Dancing in the Mosque Read online

  During the civil war, Ranaa and Mohammad often stayed with us. Madar was happy to keep her best friend’s children safe from harm in our cellar. We used to play together under Nanah-jan’s watchful eyes. She had a strict rule that boys only played with boys and girls only with girls. Poor Mohammad was always crossing that red line. Whenever Ranaa, Azizah, and I were playing with dolls, Mohammad would sit down and begin to play with us. Nanah-jan would lead him by the hand back to where Mushtaq was playing marbles. Mohammad would pull Mushtaq’s hair and scream until Mushtaq got mad, knocking him down and sitting on his stomach.

  When I was nine, the warring factions declared a cease-fire during Eid, the post-Ramadan festival. Nanah-jan found some henna. She told Azizah to get Ranaa from her house so that we three girls could have our hands painted. I’ve always loved the smell of moist henna. Bolting out the door before Azizah, I ran through Sharifah’s big wooden gate, calling, “Ranaa! Come! Nanah-jan has made henna for us!”

  Sharifah appeared in the hallway, heavy with her latest pregnancy, with Mohammad following behind. She handed me a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth. “Take this to your mother, Homeira-jan. It is all I have to offer. Mohammad and I will follow.”

  Azizah, Ranaa, and I waited and waited while Madar and Sharifah reminisced about past Eid feasts, long before I was born. “I remember the sofrah spread across the floor covered with cookies, noqol, raisins, roasted peas, and almonds,” Madar said.

  Azizah, Ranaa, and I sat in a row next to the henna bowl. Mohammad crawled over and sat down close to me. I tucked my skirt under my legs, so I wouldn’t absorb the scent of a boy.

  Placing small, triangular wrapping cloths beside her, Nanah-jan sat down in front of us. Mohammad was staring at the henna bowl. Nanah-jan took Azizah’s hand in her own and began to draw henna patterns on her palm. Nanah-jan wrapped her tasbeh around Azizah’s wrist and said, “Allah, for the sake of this day and night, keep war away from this land. Now, please, children, say ‘Ameen.’”

  Everyone said “Ameen” in unison, except me. Nanah-jan hit my leg with the tasbeh. “Why are you silent, child? If you don’t say ‘Ameen,’ there will be no henna for you, Homeira.”

  “I will say ‘Ameen’ to Mushtaq’s jinni, Nanah-jan! Your Allah doesn’t have a plate of rice for us, not even on Eid.”

  “You are such a silly girl! Allah doesn’t concern Himself with such small things, child. If you don’t say ‘Ameen’ . . .”

  I cried, “A bowl of rice is not a small thing.”

  Nanah-jan said, “You either say ‘Ameen’ or your hand will never be decorated with henna.”

  “AMEEN!” I shouted. “AMEEN! AMEEN! AMEEN!”

  I held out my hand. “Nanah-jan, please draw the jinni of the magic lamp on this hand and the monster Barzanghi on my other.”

  “What! Why would you want that, Homeira?”

  I held my palms nearly touching. “I want the lamp jinni to fight with Barzanghi to see who wins.”

  Nanah-jan traced henna lines on my palm, then wrapped a cloth around my hand to hold the henna in place until it dried.

  Next, Nanah-jan painted Ranaa’s hands and wrapped them. There was a small amount of henna left in the bowl. Holding out his palm, Mohammad sidled over to Nanah-jan. “Please,” he said, “paint a design on my hand.”

  We girls all laughed. “Mohammad smells like a girl!” I said, giggling. Nanah-jan used the rest of the henna to draw a star on Azizah’s hand, then tied a wrapping cloth around it. Mohammad crawled into his mother’s arms and wept.

  On the day of Eid, Madar gave bangle bracelets to Azizah, Ranaa, and me. Mine were green, Ranaa’s were red, and Azizah’s were yellow. We traded our bangles; every day I wore a different color. Sharifah gave each of us two hard-boiled eggs without names painted on them. Mohammad traded me his eggs for a chance to wear my bracelets.

  Arms outstretched, he began to dance in our yard. The bangles tinkled like a tambourine as he swooped and twirled. Sherang! Sherang! His face glowing, he asked if he could come over and wear them again. I took pity on him because I’d so seldom seen him smile. “Take them home with you. You can bring them back tomorrow.”

