Dancing in the Mosque Page 7

  Teaching a class of boys and girls together was another red line that I crossed.

  Over the months, the children learned to speak softly. Even the rowdiest boys understood the danger and usually behaved. We were like mice, silent and nervous, hiding in the walls from a hungry cat that could pounce on us at any time.

  I had been teaching for nearly nine months in that huge tent made of heavy canvas. Thin shafts of sunlight entered through a few scattered holes in the tent’s worn fabric, casting dust-filled beams of light into the shadows. The floor was trampled earth, with a few threadbare carpets to soften the rocks and pebbles. Not a breath of wind moved within the canvas walls.

  It was so hot that one could smell the melting plastic from the children’s cheap footwear.

  The mullah had warned the children time and again not to leave their shoes inside the mosque. But because their shoes were cheaply made in Pakistan from recycled plastic, and because they were the only shoes they owned, and because these shoes would melt into colored puddles of plastic if left outside under the blazing sun, the children chose to defy the mullahs. I had suggested that the children hide their shoes beneath a fold of the tent where it touched the earth, but they wouldn’t listen to me.

  The afternoon was the worst time to enter the mosque. The foul smell of perspiring bodies and unwashed socks was overwhelming. The stench made breathing difficult and became even worse as the afternoon grew hotter.

  The children begged me to roll up two of the mosque’s canvas walls to allow at least some of the stinking air to escape. But I didn’t dare because of the Taliban checkpoint.

  The other advantage of keeping the tent flaps down was that they served as curtains, so I didn’t have to endure the ordeal of my burqa. The pleats of the fabric hindered my movements, wrapping around my feet. I often stumbled when walking and sometimes fell. 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 been almost impossible when wearing my burqa.

  On days when I had to hide within my burqa, my brain became so badly stewed that I often forgot to check my students’ homework and exercise books. Sometimes I even forgot their names. But even on the hottest days, I never forgot when it was time to chase the children from the tent and slip away myself.

  I was teaching during Cheleh Tamuz, the hottest month of Herat’s 120-day season of heat, humidity, and wind—a dusty time of burning sun and torrid temperatures. Each day, one or two students suffered nosebleeds during class. The girls flapped their shawls to cool off while the boys fanned themselves with their notebooks, hidden within the pages of their Qur’ans.

  It was during one of those steamy summer days—the time of year when the mulberries ripen on the banks of the Injil River and fall into the water—that we dared to dance in the mosque.

  On that hot, dusty, fateful day, the girls were sitting in a circle telling stories while the boys listened quietly. The students jumped up and greeted me in unison in their high-pitched voices, “Salaam, Moalem Sahib. Greetings, madam teacher.”

  “Greetings to you, my students.” I looked to my right and left to make certain that the mosque’s entrance and exit curtains were rolled all the way down.

  The girls fanned themselves with their shawls and said, “Madam teacher, it is so hot in here. The mosque has turned into hell.”

  I loosened my shawl from my neck and looked around. “Why are there so few of you here today? Where are the other girls and boys? Does anyone know?” I asked.

  Yarghal jumped up, laughing. “Madam teacher, last night we had a wedding here in the tent city. Shah Mohammad Khan’s daughter married Ghafoor Khan’s son.” Yarghal waved his arm with his hand bent over. “Shah Mohammad Khan’s daughter has one hand shorter than the other, like so!”

  The boys all laughed. Then Faisal shouted, “No! You’re wrong, Yarghal. Her one foot is shorter than the other.” He stretched out his legs and twisted his hips so one foot appeared shorter. “Like this!”

  Zarghuna, another student, stood up, holding her hands together in front of her shawl. She glanced down at Yarghal and Faisal, then looked me in the eye. “Madam teacher, it is a lie.” She continued, “The eyes of the boys are all crooked.” She turned to the boys and crossed her eyes, “Like this!”

  The girls covered their faces with their shawls, their laughter fluttering around the darkened mosque like the chirping of sparrows. I couldn’t help but laugh as well. I turned to the boys. “It is not honorable to make fun of a woman’s appearance,” I said. “Especially if it is not true.”

