After Agha’s comment, I decided to find these girls. I decided to look first for Leila, who I hadn’t seen in the three years since the Taliban had shut our school. Leila had been an active girl, enthusiastic in school about literature and writing. If she hasn’t been married off to a Taliban commander or some other Herati man by now, she would be a big help in organizing a writing class.
I couldn’t remember where Leila’s house was. I only knew it was on Baank-e Khoon Street, a long street with many lanes and alleys.
Nanah-jan overheard me. “Homeira! If you ever hope to marry a Herati man, you can’t go knocking on strangers’ doors. If you do, I swear that no man from here will ever propose, and if you remain unmarried, Zahra will never find a husband either. Don’t dishonor your sister and yourself before everyone’s eyes. You know that the walls of her house are the best witness of a girl’s purity. If you are a stranger to those walls, you will have no respect in this city.”
Mushtaq didn’t want to be my mahram anymore. “Homeira, it’s disgraceful and embarrassing for me to walk around the streets with my older sister. All my friends will make fun of me.”
After I finished my afternoon class in the tent, I took my younger brother, Tariq, to Baank-e Khoon Street. Tariq, who was only nine, kept lagging behind. But as soon as a Talib appeared, he would huddle close to me, while I shrank against the nearest wall and tried to become invisible. I didn’t know where to begin my search. I decided to ask one of the neighborhood store owners if they knew where Leila lived. I stopped in front of a bicycle repair shop, where a middle-aged man was fixing his bicycle tire. I checked that there were no Talib nearby who might see me talking to a na-mahram. I said hello. Surprised, the owner looked up. “Sir,” I said, “I am sorry to bother you. I am looking for the house of the district supervisor.”
The man looked up and down the street, then again at me. “What is his name?”
“Sir, I can’t remember exactly, but I think it is Abdur-Razeq.”
“What do you want from him? He is an old man, but I’m still young.”
Tariq kicked the shop door with his little foot. Shaking, I took Tariq’s hand and hurried away. The man’s voice followed me down the street. “You didn’t answer me, little chick.”
The next store we came to sold fresh produce. Approaching the man sitting in front of the store, I said, “Excuse me, Uncle, where is the house of Abdur-Razeq?”
The man replied without looking at me. “See the street next to the bike shop? The first alley on your left is a dead-end alley. There are two doors in there. The green door right across from those is his house.”
I slipped by the bike shop and entered the alley. There! A green door at the end of the alley. It was a very warm day. By the time I reached the green door, I was sweating beneath the burqa. I could hear noises coming from within the yard. I gently knocked. Tariq said, “Homeira! I can hear men talking inside.”
“Don’t worry, little brother, everyone has a brother and father, just like me.”
A pleasant-looking old man with a white beard appeared at the door. I took a step back, saying, “Salaam, I would like to talk to Leila if she is around.”
The man looked me up and down. “Are you a sewing student?”
“No, Uncle.”
“Don’t stand on the street, child. Come inside the courtyard, behind the curtain where no one can see you.”
As we went inside, I thought to myself: Thank God, Leila hasn’t been married off yet!
I saw Leila coming down from the balcony wearing a white headcover. I lifted my burqa. She didn’t recognize me. “Salaam! I am Homeira Qaderi. I was in a lower grade at Mehri Herawi High School.”
Leila studied my face. “I remember you slightly.”
Tariq tugged on my burqa, trying to drag me back out into the alley. “Homeira! Her father is na-mahram!” Pulling my little brother along with me, I stepped into Leila’s house. We sat down, and Leila poured us tea. I told Leila all about my dangerous life as a secret teacher. She listened and nodded. I couldn’t tell whether she was shocked or envious. She said, “You have done well, Homeira-jan. I organized a sewing class with my sister, who is an expert seamstress. We teach girls how to sew professionally.”
“Leila-jan,” I said, “Herat has always had tailors. Don’t you think there’s a need for story writers, too? My father has dug up his books from our courtyard. I am writing stories, but I need help. If you are still interested in writing stories, let’s organize a writing course.”
