Safiah's Smile (5 page)

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.