Fear of Beauty

by Susan Froetschel

  As I tossed cracked ones into a container, tears came to my eyes about the wasted work and men who shamed women for helping with the harvest. The visitors were dangerous. My husband would not distract them long with sayings from the Koran.

  A few of our men urged me to return inside, promising to oversee the task. I complied, grateful until I realized that they did not want the visitors to see a woman.

  The sun was but a few hours from rising. My home was dark, only a few embers left in the hearth. Leila’s dark hair gleamed in the low light. I quietly crawled underneath a pile of wool blankets near my sleeping sons.

  Saddiq came in soon and lay with me. My arms and legs ached from the long day of collecting pomegranates, and I could not sleep. Shouts and bursts of laughter still came from Gul’s home as the meeting went on through the night.

  A thought pricked at me. My husband left so often in the middle of the night, and I wondered if he had already met these strangers. Twisting, I lay on my back, and Saddiq wrapped his arms around me. He whispered. Leila was looking around the rooms. She thought I was asleep and came in here. I chased her, and she scolded me.

  I gently shushed him, but held him close. There’s nothing to find, but you did the right thing.

  The boy’s breathing relaxed, but I could not sleep. My back ached. The insides of my fingers were raw from pushing aside tough leaves and pinching stems. But the sensations felt good, reminding me how much effort went into saving the crop. I didn’t mind the strange men’s taunts. A frosty rain might be close, and I shivered.

  Eventually I fell into a troubled sleep, thanking Allah for not making me a man. Men were too worried about control and easily haunted by shame. Women’s quiet resilience goes unnoticed.

  Mama. At dawn, my youngest pulled on my arm. I turned and found that Parsaa had not joined us for sleep. A neat pile of folded blankets were left by the hearth where Leila had slept. Jumping up, I cracked open our door. No voices, only the distant mutter of departing vehicles.

  Closing the door, I leaned against it. I’d have to wait for scraps of information from Mari or my husband. It wasn’t a good sign that the meeting lasted so long into the morning. I worried for Mari, Gul, and Parsaa. I firmly believed that every encounter shaped our personalities, and wondered how these men might influence our village.

  But then, Parsaa would influence them, too.

  Like the other women in the village, Mari rose with the sun and immediately set out with buckets to bring water back to her home. She never had to coax her oldest daughter, Leila, to help, and Mari appreciated that the girl cherished spending time with her mother, away from the younger sisters. Leila knew that she was her mother’s favorite and worked hard to maintain that status.

  The morning was cold, damp, and rather than linger at the stream, the two women hurried home. The other children waited for their meal with their father, grumpy and tired. No one in the family had slept well.

  The stove was hot and waiting; the bread cooked quickly. Gul did not talk, and Mari hurried to set out the morning meal—rice, yogurt, spinach, and lots of warm bread. Finally she commented. Our visitors are gone.

  They’ll be back. Gul was curt, as he glanced toward a small shelf in the corner, at a small plastic box, green and white.

  Mari continued working and didn’t ask questions. Too often, he treated her as if she were one of the children. She had to wait for him to drop hints about what the visit might hold for the village. Likewise, the other women in the village would have to wait for her. Mari had heard enough to know the men resented the Americans and had many ideas for attack. Gul would never admit as much, but he had a habit of presenting his concerns to her, then scoffing at her advice. Somehow her ideas melded with his as soon as he gathered with other village men. He wasn’t the only man in the village to harvest ideas from his wife. Women shaped the village, but only through their men.

  Mari noticed that Gul did the same with Parsaa’s ideas, and she preferred when her husband favored hers.

  Gul moved some bread into his mouth methodically and then spoke. They want us to resist the foreign soldiers.

  But the village has not mixed with the Americans. Mari was puzzled. They left the torch, but we gave nothing in return.

  They will want more. Gul was blunt.

  Maybe they’ll forget, she said.

  But Gul scowled and shook his head, as if the suggestion was ridiculous. Do any of the others in Laashekoh know that Jahangir has been through this area with his shipments?

  Mari shook her head. None of the women know. I would have heard.

  It’s one thing giving them supplies as they travel through this region. But they can’t tell us how to live, what to grow. He shook his head. We can’t let the other villagers know, or they will blame us. He paused and looked at his children.

  Leila spoke up. Why did I have to stay away from Jahangir last night?

  He does not like women who don’t know their place, Gul snapped. Our meeting was for men.

  Mari frowned. She did not like him scolding Leila. The girl worked so hard to help at home and with her sisters. Every year, she took on more responsibilities, and Mari wasn’t sure how she would handle the house without her oldest daughter. Leila was more adult than child, but to say as much would rile Gul. Mari dreaded the thought of Leila marrying a stranger who might not appreciate her. She had often daydreamed about Leila with young Ali, but such a match was no longer possible.

  Allah would provide a good husband and soon, but only if Gul and Mari would stop arguing. Mari smiled to herself. She had planted the idea of Jahangir as a prospect into Gul’s head. She allowed Jahangir a quick glimpse of her daughter, and then kept the girl away. The man could not help but want what was kept away from him.