  Mohammad’s face clouded over. He smacked his lips. “I can’t. My father will kill me.”

  The next day, he brought a piece of naan for me, slid my bangles onto his slender wrist, and danced again on our terrace.

  “Your boy is spending all his time with the girls, Sharifah-jan,” Nanah-jan said when Sharifah came over to take her Shah-Pesar home. “He must play with boys if he is to grow into full manhood.” Pregnant again and as large as a washtub, Sharifah drew Mohammad to her, wiping her tears away with her shawl as she slowly walked him home.

  During the cease-fire, Agha brought me a pair of high-heeled shoes. They were red and shiny with beads on their toes. When I walked on the terrace, they talked to me with every step: chek chek chek. I was very happy because they were too small for either Azizah or Ranaa.

  One morning when the streets were drawing their uneasy breath in the lull before the crackle of gunfire, Ranaa knocked on our door, yelling, “Come quick! Hurry! The baby is coming!”

  “Ranaa, you and Mohammad stay here,” Madar said, throwing on her hijab. “Baba-jan, please look after the children. I’m going with Nanah-jan to help Sharifah.”

  “I hope it’s a boy this time,” Ranaa said. “My father will be so happy . . .”

  “Your father isn’t happy with Mohammad?” I asked.

  Ignoring me, Ranaa began to play with one of my dolls.

  Mohammad crawled over and sat next to me. He touched my hand. “Homeira, would you let me wear your shoes?”

  “Which shoes?”

  Mohammad looked at his feet. “The ones that make a chek chek chek sound when you walk.”

  “Those shoes?” I said, my mouth hanging open. “But they are red, they have beads on them . . . they are girls’ shoes!”

  “They are beautiful,” he whispered and began to cry.

  I begged Mohammad not to cause trouble for us. I was afraid that Nanah-jan would get angry if she heard I’d lent Mohammad my shoes, and Mushtaq was a terrible tattletale. I was afraid the ogre Barzanghi would come and drag me away to his lair.

  Mushtaq brought over his marbles, but Mohammad pushed him away, tugging at my shawl and crying. Mushtaq disapprovingly ignored him and went over to a corner and began shooting marbles against the wall.

  We girls lined up our dolls and had a tea party. Ranaa was the hostess and Azizah, I, and the dolls were her guests. She poured water in our glasses. “Have some nice hot tea, dears.”

  “Donkeys! Nobody serves tea without sweets,” Mushtaq yelled from across the room.

  “When people are dying of hunger because of the war, we should be grateful to at least have tea to drink,” Ranaa replied.

  Then, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, just like Nanah-jan, she said, “Please, dears, enjoy your tea.”

  Suddenly, the stutter of machine guns shattered the silence. An angry swarm of invisible bullets buzzed outside the window. Woken from his nap, Baba-jan ran into the room. “Everyone into the cellar!” he shouted. He looked around. “Where’s Mohammad?”

  Mohammad was gone. The unseen bullets were everywhere. Baba-jan looked out the window. “My God!” he shouted.

  He ran out into the courtyard. We children all gathered at the window. Mohammad was dancing in the yard wearing my red shoes.

  Sharifah gave birth to another girl. Derisively telling Sharifah that her daughters were of no use to him, Omar left the house and didn’t return for weeks. He said he was done with her. In the weeks that followed, Madar visited Sharifah often.

  Omar’s wish for posterity through a male lineage was never granted. Luckily, their house was never bombed and his brood of daughters all survived. After giving birth to eight girls, Sharifah’s hair turned gray. “Every person’s destiny is different,” she told Madar. “Had I not given birth only to girls, I would be the lucki
est woman in the world.”

  Mohammad and Mushtaq were no longer allowed to play with girls. We were grown up now and banned from the street. Mohammad spent most of his time sitting in his father’s grocery store or going to the mosque with his father. I’d see him carrying water from the river to irrigate their fruit trees or sitting on the soccer field, watching the other boys play. He never joined a team or chased the ball around the field. I often saw him sitting on the riverbank, staring at the river.

  “Our voices are now deeper than Mohammad’s,” Mushtaq said. “When he speaks, it is like a sparrow chirping. Whenever there’s a scuffle with the boys from the next block, Mohammad runs away and hides behind a tree.”

