They are standing quietly in the back row, these two little ones, dressed in their finest – wispy blond hair escaping a bright blue headscarf; glossy strands of brown weighted down by a simple prayer cap – engrossed in prayer as are all of the adults in the congregation. It is the morning of Eid, and the mosque is warm with worshipful bodies roused from bed this snowy morn, packed together in neat rows, shoulder to shoulder, feet to feet. The room is silent but for the commanding voice of the imam and the repetitive swishing of arms rising in the air and then folding neatly together again. The imam exclaims Allahu Akbar a fourth time, and the little boy throws up his arms once more, the gesture a mixture of exultation and surprise. The girl looks on, muffled giggles escaping chubby fingers as her companion’s movements become increasingly frenzied. They lean forward, peering gleefully into the faces of the women standing solemnly on either side of them, all making absurd hand movements too. I can see the confused excitement in their eyes as they grin at each other. They are not used to praying like this; have no idea what is happening. But this break in routine exhilarates them, and I suddenly feel a yearning to rise, thrust my arms up in the air, and delight in the newness of the moment alongside them.