  Mari asked questions, but Gul looked at the children again and refused to talk. Only after Mari sent the younger girls for more water did he continue. They say they want to give us protection.

  Maybe they know something we don’t, Mari offered eagerly.

  Then they should tell us, her husband snapped. Some protections can attract new enemies. He slammed his fist to the floor. This village is gone the day we cannot protect ourselves. He paused, as his wife delivered more bread and poured boiling water into their cups. Only then did she sit.

  They want us to take photographs of the youngest girls.

  Leila turned her full attention to her father at the comment, and Mari was troubled.

  What? she questioned. We can’t do that.

  He wants the girls to help with some task. He shrugged. He promises the images will be destroyed.

  Mari paused, surprised at how she suddenly liked the idea of keeping a photo of Leila and her other daughters hidden away. Is this for marriage? For Leila?

  No, not Leila, he said, shooting a worried look at his daughter before looking down. The other girls. Jahangir wants girls before they’re ready to marry. More of his foolishness.

  Mari pondered the details. The village was small. At least twenty girls were that age, and Leila was the most stunning. But recently, the girl stood out for her age and not her beauty. Other girls her age had already left the village for marriages. The only other girls near her age in Laashekoh were the new brides.

  Leila stood to examine the box that could capture photographs, her long fingers twisting and poking it. We can take a photograph of me so we can see what it looks like?

  Put that down, her father snapped.

  The Americans do not frighten me, she countered. Neither does Jahangir.

  Do not say that in front of Jahangir, he warned. Ever. Then he ordered Leila outside, to join her siblings in retrieving water. Leila handed the box to Mari, and her husband didn’t talk until the girl closed the door.

  How does this box work? Mari asked.

  The box is of no use to us, he explained. Jahangir gave directions. It works like a gun scope—we capture the images. He took the box from his wife. I can do it, but I don’t want to.

  We
can examine them before handing them over?

  Gul raised his eyebrows. Jahangir is the only one who can see or remove the pictures.

  Mari could tell her husband was displeased, not wanting to participate in a process he didn’t understand. She didn’t understand the need for taking photographs either.

  So they won’t show the images to us, Mari pressed. Her husband, nervous, didn’t answer. If you don’t like it, if you don’t know about this, you should not have taken the box, Mari countered. For the first time, she worried that the family had waited too long to arrange marriage for Leila. She worried about the photographs being used to plan some important marriage—and Leila would miss out.

  How she dreaded a marriage that would take away her helper and friend. During times like this she was thankful the village had no mirrors. Her oldest daughter had a haunting beauty, long, dark waves framing sweet green eyes against skin that was softer than an almond blossom. Mari had last seen a mirror some years ago, and suspected that after bearing children and working years in the fields that she would no longer recognize herself. Though there were some, like Sofi, who still moved like a young girl and gained a certain grace with age.

  But Sofi didn’t know, and it was better that women did not know their beauty.

  Witnessing the slow deterioration of other women, after difficult births and unstopping work, Mari was thankful to avoid reminders of her own aging and decline. Admittedly, it would be painful to watch her beautiful daughter age, too. As far as Mari knew, Leila had never held a mirror, but the child had long ago sensed the admiration she stirred in others.

  The eyes of men were a dangerous mirror.

  We need to know if this has anything to do with a good marriage, Mari insisted, torn between Leila leaving the village or marrying into a powerful family. If this is about marriage, Leila deserves a place. She is beautiful, hardworking, the best this village has to offer.

  Gul nodded slowly, having heard these sentiments repeated many times by his wife. I want Leila to be happy, too.

  Mari nodded and thanked him. Happiness for her depended on Leila’s security and contentment. No one around here is good enough for her. Mari’s fretting had long annoyed her husband, but she didn’t care. Anything repeated enough could take on the aura of truth.

  The man chewed slowly and refused to speak.

  If you take photographs, they would choose Leila, Mari said with confidence. Take one of her. But for what man? She frowned. Others in the village won’t allow photographs of their children. Not if the plan is vague.

  I will take care of it, Gul promised. They’re coming back in a few days. We’ll know more then.

  Part 2

  2-1. Mission tactics can be viewed as freedom of action for the leader to execute his mission in the way he sees fit, rather than being told how to do it. Execution of mission tactics requires initiative, resourcefulness, and imagination.

  —Ranger Handbook

  Read your book; your own self is sufficient as a reckoner against you this day.

  —Koran 17:14

  Chapter 9

  Mita worried about the team’s slow pace in their part of Helmand. She received a daily bulletin that listed cautionary notes and success stories for the district teams. So far her team had multiple visits with villages in their area, but none expressed interest in workshops or demonstrations. In other provinces, villages had filed requests for specialists and advice. One of the teams farther north had found success by convincing a village to set up demonstration projects and hiring Afghans to work as extension agents.

  “What about Laashekoh?” she asked about the only good candidate in the area for such a project. The other villages struggled to farm, and many relied on generosity from Laashekoh. They could learn much from the village closest to the outpost.

  “They pushed those boulders into the path,” Cameron said. “They don’t want people coming in.”

  “That also means that they don’t get visits from roving Taliban, trying to stir up trouble,” Mita countered. She asked Joey about another visit to Laashekoh. It was time to see the village herself.

