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

exercise. ‘Although Sophia is busty, she maintains a slim
figure,’ she used to say. I remember how she would place her
morning cup of tea on her stomach, saying it was good for her belly
to feel the heat. After warming up her belly she would massage the
area with her hands. Later I would watch as she selected various
fruits and vegetables, cut them in two and then rubbed the juice
into her face and neck. ‘Daughters, listen to your mother,’ she
would say. ‘A woman’s face needs food, too.’ The idea made sense to
me, although I never thought to ask if Sophia Loren fed her
face.
    Her desire to emulate Sophia Loren influenced
her make-up and dress sense too. Mother claimed that Sophia never
appeared in public without full make-up and beautiful clothes so
Mother was extremely particular about her look and never left home
without a light powder on her face, her eyebrows fashionably
plucked and her lips perfectly lined with her favorite shade of
dark pink. She refused to wear flats, and always left the house in
silk stockings and high heels.
    My maternal grandmother died a year or two
before I was born so I do not know if my mother inherited her ways
from her own mother, but I suspect this was the case. I never knew
how she died but I guess it was from old age. Over the years I
discovered that my maternal grandmother detested her husband
despite their many years of marriage and his constant attempts to
win her love. It was clear that Grandfather Hassen adored his
intelligent, forceful wife with a great passion so I was shocked to
hear of the unusual love/hate relationship between the two. I had
grown up believing that while my father’s family was plagued by
unhappiness, my mother’s family was content. But now I know there
are secrets concealed under every family’s roof.
    Mother once told me that her mother’s hatred
stemmed from the fact that at just thirteen years old she was
forced to marry a man she did not know. She spent much of her youth
pregnant, in the end giving birth to ten children – seven daughters
and three sons. Throughout her back-to-back pregnancies, she
remained curious about the world outside her home and welcomed
learning and study. With her high intelligence and avid reading she
was unlike other women in Afghanistan. Most of all, she demanded
that her daughters be educated and she would walk around their home
repeating these words like a mantra, ‘The best friend in life is
your books. The best friend in life is your books.’ Yet her high
intellect was of a double-edged sword. Being a woman in Afghanistan
is extremely limiting and despite the fact that she came from a
family more modern than most, being enlightened just made her more
aware of the injustices.
    Her husband, my maternal grandfather, was a
tall, handsome man who held some of the highest posts in the Afghan
government. He was very close to one of Afghanistan’s most
successful kings, Habibullah Khan, and there were many stories
about Grandfather Hassen’s exciting life as a trusted confidant of
the most powerful man in the country.
    Grandfather Hassen was a good friend of the
young prince Habibullah before he became king. He then slipped
effortlessly into the role of his right-hand man when Habibullah
became king after the death of his father, Rahman Khan, who died
peacefully in 1901. For one of the few times in Afghan history, a
king succeeded to the throne without chaos and the Afghan people
were lucky to be ruled by someone who, for once, was well qualified
for the position. His father had trained him well in all branches
of the government so he was more than ready to be king by the time
he reached the throne.
    During King Habibullah’s rule, Grandfather
Hassen was appointed as the Afghan Ambassador to Russia. His
high-ranking position required him to live in Russia, but much to
everyone’s astonishment he refused to leave Kabul. Somehow
Grandfather Hassen convinced his king that he could better serve
Afghanistan if he remained in country, and he performed his duties
as the Afghan Ambassador to Russia without ever living there.
    Under the rule of King Habibullah,
Afghanistan avoided any major political drama for eighteen years,
but good times do not last for ever. In February 1919, King
Habibullah and a group of his men, including my grandfather, were
at Jalalabad at the Ghalat-ul-Seraj palace on their way to go
grouse hunting. That night the king was shot and murdered in his
sleep.
    Speculation was rife all