Leila said, “I have often thought about this and have tried to do something about it. The Taliban would never allow it!”
I smiled. “Leila, do you think the Taliban gave me permission to homeschool girls or to teach reading to a class of girls and boys in a mosque? The Taliban don’t know what happens inside our houses. In this city, people have learned how to keep secrets.”
Leila was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t know any female teachers who are writers. I only know Professor Naser Rahyab.”
I nodded.
Leila stared out into the courtyard. “I don’t know whether my father will allow me to leave home.”
I said, “If not, then the professor can come here, and I will, too.”
Tariq stamped his foot. “Baba-jan will never allow you to!”
Glancing at Tariq, Leila said, “Naser Rahyab sells medicine at a store in the bazaar, Homeira-jan. You must also ask him for permission to let you sit in the class.”
“That’s fine, I’ll go find him and talk to him,” I said.
Tariq stamped his foot again. “Bazaar is a place only for men. You can’t go there by yourself!”
Leila looked over at me. I said, “Leila, I will find him. Can you persuade your father to let us hold a two-hour class here once a week?”
Leila nodded. “Sure. My father feels bad about us being stuck at home. I think he might help us.”
It was dark by the time we reached home. Both Agha and Madar were very worried. Tariq told them everything. “And tomorrow, Homeira wants to go to the bazaar!”
Nanah-jan appeared in the hallway, saying, “The girl who goes from one door to the next is no good for any door.”
Agha sighed. “It will be better if I go, instead of you and Tariq.”
I said, “Agha-jan, you are a man. Professor Rahyab can easily say no to you. He knows what the Taliban will do to us if we are caught. If I go, he might feel pity. If you go, he won’t.”
“So then, Homeira, what’s your plan?”
“I’ll write to him a detailed letter, explaining everything,” I said.
That night, I wrote a long letter and revised it several times, doing my best to get the professor’s attention and gain his sympathy. I wrote that I would prefer to learn story writing instead of embroidery, sewing, or carpet weaving. I promised him that we could write just as well as the men who were still active in the Herat Literary Society. The only help that we needed was advice and encouragement
The next day, I took Tariq to Shahzadah Street. A big crowd of men was gathered in front of the bazaar. I held my burqa tightly around me. My throat was dry. I was the only woman in the street. Tariq’s face was pale. Whimpering, he begged me to turn back.
Glaring at Tariq and me, the men all stepped out of my path. My knees started shaking. There was no way out. I was surrounded by their prying eyes. I kept walking until I reached the medicine market, which was filled with nests of little stores and shops. Groups of men were haggling in front of some stores. The chaos around me gradually turned to silence. No one was talking or shouting anymore; they were all looking at me. I knew no one would attack me. None of them were Taliban. But their glances were still cold and hostile. Each pair of staring eyes was a big, closed door with a sign that read: Not one step farther!
I just stood there, not knowing what to do. A man sitting on a chair in front of a store looked me up and down. I thought he might be a guard. I asked Tariq to speak to him. Grabbing my broth
er’s hand, I stepped forward. I said salaam to the man on the chair. He growled disapprovingly calling me “siya-sar,” black-headed feeble girl, and said, “What are you doing here?”
“Uncle, I need to talk to Professor Naser Rahyab.”
The guard scratched his beard. “I know a guy with the name Naser Rahyab from Barnabad village. You’ll find him at the fourth corridor on your left.”
Suddenly, a narrow path opened between the men. I looked at the guard and then at the passage lined with silent men, all staring at me. The guard glared at my eyes through the mesh of my burqa for a long while. Then, he cursed, “Damn the Devil! Isn’t there a man in your household to look for that man here?”
He quickly disappeared down the first corridor. It felt like a thousand years until I saw him reappear with a young man right behind him. The bazaar was as silent as a graveyard. The man following the guard stepped up to me.
“I am Professor Monir, speak, my sister.”
I said, “I have a letter for Professor Naser Rahyab.”
I handed him the wrinkled and sweat-stained letter. A thousand eyes were staring at my trembling hand. He took the letter and smiled. I didn’t say a word. I knew what all those men were thinking: What a brazen little hussy to give a letter to a man.
