Safiah's Smile

by Leora Friedman

  – Chapter 4 –

  Come September, Malia entered Washington University with an odd combination of indifference and enthusiasm. Fully prepared with a fresh set of college attire – Washington University baseball caps, pajamas, and track jackets – she viewed the four-year path ahead of her as a means of freedom – freedom from her past.

  For weeks she aimed fruitlessly to liberate herself from the haunting memories of her last months of high school, but the luscious greenery of the campus and the fresh, grinning faces of her new college classmates planted within Malia a new hope. A hope that she would finally find joy and forget the frets of a world slowly disintegrating with the horrors of war.

  Nonetheless, within the depths of Malia’s soul, still lay a vacancy. An agonizing emptiness and anxiety. A constant fret for her brother’s safety. For Danny’s safety.

  Meanwhile, she still mechanically attended her classes and participated in far too many student activities in a weak attempt to fill the void her painful past left behind. Always in awe of the actors she saw in the theater, Malia almost immediately signed up for the drama club’s rendition of The Importance of Being Earnest. Gwendolyn seemed like a cheery enough character, she thought. Cheery enough, hopefully, to scatter the horrid spells of anxiety that infected her mind every now and then. In truth, she knew, every other minute.

  Brushing her hands lightly against the velvety rose curtains of the university’s renowned theatre, Malia inhaled the fresh scent of the recently built auditorium. She stared in awe at the architectural masterpiece before her. The walls were not flat, but carved into various exotic designs. A crystal chandelier dangled in the center of the ceiling, brightening the countless navy blue seats speckling the room. These very seats were currently occupied by the twenty or thirty members of the exclusive drama club of Washington University. The young members of the committee, men in too-tight jeans and black tee shirts and women with exaggerated eyeliner and ruby lipstick painted on their pale faces, stared impatiently at Malia as she approached center stage.

  A golden light focused only on her shape and the surrounding areas of the theater were lost in a bizarrely thick darkness. The light beamed blindingly in her eyes, nearly resembling the instantaneous and unexpected flash of lightning that inevitably follows the howl of thunder. Malia closed her eyes and envisioned the afternoon when a storm unexpectedly befell her small Indiana town just one year prior. With the flash of lightning, she saw Danny’s shape. Almost instantly, the darkness reappeared, and they had been lost in the night with no foreseeable escape. Almost like right now, she thought, ironically.

  “Malia, is it?” the janitorial assistant flipped on the light switch and Malia’s eyes found the irritated face of the president of the drama club – Trish Fisher.

  “Yes, that’s me. Malia Sanders. I’m a freshman.”

  “Of course you are,” Trish smiled knowingly. “We really don’t have all day. If you could read those lines, please?” she pointed impatiently to the packets of papers lying flimsily at the rear of the stage.

  After stooping to retrieve them, Malia recited the dialogue with painfully tangible spirit and sentiment. She walked the stage with poise. Her hands gesticulated, and her words soared effortlessly from her lips. Her five minutes performance brought her a sense of freedom, a sense of ecstasy. But, eventually, the show ended. And her life was once again saturated with pangs of emptiness.

  “You put on a good show.” Trish finally said after several moments of silence, smirking.Malia’s lips curved upward, glad to see her hours of preparation culminate in success.

  Trish analyzed her from head to toe. “But, Malia, the performing arts are not simply about the show. Theatre is not only about the action, the movements, the facial expressions.” She removed her black plastic frames and wrapped her fiery red bangs behind her double pierced ears.

  “Malia, I know that you were acting, which means that you weren’t playing your part very well. I see you trying desperately, and that deteriorates your performance even more. And the worst thing of all,” she paused, allowing her insensitive criticism to settle in Malia’s mind, “is your eyes. I don’t see it in your eyes.

  “In fact,” Trish stood now, revealing silky tight pants wrapped in leather lace boots that reached the tips of her knees, “I didn’t see anything in your eyes at all during that performance.”

  Malia’s eyes scanned the room and met the glances of the drama club members who clearly sympathized with her predicament. Undoubtedly, this was not the first time Trish Fisher preyed upon weak and innocent freshman hopefuls.

  After apologizing for wasting the valuable time of her Majesty, Queen of Drama, Malia raced through the theater’s exit and dashed to her dorm room, the fatigue of disappointment too much for her to handle while exposed to the eyes of her curious new classmates.

