The Girl from Baghdad by Michelle Nouri Page B

visiting the homes of people who had different beliefs to ours, little by little my curiosity about her religion grew stronger. Dani told me that during Sunday mass she and her family all sat together: adults and children, men and women. This seemed bizarre to me. During mass, they prayed standing up, and only when the priest raised a wineglass did they kneel, keeping their hands joined. These were all strange things to me. My aunts would say that Christianity was a haràm, or sin. ‘Haràm! Haràm!’ they repeated vehemently. To pray with the Christians or to enter their churches was haràm. Whoever did so would be hurled to hell and would never escape. They would suffer eternalagony, forced to put up with an infinite series of tortures, the first of which would be the total skinning of the body and then an inferno of flames to consume the remaining flesh. But I stopped believing in these legends, even if they had greatly influenced me when I was young.
    The church Dani attended was a small, light-coloured stone building. We passed it every day on our way home from school. It looked just like an Orthodox temple from the outside. One day, right there in front of the church, Dani said to me, ‘Why don’t we go in?’
    â€˜It’s not allowed. It’s haràm!’ I envisioned the flames for a second. ‘It’s a sin to go inside. I can’t.’
    â€˜And if you do? What happens?’
    â€˜I’ll go straight to hell.’
    â€˜You can’t believe in these things!’
    â€˜I don’t. But my family does and if my aunts find out that I entered a church, I’ll really see hell.’
    â€˜I won’t tell them. And besides, aren’t you hot? Let’s go in. It will be cool in the church. Come on.’ She pushed open the dark, heavy front door.
    My eyes had trouble adjusting to the dim light inside. The sun streamed through a high window, illuminating the dust particles floating in the air. I was immediately captivated by the mysticism of that majestic place. I smelt incense and wood. The enormous stone columns cloaked in darkness were grand and imposing. It felt peaceful. I was completely enchanted.
    A long shiver ran down my back. I was doing something prohibited. I didn’t believe in all those stories about hell, but I believed in Allah. I asked myself if He would ever pardon this insult.
    Dani was already more than halfway up the aisle. She saw me hesitating and signalled for me to catch up. My curiosity overpowered my feelings of guilt and I joined her at the altar. Nearby there were candelabra, adorned with large, unlit candles, placed on top of a special tablecloth. A much larger candelabrum, decorated with strange symbols, stood at the side of the lectern.
    â€˜Why aren’t they lit?’ I asked, pointing at the candles.
    â€˜They only light them during mass.’
    I wanted to know everything. ‘Show me how to pray. What do you do?’
    â€˜There’s no special way. You kneel like this and join your hands together. Then, in silence, you speak to the Father.’
    Behind the altar was a painting of a woman looking up towards the sky with a gold circle above her head.
    â€˜It’s Mary, right? What do you call that thing around her head?’ I asked pointing at the painting.
    â€˜A halo. It means she’s a saint, special. It’s a little like your prophet, Mohammed.’
    â€˜What do you say to God when you pray?’
    â€˜I confess my worries. I talk to Him about my secrets. I ask Him for help when I have some kind of difficulty.’
    â€˜And He hears you?’
    â€˜I don’t know, but it seems like it sometimes. When I come to pray here, I feel like He’s closer to me. My mother says it’s because this is His house.’
    The idea that one could enter God’s house, that He could be seated on a throne or hiding behind the decorations on the altar and listening to people’s