Any other suggestion would strain relationships in our village, and that was an inconvenience for Parsaa and other men.
My curiosity about what the men did at night should have waned after a few days. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or trust since Ali’s death, but my need to know strengthened with every passing day.
Why didn’t Parsaa tell me more? I had understood him taking off during the nights soon after Ali’s death. But why did Gul slip away, too? Men kept too many secrets, and women didn’t have a clue until fighting broke out.
I did not want to lose another son. But there was no use asking Parsaa questions that he’d refuse to answer. So I took to listening for men stepping away from the village late at night. Every night I put the children to bed and waited, listening and ready to follow. Parsaa left before the children went to sleep. After the evening meal, he sat outside, drinking tea with the other men for a short while until they drifted off to their homes. Then he vanished, and for all I knew, the others assumed he was at home in his bed.
I couldn’t risk getting caught.
Over the next few nights, I waited for the children to fall asleep, and then slipped from the room and donned my darkest clothes. I went to our bench and waited. For three nights, the village was quiet. On the fourth night, a door opened and the sound of quiet footsteps came from Gul’s home.
The sky was overcast, and the only sounds were rustling leaves and furtive footsteps. I wore a pair of Ali’s shoes that I had saved for the younger boys. They fit well and would help on rocky terrain. Waiting until the sound of the walker faded, I hurried around the corner and watched Gul head for a small trail toward the river—the opposite direction from where Ali had died. It was tempting to use that as an excuse to return home. But curiosity pushed me on, and I kept a safe distance, focusing every thought and motion on not getting caught.
Once away from the compound, Gul picked up the pace as he moved downhill.
After heading away from our gate, I glanced up and down the path, checking for followers. But the village was a silent refuge. Before I became afraid and changed my mind, I darted off, staying close to trees and brush.
The biggest risk for getting caught was near or inside our compound. I tried to think of excuses for why I walked outside our compound in the middle of the night—with no gun, escort, bundle, or reason to leave. Gul or other men could always claim to be hunting, relieving themselves, or checking on intruders, but such excuses were not available for women.
If caught, I worried about putting my family in danger. People had left me alone since Ali had died and didn’t ask questions. But wandering around the countryside on my own went beyond eccentricity. It was unforgivable.
Several days earlier, I had left a water bucket hidden in the bushes along the way to the stream. If caught near the compound, I was prepared to explain we needed water and that I had to retrieve our forgotten bucket. Not the best excuse, but it would have to do. And a bucket wouldn’t help if Gul caught me far from the compound and stream. All I could claim was that I got lost, very lost. Then I’d force tears and feign relief at being found.
I hurried after Gul, pausing only occasionally to check his direction. I knew these trails well, better than most women, and that helped in the darkness. Gradually, the distance between us spread. Hearing the thuds and crunching sounds of his feet hitting rocks was unnerving, and the silence was awful, too. He could easily lie in wait to trick and catch a follower.
Once our village was out of sight, a light suddenly flashed on ahead, swinging back and forth—the torch provided by the Americans.
Light that sped his way also made him easy to follow.
Gul went farther than I had expected, but he was easier to follow than Parsaa would have been. Maybe the two took turns meeting Jahangir. I was suspicious of secret business our village might have with Jahangir and his men who called themselves students of Allah, endless travelers who talked more than worked, relying on an ability to wheedle supplies from villages and get their way.
A sheep wailed nearby, and that gave me an idea for another excuse. I could claim to be worried about a lost sheep, one who was pregnant. If need be, my son would find the sheep in question, and use a knife on the top inner fold of her thigh. My mother often said women’s secrets brought suffering to other women.
Before long, I tripped over a root—and fell with hands out and a hard thump. Stones scattered and slid down the hill with a noisy clatter. My palm was scraped and both wrists were sore, but I forced myself to roll into the grass and remain still, holding my breath, listening for Gul to turn around and confront his follower.
I stretched out to check on the location of Gul’s light, and panicked when I didn’t see it.
Then my eyes caught the moving speck of light bobbing ahead. His pace was brisk, and he was far ahead, so the light flickered on and off with every curve of the trail.
When the light was no longer in sight, I moved on, pausing regularly, making sure there was no sound or movement ahead or behind me. He took a trail that led to a mountain pass not far from our village, and I didn’t worry about losing him. The bigger worry for me was running into one of Jahangir’s men.
Beyond the pass, well out of sight of our village or the American outpost, Gul’s light merged with a large campfire and vanished. Moving deliberately, I kept my breath in check, grateful about not carrying a pack.
Staying off the path, edging my way in the darkness, I approached close enough to hide behind a boulder and overhear the conversation. A large wagon was nearby, and the night was dark. Still, I had an excellent view of the clearing and the silhouettes of two men standing near the fire and warming their hands. Crouching to the ground, I took a deep breath and pointed my head downward, hardly believing that I was so far from my bed and family.
It’s not easy to leave a home and small village in the middle of the night, Gul snapped. We don’t need questions.
Train your wife not to ask so many questions, Jahangir taunted.
My wife has nothing to do with this. We need to worry about questions from others. How many do you need?