  The boys groaned. “Moalem Sahib,” Yarghal said, “you always side with the girls.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I am a girl. We must look out for each other. Now, tell me, why is the class so much smaller today?”

  Yarghal stood up again. He held on to the waist of his oversize pants with one hand while he gestured with the other. “Last night there was a wedding celebration. And today was the takht-jamee party, the post-wedding ritual welcoming the bride to her new house, so the girls went there to dance.”

  Under the Taliban, dancing was strictly forbidden. Shah Mohammad Khan had commandeered an abandoned house with high walls and an inner courtyard. The wedding guests arrived furtively, a few at a time, and made their way inside, while the groom’s brothers, armed and vigilant, kept watch. Perhaps Shah Mohammad Khan had bribed the Taliban to stay away. And they must have played the wedding music very softly. Weddings among the refugees were usually quiet, somber, and joyless affairs, but Heratis still found ways to celebrate marriages in private.

  Faisal raised his hand. “Most of the girls have not come to learn today, but we boys are all here. Those silly girls know nothing but dancing. As soon as they hear the sound of the tambourine they start twirling their shawls and waving their arms, and . . . and start”—Faisal made a face as if he had just eaten a bitter lemon—“dancing.”

  Bilal raised his hand. “No, teacher, some of the boys have also not come to the mosque today. They also went to the groom’s house to watch the girls dance.”

  “Zarghuna danced very nicely last night at the wedding,” Mahrukh whispered. “She is a very good dancer. All the women clapped for her.”

  “Is she telling the truth?” Yarghal asked. “You, Zarghuna, with the crooked hands and the crossed eyes know how to dance?”

  “Is this really true, Zarghuna?” I asked. Although it was really no surprise. At eleven, Zarghuna was one of the most graceful girls in the class, with delicate hands and arms that moved like the wings of a swan when she adjusted her shawl. I could imagine her twirling to the jingling of the tambourines. She was a beautiful child; it pained me to think about what her future held.

  Zarghuna blushed again, lowering her eyes. “Mahrukh also danced,” she said, very softly.

  I turned to the two girls. “I did not know that you even knew how to dance. Well done, my girls!”

  Zarghuna’s blue eyes glowed and Mahrukh’s rosy face blossomed into a smile. I glimpsed Monisah nodding her head. A shy, tiny creature with dark skin, she was sitting, as usual, beside the blackboard with her shawl wrapped around her face. She drew her shawl away from her mouth.

  “Wait!” I said. “Monisah wishes to tell us something. You may speak, my dear.”

  Monisah looked down at the dirt floor. “Can you also dance, madam teacher?”

  “What a donkey!” Yarghal said. “When someone becomes a moalem, they must know everything.”

  The boys all started laughing. I tried not to laugh. I didn’t want to hurt Monisah’s feelings. “Hush! Hush! Students, you must be quiet. Please! Children! We must not make so much noise.”

  I smoothed my shawl with my hands. “I am not a dance teacher. I am your reading and writing teacher.”

  Zarghuna said, “Dear teacher, it is a pity that you don’t know how to dance.”

  Yarghal jumped up. “I’ve got it!” He pointed at Zarg
huna. “You, Zarghuna, can teach our teacher how to dance.” Then he pointed at me. “And you, Moalem Sahib, can teach us how to read and write.”

  The girls laughed. Zarghuna turned to me. “Do you accept, dear teacher?”

  A hot breath of mischief stirred in my soul. “Yessss!” I said. “But on the condition that we begin today.”

  Everyone started laughing and clapping. Zarghuna said, “There is one condition. There can be no boys here.”

  “Where should we boys go on this hot afternoon?” Faisal asked. “This is hell, but it is the only shade.”

  “I am not moving!” Yarghal said.

  I raised my hand again. The class went silent. “I will learn to dance on another day.”

  I turned to Zarghuna. “Would you perform the dance that you danced last night?”

  Mastorah said, “Madam teacher, the Taliban will come. They will hear us.”

  Faisal said, “We won’t clap. We will watch quietly.”

