Fear of Beauty

by Susan Froetschel

  All of them are here, Leila protested. They try to control us.

  Sofi, I promise, there’s no harm here, Mari called out. Come out so we can talk.

  As she spoke, I moved in slow silence to the left, to confuse them about my position. Leila, no one in our village would endorse this activity. Selling children is wrong.

  Sofi, you don’t understand! Mari pleaded. We are moving them to safer surroundings. Away from the Americans!

  Would you move our children this way? Slowly, I tiptoed to the side and lowered myself to the ground, raising my voice. Provide false documents on their place of birth? It brings shame on us all. Mari, you can protect Leila and Jahangir. You’ve said it to me many times before—parents must protect children from themselves.

  As Mari dipped her head with shame, Leila reached out and shoved her.

  Don’t listen to her! Leila shouted. You care more about her boys than my future?

  No noise! Jahangir scolded, before muffling his voice. We cannot draw the Americans here.

  You promised you would take care of them, Leila scoffed.

  What you’re doing is wrong. I crawled, keeping my voice low and hypnotic, confusing them about my location. What does Allah tell you to do?

  And what would you do to save your son? Jahangir called out. What is he worth to you?

  Leila turned to Jahangir, pointed the gun that way, and shrieked. We’ll do nothing of the sort. The entire family will never stop watching us and judging us! It’s why her first son is dead!

  Quiet, fool! Jahangir grasped her by the shoulders. She doesn’t have a gun, or she would have shot you by now.

  Shocked, I didn’t know how to respond. My Ali. Allah knows, I said softly, crawling back and forth, slowly repeating this phrase over and over. Allah knows. Jahangir glared, and I could see the fear in his eyes. In his own way, the man was a believer.

  But not Leila. There was no fear in her. Her head moved back and forth, her eyes scanning to find me in the darkness, aiming the weapon as if that might help her find me. If you want your son, you must come out, she demanded. Circling the fire, she moved toward the sound of my voice, trying to pinpoint my location. Jahangir followed, trying to wrest the gun away from her. But Leila pulled away.

  Listen to your husband, Mari hissed.

  I didn’t trust Leila, yet rashly decided that it was better for my family if she shot me rather than Saddiq or Parsaa.

  Emboldened, I stood and called out. Allah knows! Let Allah decide.

  As I stepped down the slope, approaching the fire, Parsaa slowly lifted his hand toward the stars. All matters are returned to Allah.

  Jahangir stared at us with terror, and that upset Leila. You’re so certain that Allah sides with you? she screamed. Her headscarf had fallen to the ground, the hate in her eyes more terrifying than the scars.

  I was ready to accept my fate, but couldn’t keep my voice from shaking. Yes.

  Slowly, she smiled and turned her back to me, raising the gun and pointing it at Parsaa. Jahangir lunged for the gun in her hand, but she was wild-eyed and twisted away. No! I screamed, despising my own arrogance.

  Suddenly, huge lights encircled us, exposing the children clutching one another in terror near Parsaa on one side of the fire, the three adults on the other side of the fire, and me at the base of the hillside.

  From a distance a shot fired, striking Leila in the right arm and swinging her around. It’s why their first son is dead, she wailed, dropping to the ground. He asked too many questions and wanted to go to school. He wanted to leave me! Taking aim at me, she managed to pull the trigger. The weapon’s retort was an empty click.

  Weeping, Mari fell to her knees and clutched her daughter, tying her own headscarf around the girl’s arm, pressing her fingers to the girl’s mouth to quiet her. Parsaa aimed his rifle at Jahangir, as the driver took off running into the night and the cover of darkness. Saddiq dashed to my side, wrapping his arms around me and hiding his face. I was so scared, he said. That father or you were helping Leila and Mari. I had no words and gently folded my arms around him. No immediate explanation was needed. All that mattered was his safety.

  Two American soldiers approached, weapons held high and ready to fire again. In the darkness, we heard someone tackling the driver and restraining him.

