Allure of Deceit

by Susan Froetschel

  Paul turned to Parsaa. “You understand why I want to escape my office and visit a village that is self-reliant.”

  Parsaa was direct. Laashekoh was grateful for Paul’s help in returning children to their villages. The village welcomed him, but not funds from a foreign charity.

  The two men sat quietly and avoided looking at one another. Parsaa poked at the fire’s smoldering embers with a stick. The morning sun was full and golden. Conversations about good and evil were better suited for the nighttime when opinions could be expressed around a dying fire and reactions went unseen.

  “Charity is not enough or too much. It seemed so simple when I started. Now I wish that I had never heard of GlobalConnect.”

  Paul then asked Parsaa if he ever thought about the children they had returned to the villages in the north. “Did we do what was best for them?” he pressed.

  “Parents do the best they can,” Parsaa said. The men had little choice but to walk away from the worried eyes. Despite the mixed reactions from parents, Parsaa had felt only relief when Paul had distributed food and other supplies to each family. That helped ease the anger, but for how long? Parsaa was ashamed he had not thought to question the source of such supplies. “The families will be more careful in the future.” Paul did not answer. “We must trust them. The matter is in Allah’s hands.”

  Paul slapped his knees and stood. “That’s a problem for people in my line of work—it’s tough to prove what might have been.”

  The man was ready to leave, and Parsaa mentioned the plans to send Najwa away from Laashekoh. Paul asked if the girl had shared more details about her village or family. Parsaa shook his head, but then mentioned the peshkabz, adding that she must have been hiding the weapon since her arrival. Paul asked to see the blade, and Parsaa retrieved it, showing the other man once they were walking down the hill, out of sight of the other villagers.

  “It’s unusual,” Paul said, suggesting the handle could be tied with a region. He asked to borrow the weapon, and Parsaa happily agreed.

  “She is not happy here. The women suspect that she doesn’t want to locate her family.” Parsaa shook his head. “It’s a mystery that we may never solve.”

  Paul asked about her next home, and Parsaa explained it was isolated.

  “Keep her busy,” Paul warned. “Boredom is the road to trouble.”

  Parsaa asked if the girl might be better off in the city at an orphanage.

  “Probably not,” Paul said. “Children who head to the orphanages tend not to return home. And if she is not being truthful, it would be even easier for her to lie to foreign aid workers than to you.”

  “If she does not work out at her next home, could you take her to one of the orphanages in Kabul or Kandahar?”

  Paul was nervous. “I’ll admit—if I were to bring her back, that could start a round of questions about the other children,” he said. “It’s not a good time to reveal that one did not make it home. I’m sorry, friend.”

  It was as Parsaa had suspected. The man had his own problems. “She is our responsibility and we will handle her.”

  “You are fortunate not to have to deal with bureaucracy,” Paul said.

  The men were far enough from the village, but thick brush could hide curious ears, so Parsaa lowered his voice to ask why Paul seemed anxious. “Is there trouble you have not told us about?”

  “No worries for you,” Paul said. “But there were questions about how I handled that group of orphans. There is no shortage of people who want to criticize our work, like those women, so they can step in to secure funding. They complain that our office is not doing enough research, not identifying atrocities, not supplying enough services, not following procedures. Those two from the orphanage? I must deal with people like that every day.”

  “What would they have us do?” Parsaa was puzzled.

  The laugh from Paul was short and embarrassed. “We did the right thing, returning the children to their parents quickly. Transferring them to the city for screenings would have meant long delays—that didn’t seem right, not when thousands of children are going without education or healthcare.” He sighed again. “Procedures may be more rigid in the future.”

  “Surely, you can explain?” Parsaa questioned.

  “You flatter me to suggest that I have control.”

  Parsaa didn’t understand American ways. He would dislike working with others when obedience was not automatic and rules were unclear. “I thought you were the supervisor of many. They don’t obey?”

  Paul described large networks of donors and charitable organizations, with hundreds of workers and millions in funds. “Many who work for me or others in the country are ambitious, and some want to get ahead by proving that I’m not doing a good job. Too many compete to find trouble here.”

  He explained how so much charity was based on whims. “I sometimes feel as if all that matters is an administrator’s last conversation with a donor. A donor hears a report that children are going without shoes and soon we’re unloading crates of shoes, every size and style imaginable, most of them inappropriate for this terrain. So we look for storage, often paying to lease the space.”

  “Surely you can explain what is not needed here,” Parsaa pressed.

  “Maybe someday,” Paul replied. “I never dreamed that so much money could be a curse. I did the hard work, building trust, before GlobalConnect, before there was so much money. But other groups are rushing in. People who know nothing about the place! One celebrity wants to open a girls’ school, another wants to renovate mosques, another sends thousands of copies of a children’s book—signed. And any who ask questions or offer suggestions are tagged as troublemakers.”

  He was tired of aid workers who thought they knew better than the people they purported to help. “I love this country, but I work for people who don’t even try to understand. Laashekoh is fortunate that it can keep to itself.”

  Paul paused. “So you understand why I cannot tell anyone that Najwa is still in the area.”