Jahangir mumbled, and Gul exclaimed, Eight! Where are they from?
From the north—Ghōr. But why do you care?
The only reason I have a part in this business is to help the poorest families. Gul spoke with lofty sternness. Ghōr is in a terrible way . . .
But not Herat or Laashekoh? Jahangir countered. Rest assured, we help the poorest of families, and they are grateful to be rid of the responsibility. Gul waved his hand, insisting that he had no need for details. Come with me, you can inspect them yourself.
Jahangir tossed the contents of a cup into the fire, and smoke soared. Gul backed away. That’s not necessary. No one needs to know about my involvement.
Jahangir laughed. You can thank me for that. No one in your village suspects a thing after I struck you. Gul mumbled a protest. You are too fond of secrets, my friend. Of course, you’re here to help the children—not for the money that passes your way. He laughed again. Don’t worry—if they behave, the best could go to the richest families in Pakistan.
I shivered at his use of the words children and money, how his silky voice soothed Mari’s husband before tightening into a tricky cord that strangled reason and left only shame. This business was evil, and I had to think about my own exit—not fear about capture and what either man might do. Gul was a fool. Jahangir terrified me, and I prayed that Parsaa and Ali had nothing to do with such evil.
A whimpering sound came from the wagon. Help us! called a child, far too young to be alone with any man not a parent or an uncle. We are thirsty.
The two men turned to look in my direction. I cringed, not knowing if the girl cried out to me or Gul, and flattened myself to the ground.
Gul pointed to the pack. I brought supplies for the children.
You would give her water? Be her servant? That’s not how to teach children control.
Pressing my face into the gr
ass, I refused to look up as one of them stepped beyond the circle of firelight and approached the wagon, standing but a few meters away. Jahangir’s slippery male voice taunted the child. We protect you from the Americans, and that’s the thanks you give? Ask again, and you will wait that much longer.
More than one child sobbed, yet my fear won out over compassion. Sliding backward, flattened to the ground, I hoped the sharper eyes of children had not spotted me, expecting rescue. My stomach was sick. Heartless thugs could act as though they had nothing to hide while I crawled away like an insect.
Jahangir strode away from a rickety wagon, surrounded by crates and blankets haphazardly strewn about the ground. I didn’t know the number of children, but realized the men were transporting them, hiding them amid crates covered by tarps. What must be hidden must be wrong, I thought to myself. As Jahangir laughed at the crying children, I remembered Ali’s still body. Gratitude replaced my fear. There were worse fates for children than death. Shaking my head, I begged for forgiveness from Allah.
There’s no reason to mistreat the children, Gul nagged.
Jahangir stepped through the darkness to the wagon—close enough that I could hear his heavy breathing—and he dragged a child away, shoving the boy at Gul’s feet. The child’s hands were tied. Let’s see how you discipline them.
Gul turned his head and pulled his scarf to cover more of his face.
You promised to help these children, Gul accused.
We are, Jahangir promised. We have parents pleading for our help.
So many children . . ., Gul murmured.
Jahangir shrugged. Families cannot afford to feed their children. He lifted the boy back into the wagon and returned to the fire, where they spoke about logistics. Gul asked him about the next trip and the fighting to the north, adding, Our village is in no mood for fighting.
The fighting will come your way.
We can outlast the Americans.
There was a long silence. I pressed my face against the cold ground, looking away from the camp.
Your village could do more, but you’d rather leave the fight to the parents of these children?
The Americans have not lifted a finger against us. I’m helping you with these transports. Others in Laashekoh would be less accommodating.
So you admit you have no control over this village? Jahangir scoffed. Do not talk about these matters with others. I will handle that.
I had heard enough. Their bickering would cover any noise of my backing away, and time was running out. Keeping my eyes on them, making sure their heads did not turn my way, I crawled backward until the fire was a distant glow, taking time with every move.
I remembered how Gul had outpaced me earlier, and I couldn’t take a chance that he might catch up, especially in the fields just outside our village gate. Once the fire was no longer in sight, I took off running, aiming for a hiding place among the brush overlooking the path. Clutching roots, I climbed toward my perch. Pulling my scarf over my eyes and wrapping my arms tight around my knees to keep still, I waited for Gul to pass.
Alone in the darkness, I tried to imagine what would compel me to turn my children over to the likes of Jahangir. He was only transporting them, I tried to tell myself. He claimed to have their parents’ approval. That didn’t keep guilt from stabbing at my heart.
A light eventually came bouncing along, and I held my breath as Gul passed, so close he could have stretched out an arm and touched me.
In seconds, he was gone, yet I waited to make sure no one followed him. After Gul’s light was no longer visible and a long silence passed, I climbed down the slope and continued on the trail.
Walking away from horror wasn’t so easy. Every step away said Kharaab, kharaab, kharaab to me. Wrong, wrong, wrong, to leave the children behind, to worry the little ones had spotted me, to allow evil to win over courage.
My logical side responded. If I had spoken out, Jahangir could have easily cut my throat and hidden the body. Parsaa would have never known. And accusing Jahangir in the village wasn’t an option. No one would believe a woman.
