The Afghan Rug

Diego Gomes, our newly arrived Southern Regional Children and Families Pastor is also an author and a writer. He has started a blog, writing theologically considered reflections and meditations in English. You can engage with more of his work at www.diegogomes.blog

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A few days ago, I was in Curitiba, a city in southern Brazil. I had a free day and decided to do something I love whenever I get the chance: visit a museum and spend the morning contemplating art.

The stunning Oscar Niemeyer Museum is a masterpiece of Brazilian modernist architecture. It reflects the distinctive style of the renowned architect, with its reinforced concrete structures full of curves and surprising forms. For those unfamiliar, Niemeyer was one of the key figures behind the urban planning of Brasília, the capital of Brazil, which houses some of the country’s most innovative and modern buildings.

As I wandered through the museum, one exhibition caught my eye—a showcase on “Art and War” in Afghanistan. The display featured tapestries woven by Afghan women and children during the war. At first glance, they looked like beautiful Oriental rugs, with vibrant colours contrasted against earthy tones, intricate animal patterns, and that rich aesthetic we in the West have come to admire.

But upon closer inspection, I noticed something hidden within the weave—almost subliminal images woven into the explosion of colors and beauty. Tanks, helicopters, bombs. War, camouflaged in thread.

Reading the descriptions beside the artworks, a story unfolded before me. These carpets had been woven by women alongside their children—some orphans, other refugees. Many were made on looms set up on the very floors of their homes, in villages being bombed as they worked.

In a culture where women are silenced, during a war that was destroying their families and communities, they found a way to express their pain through art. Perhaps their homes were their only refuge. In the silence of those spaces, they wove what they could not say. Art offers language even when words are forbidden.

The weight of that silent story reached me in that exhibition room. Tears slid beneath my tortoiseshell-framed glasses—tears of empathy at the thought of their suffering, but also of respect and admiration.

One rug, in particular, stood out among the others. Unlike the rest, it was a simple weave of black and brown, with no recognizable figures. Reading the plaque beside it, I discovered it was a Muslim prayer rug. Every day, at the appointed hours, those women would kneel in their homes, turn towards their sacred temple, and pray to their God.

For the first time in my life, I was confronted with a thought: what does it mean to pray in the midst of war?

You see, I am informed about geopolitics. I pray for wars around the world. But I have never known war. I have never had to pray while living through one.

We do not know what it is like. We live in the comfort of the West, in developed cities, in places where we worship freely and express our beliefs without fear. But those women know what it is like to pray in war, with their rugs and, perhaps, nothing but the hope of a better future.

And so, I left that exhibition thinking of the children. Perhaps, for their mothers, weaving was the only way to explain war. Perhaps, for those children, weaving was the only therapy available.

I was reminded of the words in the book of James: “The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.” (James 5:16).

And now, one thought lingers, a question I want to ask you: can we not do more for those caught in war?

Perhaps you can start now—by finding your own “rug” and praying. May God, as we pray, fill us with compassion and vision.