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

after four months, the welcome
message arrived that Zarine would be home in time for Farid’s sixth
birthday. The family was unaware that the doctors in Germany had
warned Zarine she must not travel, that her heart was so damaged
she might endanger her life if she left the hospital to make the
strenuous trip. In those days a number of exhausting flights were
necessary for a traveller to journey from Europe to Afghanistan.
But Zarine was determined not to miss her son’s birthday
celebration, so she forged ahead against her doctor’s orders.
    The extended Hassen family accompanied Hakim
and his children to the airport. No one wanted to miss the happy
reunion.
    When a shrunken and wan Zarine came into
view, Farid pushed through the crowd and ran into his mother’s open
arms. Zarmina quickly followed. Mother and children were laughing
and crying all at once while the watching family members wept at
the blissful gathering.
    Suddenly Zarine’s laughter stopped. In a
flash her expression altered from the greatest joy to a puzzled
stare. Something was wrong. In the next moment Zarine buckled, her
little son still enfolded in her arms, and collapsed on the hard
floor.
    A frantic Hakim ran to his wife, then cried
out, ‘She is dead! Zarine is dead!’
    Zarmina was too young to understand what had
happened, but my cousin Farid was distraught, alternately weeping
and calling out for his mother. From that time Farid and his sister
were at our home as much as their own, where my mother struggled to
fill the massive chasm left by Zarine’s death.
    Their family misfortune is how I ended up
with an ‘older brother’. My mother’s maternal love created a safe
haven for her brother’s children. Even after Uncle Hakim later
remarried, a nice woman named Rabeha, Farid still looked upon my
mother as his mother. Uncle Hakim and Auntie Rabeha had a baby
daughter named Zeby only six months after I was born. Even after I
finally understood that Farid, Zarmina and little Zeby were my
cousins, they remained siblings in my heart.
    Having an older brother proved advantageous
for me. In Afghanistan, brothers offer protection and I would need
all the protection I could get.
    Farid was my mentor from the time I was a
small child. He was eight years older, dashing and handsome, and I
believed he knew everything. As a result, his sister Zeby and I
called him our ‘Agha’, which means ‘Mr Boss’. We were obedient to
Farid’s every command.
    I remember when Farid decided that since I so
badly wanted to be a boy, he would make me one. There was no reason
for Zeby to miss the fun, so she joined in too. Farid ordered us to
sit still while he applied glue to our cheeks. Then he pressed
black sheep’s wool on to our faces. Next he gave us two suits of
his old clothing that he had outgrown, ordering us to put them on.
He observed us walking back and forth, finally announcing that we
passed the ‘male’ test. That’s when he revealed a new idea, saying,
‘Since I have made you into males, I want you to visit my maternal
grandfather. He is so old that most of his friends are dead. He is
very lonely sitting isolated in his room.’ Farid believed that Zeby
and I might pass for some of his old friends and bring some cheer
to the old man. ‘Play along with him,’ Farid ordered.
    When Zeby and I were led into the old man’s
room, he brightened considerably, shouting out, ‘Hey Fazal Khan!’
He seemed puzzled and for a few moments studied our small figures,
appearing to be in deep thought before asking, ‘Fazal, why have you
become so short? Does your wife no longer feed you?’
    When the old man made a move in our
direction, Zeby and I squealed in fear and ran out of the room,
much to Farid’s disgust.
    When I was around nine years old, Farid
reached the age of eighteen. He had grown very tall with thick
brown hair, flashing dark brown eyes and a ready smile. It was
claimed he was more handsome than the American movie star Rock
Hudson. More importantly to me, Farid was free to do as he wished.
Farid could wear whatever fashion he pleased, be friends with
whomever he chose, drive as fast as he wanted and even smoke
cigarettes, all things I longed to do.
    Farid felt my dissatisfaction and played
along with my fantasy of being a boy. He introduced me to his
friends as his ‘little brother’ and allowed me to accompany him on
exciting adventures, such as pretending to be Batman while he drove
his car as fast as he could down the streets