Employing Empowerment Part Two

"This...is impressive Simone."

So said Ayaan Hirsi Ali on first glimpsing Camp Can Do from the air. We were circling the grounds in my Sikorsky S 76 helicopter, piloted by my good friend Hank Grimsby. Hank had just returned from a stint in Afghanistan, and I was delighted to have him back. Even when flying first class , airport security is such that the whole experience too often turns into a nightmare of poking and probing through my stuff, and I have already lost one Cartier watch and a Givenchy leather belt that somehow disappeared during the examination process. Staff at these check points appear to be all from deepest India, and any complaint immediately results in a charge of racism. A pox on them all.

I lease a Lear jet, but don't really trust anyone other than Hank to fly it. So welcome back Hank, and goodbye to all those airport personnel overly afflicted with office. He is also, as you may have gathered, familiar with helicopters. I should mention that after Black Hawks, he considers the Sikorsky a bit of a toy, but the machine can carry 14 people and reach 200 mph. Suits my needs perfectly.

We landed, and Ms Hirsi Ali -- whom I just call Ali -- stared about her, taking in the main building, several smaller structures, the lake at the front and the oval race track running around the water's edge. The exact location must remain a mystery (for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that five of these women are, or were, Muslims, and face a death sentence for wanting to be human beings.) Allah the Merciful again. The others have fled abusive relationships, having realized that court restraining orders weren't worth the paper they're printed on. Suffice it to say that the location involves an investment in a cranberry enterprise run by a First Nations Reserve, a generous leasing price, and a first class scholarship program. The BCR (Band Council Resolution) passed with lightning speed.

At this moment the front door of the main building opened, and 10 women of various ages and sizes emerged. Two were Somalis, who immediately recognized Ali, and were soon rabbiting on in their incomprehensible (to me) language. The others clamored to show me what they had learned.

A third figure emerged from the main house -- the instructor. This was a gentleman by the name of Judd Banger. I had encountered Judd some years before, when he was a leader of the New York branch of the Hell's Angels. We had a difference of opinion. This was resolved at the expense of a broken leg (his) and a bloody nose (mine). Thus we became friends. I presented certain options, one was accepted, and here he was, guiding very timid women into controlling very powerful Harley-Davidsons and doing something useful with his life.

Ali broke free from her Somali compatriots, and as the women went off to get their machines, Ali stated that she had never seen such confidence. "And this from a culture" she continued, "that won't even let the men watch the Soccer World Cup. They have to study Qu'ran. Ridiculous."

I replied, "That's not a Somali thing, Ali, but the religious maniacs in Al Shabaab. This you know."

She nodded ruefully, and then was startled by the roar of five Harleys entering the oval, with two riders on each. The five sped up, and began to circle the track, expertly leaning against the torque of the curves.

"Took some time," said Judd gruffly. "Took some time. Especially the taking apart and re-assembling. But in the end -- well, just watch this."

The cycles, now at full bore, began to weave in an out, and incredibly began to do wheelies.

Ali just stared in amazement.

"And Ali," I said, "do you think that a woman who can control that sort of power is ever going to be put down again? I think not."

"But there are so many --"

"TTT, Ali. Things take time."

Ali was silent for a time, watching the cycles weave and swerve. Then she touched my blouse.

"Simone, do you think..."

"Do I think what?"

"Do you think I could ride one? Just for a bit."

I was caught unawares by the request. Judd wasn't, and asked Ali to come with him. Shortly after, there was Ayaan Hirsi Ali herself, helmeted, clutching Judd for dear life, yet with shining eyes and laughter that rang right round the oval.

Occasionally, you win one.