Dancing in the Mosque by Homeira Qaderi

Author:Homeira Qaderi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2020-12-02T00:00:00+00:00

After that first day of dancing, I took extra precautions to keep my students and myself safe. I kept the entrance curtains closed on both sides of the mosque, and my burqa always within reach. The students were supposed to place their Qur’ans over their notepads whenever they saw any danger. And if the Taliban entered, no one was to say anything and I would do all the talking. We had come too close to disaster once and none of us wanted it to happen again.

A week passed. As I recall, I was correcting Mastorah’s homework. The class was filled with the humming sound of the girls and boys chatting together while I reviewed their written lessons.

Suddenly, Zarghuna whispered, “Moalem Sahib, Moalem Sahib, someone is striking the entrance curtain.”

I turned toward the entrance. Someone was tapping against the heavy canvas slowly, once, twice . . . a third time. The fabric puffed inward with each soft blow. Zarghuna leaned forward toward the curtain and suddenly shouted, “Moalem Sahib! The Taliban! I swear to God it is the Taliban!”

My legs went weak. I almost lost my balance! I quickly threw my burqa over my head. The children scrambled to tuck their notepads under their shirts and shawls. A few of the boys stuffed their notebooks into their baggy trousers. Mastorah threw her notebook on the ground and sat down cross-legged on it with her Qur’an opened on her lap. I pressed my lips together to prevent myself from laughing.

Another louder tap struck the curtain. In the frightening silence within the tent, it sounded as loud as a rifle shot. Should I wait for the Taliban to come inside or hurry outside to confront them? My poor girls were huddling together, wing to wing, like little doves on a cold winter day.

Pulling aside the entrance curtain, I stepped halfway out. My heart stopped. A Talib was standing there, a long wooden staff in his hand. He was facing the river, with his back to the entrance to the tent. He wore a shawl, a cotton scarf, around his shoulders, covering his neck. I recognized from his profile that he was the young Talib from the week before.

“Did you want something?” I asked. Startled, he started to turn toward my voice, then stopped.

“Is that you, Moalem Sahib?” he asked, keeping his gaze on the river’s flowing water while he spoke over his shoulder. He raised his stick in the air as if to give his hands something to do.

As much as some part of me had wanted to see him again, a terrible fear gripped my heart.

I answered, “I am teaching how to recite the Qur’an here. That blackboard is to write the verses of the Qur’an on, for those children who don’t have one, so they all can see the verses. And I am always wearing my burqa inside the classroom, every day.”

My words tumbled over one another in my rush to speak. He seemed to be listening very carefully to what I was saying, even though he refused to look at me.

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