Dancing in the Mosque

by Homeira Qaderi

  For several days I carried the burden of my sorrow on my shoulders, alone and in silence, as I did my daily rounds between the ministry, the university, the civil rights meetings, and back home. Street by street, step by step. Nothing would take away even an ounce of my grief. Confusion and uncertainty had kept me suspended between the sky above and the earth below. The milk in my breasts was no longer enough for Siawash. My mother said, “Don’t let your grief dry up your milk flow. That would leave your child hungry.”

  But was it even possible to overcome such grief and suffering? I had taken my womanhood over all the impassible highways and byways of the land. I took revenge from the Taliban house confinement by burying myself in books. Yet thirteen years later, the man whom I loved and with whom I had a child had turned into a Talib, whether he dressed like one or not.

  Polygamy is still very common in Afghanistan, and what it requires of women is the willingness to accept that your husband has other wives, but even more, to accept that you have become just a number in the family and in the world. I would always be my husband’s wife number one, but of what value is that? A number is a number and my dignity is lost.

  I talked to my mother every day, sobbing loudly and telling her, “I can’t, I can’t share him with another and just become a number myself.”

  She had told me many times, “Women can share anything, but not their husbands. This is the most difficult thing they demand of the women of Afghanistan.”

  Siawash, I would hold you in my arms and pace the width and breadth of the bedroom. You wanted to be left alone to walk on your own, but I wanted to hold you in my arms. For all the days that I was thinking and crying, your father was busy window-shopping in the streets of Kabul, looking for stylish clothes.

  It took me years to understand that the traits of a Talib cannot be measured by a person’s outer appearance—his dress and garb and gear. It has been years since the black turban–donning Taliban ruled over Afghanistan, but the Talibani mind-set is still alive and well—suppressing women every way it can. Even, or especially, your father . . .

  But I knew the law of the land. I either had to do what was expected: act like other “first” wives in Afghanistan, dress nicely on your father’s wedding night, cordially greet and smile at the guests, and patiently offer them tea. If I did those things, my reputation as a “good woman” would be on everyone’s lips and you would be with me. Or I could become a “bad woman” and challenge the rules for my rights and the etiquette for my dignity. In which case I would lose you.

  I wanted both of us to survive. I wanted to continue for my sake and for yours, my son. Not for the sake of patience, but for the sake of the higher ideal—the struggle. But what were the chances of my success in a struggle that rarely is allowed even to exist in Afghanistan? How could I succeed in a struggle that even my own Nanah-jan did not accept or believe in?

  Ten nights had passed since that fateful night. He would come home joyful and happy. Sometimes when he would arrive in time, he would play with the baby. He would talk about the world outside. He would gaze at the neon sign on top of the newly built grand wedding hall.

  After many days of wrangling with myself, I decided to talk to him. He had bravely and happily said what he wanted. I also had the right to say what I needed to say.

  One night, I dressed in a pretty, long gown. I put on red nail polish and tucked my hair into a headband. I used some fragrant cream on my hands and waited for him to come. Around nine thirty the key turned in the lock. Before speaking, I signaled with my finger on my lips and pointed to the crib. He shook his head and took off his shoes. Surprised by my appearance, he asked, “Where are you going?”

  I tried to control the shaking in my voice so I could speak authoritatively—just like he did. I said, “I also want to let you know about my decision. I never want to be wife number one.”

  He looked at me in shock and restrained silence. He laughed. “Well, I married you first. You are my first wife, obviously. Your math is lousy.”

  I ignored him and responded, “But I am no longer seventeen years old. I am not afraid of any Commander Moosa anymore. I am not happy with this arrangement. You have no right to bring another wife to this house. I don’t want it. This is my house. I have worked hard for this house. I sold my jewelry to pay its down payment. I have brought my son to this world here. I am not allowing it.”

  His jaw dropped, but soon he glared at me and scoffed, “My right has been decided by my religion and the Prophet, not by you.”

