Dancing in the Mosque

by Homeira Qaderi

My grandmother had more monster stories than beads on her tasbeh. The purpose of her stories was primarily to keep me from playing with boys, cutting my hair, wearing short skirts, climbing trees, talking to the neighbor girl over the wall, laughing out loud, and ever arguing with Nanah-jan. If I did any of those forbidden things, she would tell me: A monster will appear out of thin air and drag me off to some horrible place where he will eat my flesh and lick my bones, or worse, make me his wife and force me to bear a brood of little hateful ogres.

My grandmother believed that one of the most difficult tasks that the Almighty can assign anyone is being a girl in Afghanistan. As a child, I didn’t want to be a girl. I didn’t even want my dolls to be women. In those days, apparently, I knew more ways that led to hell than streets that led to my house.

I heard that they’ve asked you about your mother and that you cried when told that your mother is dead. Do not believe them! I haven’t died. I am living a life of exile, in a place that has its own beauty, its own laws, and its own problems. But to my eternal pain, it does not have the most important element of my being, of my soul. It does not have you.

During each attack I watched Nanah-jan tie her hijab tighter so that she wouldn’t die without her veil and be thrown into hell in the hereafter.

Sometimes, in that silent darkness, the crying of a baby reached me from the tents, a sorrowful sound that wounded my heart. But the most plaintive sound in that ghost town was the somber but beautiful voice of a mother singing lullabies. These sweet, sincere melodies rose from among the tents, and sometimes from the high-walled houses beyond. Clear, sad notes that floated on the air and took back the night from the muezzin.

“Then the mullah warned my father that it is a mistake to have boys and girls mixed up together. He said the boys will learn evil habits from the girls.”

The structural mysogynistic system the boys are raised in at this country is truly devastating. I did not even realize how deep the roots are spreading.

“My comrade says you must not speak because we are not mahram, so it is sinful to hear your voice.”

Freaking hell!

Joy and excitement ran through every blood vessel in my body. I deliberately delayed entering your room so you could call me again, “Mothe.” My spirit had been transformed because you were calling me by the most dignified word in any language

From my earliest days, Madar called me osiyangar, a rebel. I understand how frightening it must be for a mother to see her daughter break all the inviolable rules and customs of her repressive land.

They were talking about makeup and henna, a new color of nail polish, and whether to file their nails round or square. It made me sad that these same girls who last year were competing over half a grade difference on their exams were now gossiping about love marks and having babies.

This is such a devastating irony :( </3

“Imagine the day that the Taliban finally leave,” I continued. “The schools will be reopened, but the world will have passed you by as you will all be in your husbands’ homes. Won’t that be a shame? The world will say that Afghan girls were all waiting for the Taliban to come along so that they could get married and avoid an education.”

“I’m as afraid of being killed as you are,” I said. “But I’m even more afraid of getting buried alive for the rest of my life without realizing my dreams.”

In the countryside around Herat, after every spring rainfall and thunderstorm, thousands of mushrooms pop up from beneath the ground on the banks of streams and rivers, where the soil is softest. The areas where the mushrooms appear resemble burial grounds with the graves cast open. Madar says that each mushroom is like a decaying woman—a woman buried alive and her name lost to memories. The largest mushrooms are the mothers surrounded by their lost daughters.

In the books taken from the underground box, there were no burqas. There were no girls whipped with pomegranate branches and they were never traded for fighting dogs. There was no girl given away to the city’s aged holy man, no beaten girl who threw herself down a well to avoid being stoned to death. There was no girl forced by her father to wear boys’ clothes and to play the role of the family’s son. In those buried books, women didn’t whisper their stories to the water or go to graveyards to talk with the dead about their loneliness.

Nanah-jan had always said that a woman shouldn’t be a cause of sin for herself and others.

When I was younger, Madar often said, “Let’s tie our wishes to the wings of the birds to carry them to a faraway land where our dreams can bloom like spring flowers.”

But that excitement would not have been possible without your father’s agreement. I was luckier than most, in that I was allowed to study in his house. I know that, in some countries, getting an education is a woman’s right, but from where I came, it was not. I was still an Afghan woman and was expecting to be beaten, insulted, and rebuked by society. I will never forget your father’s kindness to me in this regard.

Herat had not progressed enough during the years of democracy, freedom of speech, and human rights to prevent female suicide in the city. The girls of Herat still had the highest self-immolation statistics in the world.

Every Wednesday I went to the university, and every Wednesday afternoon he would pick a fight with me. It was Kabul, it was all a man’s world.

In addition to the Taliban threats, Da’ish-ISIS had penetrated city streets. ISIS operatives were chopping off people’s heads in back alleys while the Taliban were drenching people in bloodbaths on the main streets.

He lowered the volume and said, “I want to share some news with you. Homeira, every land has its own specific laws. You pay no attention to the state that Kabul is in, nor do you pay any attention to my manhood. By being yourself, you call it into question.”

Taikkkk hhhhhh men are trashhh

It takes years and generations for men to accept strong women. And in the end, he felt more accountable to society than to me.

Beyond the window, the city was slumbering without apology. The big moon and star of the wedding hall neon sign were visibly blinking. Yes, the wedding hall that had stolen your father’s heart. Could his needs really be that silly, and that superficial? I guess they were. He wanted a place where he would be throned as a groom for a second time.

I called my mother. In gulped sentences punctuated by frequent sobbing, I told my mother what had happened and how my tears were drenching us in sadness. There was no response from the other side. I asked, “Mother, do you hear me?” Her shaking voice came back. “I wish I weren’t hearing this.” Again, the three of us cried . . . but Madar could not comfort me from so far away. Those were the most painful days. I am happy that you would not remember them.

But was it even possible to overcome such grief and suffering? I had taken my womanhood over all the impassible highways and byways of the land. I took revenge from the Taliban house confinement by burying myself in books. Yet thirteen years later, the man whom I loved and with whom I had a child had turned into a Talib, whether he dressed like one or not.

“Women can share anything, but not their husbands. This is the most difficult thing they demand of the women of Afghanistan.”

I think this statement is too shallow given the femicide and violence women faced there.

His jaw dropped, but soon he glared at me and scoffed, “My right has been decided by my religion and the Prophet, not by you.”

Ahahhaha I'm going crazy laughing at this statement

Could my rebelliousness really result in my broken bones? Had I just threatened the courage that Kabul had granted its men?

“Homeira, listen to me for once in your life. For how long are you willing to fight the whole world? When will your sword break? Remember, this time the tip of this dagger is pointed to your own eye. If you push, it will blind you. My granddaughter, your rejection doesn’t solve the problem. He is a man and will do what he wants to. His God and Prophet have permitted him. Are you fighting with him or with God?” Sobbing, I replied, “With both of them.”

I know that you’ve been told I am dead. But I am not dead, my dear Siawash. I am very much alive. I am your mother. My name is Homeira. And this is my voice.