  The man named Joey pointed an assault rifle on Jahangir, Mari, and Leila, and another soldier quickly applied handcuffs to the three. The Americans have come for you. I warned you! Jahangir shouted to the children. You must fight them!

  Most of them didn’t even look his way. Tears broke out, as Joey knelt in front of the scrawny children and spoke in Dari as he started in removing the restraints: It’s over now. You’ll return to your villages and parents.

  Some children wept with joy, and the others who had known only hunger and abuse also cried, because they had counted on Jahangir’s promises of a better life. One boy protested: But I paid these men to take me to Pakistan. They promised us jobs!

  Joey and Parsaa exchanged sad glances, and my husband chided the boy. The work is more difficult than you have ever known. You’re better off with your families.

  You cannot trust the Americans! Jahangir screamed to the children. Never! Help us destroy them . . .

  Leila sat up, cradling her arm. We were helping these children. Everyone will know who colluded with the intruders! That you lie about us!

  Through the shouting, Joey explained to Jahangir and the women that they had violated both international law and the Afghan Law on Kidnapping and Human Trafficking.

  Joey snapped orders that I didn’t understand, and other men moved Leila and Mari away from the children. Parsaa and Joey kept their weapons ready as Saddiq and I helped distribute the remaining food and water among the children.

  That was close, Joey said to Parsaa. I was ready to move in without waiting for the signal.

  We had to wait until I knew who was involved, Parsaa explained.

  The soldier turned to me. Thank you. It helped that you drew Jahangir and the others away from the wagon and the children.

  Lowering my head, I stepped behind my husband, embarrassed for my village about meeting the American under such shameful circumstances, and I looked at Saddiq, terrified at how close we had come to losing another son. There was no need to thank me.

  Parsaa admitted, That wasn’t part of the plan.

  Mari broke in with a plea. Parsaa, we made a mistake listening to Jahangir—it’s not too late to forgive us.

  You! Leila lashed out at her mother. Begging his forgiveness! After his son ruined me!

  No, Leila . . . her mother protested.

  Furious, Leila turned away from Mari. You and everyone else saying that Ali was so alert and smart, how someday he’d lead our village. He didn’t know what was best for him. He didn’t see the rock aimed for his head!

  Leila! Mari wept. He loved you. . . . Sofi, don’t listen to her!

  No, mother, he chose school. Over me! She spat the words out with loathing for us and herself.

  Parsaa joined Saddiq and me as we assisted the children. He did not look at or respond to Leila, other than to wrap his arms around us, as if to shield us and move us away to talk among ourselves. It is over, he whispered in my ear.

  Tears came to my eyes. At last we understood our son’s strange death, and my only worry was how this night of terror might weaken my other precious son. Ali did no wrong, I murmured. Children are supposed to trust others.

  Parsaa laid his head on my shoulder and put his hand on the boy’s head. Our family is too strong not to trust, Parsaa said. We followed one another to protect one another.

  Saddiq nodded.

  Then Parsaa teased me with a smile, asking why I had urged Leila to shoot the gun and then screamed no. Isn’t Allah with me as well? Without words, I squeezed him tight.

  A Humvee with bright lights pulled up, and Jahangir screamed to get Parsaa’s attention, warning of wrath from neighboring tribes, Taliban leaders, the chil
dren’s parents, Allah, and others. You do not have to cooperate with the infidels! We can go on from here.

  Parsaa ignored him, and Joey shouted at his men. One soldier struggled to push Jahangir toward the rear of the truck as Jahangir fought, screaming and swinging his bound wrists like a club. Other soldiers joined them, and together they heaved the man into place, attaching his restraints to a metal bar lining the back of the truck.

  Leila and the driver were compliant, but Mari panicked. The truck meant she wasn’t returning to Laashekoh anytime soon. Sofi, what about my daughters? Mari cried out.

  They’ll be cared for, Parsaa promised shortly. Until they do wrong. Mari’s moan was as dark as the night, but she had no choice. Everyone stared in silence as the soldier guided her into the truck and slammed the door.

