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

husband took the phone from my
hands and dialed the number for me.
    My heart was pounding too loudly. All my
rehearsed words escaped my mind.
    A man’s voice answered: ‘Hello.’
    Surely this man was not my little Duran.
    ‘Hello?’ I gasped.
    The man spoke a second time. ‘Hello?’
    ‘Duran?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘This is your mother, Duran. Your Mano.’ I
burst into noisy sobs. ‘Remember when you were little you called me
Mano?’
    A cold voice said, ‘Stop crying please.’
    Who was this man on the phone? Where was my
baby?
    ‘Stop crying? Stop crying? How can I stop
crying? I’ve waited for this moment for seventeen years!’ All the
wrong words rushed out of my mouth. ‘Listen, I’ll come to you right
away. I’ll catch a flight and come to Kabul.’
    But the man shouted back, ‘I forbid you to
come to Kabul.’
    ‘Forbid me? But, Duran . . . my son . . . my
love, I must see you.’
    That cold voice was killing me, but it grew
colder still. ‘Look here, sister, do not come here. If I see your
ugly face appear, I’ll kill myself.’
    I was sobbing. ‘Why? Why do you say that? I
am your mother. I have lived only to see you again. I—’
    ‘Look here, sister, there is no divorce in
Paktia law.’
    I could barely think. Why was my son calling
me ‘sister’ in that hateful tone of voice? Why was Duran being
intentionally cruel?
    When I didn’t answer, he shouted at me, ‘How
dare you divorce my father!’
    ‘Duran, Duran, this is not the time for this.
But if you must know, I divorced your father because he beat
me.’
    ‘My father said you did not want me after the
divorce, that you sold me to him for $5,000. He told me you never
loved me.’
    My heart pounded painfully. I put my right
hand over my chest protectively. ‘Duran, listen to me.’ My words
rushed, one over the other, trying to make him understand. ‘That is
not true. I can show you papers that prove your father kidnapped
you. Duran, your grandfather and I did everything to try and find
you. You must believe me.’ I paused. ‘Duran, won’t you call me
Mouri?’ ( Mouri means ‘Mother’ in the Pashto).
    ‘Before I call you my mother, there are many
questions you must answer,’ he said coldly. ‘Then I will decide if
I will even see you.’
    Zeby got on another extension. ‘Now calm
down, both of you. This is the first conversation. It is a shock
for both of you.’
    Duran hung up without saying anything
more.
    I was so shaken I could barely speak. For
years I had dreamed of speaking to my son, of telling him of my
love, of how I had never stopped looking for him, loving him. Now
the dream was a nightmare. My little baby, my adorable Duran seemed
to have no love for his mother. In fact, he gave every indication
that he hated me.
    Zeby tried in vain to console me. ‘Maryam,
Duran’s father has brainwashed him for seventeen years. The boy
doesn’t know what to think. He will come round. Give him time.’
    Weeping bitter tears I called Khalid and told
him what had happened. Khalid was unruffled, as always. ‘Don’t
worry, my love. He will call you back when he is ready. This is
going to take some time.’
    I was like a wild animal caged, pacing,
filled with regrets that I had said all the wrong things. I wanted
to shout at my serene husband and take it out on him. Time? Hadn’t
seventeen years been enough time for me to live without my son?
    Duran called again two days later. This time
I managed to keep my emotions in check, though it was difficult. I
prayed he was calling because of some newly found memory, but that
was sadly not the case. He had called me for one reason only. His
thoughts were of his father. Duran was worried that I would create
problems for his father. ‘Your sister told me the story. I will not
speak with you again unless you promise to forgive my father. You
must not take him to court. You must not make any trouble for
him.’
    I would have promised my son anything if it
meant we could stay in touch. ‘My son, I promise you, I will do
nothing to hurt your father.’
    ‘You must also forgive my father.’
    I paused a long time before uttering those
difficult words, although I knew there was little I would not do to
be reunited with my son. ‘All right, I forgive your father,
Duran.’
    Instantly his tone changed, and he started
sounding friendly, weirdly so, suddenly making plans to leave
Afghanistan. ‘I think I will go to India to school. I might let you
come there to see me. But I never