Dancing in the Mosque

by Homeira Qaderi

My vision was limited to a small rectangular mesh in front of my eyes. It was difficult enough to see the children in the dim shadows within the mosque, but it would’ve

Madar threw her unfinished handkerchief into the fire: a half-sewn bird, embroidered on a patch of blue fabric. Gazing into the flames, her face veiled in tears, she said, “A wing that can’t lift women’s stories, our stories, into the world is no wing at all.”

“Homeira, wherever you go, make sure you take your pen with you. Just like I kept my thread and needle with me. Write in privacy. No one can take your pen or your story from you.”