  “Of course,” he murmured. It was shameful when a community could not care for its children properly, and Parsaa wished Najwa could stay in Laashekoh. The women would have accepted her if she had been more agreeable, but older children struggled to fit in. It was easy for others to provoke them into misbehaving.

  Parsaa worried about the sudden interest of charities and wondered if the villagers could handle the changes destined to come their way. Tempers would flare if aid groups helped the wrong people. “There are charities that are helping Leila?”

  Paul admitted that the young woman was winning sympathy. “They could not determine her exact age and tried her as an adolescent. She is young, disfigured, uneducated, and has little trouble convincing others that her husband and father coerced her. She could be a gold mine for a charity that publicizes her plight.” He apologized for speaking crassly about a young woman’s injuries.

  “She is devious, and the charities should know about her crimes.” Parsaa was bitter. In anger, Leila had confessed to killing Ali, but was not formally charged. Her prison sentence was for her role in the trafficking ring, and Parsaa asked how anyone with integrity could pay attention to a woman in prison. “Her punishment does not cover the extent of her guilt. She murdered my son, and she cannot blame her husband or parents for that.”

  Paul pointed out that Parsaa could do little without proof. He promised to check on Leila’s status when he returned to the city. “Leila has a child, and that may be why the women visited your village—to gather information.”

  “The women also asked questions about who owns the surrounding property.” He gestured to the valley below, so much green and gold nearby, gray and lavender in the distance. “Why would they care?”

  Paul explained that the area offered potential for mining, but Parsaa shook his head. The area around Laashekoh had no history of major finds of gold or gems.

  “They could be looking for something better than gold, and they could pur
sue leases.” Paul talked about a group of minerals called rare earths. Old Soviet maps suggested large reserves of the minerals, and the United States Geological Survey had confirmed those holdings. “Some are in Helmand. Not far from here.”

  Paul continued. “They don’t look like anything special. Some are gray, others are shiny. But they’re essential for cell phones, computers, modern electronics.”

  Another worry for the village, Parsaa thought to himself and frowned. “Mining is not compatible with farming.”

  Paul asked if the village’s ownership was secure.

  “What is ever secure, friend?” Parsaa repeated the sentiment from Zahira, and Paul gave him a strange look. He asked if the village was in a position to reject offers, and Parsaa nodded. “If the village can avoid the temptation, they cannot bother you.”

  The two men reached the part of the path blocked years earlier with an avalanche, deliberately triggered to keep outside influences at bay, and Paul paused to scan the valley in the morning light. “This view makes all problems seem so distant,” Paul said.

  Parsaa emphasized that the village appreciated Paul’s ways and would not want to work with others. Paul thanked the Afghan warmly but did not look happy. “And that could be part of the problem.”

  Then he asked Parsaa to do him a favor. “I doubt if others will make it out this way, but don’t mention that I traveled out here alone. Best if you deny that I was here at all. The organization has strict rules, and I could be in trouble.”

  Parsaa waved a hand to dismiss his friend’s concern. “Their rules are not our rules. Your secret is safe with me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Parsaa returned to the task of delivering Najwa to the compound. Saddiq saddled the donkey, and Parsaa asked Ahmed to keep the courtyard clear until he left the village. He did not want other villagers gawking while he unlocked the shed, removed Najwa, and transported her away from the village.

  Then Parsaa hurried to his home and advised his wife not to expect him until after darkness fell. Sofi asked her husband if he should bring Saddiq along.

  Tradition required that women be accompanied by male relatives during lengthy travel. If Parsaa left quickly, they would arrive before sunset. “It’s not a good idea to involve him with the compound.”

  He was impatient to leave and remove Najwa. But his wife was troubled.

  “You must talk with the boy,” Sofi whispered. She explained how Saddiq had once enjoyed reading but had stopped abruptly. “He is acting odd and searches for excuses not to attend lessons.”

  Parsaa repeated advice he had given before. “Boys enjoy outdoor activities. Do not pressure him or he will resent reading the rest of his life.”

  She urged her husband to talk with Saddiq soon. “As the weather turns cold, he should enjoy sitting on the rug and adding logs to the fire. But no, he’s upset.” She hesitated, and Parsaa prompted her. “It only happened once, but he asked if Thara and the other sisters could also attend the lessons.”

  Leila’s sisters. The two families had once lived next to each other and the children had grown up together—until their mother and sister were arrested.

  “That is not a decision for us to make. Thara and the others must be punished for crimes committed by Mari and Leila.”

  “I did explain.” Sofi was nervous. “He does not see how the girls did wrong. . . .”

  “He argued with you?” Parsaa was annoyed. Every village family had a reputation. A son’s view should not deviate from that of his parents.

  Sofi shook her head quickly. “No, he did not argue. It was one comment. But there was a look in his eye when I told him the other parents would not allow their children to be near Leila’s sisters. He’s so strong-willed, and after what happened with Ali . . .”

  Her worries were left unspoken. Grief swept through Parsaa and he leaned against the wall. It had been more than a year since the death of their oldest son, and memories of Ali’s smile were fading in Laashekoh.

  Grief should add clarity to memories.

