Dancing in the Mosque Page 4

  I looked at the maulawi, at the girls’ naked legs, and at the other little girls, staring fearfully at me. “Baba-jan sent me to bring Zahra home,” I said. “She is sick.”

  In Afghanistan, to be taken seriously, a woman should be a messenger for a man, especially an elder.

  Maulawi Rashid looked at me, then at Zahra. He shrugged. “She came late.” He then turned to Zahra. “Get up and go, child.”

  He measured my body with those unblinking reptile eyes of his, then placed a finger on his lips. I grabbed Zahra’s hot hand and ran. Once outside, I felt sick. I knew Maulawi Rashid. I had a bad feeling about his hand on that girl’s thigh. On our way home, Zahra was silent. Wiping her tears away with the corner of her shawl, she held her Qur’an tight against her chest and wept. I felt very sad. Twice, I stopped to hug her. She was burning with fever.

  I knew I had to speak to Agha. I had been too ashamed to tell Agha what Maulawi Rashid had been doing in the river, but this was my little sister. I had to speak up. That wrinkled hand on that little girl’s thigh . . .

  Night had fallen. Darkness blanketed the walls of our courtyard while the stars glittered overhead in their millions. The world was silent. How wonderful to sit on the terrace, gazing at the luminous, star-veiled night instead of cowering in a dark basement beneath a sky lit with bullets. Agha was no longer fighting the Russians. Now, he was reading Russian literature.

  Herat’s 120 days of wind season had begun. A gentle breeze was blowing through the branches, filling our relieved hearts with peace. The soft sound of zephyr at night allowed us to sleep deeply, undisturbed. How different the soft hoo hoo of the wind was from the fearful Whoosh! Whoosh! of Russian rockets. The world was so tranquil that night, I didn’t want to ruin the calm atmosphere in our home by talking about that hateful maulawi. I let Agha read his novel, And Quiet Flows the Don. “What’s it about, Agha?”

  “It’s about the Russian wars.”

  “War again?” I said.

  Agha winked at me. “There’s also a love story in it.”

  That night, Herat was the most beautiful city in the world.

  The next day Zahra was diagnosed with chicken pox. She was too sick to go to school. The fever had weakened her, so Agha forbade her to go to the mosque. I was relieved because I hadn’t found the courage to speak with him about Maulawi Rashid.

  Mushtaq was still going to the mosque. I asked him whether Maulawi Rashid hit the boys. “All the time,” he said. “If we don’t do our homework, he makes us sit in a row with our hands raised and he whips them with a tree branch.”

  I was so angry! Why did he make the girls lie on their backs, bare their legs, and raise them into the air when the boys only had to lift up their hands?

  A week passed. Nanah-jan began nagging, waving her tasbeh. “Thank God, she has recovered and can continue her studies at the mosque.”

  Baba-jan agreed. “If Zahra is healthy, she should go.”

  The decision had been made. I was very upset; I had to find a way to tell Agha what I had seen Maulawi Rashid doing in the river.

  That night, I sat down next to Madar and Agha and hesitantly raised the issue. “Agha, must Zahra go to the mosque?”

  My father looked puzzled, “Homeira, your sister has recovered. Your Nanah-jan and Baba-jan want her to continue her religious studies.”

  Madar nodded. “She should go.”

  My father knew I had something to say; I had never sat down between them and involved myself in their decisions before. Madar looked at me. “What is it, child? What’s troubling you?”

  I told them everything that I’d seen in the mosque—about how Maulawi Rashid became very nervous that I had seen his hand on a girl’s thigh. I told them how he made the girls bare their legs for him to whip them, but the boys were only whipped on their hands. Agha listened carefully. When I’d finished, he kissed my forehead. “Go to bed, my daughter.”

  The next day when Zahra and I came home from school and ate lunch, Zahra picked up her Qur’an and put on her hijab. Madar stopped Zahra at the door and kissed her. “From now on, Zahra, Baba-jan will teach you the Qur’an.”

  A week later, I saw Maulawi Rashid performing his ablutions in the river. He pulled up his pants as soon as he saw me. I laughed in my heart. I had won.

  When the school closed for the summer holidays, my family decided to visit Kababian village, always a happy excursion for us children after years of being pinned in by the war.

