Anonymously
We used to dance in weddings. Now, we dance in silence.
There’s a basement in our neighborhood with a single speaker and a cracked mirror. Once a week, five of us gather there. We close the windows, lock the doors, and play music on the lowest volume possible. It’s not much—but for those few hours, we are free.
One of us used to be a choreographer. Another studied theater before everything was shut down. Me? I just needed something to feel alive.
Last time, the power went out mid-song. We stayed in the dark, laughing like children. That kind of joy is dangerous here.
If the Taliban found us, they’d call us sinners. They’d beat us, maybe worse. For what? Moving our bodies to a rhythm? Remembering what happiness feels like?
They’ve banned music, banned dancing, banned anything that sounds like life. But we still find ways to feel it. Even in hiding. Even if it’s only for a moment.
They can take away our stages. But not the dance inside us.