  The family could not bear the loss of another child.

  “It only happened once,” she repeated. “And as you say, we cannot anger him. He did not argue, but we must watch him, talk with him, protect him against these urges to defend Leila’s sisters.”

  Saddiq was intelligent. The boy would avoid wasting words on useless arguments and alarming his parents. Parsaa placed both hands on his wife’s shoulders.

  “Do not make Thara an object of pity for him,” he whispered. “We cannot speak cruelly of her or forbid Saddiq to talk of her, or it’s all he’ll think about. He will crave her.”

  Sofi nodded, and Parsaa wondered how long his wife had been holding on to her fears. “Have Karimah or the other women noticed?” he asked. He was relieved when she shook her head.

  “Not yet,” Sofi said. “I will ask Karimah to keep a close eye on Thara, give her work, or even keep her indoors for the next few weeks.”

  “No!” He was firm. “Do not talk to the other women about this, and let me know immediately if anyone mentions Saddiq and Thara in the same breath. Scolding will drive them together.”

  Perhaps he should take Saddiq with him to Zahira’s, but he did not want his son locked to such visits. Once he brought one of his sons to the compound, his relationship with Zahira would change forever.

  Sofi asked what she should say to Saddiq.

  “Do not talk about Thara or her sisters. If the topic comes up, be kind. Remind him that the sisters no longer have parents. If they work hard, they will enjoy a better marriage and life. If he cares for them, as a good friend should, then he and the other children must leave them to their work.”

  He took her hands and she leaned against his shoulder. “Can we keep our sons safe?” she asked.

  “Has he tried to spend time with her?” Parsaa murmured.

  Sofi’s worry was limited to the classes. “No, Saddiq works too hard. He spoke of her only once and mostly talks of Komal and how I will teach her someday. And yes, that is what I will probably do.”

  It was not reassuring that the boy avoided talking about Thara. But Parsaa would not worry his wife. “Perhaps he cares for his friends. That is all.”

  She took in air as if in deep water and ready to drown. “Ali spent time alone with Leila and we never knew it.”

  “And Saddiq knows what happened,” Parsaa said. “We will give him more work and watch him. If we don’t pressure him, he will forget Thara.” Parsaa wished that he felt that reassurance inside, especially as he planned to visit the compound. His only tie with Zahira was friendship, but that did not lessen his guilt.

  Saddiq hurried with his assigned tasks—helping other young men in tying and moving bundles of late-harvest grain for winter storage— and waited for his father to leave the village. He had his own plans for later, to find Thara and remind her that she was not despised by all.

  The children in Laashekoh had played with the sisters all their lives. Leila, as the oldest, had watched Saddiq and his younger brothers for years. Overnight, the villagers suddenly despised the girls as if their parents and sister were the only influences, and evil was more powerful than goodness.

  Saddiq thought about the many influences over his life—his parents, his brothers, the men of the village, the vendors at the market in the city, especially the ones who were generous in handing out samples or telling stories about distant places. He wondered how good transformed into evil and couldn’t think of many points of disagreement with Leila over the years, no sign that her father or mother or the sisters might be dangerous. All he knew was that he missed the gatherings in the girls’ home and long talks with friends. The family had to bear Leila’s shame, but Saddiq couldn’t overlook his own shame for ignoring his friends. Maybe the evil influence of Leila was stronger than he realized. Maybe that was behind the urge to disregard his parents’ dictates.

  He couldn’t ask his parents about his feelings. They would take more steps to separate Thar
a and the other girls.

  And so he kept his many questions to himself. Could dear friends turn into evildoers overnight—and could the same happen to any member of his family?

  It was painful to think of Thara watching the children enter his mother’s small library, imagining them by the fire, listening to the stories. He no longer attended his mother’s reading program and tried to convince other children not to go, too.

  If he and others stayed away, then maybe Thara would feel less hurt.

  Herding goats and sheep were no longer part of his duties. Early on, while his mother was reading, he found excuses to climb the hills and offer reminders to his brothers who took over the task, or to search for new stands of dry wood. He returned only after the sessions had ended as his mother hurried about the kitchen, preparing the evening meal. She tried questioning him about his absences, but his father interrupted. “Let the boy take the lessons at his own pace.”

  Saddiq liked the sound of that—taking lessons at one’s own pace. He did not have to hurry with an activity from which dear friends were excluded, and there was less pressure to sort out why he disagreed so vehemently with his parents on what was moral and good. It was terrifying to think that his parents could be so wrong.

  Not that he always agreed with them, and this was especially true with his mother. Both parents monitored his tasks and those of his brothers. His mother could be fierce about working hard and driving her children to do the same.

  He could not argue with his parents, though. His father would lose all respect for Saddiq and that would be unbearable. His parents were raising the youngest of the four ostracized sisters in their home and might eventually agree with Saddiq someday. His mother adored the baby, holding and playing with Komal, talking with her throughout the day, yet she was careful not to let anyone outside the family witness her fondness for the child. Sofi had already warned her sons to hide the family’s joy in caring for Komal, insisting that a life of shame in ­Laashekoh was better than an early marriage with a terrible man.