  Baba-jan told Mushtaq to go tell Maulawi Rashid we’d be away on a vacation.

  Mushtaq hesitated. “Maulawi Sahib doesn’t allow kids to take a vacation,” he said. “He’ll think it’s just an excuse, so I can avoid studying the Qur’an and play soccer instead. He might think that I don’t want to pay his weekly stipend.”

  “Give Mushtaq the panj-shanbegui for the maulawi, so he can go on vacation,” Baba-jan said.

  “You give him the money,” Agha replied. “I don’t have money to waste on that man.”

  Hearing Agha’s words made me want to dance.

  “Even with this money, Maulawi Rashid won’t believe me,” Mushtaq said. “Homeira should come with me.” I was older and the family knew that Maulawi Rashid wouldn’t bother me. He was eyeing his little students. Besides, Mushtaq was with me as an extra precaution. Even then, I don’t know why I decided to go with him.

  The streets were empty. When we reached the mosque gate, we paused at the entrance. Mushtaq handed me the money. “Homeira, you go inside. I’ll wait here.”

  “Come inside with me,” I said. I really didn’t want to go into the mosque and face Maulawi Rashid alone. “You ask for your holiday and I’ll confirm we’re going away.”

  But Mushtaq pushed me through the gate. “Go! The gaadis, chariots, will be here any minute. I’ll wait here for them.”

  There were two pairs of shoes in the courtyard beside the door to the mosque, a small boy’s shoes and a pair of big shoes that I assumed were Maulawi Rashid’s. Taking off my shoes, I quietly entered. I walked into the prayer hall. The mosque was empty. I clutched the money tightly in my hand. I parted the curtain and entered the girls’ section. There was no one there either, but somebody had left a cup of green tea and a jar filled with deshlamah. Leaning down, I touched the teacup. It was still warm. Maulawi Rashid must be somewhere nearby. He wouldn’t go outside the mosque barefoot. I had a bad feeling about the silence and emptiness of that place. The money was damp in my hand.

  Then, in that heavy silence, I began to hear a low, muffled voice. I stopped, trying to determine where the sound was coming from. It was Maulawi Rashid’s voice, hoarse, almost a whisper. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. The sound of breathing: Ahhh . . . ahhh. No. Someone was saying something, very softly. I decided to find him.

  Nanah-jan materialized before my eyes. “Leave Maulawi Rashid alone . . .”

  I pressed my lips together. I didn’t want to leave him alone. He hadn’t left me alone that day by the river. And since that day, the image of him rubbing himself had haunted my nightmares. He hadn’t left me alone at all.

  The noise was coming from behind the minbar, the pulpit from where the maulawi ascends to preach the Friday sermon. The minbar was a wide set of stairs, enclosed on two sides, with a platform and railing at the top. The closer I got to the minbar, the clearer the sounds became. They seemed to be emanating from beneath the pulpit itself. I had never been behind the minbar before. The side of the minbar was open, enclosing the space beneath the raised platform, with a small door allowing entry that was half open. The voice was definitely coming from under the minbar, I could hear it clearly now, a small whimpering voice, Take your hands off . . . take your hands off . . . And ugly moaning sounds, Ahhh . . . ahhh.

  I opened the gate. What I saw froze my hand to the door’s wooden crossbar. Maulawi Rashid was sitting on the floor of the minbar with a six-year-old boy, whom I’ll call Moneer, on his lap. I’d seen Moneer in our street. Mushtaq said that he was a timi
d boy who didn’t play with the other kids, sitting on the sidelines during soccer games.

  Moneer’s pants were down. His face was white with fear. When he saw me, he began to cry. Startled, the maulawi heaved the poor boy off his lap. Maulawi Rashid turned to me, shouting, “What are you doing here, shameless girl!”

  I was speechless. The maulawi’s turban was askew. His face glistened with sweat. Moneer stood completely still, tears trickling down his cheeks. Maulawi Rashid was shaking, unsure whether to pull up his own pants first or Moneer’s. He hoisted his trousers up, then pulled up Moneer’s. Maulawi stepped toward me, his face contorted with anger. I heard the slap slap slap of Moneer’s bare feet as he ran away through the empty mosque.

  Maulawi Rashid grabbed my arm, pulling me into the minbar. He thrust his face up against my own. “You open your mouth, little beauty, and I will bring you in here and . . .”