  Mahrukh nudged Zarghuna’s shoulder. “Stand up, dear, our teacher wants to see you dance.”

  Zarghuna shook her head and pointed toward the sitting boys. “Dear teacher, I am afraid that these boys will tell their families that I danced in front of them.”

  “We are not gossips!” Shahab said. “It is women who gossip.”

  Lailuma waved the corner of her shawl at Shahab. “You, Shahab, for shame! I see you every evening in front of the mosque gossiping with the others.”

  Yarghal said, “I am the worst gossip in the class and I swear that I will keep my mouth shut.”

  The other boys nodded.

  I said, “I will stand by the tent wall to keep an eye on the Taliban checkpoint. It is the afternoon guards’ shift. They are lazy in the heat and will be sleeping in the shade.”

  Monisah pulled her shawl away from her face. “I am frightened, teacher.”

  Zarghuna scowled at her. “I would dance in front of these boys, but you are afraid.”

  “Let me stand by the entrance curtain,” Faisal said. “I have seen the mullah spying on us. One day, if I had not hidden my notebook inside my trousers, he would have found out we are not writing aayas from the Qur’an in our notebooks. I think he is suspicious of you, dear teacher.”

  “Is someone here gossiping about our classroom?” Zarghuna asked, searching the other children’s faces.

  “The mullah came to our tent and told my father not to have us children commit immoral acts in the mosque,” Mastorah said. “And my father said, ‘It is you elders who are immoral. These children know nothing about immorality.’

  “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.”

  There was a shocked silence.

  “I think it is time now for Zarghuna to dance,” I said. I positioned myself beside the mosque’s entrance tarp, keeping a sharp ear for any footsteps outside. Zarghuna stood up and walked over to mehrab, a niche where the mullah usually stands to lead the prayers. She held the ends of her shawl in her hands and began to dance lightly on her tiptoes. Her arms floated on the air like a bird’s wings, feathered by her many-hued shawl, while her fingers fluttered like leaves in the wind. Her midnight hair reached below her waist, swaying to the right and left in tempo with her supple movements. Her head turned from one shoulder to the other, following her dainty steps. Her shawl flew out around her as she spun, a luminous crimson cloud that floated on the heavy air. Her eyes were downcast in modesty and her cheeks were flushed to the color of roses. I had never noticed before just how beautiful she was.

  I took a quick peek outside into the blinding afternoon light. The street in front of the tent was empty. Shading my eyes, I squinted into the distance. The checkpoint was also empty. I stepped back into the tent to watch Zarghuna. I began to clap in tempo to her movements. I could not stop myself; I was entranced.

  And then the girls began to clap in time to Zarghuna’s steps. The boys soon followed. The seated children were swaying back and forth as if listening to some unheard mysterious music. Yarghal’s face was shining. “Do you know how to dance, Yarghal?” I said, raising my voice above the clapping.

  Yarghal jumped up and began to dance around Zarghuna, his arms outstretched and his hands pirouetting at the wrists, mimicking her delicate movements. “Now we are sure that Yarghal will not gossip,” Faisal said, laughing. “He’s in the middle of this for everyone to see.”

  Yarghal glanced over at me. “Come on, dear teacher! It is easy to dance.”

  It was magical. The mosque was transformed. We were all laughing and clapping. The oppressive heat was forgotten. The notebooks were hidden in the Qur’ans and the girls hid their pens in their hair. Faisal drummed his hands on his knees. Zarghuna danced around the tent pole at the center of the mosque, her face radiant, while Yarghal circled around her, trying to imitate her steps. Shy Monisah’s shawl had fallen away from her face. Her smile lit up the shadows.

  “Well done, students!” I called. “Your dancing deserves a grade of one hundred percent.”

  Suddenly, I heard a noise beyond the fabric wall. I froze. I saw a stick lifting the heavy curtain that formed the door to the mosque. The muzzle of a rifle appeared, but the Talib’s face was still hidden outside. I could only hope that he hadn’t seen me in the dimness of the mosque. The curtain drew back farther. Now I could see heavy black boots and the black cuffs of baggy trousers. Our noise must have drawn the Talib’s attention on his way to the checkpoint.

