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

sent abroad for their
university education and Farid had recently departed to India for
his schooling.
    So miserable that I wept constantly, I prayed
to God to bring my parents back. My only comfort was dreaming of
receiving a long-distance call from Russia. My father would be on
the line, telling me he had been cured and that I should meet them
at Kabul airport on Wednesday, the only day that flights came in
from the Soviet Union.
    Thinking that God himself was sending me the
information, every Wednesday I would prepare myself for a trip to
the airport.
    Disappointment was to be my reward for my
parents were away for nine long months. Then mother returned alone
to Kabul. Our hearts were in our throats, waiting for her to tell
us that Father had died and was buried in faraway Russia. Mother
assured us otherwise. ‘Lose that long face! Your father is very
much alive. His health has improved. I came home without him only
because I could not abide another moment away from my family. Your
father will return home soon.’
    Just as I had given up hope, believing that
Mother was hiding the truth and that my father was indeed dead and
buried, like magic he returned to Kabul. Much to everyone’s
surprise, my father was on his own two feet, telling us that those
Russians had the best medical care and that their miraculous cures
had put his cancer into remission.
    Never have I known such complete joy!
    But my happiness did not last long, for death
hung over our home like a sword. My father remained unwell. He did
not return to work, but instead slowly padded around the
neighbourhood visiting family or old friends.
    From the moment my father was diagnosed with
a life-threatening illness, I left behind my childish ways.
Although I was still a rebel at school, I became the good daughter
at home, devoted to my parents, helping with the cooking, shopping
and all other chores. But everyone in our family reacted
differently to our changing family dynamics, and now my sister
Nadia began to act up, complaining endlessly about Mother and
throwing temper tantrums over things of little importance, such as
Mother’s choice of menu for our dinner.
    Poor Mother became edgy, exhausted from her
full-time teaching job, a husband in dubious health and a daughter
who appeared to delight in tormenting her. Many nights Mother would
retreat to the bedroom where I could hear her piercing cries: ‘What
did I do, God? What did I do to deserve such a child?’
    Everything soft about my mother grew sharp
edges. As her work load increased and her worries grew, her lips
curled and her weight plummeted, sharpening the contours of her
nose and chin. Even her once deep, sensuous voice grew shrill.
    Our father was home only a few months before
his troubling symptoms reappeared and he returned to Russia for
more treatment. This kept happening, and soon he was out of the
country more than he was at home.
    With Father gone, our family life lost its
important core.
    Then we endured a second shock when we lost
Grandmother Mayana. Thanks be to Allah that Father just happened to
be home in between his medical treatments when she became ill.
Grandmother Mayana never once complained in her life, and kept a
ghostly quiet presence in our house to avoid causing problems
between my father and mother. I used to pop into her room daily to
sit with her. On the day she became ill, I ambled into her room to
find her lying still in bed. It was mid-afternoon.
    I was startled. ‘Grandmother, are you all
right?’
    She shook her head, whispering weakly,
‘Maryam, it is too hard for me to go to the bathroom. It is too
hard for me to perform my ablutions and pray.’
    My grandmother was extremely pious and never
missed her five daily prayers. But I was only a young girl, unsure
of what I should do. For some instinctive reason I did not alert my
mother, but waited for my father. When he came in I ran to him
crying, ‘Something is terribly wrong with Grandmother.’
    He rushed to her room, then came out and
prepared her a meal of soft foods. He tried to coax her to eat, but
to no avail.
    My father called a neighbour, a female
Russian doctor who agreed to come to our home.
    I stood in the doorway as she took out her
medical instruments and checked Grandmother’s blood pressure. ‘It
is very low,’ she said, looking at her instruments. ‘Too low,’ she
said with an ominous tone. She stared meaningfully at my father.
‘She must eat. She is very weak.’
    My father nodded.