  Moneer was gone. I was alone. It was me, Maulawi Rashid, and the minbar. The maulawi’s breath stank like rotting meat. The stench of his sweat was overpowering. He tried to push me against the wall of the minbar. I wrenched my arm away.

  “Homeira!”

  It was Mushtaq. Thank God! Wild-eyed, Maulawi Rashid turned. Seeing my brother, he began shouting, spittle flying from his lips, “How dare you bring a girl with breasts into my mosque! You . . . !”

  Maulawi Rashid turned back to me, his finger to his lips.

  “Hush.”

  Mushtaq turned and ran. I backed out of the minbar, then walked quickly out of the prayer hall, keeping an eye on Maulawi Rashid. He was standing paralyzed at the door of the minbar. I was drenched in sweat, but the air felt as cold as winter. Maulawi Rashid’s disgusting odor clung to me like a shroud.

  Mushtaq was waiting at the mosque gate, his face ashen. We ran home. Madar, Nanah-jan, and Baba-jan were still waiting in the courtyard for the gaadis. Mushtaq sat down on the ground, trying to catch his breath. I sat down beside him, holding my head in my hands. The money slipped from my sweaty palm, landing in the dirt by my feet.

  “Homeira! Why do you still have the money I gave you?” Baba-jan asked.

  I opened my mouth to reply. Suddenly, I began to cry.

  Madar hugged me. “What’s wrong, Homeira? What’s happened?

  My little brothers and sister stared at me, silent and worried. I heard the sound of the horse-drawn carriages approaching from down the street, clop clop clop. Sherang! Sherang! Nanah-jan was watching me.

  Agha came into the courtyard. “The gaadis are outside. Let’s go.” He looked at me, then at the worried faces of Madar and Nanah-jan. “Homeira, are you all right?”

  “She went to the mosque to pay for Mushtaq’s vacation,” Madar said.

  Agha’s face went white. “Homeira! What happened to you at the mosque?”

  Crying and sobbing, I told them everything. Tears welling in his eyes, my father hit his face again and again. Baba-jan kept repeating, In the name of God! In the name of God! while my Nanah-jan chanted, God forbid! over and over.

  His face clouded with anger, Agha headed for the door.

  Baba-jan intercepted him. “Wait! This is the entire neighborhood’s problem, not just yours and mine. We must postpone the trip to the village and deal with this matter at once.”

  My brothers began to cry. They had no idea what had happened. But Zahra knew. She didn’t ask why our vacation had been canceled.

  I couldn’t erase the image of the maulawi placing his finger on his lips. It wouldn’t leave my eyes. His voice whispered in my ears:

  “Hush.”

  His body odor was stuck in my nostrils. His hand still gripped my arm. The minbar still pressed against my back. Nanah-jan kept on repeating, God forbid . . . God forbid! I was so frightened. I wished I had left Maulawi Rashid alone.

  Before noon, the neighborhood elders assembled in our house. My mother made tea for everyone. I was sitting under the mulberry tree in our courtyard, unable to move. Nanah-jan made me a drink of rose water with sugar cubes, but I couldn’t drink.

  Voices were raised inside the house, but I couldn’t make out what was being said. Agha told me to stay in the courtyard until he called me. Mushtaq sat silently above me in the mulberry tree. Agha planned to call my brother to testify as well. He wanted us to tell the elders what we had seen in the mosque.

  Mushtaq called down to me, “Homeira! I didn’t see anything.”

  I looked up at him, “We are supposed to tell them whatever we saw. So you must say what you saw.”

  Around noon, Agha called my brother and me into the house. I sat down behind my father. My body began shaking again. As soon as I started talking, the adhan echoed across the neighborhood. Nanah-jan always told us to remain silent during the adhan. “It is the adhan. You must listen and not speak. It is a sin if you talk during the adhan.”

  It was Maulawi Rashid’s voice. I would not remain silent while that vile voice was in my ears! Mushtaq and I related everything that we saw, everything that Maulawi Rashid did and said. I spoke first; then my brother. After we had finished, Agha told our neighbors about Zahra’s illness and what had happened to her at the mosque.

  The elders sat silently listening, they didn’t raise their heads to look at me or Mushtaq. Finally, one of them asked in a gentle voice, “Did you recognize that little boy? Do you know him?”

