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

had lost the familiarity of the only home they knew.
Sadness engulfed the entire family, yet there was worse to come
when further restrictions were placed on Grandmother and her
daughters.
    Although the poor of Afghanistan learned to
satisfy themselves with simple foods like coarse bread and a little
fruit and vegetables, the wealthy were accustomed to delicious
dishes of fowl, mutton, rice and special sweets. The Khail ruling
family ate only the finest foods but Shair ordered that from now on
my grandmother and her children were only allowed enough to keep
them alive. They were permitted tea, but no sugar to put in their
tea. They were allowed bread, but no butter or jam to spread on the
bread. Grandmother’s hungry daughters pleaded for small chunks of
cheese, anything to relieve the monotony of their bland diet, but
their pleas were ignored. When Shair Khan heard of their hunger and
cry for food, he told them, ‘Lick your fingers.’
    My grandmother’s heart shattered when her
hungry young daughters wept, pleading for something sweet. She
dreaded that Shair would do something to separate her from her
children and she knew she wouldn’t be able to bear being far away
from them, unable to offer her love as comfort.
    My grandmother was still in her twenties, a
young woman who remained physically lovely, despite having given
birth to four children and the recent traumas she had had to
endure. Shair called her to appear before him and she shivered in
fear at the anticipation of this meeting, for his loathing for her
seemed to expand with each passing day. When she faced her stepson,
his face was contorted with hatred. His voice full of spite, he
announced, ‘Mayana, an old man far from our galah has offered a
large sum for your dowry. You will be married soon.’
    Grandmother Mayana felt faint. She understood
what such a marriage would mean for her family. Cultural law
demanded that her children remain under the control of Shair Khan
if she remarried so she would disappear from the galah and never be
allowed to see her daughters and son again. She would become the
property of a man she did not know, forced to bear his children.
Knowing that any protest would only serve to harden her stepson’s
decision, she remained silent, staring at her feet as an obedient
woman should. Finally she was dismissed.
    After that summons, Mayana made a hard
decision. She would choose a young death rather than endure the
pain of having her children torn from her arms as she was given to
another man, a man who by law was free to sexually abuse every part
of her body, a man who could beat her daily, a man who would surely
keep her away from her children. She decided that if she was going
to be wrenched from her children’s lives, she preferred a quiet
grave to a living hell. A favourite servant arranged for
Grandmother to acquire arsenic, putting just enough in a small
snuffbox so that, if needed, she could commit a quick suicide.
    But a few years passed and there was no
further mention of marriage. It was 1922 and the Amir was calling
out for Afghan men to devote themselves to civic duty, telling
educated families that their college-age sons would be sent abroad
for education. Young Afghan men would have the chance to look upon
the world outside our little corner and create a future movement
for change. Although our country was beginning to stir, inching
forward into modernity, everything remained archaic at the galah, a
fact Grandmother was reminded of when Shair tried to kill her only
son, my father.
    Shair had an iron-clad rule that to show
respect my father must remove his hat any time he greeted him. One
day my young father forgot he was wearing his hat and ran outside
to greet his brother. The sight of that forbidden hat drove Shair
into one of his famous rages and he ordered his horse to charge and
trample on my father. My tiny father covered his head with his
hands and waited for the inevitable blows from the horse’s
hooves.
    But that horse had a special affection for my
father. It danced on its hind legs, prancing with front legs in the
air, refusing to trample the young boy. As soon as he recovered his
wits, my father saw his chance to escape and ran as fast as he
could, finding a corner to hide away until Shair forgot his
anger.
    In 1923, a few months after this incident,
Shair ruled that my father would be sent away to a military
boarding school. My grandmother was devastated – her small son was
only six years old,