For the Love of a Son: One Afghan Woman's Quest for Her Stolen Child

greater depths of
misery.
    My grief was multiplied when I thought of my
poor son, still a prisoner of his father, and living in the mad
world of the Taliban. How I wanted my son out of that
hell-hole!
    Yet despite all this gloom, far away from my
country in Saudi Arabia, I finally found some joy to fill my
life.

    Maryam’s second son,
also called Duran
     

Chapter
XXIII
    On 31 March 1996 at 7.40 in the evening, I
became a mother again. I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, and
promptly named him Duran. Everyone in my family and in Khalid’s
family was opposed to my decision, claiming it was bad luck to name
a second child after a lost first child. Only Khalid supported me.
‘Maryam should name this baby whatever makes her happy.’
    Duran was a perfect baby, although I was an
imperfect mother, panicking at every little whimper, rushing him to
the doctor for the slightest sniffle. After having the driver break
the speed limit three times in one day to get to the hospital, the
doctor sat me down for a stern talk.
    ‘Maryam, babies cry. Duran is fine. You are
the one I am worried about.’
    That’s when I admitted: ‘I’m sorry, doctor,
but my first son was kidnapped when he was a toddler. I haven’t
seen him since. That is why I am so easily panicked over the
well-being of my baby. Nothing bad must happen to this baby. I
would not live another minute.’
    Although Duran’s birth had brought great joy
to our family, Papa was failing. He was put on oxygen. The doctors
told us that two years would be a long life for him. Khalid agreed
that I should spend as much time as possible with my father and it
was decided that I would commute, living in Virginia with Papa for
six months, then bringing Papa back with me to Jeddah for the other
six months. I’m so glad I did this, for I had every possible
precious moment with my father before he passed away.
    We were in Jeddah when Papa took a turn for
the worse. I was in bed when my maid knocked on my bedroom door to
tell me he was breathing with great difficulty, sweating and with
his eyes rolling back in his head. In a panic, I quickly dressed
and had my driver and gardener lift Papa out of bed and take him to
the car. We raced to the hospital. Just as we arrived at the
hospital, Papa looked at me and mumbled, ‘Daughter, I am so
sleepy.’
    I grabbed him, but then he was gone. I jumped
out of the car and began running around in the parking lot
screaming: ‘Help! Help! Help me!’ But the nurses and doctors
couldn’t revive him. Papa was peaceful in death, but I was wild in
life.
    Nothing is easy in Saudi Arabia, not even
death. Papa, like all Muslims, had cherished a desire to be buried
in Mecca, our holy city. But the Saudi government refused us a
permit. I called the American Consul and he said he could get
permission, but it would take three days. We didn’t have three
days, because according to our religion we must be buried
within twenty-four hours of death. So Khalid arranged for my father
to be buried in Jeddah. Like so many things in Saudi Arabia,
funerals and cemeteries are reserved for men. Saudis believe that
women will become too emotional at funerals of their loved ones and
might rip out their hair or tear off their clothes, so they are
expected to remain at home to mourn behind closed doors. So I was
forbidden to attend my father’s funeral. For the first time, I had
to admit that my father had been right. Saudi Arabia was no place
for a woman.
    Papa’s death hit me harder than Mother’s,
perhaps because now I was truly orphaned, after Grandmother Mayana
and Mother had passed away.
    Visiting a gravesite can give comfort to the
bereaved. After a week, I decided I would sneak out to visit my
father’s grave. I forced our driver to take me to the cemetery,
then bribed the cemetery official. Once inside I telephoned Khalid.
‘Khalid, what is the location of my father’s grave?’
    ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘Because I am in the cemetery and I want to
visit my father.’
    Khalid shouted: ‘You are WHERE?’
    ‘I am going to visit my father’s grave.
Either you give me directions or I will just wander around and ask
everyone I see.’
    Khalid groaned in exasperation. He knew I was
determined and, terrified I would end up arrested, he gave me
directions to the grave, but ordered me to come straight home and
make sure nobody saw me. Although there are no tombstones on Saudi
graves, there are identifying marks on the ground. Khalid directed
me as best