  I raised my voice. “But I am not giving up my right to your religion or to the Prophet. This is my final decision. You have no right to turn me into a number.”

  My words were too hard for him to swallow. He choked on the response.

  Anger was dripping from his eyes and mouth. His smile was insulting. For the first time in seventeen years I saw his meanness. I was terrified. I felt like he wanted to trample me with his hands and feet. I felt as if he wanted to cut my words into pieces. He took a step toward me. I knew I must have turned pale. I knew that in spite of all the preparations I had made, I couldn’t hide the trembling in my voice. I realized that he knew the fear within me. But I decided not to move. When he took the second step toward me, my fear grew more.

  Could my rebelliousness really result in my broken bones? Had I just threatened the courage that Kabul had granted its men? He stood face-to-face with me. My lips were quivering. I felt that even the movement of my eyeballs in their sockets was out of my control. I wanted to lean against the wall. I wanted to hold on to some firm ground. The ground was swallowing me inch by inch. He was getting taller and taller before me. I felt I was in a dungeon and that even if I could call for help a thousand times, no one would hear me. Something was screaming within me as I sank into the ground. He didn’t hit me, I remember. But I had shrunk.

  He exploded. “Who are you?”

  The tone of his voice must’ve woken you up. In the midst of all my screams, I only heard your crying. I don’t remember how I got out of that hole in the ground. I only remember my sobbing, which got mixed with your crying. I heard you crying. I took you in my arms and placed my nipple in your mouth.

  We spent the following week in silence. The only beautiful voice heard in the house was yours.

  I missed my mother. Whenever the Russian tanks would rumble outside, she would hide me under her shawl. I missed her shawl. My only gratification was that I had stated what I wanted to say and that my bones were intact. Other than that, he had never raised his hand to me. I really owe him that he didn’t beat me even when I stood up to him. It took a few hours until I got my composure back.

  Saturday at ten I had a class at the university.

  There were no parking spaces in front of the university. I drove around and parked on a side street. The class was on the third floor. I carried the weight of a mountain on my shoulders with every exhausting step I climbed. I felt weakness in my legs and body.

  They asked, “Professor, are you all right?”

  After a little pause, I responded, “Yes.”

  At nine thirty my phone screen lit up. It was him. “Divorce, divorce, divorce.”

  I held my hands on the edge of the desk. I was falling in the well. None of the students could hear my cry for help. Someone had hit me on the head again. I don’t remember anything more from that moment, except the well in which I was drowning.

  I knew that if a man utters the word “divorce” three times to his wife, the marriage is null and void. I couldn’t believe that he would divorce me via a Viber message. Terrified and scared, I called him many times after class; he didn’t pick up.

  I called Agha-jan. Nanah-jan picked up instead.

  “Homeira, listen to me for once in your life. For how long are you willing to fight the whole world? When will your sword break? Remember, this time the tip of this dagger is pointed to your own eye. If you push, it will blind you. My granddaughter, your rejection doesn’t solve the problem. He is a
man and will do what he wants to. His God and Prophet have permitted him. Are you fighting with him or with God?”

  Sobbing, I replied, “With both of them.”

  Nanah-jan understood my misery, but still she said, “These traditions are the pillars of this land. If you destroy them, everything will crumble around you. They will take away your son and cause you unbearable pain and suffering. In the end, your son will legally belong to his father and you won’t be able to shoulder his misery. You must accept the new marriage and your new identity because of your son.”

  “I will die of grief.”

  “Pain and grief adorn a woman,” she said. “You should accept it for your own comfort. No woman’s life can be compared to a man’s. I swear that your eyes and ears will get used to the second wife. Don’t be afraid. It is difficult for all women, but when it happens, they accept it.”

  The room didn’t have enough oxygen for breathing. I began to cough. “Nanah-jan, I don’t want to get used to it. He can do whatever he wants to. I have made my decision. Nanah-jan, this city has laws. I will go to the court and file a legal case against him. Is it even possible that they won’t hear my case?”