  Parsaa asked what would happen to the group, and Joey’s mouth was set. They’ll go on trial and likely head to prison. He lowered his voice. How long they stay depends on whether they give us leads on the trafficking operations and how many children we find and return to their parents.

  I shuddered to think of encountering Mari or Leila again. But the men showed no signs of worry. Parsaa shrugged. The village had handled matters of justice before the Americans arrived and would do so again.

  One of the soldiers pulled bright-colored boxes from a large pack, distributing them among the children. Opening their boxes with care, the children ate little cookies. The boy who had been so ready to cooperate with Jahangir ducked his head and tried to blend in with the others, and I could not help but pity him: He had miscalculated his future and would return to a small village where his cruelties would not be quickly forgotten.

  Joey approached us and asked if we needed help getting the children settled for the night. Parsaa laughed and assured the man that his wife would have no trouble finding meals and beds for eighteen children.

  The American thanked us. In Laashekoh, the children are in good hands.

  The two men started to make arrangements for returning the children. Joey explained how he’d return with vehicles the following day for delivering the children to their villages and asked for Parsaa’s help in collecting names and other details. We’ll need Afghans to accompany them for the return trip home.

  Parsaa nodded.

  The American soldier embraced Parsaa and Saddiq, then thanked all of us for risking our lives. These arrests will slow trafficking in this area for a while.

  We did what needed to be done, Parsaa replied. The two men said farewell and embraced again, more warmly than I could have ever imagined. But then, Mita and I had felt the same.

  With the help of three of the oldest children, we linked our hands into a human chain that began climbing the hill, taking the easiest path back to Laashekoh.

  Jahangir had been stopped. But I was troubled knowing how little control we had over those who intend to commit evil, cloaking it with the holy words—how we knew so little about the crimes practiced near our village.

  As we trudged toward our village, a storm of thoughts went through my head. So many tasks for the hours ahead—knocking on doors and finding beds for children, giving them warm milk and hoping Saddiq and the rest of them would sleep without dreams of terror. Parsaa and I would craft explanations for Mari’s children and other villagers.

  But I was neither weary nor afraid. The pink light of dawn peered out over the distant mountains, spilling beauty and promises like the desert sand.

  Epilogue

  Take to forgiveness and enjoin good and turn aside from the ignorant.

  —Koran 7:199

  Our village is quiet. We don’t talk about the events of the last year. The men work and travel to market. The women continue to cook, work in the fields, and care for children.

  No one misses Jahangir at all.

  The Americans have moved on.

  I miss Mita terribly, and Parsaa misses Gul.

  So much has changed, but if anything, Parsaa’s and my love is stronger.

  A year ago we despised the Americans, their decadence and depravity, and wanted no part of them as they searched for what they called the moderates in our midst. The men of our village took the term as an insult, a label for those not secure in their convictions.

  After the clash between Jahangir and the Americans, we understood how to adjust our own feelings. Inside every person waits an extremist, ready to attack over political beliefs, humiliation, or the wrongful death of a beloved child.

  Faith is beautiful, but it does not promise truth in matters beyond religion’s reach. Believers can be wrong about some matters on this earth. The infidels can know some truths.

  Arguing about religion is pointless, allowing extremism to take over the best parts of a mind. Shouting, bullying, forcing our opinions on others only weakens us over time. And the same is true for our opponents, whether they are Americans or Afghans. There are other, more powerful, ways to disagree.

  As we gain more confidence and control, others can test and nudge our beliefs, yet the essence of who we are is not shaken.

  Mita has arranged the delivery of small packages of books and articles—paid for by a company that includes more books about wheat than we could ever read or use—and I have followed her advice, setting up a library and encouraging others to borrow these books. The books teach on many topics, including what people of other lands think about us. And those strange opinions convinced the men that our village could benefit from its own school.

  We have discovered that many people in the world would regard the people of our village as extremists. Some regard our efforts to fight off any who would interfere with our village life as dangerous to the world. People who understand our way of thinking, like Mita and Joey, are rare. We don’t want to hurt others, but we want to control our own families and village.

