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

over the world as to
who might have assassinated the king. The newspapers in London
hypothesized that the assassination was ordered by Lenin of Russia,
saying: ‘Lenin and his friends are known to have attached the
utmost importance to propaganda in British India. Their efforts
have hitherto been thwarted because the Amir of Afghanistan blocked
the way against their emissaries, just as during the war he denied
passage to the emissaries of Germany.’
    The event held great political interest for
the rest of the world, in particular England, Russia and India, but
for my grandfather and the rest of Afghanistan the loss was a
personal devastation. The country’s worst fears came true when
turmoil trailed the new ruler. Criticism aimed at the new king came
from every corner. Since nothing strengthens a government like a
declaration of war, Afghanistan was battling Great Britain within
four months. This war cost my father’s family most dearly, for this
was the war that took my grandfather Ahmed Khan’s life.
    By the time I was born Grandfather Hassen was
losing his memory, so he could not fully share with me his exciting
anecdotes about serving a king. I do recall slipping into his room
with my cousins and how he would greet us with the greatest
pleasure, believing that we were some of his old acquaintances. He
happily described the red uniforms of the Gendarmes, saying that he
had played a role in selecting the distinctive attire. He would
chatter away about the government intrigues that were so important
during the reign of King Habibullah. Much to our delight he would
sometimes call out to imaginary servants, ‘Saddle up my horse! I am
going hunting with the king!’ We would play along, pretending to
hoist a saddle on to a chair and helping him to his feet. Several
times he shocked us with instructions to prepare him for a secret
visit, declaring, ‘Hurry, hurry! Laila the dancing girl is waiting
for me.’ He actually smacked his lips in jovial anticipation of
visiting that dancing girl!
    Later when I asked my mother, ‘Who is this
Laila who is going to dance for Grandpa Hassen?’, Mother would put
her finger to her lips. ‘Hush.’ I later discovered that Laila was
an exotic dancer who had captured my grandpa’s attention. Perhaps
Laila was one of the reasons my grandmother Hassen hated her
husband so much.
    But when my cousins and I were young his
exciting talk thrilled us. We would laugh with him and eventually
one of our parents or nannies would hear the commotion and call us
away before settling Grandfather Hassen back on his cushion.
    How I regret not knowing him when he was of
sound mind.
    I also felt the loss of my paternal
grandfather, whom I’d never met. Had he lived, I would have known
my three beautiful aunties and a grandmother who walked with joy,
rather than one who was broken from a lifetime of sorrow.
    I had heard that Grandmother Mayana was once
a great beauty, but her life’s hardships had destroyed what used to
be. The woman living with us seemed old and withered and even
hideous to my young eyes. I would sit and stare and try to imagine
the legendary beauty that had caused a powerful man to fall
speechless at the sight of her face, but I failed to find a hint of
it.
    Grandmother was so timid and quiet we hardly
noticed her when she was around, although she had lived in my
father’s home from the time he left the galah. As a child I
believed that her grief was the reason she rarely came out of her
tiny bedroom and was never truly a part of the family. She didn’t
even take her meals with us, unless guests were at our table. I
never questioned why she was always absent, but after my mother’s
death I asked my father why Grandmother kept herself away from us.
I was shocked when my father told me that it was my mother who did
not allow Grandmother to share our family life.
    It was then I remembered the spark of joy
that would light her face when I slipped into her room to sit and
chat with her. My time with her was always brief because she would
kiss me on the cheek and say, ‘Return to your mother. We must not
make her unhappy.’ Now I know why she encouraged me not to prolong
my visits, I’m wounded to remember that never once did she request
anything for herself, not even a favorite dish.
    My grandmother’s life had been set for
unhappiness from the moment the Khan spotted her beauty and claimed
her for his own. The sad truth is that my grandmother would have
lived a much