  After hurriedly swiping her key through the slot, she entered the rundown building and began ascending the stairs to her third floor suite. Cold water, cracked paint, and no elevators. This college doesn’t seem to like freshmen very much, she thought. Upon her arrival, lying flatly on her mattress was a simple white envelope addressed to a Ms. Sanders. She fiercely tore open its seal and removed and unfolded the slip of paper. Words in untidily scribbled handwriting resembling her brother’s were printed on its front.

  Malia – It’s September now, which must mean that you’re probably worrying. A lot. Well, please don’t. I’m fine, really. In fact, I’m more than fine. We’ve been stationed in Afghanistan since our training ended. Malia, since joining the army, for once in my life I feel a thrill, like I’m contributing to something important and making a difference. The world is a crazy place right now, Mal, but I think soon enough things will get back to normal. I’m working hard, and I hope I can make Mom, Dad and you proud. I know for awhile there, I thought that would never even be possible. But, don’t worry. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for me. I’ve never felt better in my life. Danny told me what Beth said. It wasn’t right what happened to her mom, or to any of them. We have to keep our country safe, Mal. I know I was born to do this.

  Oh, and Danny says hi.

  Sam

  After struggling to read her brother’s letter and to decipher the loopy words for hours, she fell restlessly asleep, her fingers firmly clutching the slip of paper. When she woke, her cheeks were wet. Her eyes were sore. She leaned over her mattress and squinted at her digital clock. She had less than ten minutes before her first class would begin – Introduction to British Literature, taught by a Mr. Gary Wilson.

  She slipped on a pair of velour sweatpants and a white tee shirt, stuffed the letter into her pocket, snatched her schoolbooks, and raced to Room 435 – nearly halfway across campus. Upon her arrival, the students jumped in alarm as she sprinted to the only empty seat remaining in the front row, her wet hair glued to her forehead and her cheeks flushed with exhaustion. Her breathing unsteady, she slipped her books to her desk and sunk into her chair, Sam’s letter still tightly strapped in her pants pocket.

  “As I was saying,” Mr. Wilson addressed his class while placing a course syllabus on each student’s desk. “I don’t want you all simply to strive for an A. I want you to take something from this class. To learn about the world and explore yourselves through these authors’ writings.” His square-shaped face was covered by a pair of thick plastic glasses and a dark, scruffy mustache.

  “Every book I assign you to read will teach you something. You will learn to read beneath the surface of a writer’s language. You will read between the lines.” He paused to glance at each student who returned his glance with a focused stare. Heaps of second-hand, worn paperback books were piled on Mr. Wilson’s front desk. Malia skimmed the titles printed on each of their spines. Crime and Punishment was sandwiched between Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Romeo and Juliet.

  “Shakespeare’s Hamlet, for example, is not only addressing
the qualms of a young royal haunted by his deceased father’s ghost.” He strolled to his desk, lifting his copy of Hamlet to show the class. “Obviously, there are underlying messages to everything Shakespeare writes to make it relatable to modern society,” he slapped the book to the table.

  “That is why his plays are still so popular today. From the classroom, to the library, to nearly every educated person’s bookshelf in the country, Shakespeare is universal.” He wrapped his arms around his chest. “You have to make the literature relate to you. You accomplish that, and you’re not only set for an A, but you’re set for life.” Mr. Wilson leaned his lanky body lightly against the front desk and analyzed his students’ faces, examining their reactions to his speech. He wore a freshly ironed pantsuit, a pair of black tie shoes, and an olive oxford. Miniature portraits of Shakespeare’s face were printed on his tie.

  Malia sat dumbfounded by her professor’s words. The truth to his speech stung painfully in her mind, and she knew this class would force her to abandon her nest of comfort.

  “Don’t forget to read the first fifty pages of Hamlet for tomorrow’s class,” Mr. Wilson reminded as his students began gathering their belongings. Malia gripped her books snugly to her side and stumbled towards the exit. She stepped clumsily over the threshold leading from the classroom to the campus garden, causing her brother’s letter to glide inconspicuously from her pocket. The valuable slip of paper became immediately camouflaged with the off-white flooring, and Malia did not even notice its absence.

  An eighteen year old girl with dark skin and chocolate brown eyes lifted the letter lightly from the floor and inspected it. She had a maroon headscarf strapped around her head, covering her silky hair. Her ruby cotton dress reached her toes, which were covered by black moccasins. Her eyes were locked to the ground, somewhat in coyness but mostly in fear. Her alternative attire and uncommon modesty startled her more modern classmates.

