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

Shair, the
leader of the Khail tribe.
    Although World War II had recently ended,
London had not yet recovered from the German Blitz, and the air was
polluted with dust from the enormous ongoing reconstruction
projects. My father’s lungs couldn’t cope with the damp climate,
coupled with the floating debris. Before long he could barely
breathe.
    The last thing he desired was a disruption of
his schooling. He loved London and the academy. His contemporaries
were likable young men from some of the world’s best-known royal
families. My father knew the classmates he was meeting were the
future leaders in their own countries.
    But his health continued to decline, and the
doctors in England warned him that his lungs were weakened and he
must seek a better climate in order to recover. They recommended he
travel to Switzerland and seek treatment there, so he took
temporary leave from his military school. Once in Switzerland he
was told that his health had been seriously compromised. Thinking
he would be in the hospital for only a few weeks, he was shocked to
learn his health would require fifteen months of medical treatment.
Despite his illness, he was encouraged to take walks in the crisp
mountain air and he soon grew to love the country and the people.
He later said that those fifteen months were the best of his life.
Once he was better he returned to his studies in London, where he
graduated with honors. Communications were so difficult in those
years, however, that contact with his family in Afghanistan was
sporadic, with brief letters exchanged only a few times a year.
    In 1953 Afghanistan was still squabbling with
Pakistan. In September of that year, Mohammed Daoud Khan, the royal
cousin who had saved my father’s life so long ago when Shair threw
him down the school stairs, was elevated to the position of Prime
Minister. This was also the year that my father completed his
schooling and was ordered by Shair Khan to return to
Afghanistan.
    Father’s years in Europe had been so idyllic
that the idea of returning to the difficult life he had known in
Afghanistan filled his heart with dread. He felt a strong urge to
remain in England, yet knew he must return to his family.
    Even as my father embarked on his journey, he
had no clue that the evil lurking in Afghanistan had been busily
taking away those he loved. No joyful reunions awaited his arrival.
Instead, death was everywhere. As soon as his feet touched Afghan
soil, my father was told that of his five siblings, only one was
still living, and that was Shair, his older brother.
    His half-brother Shamast, who was a young man
of gentle temperament, had recently graduated from medical school
in Turkey, only to perish of a fever in an epidemic a few days
later. My father’s three beautiful sisters had all recently died as
well. All three sisters had been of good health shortly before they
died and the Afghan mountains buzzed with gossip that the three
beautiful Khail daughters were poisoned before they could reach the
age of inheritance. Few dared question their deaths, for they were
only female, of no account, loved only by their mother and
brother.
    Only Shair Khan and my father were alive to
share their father’s great wealth. Shair told my father that his
sisters had all died of tuberculosis. My father had to accept this
as the truth – in 1953, Afghanistan had no scientific methods
available to prove otherwise. And any accusations of foul play
would be met by dire punishment.
    Nevertheless my father believed he would be
Shair’s next target, so he took matters into his own hands and told
him, ‘I don’t care about money. You are free to hold and control
all our father’s assets. My needs are few. Provide me with a small
allowance only until I can find a government position. I hereby
give up my claim.’
    I have often thought that my father saved his
life with those wise words. Yet he spoke the truth, as he was not a
man who desired more than what was necessary for basic life. My
father’s main concern was his mother’s mental state. Mayana and her
daughters were closer than most mothers and daughters due to their
shared hardships. Their lowly position in the galah had meant they
could seek comfort only from each other. All four had been
inseparable, even embracing in the same bed each night.
    Mayana felt the guilt of the survivor. She
hated staying alive while her daughters rotted in the ground. She
grieved for her three sweet daughters who had never been