  Nanah-jan’s subdued voice came through. “Oh, my God. What woman would complain about her husband!”

  Once again, a heavy load piled on my heart. That night he messaged me saying that I was free to go to my father’s house, but I should never forget that my son ultimately belongs to him.

  He was making decisions for me after he had divorced me. Anger and pain had filled my veins. I don’t remember how long I must have stared in the mirror. Was there truth to Nanah-jan and her rules? After endless hours of staring at the mirror, from the deepest core of my being came a response.

  NO. Nanah-jan and her rules were only a refuge for weak women to fall back on. It had been a long time since I had crossed what had been a red line for other women and men.

  I milked my breasts in my palms and tasted it. It was bitter. The next day I went and accepted the terms of participation in the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa in the United States.

  I had learned that even on a long journey, one can take only a small bag of essentials.

  It’s hard for me to write about the moments they took you away from me.

  You were snatched out of my arms while you were asleep and placed in your father’s arms. I wanted you to wake up and fight the whole city—for your sake and for mine. But you were only nineteen months old and that was too much to expect of you. When my arms were empty, I leaned against the wall. I don’t remember the rest. From somewhere, I was hearing your voice calling me “Mothe, Mothe.”

  I had forbidden everyone from telling me about those moments that I had passed out. I only remember that when I came to, I was held by Tahmina, a friend I had met in Kabul. Everyone was there, but you weren’t. Your calling voice echoed as it still often does. I hear it when the ocean washes off conic shells on the beach. I hear it when the waves hit the rocky shores, when I walk between sand castles. I hear your voice when I walk by the aloe vera spiky shoots. Just like that very first time, you kept calling me, “Mothe.”

  The next morning, thick patches of cloud hung so low, as if they were threatening to hit me on the head.

  My dear Siawash,

  Losing you was the most severe pain I have ever suffered and I know you must be very, very angry. But I felt I had to make a choice, not just for myself, but also for my country and, ultimately, for you. I don’t want either of us to belong to a society that degrades women the way the Afghan society does. You, my son, are a new generation and it is my deepest hope that by the time you grow up, things will have changed—that you will become an instrument of that change.

  I always have and always will want to be a mother for you, but I also need to remain Homeira for myself. I could not trade my name for a number; I could not sacrifice my freedom or my dignity. I could not become just another humiliated woman, banished to the supposed sanctuary of our home. I cannot die under a blanket as an angry, pitiful, desolate woman; I am trying to save myself and, by doing that, perhaps save other women as well.

  I ask you now not only to forgive me. I know that you have suffered such pain and I am a thousand times saddened by that. But you, my child, are poised to become a man of your homeland’s tomorrows. You don’t have to set off on your father’s path. It is my fondest wish, my son, that someday, somehow, this story I have told you about my life will help you and your children and your children’s children create and nurture a new Afghanistan so that the suffering of my mother’s mother, my mother, and me will not have been in vain.

  With the passage of time, you will grow bigger and straight as I grow smaller and frail. But no matter the condition, I will fight to reach you and save you. Remember, I am not fighting just for you and me. This land has many tight-lipped, veiled, and silenced women.

  I will remain your storytelling Shahrazad. I will tell you so many stories that no matter where you and I live, my stories will reach you.

  In my stories, no angel suddenly appears to save you and me. In them, there is no magic wand that will bring us together. You and I have to rise against the dark tyranny of these monsters and fight for ourselves.

  Come now. Let me tell you the story I promised you in the beginning:

  Once upon a time, there was an All-Mighty God and the Buzak-e Qandi, which had three baby goats named Angak, Bangak, and Kulolasangak. One day the Buzak-e Qandi went to feed on fresh grass to sweeten her milk for her kids. But before leaving, she warned her babies not to open the door to any stranger.

