We were just kids back then.

Whenever the holidays started, our parents would send us to the Masjid like they were fulfilling a sacred duty. It was a time of mischief, a time before our faith was treated like some kind of "problem" to be managed.

In the Masjid classroom, I’d wait for the Imam to turn his back and then light a firecracker. The bang was huge, smoke everywhere. The older boys would pin me to the desk, and the Imam, fuming, would give me a good smack with his wooden ruler. My backside really stung, but there was no fear in that pain. I’d just wipe my tears, grin, and keep on reciting with him from that old blue-covered book, the Zaxue Zhujie: "Niyyati... Kandi... Rendamu..." By the afternoon, the potatoes in the big pot in the Masjid kitchen would be ready, and we’d all scramble for them. Laughter, shouting, and the sound of dhikr (remembrance) all flowed together like a rough but warm river.

Back then, the Masjid wasn’t just a place for Salah (prayer). It was our school, our cafeteria, our daycare. It was the simplest, purest form of our community.

After university breaks, my friends would come back and talk about their time volunteering at the Masjid. They’d tutor kids in all grades, teaching them phonics and math. That was their way of giving back to their hometown—paying back for those potatoes they ate as children. The Masjid was always there, like a patient piece of land, welcoming generation after generation of children.

After graduation, I became a local Chinese government official.

The township where I worked had several resettlement villages. People had moved there from the deep mountains of Linxia and Dingxi—places barely fit for humans—to the flat plains of Qinwangchuan. Out in that wasteland, the wind blew so hard it tilted the signal towers. When night fell, you had to bolt the doors and windows and just listen to the wind howling across the empty fields.

There was no TV, no entertainment; life was dull and hard. The young people had nothing to do, so they just kept having children. Eight kids in five years—in an era where "Family Planning" was a zero-tolerance policy, this was an absurd kind of miracle. The resettlement sites were managed by a few people from the old county office, but their minds were on making money elsewhere. Nobody wanted to touch the birth control issue; it was a career-killer. The township government took over security, farming, and roads, but they stayed far away from family planning. Who’d dare? You’d lose your job.

But the children were real, and they were growing up.

There were a few Masjids at the resettlement site—just simple tiled houses. The slightly larger one was the prayer hall, and the smaller one was for the Imam. No walls, no signs, just standing lonely at the edge of the village. The month I reported for duty, a young Manla (student of religion) arrived, fresh from his graduation ceremony at the Xiguan Grand Mosque in Lanzhou. He was draped in red ceremonial silks, pale and young—he still looked like a student himself.

Three years later, I rode my government-issued motorcycle past that Masjid. The courtyard was packed with undocumented, preschool-aged children. The young Imam was playing "Eagle Catches Chickens" with them, their laughter rolling in the wind. The handsome boy he once was had been turned dark by the Qinwangchuan sun, with a little goatee on his chin—the seal of his identity as a leader.

The village school was built for "three kids per couple," so it was already overflowing. The heavy task of looking after the children fell to the Masjid.

The Masjid was the daycare; it was the school. It was the last safety net.

In 2015, I went back to my hometown in Lintan and prayed at the West Mosque. Before Dhuhr (noon prayer) was even over, the courtyard was noisy with kids. The elementary school next door was rebuilding its teaching wing, so the Masjid had lent all its classrooms to the school for free. When that wasn't enough, they set up rows of prefab houses in the courtyard to serve as extra classrooms. This went on for three years.

It was a strange sight: students in their school uniforms, lining up in the Masjid courtyard to do exercises and dance. The outdoor loudspeakers, which were banned from calling the Adhan (call to prayer), were now blasting upbeat music and songs. Teachers stood on the high steps of the Chinese-style prayer hall leading the drills. The old men waiting for prayer sat on benches by the door, watching quietly.

That scene was warm and harmonious, yet almost unbelievable.

It was like a crack in the era: the religious and the secular standing side-by-side, helping each other, filling in the gaps. At that moment, the openness of Islam toward children and the pursuit of knowledge was beyond imagination.

In 2018, while I was on Hajj (pilgrimage) in Saudi Arabia, an Imam in our group showed me a surveillance video sent from home. It was a Masjid courtyard in Guanghe County; kids were playing during their holiday break. A man walked in sneakily, looked around, and left. I recognized him instantly. He was my colleague—a Hui official who usually followed me around calling me "Leader" or "Big Brother."

The next day, that Masjid was shut down for "rectification." Every official in charge of religious affairs was disciplined.

Suddenly, the laughter of children had become a "risk."

Later, during Ramadan in 2019, I had my Iftar (breaking of fast) in Xiaoxihu and went to the nearby Masjid for Taraweeh prayers. I ran into the head Imam at the door; he warmly invited me to his office for dinner. I politely declined; I just wanted to pray in peace.

The prayer seemed to be intentionally delayed that night. The head of the Masjid committee took the microphone and, leading his team, went through the entire mosque to chase the children out. He told the parents they had to take their kids and leave immediately.

"Minors Prohibited from Entering"—the sign was posted in huge letters at the entrance of the prayer hall.

The courtyard went dead quiet.

The Imam hesitated to enter the hall. Before leading the prayer, he repeatedly emphasized that the rule against minors must be strictly enforced. He was saying it specifically for me—the Division Chief from the United Front Work Department.

At that moment, I suddenly realized the Masjid was no longer that "big pot" of my childhood. It had become a space watched by something evil. The sound of a child’s footsteps could now be the reason for someone’s dismissal.

Today, every Masjid, church, and temple is covered in flags and slogans—Core Socialist Values, National Unity, Religious Harmony, Gang Crackdowns... layers upon layers of colorful slogans. But the most striking one is that cold, hard ban:

Minors are not allowed inside.

The Masjids in the city are now as quiet as abandoned mountain shrines.

No children running.

No firecrackers.

No noise from kids fighting over potatoes.

Only echoes.

History doesn't usually turn on grand narratives; it changes quietly the moment children are asked to leave the courtyard.

When a people’s children are banned from their own spiritual space, it’s not just a regulation. It is a cutting off of memory, an emptying of heritage, and a pre-written future.

I remember that ruler.

I remember that pot of potatoes.

I remember the wind in Qinwangchuan.

I remember the look on the old men’s faces as they waited for the kids to finish their school drills.

These aren't just nostalgic memories.

This is a testimony.

The Masjid used to belong to the children.

Now, it’s just a gate full of surveillance cameras and facial recognition.

Chinese Government Said Kids Can’t Enter the Mosque