  He nodded. “We can handle it,” he replied. “The only action we should see there is the pomegranate harvest.” The other team members laughed. “We need to stay visible—send the signal that these village programs are a priority for us,” he continued. “Convince people this outpost is about farming and only farming.”

  “Good,” Mita agreed. “Let’s give Laashekoh another try. And I’ll go along.”

  The meeting broke up and Cameron caught up with Joey outside. “We’ll need extra security for that trip.”

  “Extra?” Joey was surprised. “I don’t anticipate problems.”

  “Not for us,” he said. “But for Mita . . . these villages won’t be comfortable with a woman telling them what to do.”

  Joey frowned. “She wants to observe. A woman could mitigate hard feelings after the last visit. . . .”

  Cameron lifted his eyebrows. “I don’t have good feelings about this. A woman tagging along puts us at risk.”

  “She’s smart. She knows how to dress and will let Habib do the talking.” Unlike some others, Joey thought to himself.

  “If something should happen, I’ll cover her.”

  Joey didn’t like the comments. Ratcheting up the fear could jinx the visit before it began. “Nothing will happen.” His curt reply did nothing to boost his own confidence.

  Joey knew what he had to do, but wouldn’t let Cameron know until the next day. He was tired of hidden agendas and promises of a magic bullet. In the end, the field was not much different than the policymaking offices of Washington—when it came to taking risks or playing it safe, too many people were out to promote their own careers. Helping Afghans was not a priority. Cameron fell into that group. Joey wasn’t sure yet about Mita.

  He had to keep reminding himself that, more often than not, the ambitious could have good ideas, too.

  In the end, Joey believed that the military could make life better for ordinary Afghans without a lot of money and technology. But then he was just a guy who could shoot well, follow tracks, and guide others through rough terrain. Out here his degree in history from the state university seemed irrelevant with so many experts running around.

  So he didn’t rush to give opinions, though he had been in Afghanistan long enough to watch a decade of history unfold. In the fight against the Taliban’s controlling ways, he couldn’t help but notice how others tended to take on those ways. Using control to fight control was a terrible idea.

  Before leaving headquarters later that evening, he left a page from command on his desk—and he counted on Cameron stopping by and reading over the page:

  “Our strategy cannot be focused on seizing terrain or destroying insurgent forces; our objective must be the population. In the struggle to gain the support of the people, every action we take must enable this effort. . . . Gaining their support will require a better understanding of the people’s choices and needs . . . perceptions derive from actions.”

  It was a good reminder. Too often, personal goals interfered with the big picture. Joey was determined not to fall into the same trap.

  Carrying water across our courtyard, my two boys stared at the four visitors. Keep walking and finish our work, I murmured.

  The boys were not alone in staring at a rare group of visitors, particularly the one woman standing with the American soldiers. Our men were surprised, but gracious hosts. Ahmed held out his arm, welcoming the group and guiding them to sets of benches underneath two apricot trees. Parsaa, Gul, and the others sat on pillows arranged on the ground. Mari and Leila stood near their doorway, glaring, making no effort to hide their annoyance about this visit. And that only made an obstinate Gul more gracious.

  Like others, my attention was caught by the small, dark woman. She bore a resemblance to the traders from India who had occasionally passed through Afghanistan villages long ago. I had not seen an Indian in years an
d was surprised to see her with the Americans. I recalled a whispered warning from a cleric long ago: The Americans are tricky about enticing people who belong to other countries. They’re impure, mixing tribes and races.

  The tiny woman didn’t seem to care about working alongside men. Her eyes were alert, and when she spoke, I detected a firm tone, respectful, but still an equal. She was not a woman accustomed to being treated as a servant or a child.

  She dressed to blend with other women in our area, wearing a traditional tombaan and perahaan in dark colors of the earth, modest and loose-fitting, the cloth clean and stiff. Dark hair peeked from a chaadar embroidered with slender willow leaves. Unlike the male soldiers, she carried no obvious weapon. Accepting a pillow, she sat behind her men, folding her hands and leaning forward. The soldiers sat on benches, after handing over a sack of flour and more cooking oil as gifts for the village.

  Two of the Americans carried weapons and put them to the side, to signal trust. Gul, Parsaa, and the others sat in a line behind Ahmed to observe while he spoke. Parsaa tried to hide a smile, knowing that the women of the village were fascinated by the guests, especially the woman. This visit would feed family conversations for days.

  Ahmed snapped his fingers, and several young boys emerged from Mari’s house bearing hot water, mugs, tea, as well as the flat bread and thin slices of dried fruit. The woman’s eyes darted about, admiring the fruit. It wasn’t my imagination. She held it up and closed her eyes for the taste, appreciating the beauty from our orchard.

  The Afghan took charge of the conversation, and as he spoke, the Americans remained disciplined, keeping eye contact with Ahmed. A common complaint about the Americans was that they spoke too quickly, firing off lists of questions without really listening—but not this group. They allowed Ahmed to take the lead. He asked if any others at the base spoke Dari.

  They’re still learning, the Afghan soldier noted. Some are better than others. Our men and the Afghan soldier laughed.