  A vicious wolf that has been eyeing the Buzak-e Qandi and its kids from a distance was waiting for such an opportunity. It came to the Buzak-e Qandi’s house and knocked on the door very gently. The kids asked, “Who’s there?” The wolf said, “Your mother.” The baby goats said, “If you are telling the truth, show us your front hooves.” The wolf ran and powdered its claws in flour and returned. It slid its powdered claws under the door. As soon as the kids opened the door, the wolf attacked them and swallowed Angak and Bangak alive. But Kulolasangak hid in the sunken oven and waited for its mother’s return. When the Buzak-e Qandi came and heard the story, she was very angry. The Buzak-e Qandi went to the roof and baaed loudly: “Who ate my Angak? Who ate my Bangak?”

  The wolf responded with a sense of joy and pride: “I ate your Angak. I ate your Bangak.”

  Buzak-e Qandi took a jug of her milk to the blacksmith and asked him to sharpen her horns. She then went to a duel with the wolf. The wolf attacked the goat with its sharp teeth. The goat ripped the wolf’s stomach with its sharp horns and rescued her babies, joyous and smiling, from the wolf’s stomach. Then, with the help of the baby goats, she put a heavy stone in the wolf’s stomach so it could move no more.

  My baby, I miss you. I have cried for you so many times. But I have never lost hope. I know that one day, we will, together, take our stories to the bazaar and free thousands of beautiful babies.

  I know that you’ve been told I am dead. But I am not dead, my dear Siawash. I am very much alive.

  I am your mother. My name is Homeira. And this is my voice.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the friendship of many who enriched my life, empowered my struggle, and inspired me to soar: The childhood playmates with whom I collected spent bullets as toys between every lull in the fighting; the neighbor girls with whom I shared life’s sad stories on the ladders we placed against the shared wall between our compounds—stories that could only be written in the twinkling stars.

  I am grateful to the beautiful refugee children from the surrounding provinces who brought their innocence, their simplicity, their love, and their stories to our neighborhood in Herat so that I could homeschool them in my mother’s kitchen, away from the watchful eye of the Taliban patrol.

  I owe much to the young girls of Herat, many of whom fought for their rights and for their live
s. Some became martyrs, succumbing to patriarchal order; others are still fighting for gender equality, social justice, and civil rights. From early on, I saw myself in many of them as we followed parallel paths, resisting tyranny through cultural, literary, and artistic expression.

  I would like to thank my entire family—immediate and extended—who are the cast of characters in this memoir. They appear on the pages of this drama, as they are, “warts and all.”

  The greatest gratitude and appreciation must go to my parents, who raised me, along with my siblings, under the most dire and challenging circumstances. To my mother, who modeled through mothering, inspired through wisdom, and guided me through the maze of impossibilities. To my father, who taught me literature and introduced me to the world of poetry and literary writing. I owe it to Baba-jan on whose turban edge I dried my tears many times and whom I miss every day. To my Nanah-jan, who still tries to bring me within the fold of her rules—submission to the unquestionable laws of men.

  I also want to offer my appreciation to the many friends in the United States who were there for me during the most challenging times in my personal life—friends, relatives, and even strangers who filled the space around me when the nest I had woven with love had unraveled: Sima Amiri, Mahbuba Temori, Mary Mayel, Hamidullah Zazai, and many others whose names could easily fill half of these pages. I would like to thank Zahra Sepehr, my wonderful friend and attorney, who is pursuing Siawash’s custody case in the courts in Kabul.

  I am indebted beyond words to my good friend James Prier, who suggested that I write the book as a memoir rather than as a novel. James salvaged my writing as he reviewed and commented on the first draft many times. James saw this book as his “baby.” His keen eye even zeroed in on a chapter title that eventually became the name of this memoir. I am greatly thankful to him and to his wife, Shelley Mason, who believed in what James and I had undertaken. I thank them both for their indulgence, for their patience, and for their advice.