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

that Big Duran was having to cope with
such a lot of change. The adjustment would take time, that was
all.
    During dinner Khalid told my son: ‘Welcome to
your new family. I hope you will feel at home here.’
    ‘From now on, you can be my father as far as
I am concerned. I hate Kaiss, my son-of-a-bitch father.’
    Khalid was shocked, for it is a rare Saudi
who will criticize their father, regardless of their character.
Khalid spoke quietly. ‘You should never call your father names. He
is still your father. And I don’t want you to use language like
that in my home in front of your young brother. You are here now.
You are safe. Let your anger subside.’
    ‘Are there any rules in this house?’ Big
Duran asked, taunting Khalid.
    He didn’t know my husband, who, I often
claimed, had the calmest temperament in all Saudi Arabia. Khalid
just nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Every home has rules.’
    Big Duran began to bargain with him. ‘How
would it be if for only two weeks there were no rules? Let me have
some freedom without anyone telling me what to do. After that, I
will obey your rules.’
    Khalid and I exchanged glances. I followed my
husband’s lead when he laughed the moment off. We both knew there
was not much trouble for Big Duran to find in Jeddah. Saudi Arabia
is conspicuously free of clubs, bars and movie theatres. Social
life in Saudi Arabia is almost exclusively centered around the
family.
    For two weeks all was well. I took both my
sons to the beach. We swam. We played volleyball. We went to the
shopping malls. We seemed normal in every way, at least everyone
but Big Duran.
    I was bothered when my teenage son looked at
me and said, ‘You dress very sexy.’ My heart plunged. I remembered
those words were spoken by Kaiss before he would beat me.
    But then I remembered this was a young man
who had been raised by a brute and he couldn’t help knowing nothing
of social niceties or manners. So rather than reprimand Big Duran,
I hugged him and said, ‘Thank you, my son.’
    Then Big Duran decided Saudi Arabia was not
to his liking. He told us, ‘We must move to Virginia. I will go to
school there. I give you permission to bring your other son.’
    I reminded Big Duran: ‘But you didn’t like
Virginia. You wanted to come out here instead.’
    ‘No. I do not like it here. There is nothing
to do. We must go back to America.’
    ‘My husband is here. My younger son is here.
We will do as we have always done. We shall live in Saudi Arabia
for six months, and then in America for the next six months.’
    He didn’t answer, but his expression soured.
From that time Big Duran became increasingly hostile, losing his
awesome temper over the smallest things. I was so happy to have my
son back that I took many photographs of him. After the rolls were
taken to be developed, all the photographs turned out to be white.
The camera shop clerk then looked over my camera and announced it
defective. I took it in my stride, and purchased another camera. I
sighed sadly and told Big Duran about the destroyed prints. We will
take more pictures, I assured him.
    But my son’s reaction was dramatic. He leapt
from the sofa and stared screaming at me. ‘You idiot! Why didn’t
you use a decent camera?’ Then he ran around the room like a mad
person, picking up objects and breaking them against the wall. He
glared at me: ‘You stupid woman, you are good for nothing!’
    I was in shock. My son was acting like a
lunatic, and over nothing. For the first time, I realized how much
my son could look and act exactly like his father.
    Big Duran threw his head back and screamed as
loudly as he could. Then he marched off to his room, slamming the
door so hard that the walls shook.
    Little Duran was inconsolable. Never before
had he witnessed such behavior. He wanted to go to his brother to
make certain he was all right, but something warned me. ‘Don’t go
in there,’ I told my youngest son. ‘Leave your big brother
alone.’
    The following day we received Big Duran’s
cellphone bill from Virginia. He had called Kabul so many times
that the bill added up to $1,500 for one month. I was upset but
didn’t want another explosion from my son. I calmly told him: ‘You
tell me you are afraid of your father, that he might steal you back
to Afghanistan. Yet you are calling him yourself time and time
again.’
    My son looked at me with angry, hateful eyes.
‘I don’t call him every time.’
    ‘Who are you calling then?’
    ‘I have