I turned around. The men’s glances slithered under the thousand frills of my burqa. I hurried past them and reached the bazaar gate. I let go of Tariq’s hand and started to run. Tariq ran after me shouting, “They are not Taliban! They are not Taliban!” But I could hear the city’s voices screaming in my ears, “Shameless girl! Shameless girl!”
Professor Rahyab understood the danger. He knew what the Taliban would do to him if they caught him with na-mahram girls. But still, after our request, he agreed to teach a class every Monday afternoon.
The class was held at Leila’s house under the name the Golden Needle Sewing Class. Walking to class, we all hid our notebooks beneath pieces of embroidery fabric, scissors, thread, and packages of needles.
I told Mushtaq, “I feel like a hero. I am a champion.”
“No, Homeira. A hero is someone with a weapon on his shoulder, running from one mountain to another.”
For the next year, we met every Monday at Leila’s house, to read and discuss the stories we had written. Professor Rahyab provided valuable critique while we listened and learned.
I knew that the Herat Literary Society met every Thursday to read poems and discuss original stories—and that only men could participate. I asked Professor Rahyab, “Can we attend the men’s literary society?” He laughed. “Don’t ask me, Homeira. You need to get permission from the amir and from the Taliban director of Information and Culture.”
A week later, the professor revealed his plan. He would take all the girls’ stories to the next Thursday meeting of the Herat Literary Society, read them, and ask for the writers’ comments and critique. But we could not attend.
I was overjoyed. It was enough that my new story would be read in front of an audience of accomplished writers. The men should know that Herati women were also writing stories, not just sewing and bearing children.
That night, I asked Agha to attend the meeting. I begged him to record all the writers’ comments in a notebook, so I would know what they thought of my story.
On Thursday at three in the afternoon, Agha went to the Herat Literary Society meeting, and just after six he returned home, smiling. “Congratulations, Homeira,” he said. “Everybody really liked your story. They have decided to publish it in Herat’s newspaper, Ettefaq-e Islam.”
I was astonished! I started prancing around the house like a week-old colt. Mushtaq sneered at me. “What? Is her story to be published? A story by an anonymous writer? No way!”
The following Monday, I asked Professor Rahyab, “Will my story be published under my name?”
He said, “No, Homeira. I hope the day comes when you can publish your own stories with your name and your picture, but I don’t think we can do that now.”
That same week, the Taliban beheaded the statues of all the stone horses surrounding the reflecting pool in Shahr-e Nau gardens. Herat was in shock. Herat’s newspaper published articles stating that statues of living things were ḥarām.
It was clearly not the right time to publish my story.
A few days later, Mushtaq rushed into the house, flung off his turban, and dipped his head into a bucket of water. When he pulled his head from the bucket, his face was pale. Looking over at me, he yelled, “I saw Maulawi Rashid enter the mosque with two Taliban. After adhan, he stood to pray, and everyone followed him in prayer.” He was now both a Talib and a maulawi; he had both a gun and the pulpit.
Monday afternoon arrived, but I couldn’t find Tariq or Jaber to accompany me to the writing group. I told Madar that I was late and had to leave. Madar threw me a worried look. “Don’t take the risk, Homeira!”
“Don’t worry, Madar, I’ll only use side streets. If Tariq or Jaber shows up at home, tell them to come and find me.”
I left. The street was empty. I had my burqa lifted off my face so I could see as I ran. When I reached the street across from the mosque, I froze. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Maulawi Rashid was standing in front of the mosque. His beard was longer, his eyes were lined with kohl, and his baggy tunic reached below his knees. All he needed to be a perfect Talib was a gun. When Maulawi Rashid saw me, a menacing smile twisted his lips. He wouldn’t take his eyes off mine. Quickly dropping my burqa, I turned onto a side street. But I could still feel Maulawi Rashid’s eyes heavy on my shoulders. None of my brothers had shown up, so I took alleys where I thought no Talib would be passing by.