I could tell Parsaa, but I no longer trusted him after he failed to press for the reasons behind Ali’s death.
Shaking my head, I tried to focus on remaining quiet. From the river valley, along the last stretch, I could make out the rooftops of our village along the mountainside. Near the gate, Gul’s light was extinguished. Cautious, I did not hurry to my home and instead went off-trail, heading for a small stream and collapsing near the bucket I had left behind. The urge to check my children was strong, but I dared not risk letting anyone see me slinking into the compound just before sunrise, close on Gul’s heels.
Avoiding Mari was essential. She’d never stop pressing for a reason, and there was no acceptable explanation—either I suspected her husband of wrongdoing or I was trying to lure him away. She wouldn’t accept coincidence and would seek vengeance.
Shivering and sad, I leaned my head against a tree and waited for sunrise, wishing that the stream’s song could erase a child’s cry from my head.
Chapter 11
Jahangir and two other men, on horseback, stormed through the compound gate.
The older children gathered to hold and watch the horses, while younger ones kept their distance. The poor animals gasped for breath, lifting and lowering their heads, desperate for water. Unlike the others, our family did not gawk. My sons ran to search for their father while I hurried to my stove, annoyed about the interruption.
Grabbing a clay pot, I angrily chopped carrots and cabbage, as Leila called softly from the rear entryway and then slipped inside.
What do you think of these men? she asked.
We do not need more men telling us what to do, I snapped.
They said there’s fighting to the north. They need a place to stay for a few days.
She knew about these plans before the men had arrived, but I didn’t comment. Maybe Parsaa did not tell his wife as much as Gul told his daughter. Fuming, I turned away from her to select potatoes from a basket. Then I snatched another knife and handed it to Leila with an onion. Work as you talk. Who will they stay with?
It hasn’t been decided. She kept her eyes on the vegetable. It’s only for a few days.
I hope they do not bring the fighting here. I chopped furiously. They resent the women because we resent their fighting. I checked her work, but noticed the pieces were mismatched and would not cook evenly. Her hands were shaking, and I took pity on her.
Your father is kind to them, I continued. Even though they have odd ideas about how this village should behave.
They will be busy, and come and go.
We can’t work the fields that way. We’ll go hungry.
Auntie, you’d never let us go hungry. Ali said that you work magic in the fields.
It hurt to hear my son’s name mentioned so casually. Tears stung my eyes, and I put the knife down to check my other sons. My response was harsh. There’s no magic. If I knew of any, he’d be standing here.
More than once, villagers have asked my husband to be a prayer leader and he declined. But he knows the Koran better than any of us, others admonished. Parsaa shook his head, explaining he had more to learn. He was a hard worker, motivating others to do the same. He categorized verses from the Koran, ready to use any that suited his arguments.
The Koran backed every decision we made, and Parsaa was skilled at using the good book’s verses to get his way. I wondered if the reason he studied the book so closely was to understand the unanswered mysteries: Does a lack of sustenance and favors in this world reveal Allah’s displeasure? Which sins are forgivable? Do believers have choices? How does one guard against evil, and can individuals determine the essence of evil on their own?
The emphasis of a word or phrase over another created dilemmas for alert students. My husband often repeated the phrase “I do not control you for evil or good.” A statement, simple on the surface, does not clarify whether he cannot control us at all�
�or whether he controls us for other purposes.
The Koran repeatedly cautions against “evil,” but the emphasis is on guarding against it, joining against it, and not repelling, forbidding, or fighting it. Some may blame their evil acts on the jinn and evil spirits. Yet in the Koran and our village, the evildoers are in control, often more intent than those who believe.
I cannot shed my guilt after witnessing Jahangir with the children and walking away. One would think that people could readily agree on the worst evils and how to avoid them. Yet as Parsaa could wrap the Koran’s verses to justify any opinion, others were equally skilled at twisting reasons and shedding responsibility. Before Ali’s death, I had always agreed with Parsaa’s interpretations, but since I’ve wondered why he didn’t do more to expose the evil in our midst.
Gul and the others were not as adept with the Koran, and I pitied them. Yet I was relieved that Parsaa was not a leader. We never spoke about it. As a family, we refrained from talking in public or displaying our emotions, and when Parsaa did speak to me or the children in front of others, it was rough and brief. I kept quiet, limiting eye contact or smiles. Sadly, the public persona worked its way into our private lives. My studies helped with loneliness.
A serious husband was better than a pompous fool. We worked hard and saved, making do without many items from the market. Parsaa didn’t have to convince me to do everything in our power to avoid courting envy.
I listened closely to our family’s readings of the Koran. The sound of children’s voices reading, halting, not understanding everything they heard, brought me comfort—even as I discovered that the messages for me were not the same as those heard by my husband or the children. That did not make the words less powerful.
Allah insists we have choices. I believe it’s left to us to decide which choices work to His liking. Each time I tried to read the Koran, thrilling thoughts jumped into my head. I yearned to find more to read and wondered if power would come with other words.
Fear of Beauty Page 13
