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

of Kabul. Once, when
we were sitting in the garden, I started complaining anew: ‘Farid,
why can’t I be a boy like you? Boys get to do anything they
please.’ I paused. ‘Boys make everyone happy just by being
alive.’
    Farid scrunched up his face in thought for a
few moments, then replied, ‘Maryam, I’ll tell you a secret. Girls
can become boys.’
    I perked up.
    ‘There is an American doctor who has been
performing a very unusual operation,’ he whispered. ‘You go in the
hospital a girl and you come out a boy. Just like that! Magic!’
    I was instantly ready for the procedure.
‘Does this American doctor ever come to Kabul?’
    ‘Yes, I have heard that he does. But before
you can have the surgery, you must purchase a penis.’
    I felt crushed by hopelessness. I was sure
that no man in his right mind would sell his penis, not for any
price. Still, I asked, ‘Where would a girl find a penis for
sale?’
    He said, ‘This is confidential, Maryam. As
you might imagine, penises are very much in demand. That’s why they
stock them exclusively at the Hamaid Zada department store in
downtown Kabul. All you need do is go in and ask.’
    Normally I would ask my father to take me
shopping, but at the time he was out of the country seeking medical
attention for a mystery illness. With my father away, there was
nothing to do but convince my mother to take me to the Hamaid Zada
department store. Of course, my poor mother had no clue what I had
in mind, so she was aghast when I announced to the store clerk,
‘One penis, please,’ with as much dignity as I could muster.
    The clerk’s big pale eyes bulged and his
lower lip drooped. The poor man was speechless.
    I became so adamant that the store sold such
items that the store manager was called over. That shocked man
laughed nervously. ‘There is no such thing for sale in this store,’
he said disapprovingly. ‘Who on earth would want to purchase such a
thing?’
    I burst into tears when I finally realized
that my last hope of becoming a boy was dashed. The entire episode
had been nothing more than another of Farid’s practical jokes. All
the same, no prank could cool my relationship with Farid.
    Soon my carefree childhood would come to an
abrupt end when our family suffered a big shock: my sweet father
was diagnosed with cancer. My happy childhood was upended
dramatically when we learned that his latest trip to Russia for his
baffling medical problems had revealed the worst news. He had
bladder cancer.
    Our entire family was paralysed with misery.
Nothing would ever be the same again. Father resigned from his
high-ranking position in the military. His salary ended, although
he would receive a small government retirement stipend. My mother
would be the sole supporter of our family. Worst of all, Father
would spend many months away from his family seeking the latest
treatments in Russia since there was no equivalent care in
Afghanistan.
    My father had been sickly for most of his
life, and I’m convinced that stress also lead to his illness, for I
have heard that stress can play a role in robbing the body of a
healthy immune system, bringing on cancer and other serious
illnesses. Certainly, since the days he was a child my poor father
had lived with enormous tension.
    Nadia and I were left without parents when it
was decided that my mother should accompany him to Russia for his
first surgery and subsequent treatment. No one knew how long they
would be away, or even if my father would survive, for in those
days cancer was considered a death sentence. I overheard adult
relatives whisper, ‘Ajab will return wrapped in his burial
shroud.’
    I trembled at the thought, my child’s heart
bruised and battered.
    Nadia and I were left in the good care of our
grandmother, Nanny Muma and Askar, our family’s male servant. Askar
had worked for our family since the time my father had been an army
officer. Askar was a small man with a full beard and black eyes. He
was a very kind man, and had an unusual sense of humor. Like Farid,
he could make me laugh when I was feeling down. After living in
Kabul for a few years, he stopped wearing Afghan traditional
clothing to become very stylish.
    In addition, my mother’s brothers Hakim and
Aziz and their wives lived near by and were there for back-up, but
despite our warm extended family, nothing eased the pangs of
abandonment. I no longer even had Farid around to bewitch me with
his charm, for in our family the children are