  I flew to the center of the mosque, hoping the shadows would hide me. The children must have seen the fear on my face. They scattered like frightened pigeons before a stalking cat. Zarghuna collapsed onto the floor as if shot and threw her shawl over her head. The girls huddled together, hiding their faces behind their scarves. The boys scrambled to the back of the tent and sat down quickly in a ragged row. Poor Yarghal dove under the minbar. In the sudden, complete silence, I could hear the Talib’s stick sliding along the thick fabric at the mosque’s entrance.

  I was trembling so much that I could barely lift up my burqa. My legs were about to collapse. Softly and very slowly I put the burqa over my head. I did not know whether it was better to confront the Talib at the entrance or wait where I stood until he entered the mosque. I doubt I could have taken the ten steps to reach the entrance anyway.

  Then the Talib stepped inside. His voice rang out through the tent. My heart stopped. I was too frightened to understand what he was saying. He spoke again, his beard shaking with anger. He lifted up the thick canvas with his hand to let in more light, squinting into the shadows. He was a tall man, dressed in black, with a long, thin face set beneath a huge black turban. His hooded eyes, lined in black kohl, were like two drops of midnight. When he swiveled his head, searching the tent, his stare reminded me of a vulture, the bird that only feasts on the dead. His long black beard hung from hollow cheeks, almost hiding his narrow, bloodless lips. The muzzle of his Kalashnikov swung in an arc across the room, following his eyes.

  He started shouting, but my ears were filled with the thumping of my heart. I tried to breathe slowly under my burqa. My hands were sweating. My knees were trembling. My head was spinning. The entire city was falling on my head. I didn’t think I would be able to stand much longer; my whole body wanted to lie down and crawl away into a corner. The Talib barked again.

  Then another Talib stepped into the tent from behind the canvas. He was younger and seemed much calmer. His face was pale, and his thin beard was almost blond. His rifle was slung on his shoulder. The older Talib was still shouting. The younger Talib made a gesture for silence. This surprised me. He leaned forward, squinting. “This mosque is as dark as a grave,” he said. “What is going on here?”

  Blackbeard stopped shouting and his beard stopped moving. The young Talib asked again, “What are you doing here? My comrade”—he pointed with his chin at Blackbeard—“told me he heard noises and clapping.” His gaze swep
t the huddled children. “Is that true?”

  I relaxed a little. They probably had not seen us dancing. I started to explain. Blackbeard shouted at me in Pashto. The young Talib raised a calming hand and said in Dari, “My comrade says you must not speak because we are not mahram, so it is sinful to hear your voice.”

  Blackbeard slapped his stick against the tent wall and spewed out more angry phrases in Pashto. The young Talib shrugged and turned to the boys. “Boys, tell me, what is happening here?”

  The poor boys were shaking worse than I was. Before they could answer, I spoke again, hurrying my words so as not to be interrupted. “The boys are reading Qur’an, distinguished sahibs. See, they have their Qur’ans open. They were chanting the surahs and we were clapping to encourage them so that we may all better understand the words of Allah and His Prophet, peace be upon Him.”

  Blackbeard struck his stick on the ground, the noise echoing through the tent, like blows on flesh. His shaggy eyebrows frowned together like a thundercloud. I knew that it would anger him to hear the sound of my voice, but I was terrified of what the boys might tell him. Blackbeard spat more angry words into the deathly silent tent. The young Talib translated. “He said, some girl was standing and spinning around. What was that?”

  Before anyone else could answer I said, “She recited her verses wrong and wouldn’t sit still, so I made her spin around like a punishment to make her dizzy and tire her out.”

  In the commotion when the Taliban entered, Yarghal had crawled out from under the minbar, sneaking over to sit with the boys. Now, I saw he had his head between his knees with his hands clamped over his mouth to stifle his laughter. Seeing his shaking shoulders, I began to giggle within my burqa. Zarghuna hid in Mastorah’s arms and they covered their heads with their shawls. They, too, were whimpering with laughter. The Taliban must have thought they were weeping with fear.