  “Yes, it was Moneer,” I said. Mushtaq nodded.

  “Bring Moneer here,” the man said.

  Baba-jan held up his hand. “Please, it is better that we don’t tell everyone about this. Moneer is young and he must grow up in this city. Think about his reputation. If you believe my two grandchildren are telling the truth, then the man we must confront is Maulawi Rashid.”

  Looking over at me, an old man with a long white beard said, “So, child, whatever you’ve said is exactly what you saw?”

  I started crying. Wiping away my tears on my shawl, I said, “I swear on my Agha’s head that I am telling the truth.”

  That afternoon, I came down with a fever. By nightfall, it was much worse. During the night, Madar cooled me by placing wet towels on my forehead and my feet. I had a nightmare that Maulawi Rashid was crushing me in his embrace.

  In the morning, I was too weak to get out of bed. Mushtaq came and whispered in my ear, “The men went and had a talk with Maulawi Rashid. You could hear him yelling from inside the mosque. He told them that you were sinful and a liar. Maulawi Rashid shouted, ‘God will never forgive a false accusation.’”

  The neighborhood elders gave Maulawi Rashid two days to leave the mosque. They began looking for another maulawi.

  Two days later, Maulawi Rashid was gone. Moneer’s name was kept secret by the white-bearded neighborhood elders. Mushtaq and I were warned not to say anything to anybody. Nodding his head, Mushtaq silently agreed. Because I was a girl, the elders were, ironically, less concerned about me gossiping. Now that my breasts had begun to show, I wouldn’t be allowed to go out in the streets to see my friends anymore.

  Dear son,

  Today is your birthday. I no longer measure the annual cycle from the seasonal shift of spring and winter. Only when your birthday arrives do I feel another year has passed without you. I wait to hear about you, night and day. I wait, in the hope that someone will send me a picture of you. But I am in no hurry. I know full well that it may take a long time before we can see each other again.

  I consistently missed the opportunities to see your “firsts” at this stage of your life. I only wish that I could have had the opportunity to hear your voice. Sometimes I am in such despair that I fear the pain will crush me. Still I am not thinking of giving up. I know that Islam has been turned into an instrument of retribution. It has been turned into a stone with which to strike people, especially women.

  I have hired an attorney to petition the courts for the right to talk to you. The law must be stronger than the men of that land, I thought. But my attorney wrote to me last night, “The court has determined that the child belong
s to the father under any and all circumstances.” The court won’t grant a mother her most basic rights.

  My dear son, on your birthday I am as lonely a traveler as all the travelers in the world. A traveler who could not even for one last time wave at or kiss the face of the beloved she had left behind. A traveler with a big, empty, and heavy suitcase. I can tolerate the weight of most days away from you, but not the weight of being away from you on your birthday.

  On your second birthday, when I was already gone, I sent you a doll and a few storybooks with colorful pictures. But your father had said, “What dead person can send gifts!” and never gave them to you. He would rather you think I am dead than longing for you. This is my punishment, I guess. So, on this, your birthday, I sit by a candle with this pen and paper near the window, wondering if I should have listened to Nanah-jan’s warnings and respected the patriarchal order of the city. Then at least I would have you.

  It’s better I stop writing and pray that at the moment you blow your birthday candles, without your father noticing, you make a wish to God for my return to you. God can bring any dead person back to life.

  Happy Birthday, my little one,

  Happy Birthday, my lovely son,

  Happy Birthday, my Siawash.

  5

  The Red Shoes

  At the beginning of the civil war, our neighbor Sharifah, a good friend of Madar, had two children, a daughter, Ranaa, and Mohammad, their Shah-Pesar.

  Ranaa was a few months older than I. She was born in the season when the pomegranates ripened, but I was born at the end of winter. Azizah always teased me that I was the offspring of a barren season. Mohammad was the same age as Mushtaq.

  Sharifah had given birth to Mohammad at her mother’s house in Zendahjan village. Sharifah’s husband, Omar, a storekeeper, longed for sons. As long as I can remember in the years I was growing up, Sharifah was always pregnant. She used to visit us in her swollen burqa and sit groaning, in the throes of another pregnancy, while her daughters sat beside her in a row.