  One day I was sitting under our mulberry tree reading. Suddenly, I heard yelling and the sound of running feet. In the distance, dogs were barking, their enraged howling getting louder by the moment. The shouting got closer. Mohammad and Mushtaq threw themselves into our yard, slamming the gate behind them. His chest heaving, Mohammad leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. I hadn’t seen Mohammad in a while.

  “Mushtaq, what happened?” I shouted. “Are you all right now?” I asked Mohammad.

  He nodded. “I’m fine. Just keep the gate closed. Those dogs . . .” His voice was high and trembling.

  Mushtaq was now taller and heavier than Mohammad, who had a delicate face with full lips and thin, arching eyebrows. “Look, Mohammad,” I said. “Your feet are still the same size as mine.” When I placed my foot next to his, I noticed a red stain on his white sneaker. “My God,” I said. “You’re bleeding!”

  A trickle of blood was dripping onto the ground from the edge of Mohammad’s shoe. Mushtaq’s face went white. “Are you hurt?”

  Mohammad wrapped his arms around his stomach. Mushtaq knelt down and rolled up Mohammed’s trouser. A line of blood was running down his calf. Mohammad groaned, his face ashen. Mushtaq rolled the trouser cuff halfway up Mohammad’s thigh, but the injury was somewhere higher. His leg was pale and shapely. And hairless. Mushtaq pulled his hands away as if they’d been scorched.

  Mohammad bent over double and began to cry. Mushtaq reached for Mohammad’s tunic. “Let me see your stomach. You must have cut yourself climbing over the wall.”

  Mohammad pushed Mushtaq away. The blood had darkened the crotch of his trousers. Mohammad’s truth hit me like a clap of thunder on a cloudless day. All these years, that truth had been hidden beneath his clothes. Dumbstruck, I leaned against the wall. Mushtaq hadn’t figured it out. I wrapped my arms around Mohammad. “Don’t be frightened, dear,” I said. “All us girls reach puberty one day. Yours is early and you didn’t know.”

  Sobbing loudly, he leaned his head against my shoulder. Mushtaq screamed, his face frozen in shock.

  Mohammad wiped his tears on his sleeve. “My mother told me to run home whenever this happens. This was all my father’s idea. He made me wear boys’ clothes, so our relatives would think that God had given them a boy. My father demanded a boy to remove the shame of a family of girls. My father threatened to divorce my mother and remarry if she didn’t agree. He needed a boy to open the store and clean up before closing; a boy who could shop in the market.”

  Mohammad stepped out of my embrace and turned to Mushtaq. “My name is Afsanah. Only Ranaa, my mother, and father know.”

  Mushtaq was in shock. He wouldn’t look at Afsanah. Suddenly, a high wall stood between him and his childhood companion; the door of their friendship had slammed shut.

  Mushtaq and I kept Mohammad/Afsanah’s secret safe for another two years. She hid behind Mushtaq whenever the boys were fighting. She cleaned her father’s store, ran errands to the market, and prayed beside her father at the mosque. The neighbors all thanked God that Omar had at least one son to keep his household bathed in light. At night, when everyone was asleep, Mushtaq would sneak over next to me and talk about Mohammad/Afsanah, telling me about her laughter, her hair, her sparkling green eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to call her Afsanah. For Mushtaq, she was Mohammad, a he.

  Nanah-jan turned to Sharifah. “That son of yours, Mohammad, doesn’t look or smell like a boy. You should pay more attention to him. Look at our Mushtaq! Hair is sprouting above his lips. His voice has grown deeper. He’s turning into a man.”

  Mushtaq said. “Nanah-jan, what is the advantage of being a man? As soon as the back of our lips darkens we have to go to war.”

  The next day, Afsanah stopped by our house to borrow some yeast. I invited her in. We sat talking behind the window. “So, Mohammad, when will you get a mustache?” I asked, winking. She laughed. “I can’t wait to begin wearing girls’ clothes, so we can spend more time together.”

  “Insha-Allah,” I said, hugging her.

  Nanah-jan began screaming. “What is it?” I shouted, jumping down from the window bench. “A rocket attack?”

  “Homeira! How many years have I been telling you that boys play with boys and girls play with girls?” Nanah-jan yelled, swinging her tasbeh at me like a whip. “Have you no shame, girl, crawling into a boy’s arms, where your breasts could touch his body!”

