A few years ago I watched Siddiq Barmak’s film Osama, about a family of women living under Taliban rule. Having become jobless because of the Taliban’s maneuvers, a mother persuades her young daughter to help support the family by disguising herself as a boy. The girl is subsequently drafted into a military school, where her gender is eventually discovered. Rather than execute her, one of the men decides to add her to his collection of wives. The other captive wives tell the girl their own stories: They had all assumed that they would find some way to escape, but the Taliban’s breadth made escape impossible. There was nowhere to go, no one willing to help. The film doesn’t have a happy ending. Its final scene is heartbreaking.

I watched Osama on Netflix when users were allowed to post reviews, and I was shocked by what I read there. Viewers were angry—not at the Taliban’s oppressive regime, but at the little girl. People called her “stupid,” “wimpy,” and “whiny.” They claimed it was her fault she’d been found out and enslaved—because she cried, because she drew attention to herself by climbing a tree, because she should have run away, and so on. Her mother and grandmother were also blamed. None of those viewers took time to criticize the Taliban or its members.

This kind of reaction has always deeply troubled me, and not just as a storyteller. It reflects the way so many people react to injustice in general. When a crime or social disparity is brought to light, people often react by criticizing the victim’s actions, while the perpetrator receives no such scrutiny. You can see it in public commentaries on news stories: He shouldn’t have grabbed his attacker’s gun. He shouldn’t have talked back. He shouldn’t have run away. He should have kept his hands where they were. She shouldn’t have walked alone at night. She shouldn’t have gone to that club. She shouldn’t have been so nice to him. Why didn’t she scream? Why didn’t she fight harder?

Writers of stories like Osama are often warned that their endings don’t match current publishing trends (incidentally, I read that Osama’s director initially acquiesced and gave the film a hopeful ending, but changed it because it did not reflect the reality of Afghan women). Modern audiences, particularly American audiences, prefer “conventional” endings in which everything is resolved by characters who are clever and capable. We want protagonists who overcome challenges because they are witty, strong, and most importantly, special—the Slumdog Millionaire ending. We want to believe that if we were faced with the same challenges, we would overcome them by being exceptional, like the heroes of our stories. Those stories in which people fail to achieve justice, no matter how real or urgent, are less palatable.

When I initially sought feedback for my first novel, there were many things about the story that I expected prospective agents and publishers to take issue with: the way I handled the topics of colonialism and racism, the use of lengthy flashbacks, etc. But the feedback always focused on the ending: it was unfair, and would leave readers feeling unsatisfied and angry—and it would generate negative reviews. I found the idea of negative reviews more welcoming than tacking on a happy ending. First of all, the account that A Grand Exposition is based on doesn’t end with justice and satisfaction; it ends with a girl being wrongly committed to a psychiatric hospital. Moreover, a happy ending would have contradicted the entire story, which suggests that society needs to undergo a massive self-reflection and transformation before such satisfying endings can take place. In reality, plenty of people tried their best and have still been crushed by corruption. They fail despite everything, or make rash decisions out of desperation, and have to live without resolution. My take is that they deserve to have their stories heard, too.

I’ve read that people love the setup of conflict followed by a conventional ending because we need to be assured that even if we are struggling in the moment, there is a well-deserved payoff waiting for us. We criticize people who don’t get justice because we need to believe in fairness and in rewards through insight and effort. Consequently, we also fail to scrutinize people in power, regardless of the magnitude of their crimes. Boys will be boys, elitists will be elitists, and so on. If there is a power imbalance at play, surely we will be the main character who overcomes it in spite of everything—because that’s what we deserve.

A similar need lies in the concept of American exceptionalism: the belief that we Americans are the protagonists, the main characters, the special ones. According to this theory, people in other countries are in secondary roles. Their fates and their journeys are less important. The same mentality can be found in other supremacist groups: people of “other” cultures, beliefs, and ethnicities are the disposable “B” characters in the supremacist’s story.

The conventional ending also bothers me as a storyteller because I usually find such stories to be forgettable. The stories that are most memorable to me are the ones that didn’t provide me with a clean and safe resolution. I saw King of Devil’s Island several years ago and recently watched it again, not because I’d forgotten it, but because I wanted to know why I kept thinking of it. The story centers on the Bastøy prison for boys, where captives try to earn freedom through good behavior. When certain abuses come to light, most of the boys initially try to ignore them, with devastating consequences. The captives appeal to the adults’ sense of justice and end up betrayed—by people who believe themselves to be upstanding, but who balk at the possibility of losing their privileges. Those boys haunted me. I enjoy films like Slumdog Millionaire because they’re entertaining; I liked King of Devil’s Island because it strengthened my resolve to confront injustice and to help protect people who are vulnerable. The story left me hanging in that resolve. It made me reflect on my privileges and fears.

When I write, I often choose not to dole out answers. I’m more interested in asking questions. How do people cope when the odds are stacked too heavily against them? How do people act when their moral codes seem to fail or cause devastation in the real world? Those are some of the questions I’m interested in as a human being.

This writing isn’t meant to criticize films like Slumdog (which I really did enjoy), but to ask why “exceptional” resolutions in stories have become conventional, while more realistic and unexceptional resolutions often make people angry. When audiences rail about stories like Osama being “mean” and “unfair,” I tend to have two reactions: one of disappointment, and one of relief. Part of me thinks: This is the realistic ending; why are you angry at the author for telling the truth? Another part of me says: Good. We should feel angry about the fate of these characters. We should check ourselves and stand up for people like them . . . in the real world. However, much of that anger is directed at the storyteller, or at the character who fails to become an exception to the rule. Some audiences say that they don’t want to see these types of stories because “there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.” I don’t know which is the reason for offense: the sense of helplessness, or the acknowledgment that we may have to change ourselves and take action in order to achieve justice. I would argue that there’s plenty we can do, even if we start small. Especially if we start small. You might even start with a story.

