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

happier life had she been born plain, or even
homely.
    My sister Nadia inherited her good looks from
Grandmother Mayana, and was known to be one of the prettiest girls
in Kabul. She was a tall girl with beautiful long hair framing her
perfectly shaped face, set up nicely by big sensuous eyes and a
delicate nose. Everyone exclaimed over her unusual beauty. Nadia
was not only very pretty but she was super intelligent, too, always
heading her class with the highest grades.
    Nadia was nearly three when I was born. She
had savored being an only child, the full focus of family
attention. With my appearance, she suffered the sting of sibling
rivalry. When she ordered my mother, ‘Get rid of that baby!’,
Mother laughed, thinking little of her elder daughter’s jealous
words. After all, she was only four years old at the time. But one
day when my mother needed to go to the bathroom she asked Nadia to
watch her sleeping sister. After returning, Mother was pleased that
I was not crying, for I was a fussy baby. She did notice that Nadia
was unusually happy, skipping and laughing and springing from one
foot to the next.
    Mother hushed her. ‘Your sister is
sleeping.’
    Nadia laughed and replied gaily, ‘That baby
is not sleeping. That baby is dead.’
    My panicked mother ran into the bedroom to
discover that Nadia had piled pillows and blankets on my head and
body. As she threw the pillows and coverings on the floor I was
gasping for air. From that time until I was of an age to defend
myself, Mother kept a close eye.
    Thankfully, by the time I was a toddler,
Nadia became more protective, but once I reached my teenage years,
her jealousy once again overwhelmed sisterly love. She became very
controlling and strict, and when I irritated her she didn’t
hesitate to scratch my face or to slap me. This sibling aggression
continued until she turned eighteen. Then for a few years we became
very close before our relationship turned sour in adulthood.
    Our family life was very complicated.
    I have often wondered if my parents ever
regretted having a second daughter. I was such an obstinate child
that turmoil ruled our home. My wilfulness came early and
naturally. For some reason, I refused to accept milk or juice
unless it was presented to me in a glass bottle. Nothing else would
do. My mother reported that I would squeeze my lips together, with
a wrinkled forehead and rigid limbs, rebuffing all efforts to feed
me unless the rubber nipple was attached to a glass bottle.
My desperate mother, grandmother and Nanny Muma attempted every
trick, but I gave every indication that I was prepared to starve,
so eventually they would capitulate.
    When I reached my first birthday, the
situation got worse. After slurping the last drop of milk or juice
I would lean back to heave the glass bottle against the wall, where
it would shatter. I seemed to derive the greatest pleasure from the
sound of breaking glass, while my sister and mother screamed and
poor Nanny Muma rushed to collect the glass from the floor. Despite
reprimands and spankings, I was never discouraged. At her wits’
end, Mother smeared hot chilli pepper on the nipple of the bottle
and watched in disbelief as my face reddened and I endured the
burning hot pepper on my lips rather than give up drinking my milk
from the glass bottle.
    Then the price of glass baby bottles went up.
They had to be imported into Afghanistan, and my mother was soon
spending most of her household money on those expensive items.
Finally one of my mother’s six sisters intervened. She arrived at
our home with a serious face and held out a glass bottle to me,
saying, ‘Maryam, this is the last glass baby bottle in all
Afghanistan. The king has decreed that babies can no longer drink
from glass bottles, so if you break it, that’s it.’
    My whole family gathered round, watching my
reaction. All Afghan people listened to the king, even the youngest
children. Perhaps the vexing problem would finally be solved. I
clutched the bottle, drank the milk to the last drop then paused
and looked smugly at my audience before smashing the bottle against
the large stone fireplace, toddling away with a pleased expression
on my face.
    I’m surprised my parents didn’t beat me then.
Somehow they kept me supplied with glass baby bottles until the
happy day when I outgrew them.
    I had yet another annoying habit. In
Afghanistan, family members congregate on the living-room floor to
eat their evening meal. Those few hours are