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

many many friends in Kabul.’
    I sighed. ‘Well, we are not a rich family. We
live on a budget. I will pay this bill, but I cannot do it
again.’
    Duran’s twentieth birthday was coming soon,
on 27 January 2004, so I planned a big surprise birthday party for
him, the first time I had the opportunity to enjoy that pleasure
for seventeen years. The party was held at the pool of an American
residential compound where friends of mine lived. I went there
early to arrange everything perfectly. Khalid brought the boys over
at party time.
    From the moment he arrived, Big Duran was so
unfriendly that guests began to whisper. My son stood at a
distance, shooting me nasty looks and responding to my concerns
with snarls. All my guests made an effort to be nice, but my son
was so intentionally rude that they soon drifted away. My eldest
son had been in a good mood when I left the house earlier in the
afternoon, so I asked Khalid, ‘Did anything happen after I
left?’
    Khalid gave me a significant look. ‘He was on
the telephone for two hours after you left. He was speaking in
Pashto.’
    My heart plunged. I knew then that my son was
maintaining close ties with his father. What were they
plotting?
    The following morning a close cousin living
in Australia called, wanting to welcome Big Duran back into our
family. I listened curiously to the conversation and overheard my
son saying to her, ‘I want to emigrate to Australia.’
    She was obviously taken aback, and must have
asked him why on earth he would want to move to Australia.
    ‘I want to come there and get my Ph.D.’
    I imagined my cousin telling him he must
first get his bachelor degree.
    I walked past my son to go to the kitchen for
a glass of juice. When I passed him, he took the telephone receiver
and without warning hit me on the head with tremendous force. I
gasped from the shock and the pain. Duran glared at me and stalked
off.
    I picked up the phone and asked my cousin
what might have happened to create such anger in my son. She
repeated their conversation. I could tell from her tone that she
was worried about my situation.
    I went up to Duran’s room and asked, ‘Why
would you think of moving to Australia? And why would you hit your
mother?’
    ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Duran
growled.
    I should have punished him then, but I was
filled with fear and dread that if I disciplined my son, I would
lose him once again. I should have known that by ignoring the
problem, bigger problems would only emerge.
    One morning I went to a meeting of the
American Ladies of Jeddah, leaving both sons at home, as well as my
maid Rahma. When I returned, my home was in turmoil. Little Duran
was very upset. Big Duran was locked in his room, refusing to speak
with anyone. Rahma was in the kitchen, also disturbed.
    ‘What happened here?’ I asked, fear gathering
in my heart.
    Rahma told me. ‘When I went to clean in the
television room, I saw your two sons. Madam, your older son’s hands
were wrapped round your younger son’s neck! When the big boy saw
me, he released the little one, who came running to me, screaming
that he was being strangled. Your big son said he was only playing
around.’
    Rahma shook her head and turned away.
    My younger son heard my voice, and came
running. ‘Mother, Duran tried to strangle me!’ he cried
plaintively.
    Big Duran was apparently listening through
his door. He now made an appearance, laughing, saying, ‘Oh no I did
not.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘We were just playing a little game. It
was nothing.’
    Unwilling to believe my eldest son would
seriously try to harm his younger brother, I scolded my youngest
son. ‘Honey, this is a serious charge. Of course your big brother
didn’t try to choke you. Now, you must apologize to him for saying
that.’
    Big Duran looked at his brother, and then at
me, and smiled triumphantly.
    When I told Khalid about the incident, he was
less certain. ‘Maryam, he is unstable. He obviously has a problem
with his temper.’ When he saw my crestfallen look, he reassured me
he was not blaming Big Duran. ‘I do not fault the boy. He was
abused and beaten by his father. It’s no wonder he is unstable. But
I do think he needs the care of a doctor. I think you should take
him to Virginia. Find a doctor there. Get your son some help.’
    When I said nothing, Khalid insisted. ‘We
can’t take risks with our son’s life, Maryam.’
    ‘I will take him over to the States in June,
as we planned. I’ll