  The men of our village will go to great lengths to defend Laashekoh.

  Mita has sent me articles that debate about whether moderate Taliban can even exist, and these arguments have forced me to reassess my own thoughts about Americans. Like us, the Americans have many differences and disagree on goals and methods, and the memories of myself are of a stranger I no longer understand.

  Among the many books Mita sent, a favorite of mine is an old, heavy copy of a dictionary. I linger over that book, finding words used too often with so little thought. Evil is one. Beauty is another. Both require an observer, and both emerge as the result of another person’s assessment. An individual can never be completely confident that she is beautiful or free of evil. The designation demands acknowledgment from another person.

  A small village such as ours has few mechanisms for assessing and punishing evil. What is evil for some is justice for others. Standards we expect to last forever can change quickly. A person deft with words can make an argument for anything. Sadly, we must learn to live with some evil.

  To guard against evil in ourselves, we can nurture the qualities that delight our senses and leave us thrilled for the future—a field green and ready for harvest, securing others against the crashing sounds of a stormy night with the warmth of a safe home, an image of a sleeping child, a book that presents ideas and hope. All these can catch our breath, changing how we think about the world or what we decide to do next with our lives, in ways big or small.

  Beauty comes in many forms—work, faith, compassionate deeds and ideas—yet some fear when their senses are tested in strange, new ways. We cannot push others into enjoying what we experience and believe. I’d like to think that finding beauty brings pleasure and doing evil brings displeasure, but who can be sure? Like so much of human assessment, the two qualities intertwine, and one can feign the other. Any of us, with intention or not, is capable of creating beauty or evil, and we cannot judge or shame others for failing to appreciate what gives us purpose and helps us thrive.

  Fearing beauty in itself is not evil. It’s understandable to fear what’s new or what we cannot control. The Koran warns against suspicion, and evil emerges when w
e prevent discovery of beauty by others. I’m sure more than ever before that it’s best to live life intent on controlling ourselves more than on controlling others.

  Early on, Mita’s descriptions about so many new places and people and concepts saddened me. I felt so backward, and said as much as she handed over the dictionary and the other books.

  Mita is never one for holding back a criticism, and she scolded me. You explored before books. Some people have access to many more books, and they don’t bother to explore what’s available to them. This surprised me, but I can only suppose they assume they have enough beauty in their lives and very little evil. Let me assure you, ownership of books or ideas does not guarantee complete understanding.

  In my life, I have never met a person, if honest, who is satisfied with what he or she has already accomplished. For me, the search for truth and beauty—the assessing and reassessing, and mixing with others who do the same—will never end, and I no longer feel sad or left behind.

  I have only one certainty in a world that never stops changing—that more must be learned and accomplished. This lack of certainty and the search are my freedom.

  Acknowledgments

  Many have contributed to this book: Dan Mayer and the entire team at Seventh Street books, including Jade Zora Ballard, Grace M. Conti-Zilsberger, Meghan Quinn, Catherine ­Roberts-Abel, and Brian McMahon; Alison Picard, an understanding and patient agent; the encouraging Milton Kahn; Doug, the best husband a writer could ever have; Nick, for his advice on caves and much more; a wonderful family, including Joe Little and parents Joseph, Patricia, Roy, and Rory; Nayan Chanda, so generous with his insights on globalization; William Hixson; and the librarians and teachers who provided a lifetime of inspiration.

  The author does not pretend to be an expert on the Koran and urges the curious to read such religious texts closely. This book relied on the online English version of the Koran, translated by M. H. Shakir, provided by the University of Michigan; the US Army Ranger Handbook, July 1992; Dari Dictionary (http://estragon.100megsfree5.com/dic.htm); and the unclassified confidential initial assessment on Afghanistan, from General Stanley A. McChrystal, then commander of the US forces in Afghanistan and the International Security Assistance Force–Afghanistan, to Secretary of Defense Robert Gates, August 30, 2009 (http://media.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/politics/documents/Assessment_Redacted_092109.pdf).