  “Malia Sanders?” she whispered, striving to match a face to the name. Upon her realization, she sprinted to the girl with the black sweatpants and white tee shirt whose face bore a fear similar to her own. She watched Malia’s sneakers spring against the sidewalk in a hurried manner and recoil. Quickening her pace, the girl with the headscarf saw that Malia was now merely several inches away. Within speaking distance.

  Her eyes skimmed the letter to ensure that Malia was in fact the correct recipient of the mysterious slip of paper. “Army?” she saw the word scribbled loosely on the paper. “Afghanistan?” The temptation was far too great. Her hunger for information about Afghanistan surpassed her desire to protect Malia’s privacy. Her brother. He’s in the army. Fighting for my country. Her heart fell and her spirits simultaneously soared for the girl to whom she had not once spoken.

  “Malia Sanders?” she asked.

  The girl with the dark waves concealing her emerald eyes quickly spun around. “Yes? That’s me.” Her voice was confident, but her eyes appeared lonely and somewhat vulnerable.

  “Here,” she offered the letter to Malia. “I believe this belongs to you.”

  “Oh,” Malia took it in her fingers and glanced at it curiously. “Oh! Oh my goodness, thank you! You do not know how much this means to me.” Pangs of relief throbbed through Malia, as she extended her gratitude to the mysterious girl in the headscarf.

  “It’s not a problem. Not at all.” As Malia smiled once more and turned to persist on her path, the girl shouted, “I’m sorry, Malia. I shouldn’t have read it.” Malia turned, baffled and slightly embarrassed. Her past was finally revealed. Her story was known.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’m just glad you returned it.” Who is this girl, anyway? she thought.

  “I… I….” the girl stuttered incessantly. Her mouth twisted, and her dark cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “I saw the word Afghanistan.” Her eyes met Malia’s, and she smiled shyly. “And, you see, Afghanistan is my home.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t really know anything about Afghanistan. I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” Malia struggled to explain, wishing dearly that the girl was unaware her true connection to Afghanistan.

  “I know. But your brother. He knows. He is fighting to protect my country and my people.” She saw Malia’s eyes travel to the floor. Tears resembling raindrops settled on Malia’s lashes. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to pry.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she dried her cheeks with her sleeve. “You’re not prying,” she took several steps towards the girl in the floor-length gown, no longer afraid.

  “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you, Malia?”

  “Not as much as some. I’m sure you’ve had your share of traumatic experiences.” Malia glimpsed into the pair of eyes opposite her. She saw a soulful brown hue on the surface. Underneath the exterior, she saw pain, confusion, and a bitter longing.

  “I suppose,” she looked at Malia. Malia waited patiently for her to proceed. “My family and I relocated to America two years ago once the government began to deteriorate. My father lost his job. We were living in poverty. After my baby sister perished in the famine, we were left with no choice. That was the final straw. We couldn’t live like that anymore,” the girl’s eyes scanned the campus. A man with shoulder-length hair and blonde highlights strummed his guitar peacefully under a tree. A young couple chatted innocently on a wooden park bench. A professor spilled the contents of his briefcase in the tall grass and stooped with a sigh to retrieve them.

  “I only wish all of my aunts and uncles and grandparents could have traveled to America with us. I despise myself for abandoning them. I am a traitor. I betrayed my family, my people… my culture. I love America; it is the land of the free, as they say. It is like a luxurious hotel for me,” she laughed. “But Afghanistan will always be my home.” Malia stared in awe at the girl opposite her, struck by the amount of distress this mere teenager had been forced to endure. The girl in the silky headscarf smiled and turned, no longer wishing to burden Malia with the sorrows of her life.

  “I don’t think you told me your name,” Malia smiled at the irony of the situation.

  “It’s Safiah. Just Safiah.” With that, Safiah gracefully spun towards the library, the tail of her bead-embellished dress trailing inches behind.

  This is what Danny and my brother are fighting for, she thought. People like Safiah. Young children and families. For the first time, Malia saw beyond the invisible boundaries separating her and the people of Afghanistan. Her eyes shed their tears, her heart pounded with their fear, and her body quivered with their pain.

  She closed her eyes that evening and saw Safiah’s chocolate-brown eyes staring deeply into her own. Those eyes that raged with loss, blazed with regret. With Safiah’s words, she could almost feel her brother’s presence, his strength and his courage.

  Two young girls with entirely different backgrounds, completely separate stories, yet virtually identical hearts. Malia slept soundly that evening, her mind at peace, and her slumber no longer haunted by her nightmares.