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

He would never accept a
Tajik. He really would murder me.’
    Rahim knew my father had a valid point.
‘Well, she is only half Tajik,’ he said, trying to justify his
idea. ‘But it is the half that counts. Her father is Tajik. Her
mother is Pashtun.’ Both men knew that in Afghanistan, it is the
man’s family who are most important.
    ‘Hear my words! Forget it, Rahim,’ my father
warned.
    But Rahim remained so sure the woman was a
perfect match for my father that he kept trying to convince him.
After much persuading, my father eventually told Rahim, ‘OK. I will look at her. But I will not meet her. I will take one
look. One glance only .’ My father knew he could not marry a
woman of the Tajik tribe, yet he didn’t want to cause offense; he
truly disliked racial or ethnic prejudice. He had nothing against
the Tajik, in fact a number of his male friends were Tajik. It was
only because there was such tension between the two tribes that he
simply didn’t feel up to the all-out family war that intermarriage
would lead to. But what harm would one quick look do?
    *
    Years later, my father would tease my mother,
telling her, ‘I realized that Rahim would never stop praising his
cousin until I had at least taken a look. After one quick glance,
my plan was to make my excuses and leave, claiming that his cousin
was too tall or too short, or too heavy or too skinny.’ My parents
would look at each other with knowing glances, chuckling at what
they both knew.
    The two friends had set out to drive to Kabul
to take that one, fated look. Along the way Rahim told his friend,
‘Ajab, I warn you. This cousin of mine is unique. You will be
struck by a bolt of love.’ My father dismissed Rahim with friendly
curses. He couldn’t believe he had agreed to travel the rough road
from the Khail galah to Kabul only to look at a girl impossible for
him to marry.
    Upon arrival my father parked his car outside
a school gate and, before he could relax a moment, Rahim excitedly
shouted, ‘There! There! Look on the top step. There she is.’
    My father exhaled in irritation, then leaned
forward to take a hurried look at the woman Rahim was pointing out.
My father blinked, then squinted. First he noticed that the woman
was dressed in a chic green coat, an unusual garment for any woman
living in Afghanistan. Then he observed that the woman was tall and
thin. Then he noticed the woman’s shapely legs. They were exposed
from the knees down, perfect legs with delicate ankles. The woman
was so fashionable that she was wearing silk stockings and high
heels. This was highly unusual in a country where women’s bodies
were more often cloaked by the burqa. As the woman moved closer, my
father was able to see her face, for she did not slip on a veil
until she actually left the school grounds. She was beautiful, with
light skin and extremely dark eyes that set off her shimmering
brown hair.
    Suddenly one look was not enough.
    My father caught his breath, terrified to
find himself mesmerized by the woman on the steps. She was having a
conversation with another female teacher, and laughter rang out
between the two women. The beauty had a nice sense of humor too, he
thought to himself.
    My father was a man who had been subjected to
little happiness, and much sorrow. He believed he had seen it all
but suddenly he was a man renewed, startled by the level of
attraction he was experiencing for a woman he had never met. He did
not believe in love at first sight because his education and
sophistication barred such ideas. Yet he was fighting the greatest
urge to walk straight up to Rahim’s cousin. He had never wanted
anything more in his life. He yearned to look full into her face,
to find out her thoughts on everything.
    My father was a worldly man who had met and
romanced a number of women during the years he lived in Europe. But
he was no longer in Europe. He was no longer living in a relaxed
society where men and women socialized easily. In Afghanistan a
casual meeting with the beautiful schoolteacher would create a
scandal, possibly causing men of her family to seek violent
retribution.
    Frustration rippled throughout him. He didn’t
know what to do.
    He realized he was considered a catch in
Afghanistan, in a position to have almost any woman from any good
Pashtun family. Now, he wanted a woman impossible to have.
    That woman was Sharifa Hassen. She was from a
wealthy family held in high regard in Kabul. In fact, her father
held influence with