the front reached back, swung his huge hand over my mouth again, muffled my cry. God, oh Goddess, help me. Senora Guadalupe, ayudame, I silently prayed for help.

Soon I was thoroughly stripped of my jewelery, now in their hands. The probing violation of my body by those huge, sweaty mitts felt depraving, painful, and shameful. I asked myself, Why? What did I do to deserve this? They robbed me of all my precious adornments, including my blessed gold cross that my...