I had to pass by the bike shop to reach Leila’s house. The owner was sitting out in front. As soon as he saw me, he said, “What are you doing here, girl? I see three of you arrive every Monday afternoon, then a man comes. What are you doing with that man?”
I couldn’t breathe. I heard the man’s footsteps following me down the dead-end alley. His mocking voice whispered in my ear, “What do you girls do with that man?”
I walked faster. His footsteps quickened. I was sweating. He grabbed my burqa. His stale breath reached me through the fabric. “Girl, what is happening in there?” he hissed.
I snatched my burqa away and ran. “I will catch you! I will make you show me . . .”
I felt feverish during class. Kolsoom and Shaima had arrived before me, so I didn’t know whether the bicycle man had bothered them. I was afraid to say anything; afraid that if Leila’s father knew, he would say we were shaming his household and end the class. I was frightened that this tiny opening that had brightened my life would cease forever.
That day, I left with Shaima and Kolsoom so I wouldn’t be accosted by the bicycle man. When I passed by his store my legs shook uncontrollably. Finally, Tariq found me. I scolded him. “Tariq, someday I will get whipped because of you.”
He was a child, but he glared at me like a Talib. “Nanah-jan is right. Stay home. A girl out on the street deserves to be lashed.”
That night, I whispered to Mushtaq, “I saw Maulawi Rashid today.”
Mushtaq stared at me, then said, “Maulawi Rashid is still mad at us. Today, he came to the playground. I’d taken off my turban to play soccer. That maulawi grabbed my hair and shouted, ‘Rooster! Your hair is ḥarām, sinner!’”
I laughed. “We punished him badly, didn’t we, Mushtaq?”
Mushtaq said, “Homeira, I have a bad feeling about this. Maulawi Rashid will punish us even worse.”
“So then, should we have stayed quiet?”
“No, we were in the right. But now he holds the universe in his hands.”
That night, I couldn’t pay attention to the book that lay open in front of me, the words melting into indecipherable black stains. Instead of being excited about going to the writing class, I began feeling guilty. Nanah-jan had always said that a woman shouldn’t be a cause of sin for herself and others. I thought to myself, Am I the reason
for Maulawi Rashid’s lust, for the bicycle man’s sinful behavior? I knew that if I had stayed at home, none of this would have happened, and on the Day of Resurrection, nobody would ask us any questions. But what if I decided never to leave the house again? Was that the right decision?
For the rest of the week, I was plagued by guilt and fear. Monday arrived, with the same problem staring me in the eyes. Baba-jan was too old to take me to Leila’s house. Tariq and Jaber spent all their time playing and I could never find them. Khaled was only three years old, too little to be my mahram. I donned my burqa and left. Nanah-jan called out to me, “You’ve worn out all this city’s burqas, girl.”
I kicked the door and yelled, “You wore out all the world’s prayer beads! What good has that done?”
The previous week, Professor Rahyab had promised me the Herat Literary Society would finally send my story to Ettefaq-e Islam. The newspaper was no longer published every day because of financial issues and the intense censoring of articles. The only articles allowed were about religion or news of Taliban casualties. Sometimes, a poem of Sa’di or a poem by a young writer was published, but only if they did not contain any forbidden words such as “wine,” “lover,” “dancing,” or “kisses.”
On Friday, as Baba-jan was getting ready for the noon congregational prayer and my mother was cooking, I began to work on a new story. Suddenly, I heard Tariq screaming outside.
Baba-jan and I ran out into the yard. My brother was shouting and saying, “Mushtaq was playing soccer and the Taliban arrested him.”
A Talib announced to the crowd they had seen Mushtaq exchanging Ahmad Zahir’s tape cassettes. As all music is ḥarām, they said, “He is against Islam.”
One of the Taliban shouted, “Look at him! What Muslim boy wears this kind of hairstyle? What good Muslim boys listen to music? Everything this one does is ḥarām. We must punish these children of the Devil to teach all the others a lesson. Their heads will be shaved, we will blacken their faces, and we will make them ride donkeys around the city. That will put an end to such evil behavior.”
Dancing in the Mosque Page 11