Though The Witch of Anámesa is a work of magical realism, hardly any of it is made up. The largesse is borrowed from the communities I’ve lived and worked in. For instance, potion-drinking isn’t such an unusual idea to me. I’ve met plenty of people whose spiritual traditions incorporate potions: jurema, huachuma, iboga, and many more, including some that can be found around the U.S. Ella’s songs are based on various South American traditionals, except for the death song, which I made up. The elements of Ella’s persecution are based on known superstitions, including the idea of the devil leaving his mark on her body. I’ve met people who use their spiritual status to exploit others, and who dismiss the abuse with denial or with crafty excuses. I’ve heard plenty of preachers who insist that religious diversity is a gateway to evil (my own opinion is that extremism, rather than diversity, is the more certain path to evil; there are plenty of diverse communities who have lived well together).

The fuss over Ella’s vegetarianism isn’t fictional either. Among other claims, some of the local preachers insist that other spiritual practitioners are strategically luring Christians with clandestine evils such as yoga and delicious food—and even vegetarianism is suspect, because vegetarianism is a Buddhist precept. Some have become far more concerned about the evils of yoga and curry dishes than the fact that people in our community are being assaulted and denied employment because of their religion or skin color. “Don’t believe what those people believe” too easily becomes “Don’t associate with those people, and don’t let them live or work among you; do what you can to drive them away.” The only element of The Witch of Anámesa that is grossly exaggerated is Ella’s ability to have complex conversations with animals. In all traditions, I find what Ella has found: they draw all kinds of people, from the selfish and manipulative to the honest and humble—and even the most socially responsible teachings can be twisted to justify torture and slaughter.

Anámesa means “in between,” and it’s a reference to the boundary of segregation. It refers to someone who breaks that boundary, who dares to cross over into a community that holds different beliefs and traditions. Such a move often sparks suspicion, fear, and anger, and escalates into violence. Historically, many people have assumed the right to force their traditions onto the communities they breached. After Christians invaded the Americas, some indigenous traditions mutated into a blend of indigenous and Christian themes, but the conflict between religions remains unresolved; people are still accused of heresy and murdered for it. Several years ago, more than a dozen shamans were murdered across the Amazon River from the home of one of my best friends. One of the assailants turned himself in, claiming he’d been hired by Christian political leaders who were also known as cazabrujos, witch hunters; other evidence and confessions supported his claims.

The same violence erupts in my own neighborhood here in Minnesota. A few years ago, a mosque down the street from my home was bombed. The assailants weren’t from our community; they drove here from a state down south because they believed that the mosque was highly secretive and that the imam was using his sermons to recruit terrorists. In reality, the imam’s sermons were recorded and uploaded on the internet for those who couldn’t attend (I watched them and found that he mainly preached compassion and brotherhood). A simple internet search could have solved that one. Last week, an imam from the same mosque was violently assaulted on his way to worship. People typically commit these assaults against the innocent. It’s safer to take out one’s aggression on those who are peaceful and unarmed, and who don’t pose any actual threat.

Even when the fear of others doesn’t result in palpable violence, it manifests in threats, stalking, and other forms of oppression. The fear is perfectly understandable: We fear what will happen if another people’s culture “takes over” and persecutes us, because it has happened on a horrific scale, over and over again, and in many places it continues to happen. My own ancestors, long ago, had to choose between fleeing their homeland or being forced to convert to Islam. But now I live in a largely Christian and Muslim community, beside a church and a mosque, and I wouldn’t change my neighborhood for anything. My neighbors and co-workers practice a diverse set of traditions, but the same themes run through them. A commitment to compassion and integrity allows us to live well together—but that commitment is easily shaken by fear. My community is still largely segregated. We have huge gaps in opportunity. I’ve known white folks, and white Christians, who refused to hire non-whites or to live next-door to them, because they simply didn’t trust or feel comfortable around “those people.” These comments were made openly in my presence because I’m also white, and it was initially assumed that I would understand and agree. Minnesota is known as a progressive state, but we have a habit of refusing to communicate with others who we perceive as different. We don’t form relationships, and we don’t create a functioning community. We don’t address oppression. My city recently burned down because of it. Among other rioters and protesters, white supremacist and anti-government groups ran rampant, eager for the opportunity.

I’m tired of the violence. I’m tired of the refusal to communicate. Even at public meetings and demonstrations, when people have the chance to have conversations and ask questions of people who aren’t in “their” group, they start by making assumptions and screaming out accusations. The divide is deepened, and the chance to create a functioning community is missed. Why bother, then? We still have to live together. Our supposed enemies aren’t going to go away, and we do have common interests—so why not at least make the attempt to build on them, and form relationships, and ask for understanding? For all its crass humor and far-fetched allegory, that’s the issue I’m trying to address in Anámesa. I wrote about the real-life circumstances that I find heartbreaking: Our fear of the “other,” fear of dishonoring one’s own beliefs, the failure to communicate, the difficulty of forgiveness, the uncertainty about the right thing to do. Perhaps I used humor to lessen the weight of the things I was writing about.

On the upside, there seems to be a growing number of people in my community who want to face these issues. Many of them are young people. When I taught at a high school, I spoke to students who were eager to address the challenges of cultural diversity, especially the racism and anti-Muslim sentiment that they experienced there. There are people in our community who worry that if they mingle with those who practice other religions, they will be committing a grave sin or opening a doorway to evil, instead of learning to live well together. The students wanted to address that fear. Some were tired of being treated as though they were only capable of being self-involved. They wanted to do something big, but started with something simple: they crossed the boundary, had conversations, and got to know their neighbors.