Yesterday my mosque was infiltrated by a commando team of toddlers. The presumed leader was a three year old with curly hair who climbed halfway up the steps of the minbar to better oversee the operation. An advance scouting party, one quiet little girl with enormous eyes, rosebud lips and a tendency to drool, crawled into the middle of the men’s section and stood on someone’s leg to scan the terrain for potential threats, paying particular attention to the suspicious looking man addressing the congregation from the front of the room. Meanwhile the troops moved in. A boy in an immaculate white thobe rolled evasively back and forth in the aisle between the men and women's sections in order to avoid enemy fire until, apparently, he was hit and would have been lost if one of his peers had not ventured onto the battlefield and carried out a daring rescue operation, an enterprise which, incredibly, required him to drag his brother in arms by the feet across the entire length of the mosque.

Overall the infiltration appeared to be a success, because, with the exception of one embarrassed mother who came forward to scoop her three year old son off the steps of the minbar, no one seemed to notice a thing.