  I ducked and ran to Madar while Afsanah ran out the door. “Nanah-jan is right, Homeira. You are fourteen now,” Madar said. “Don’t bring scandal down on our heads.”

  Nanah-jan began praying for me. “How could you do this to us? You smell like a boy now, God forbid! I wish I were blind so I’d never seen such wicked behavior.”

  Finally, baggy shirts and coats could no longer hide Afsanah’s breasts. Overnight, she began wearing girls’ clothes, was banned from the street, and the light was extinguished in Omar and Sharifah’s household. Afsanah came over to visit wearing a black skirt and a red short-sleeved blouse, her breasts showing proudly beneath the fabric. Her hair now touched her shoulders. Mushtaq was in the yard when Afsanah removed her burqa. My brother’s face lit up in a huge smile. Afsanah dropped her head and turned away, blushing.

  All that afternoon, Nanah-jan drank glass after glass of rose water while Mushtaq and I laughed and laughed.

  But the time of our joyous laughter didn’t last very long. The civil war had spread throughout the country. The roads were barricaded by battling factions. Travel outside the city was extremely dangerous.

  The warring factions entered Kabul and took over the government. The mujahideen groups who had stood together in protecting the people against the Russian invaders had now realigned along ethnic and tribal lines. Pashtuns, Tajiks, Uzbeks, and Hazaras splintered into hostile political factions, fighting each other for political control of the country. This internal power struggle was worse than the battles against the Soviet occupiers.

  Herat was in ruins. Tens of thousands of people had died. Young people, the generation born in the 1970s and ‘80s, had been decimated, either killed in the wars or turned into refugees living in squalid tents beyond Afghanistan’s borders. The face of my lovely city had been stripped of its beauty; only a jumbled skeleton remained.

  Dear Siawash,

  My heart was in knots this afternoon and I was filled with anxiety. I had a feeling that something bad was going to happen. Very early in the morning, I called Madar at home in Herat. I knew she must’ve woken up for the prayer. Madar never goes back to bed after her morning prayers. She had the habit of starting her cleaning in the early hours of the dark of morning. After a few rings, I heard her calming voice and asked her if everything was all right. She took a deep sigh and said: “This land trembles in our hands and hearts every day, but nothing out of the ordinary has happened.” In the background, I could hear the sound of running water and rattling dishes being washed.

  I couldn’t help myself. It was as if there were fire under my feet. I called your Uncle Jaber. He didn’t pick up the phone. I left a Facebook message for him. I asked him how things were in Kabul. His messenger light turned green. He responded at six in the morning and said, “When will you learn to live a life in your own time zone? It’s six in the morning in Kabul. What could�
��ve happened?”

  Jaber used to be rather short-fused. He was among those who blamed me for not being able to comply with society’s demands. He wasn’t rejecting me, but he always believed that what people say matters. He would say, “A woman is a woman, and it isn’t right for a woman to get ahead of society’s norms.” Still, after your father didn’t let me hear your voice or have a picture of you, Jaber felt sorry for me and said, “Being a woman is like being in quicksand. The more you struggle to stay afloat, the deeper you sink.” But sometimes, Jaber seems to have turned into another Nanah-jan. He would say, “If you had accepted your womanhood, you wouldn’t be suffering this much.”

  I told him that I had a sense that something was wrong, that you, Siawash, were sick or unhappy.

  Jaber’s reply: “Leave his son alone.”

  It’s not just your uncle who does that: they all describe you as “his” son. Do you know how painful it is to hear that even my own family members consider you “his” son and not mine? Do they mean to hurt me, or are they just victims of the law and the patriarchal traditions? I have repeatedly objected and reminded them that you are my son as well, but my voice must sound weaker than the voice of the law and the traditions. How much can I fight with them?

  But none of that matters as much as the reason I was speaking to him in the first place.

  I had heard that there had been a suicide bombing across the street from where I think you go to kindergarten. A Facebook posting said that all the kindergarten windows had been shattered. You must have been very, very frightened.

  So I was frantically trying to find someone who could tell me you were all right. All morning, I’d been scanning the images of the casualties on Facebook, looking for your face, hoping I wouldn’t see you in the wreckage. Nobody had any news of you—dead or alive. But I’m not even sure I would recognize a picture of you.