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

‘Yes. I will get her to
eat.’
    The rest of the evening my father and I took
turns sitting with Grandmother. To make us happy, she tried to eat,
but could barely swallow. I went into the kitchen and made her
favorite drink, sweet lemonade, and she sipped at it a little.
    The next morning I rushed into her room to
check on her condition.
    The desperate expression on her face
frightened me. ‘Maryam,’ she whispered, ‘go and get your mother.’
Never had Grandmother asked for my mother.
    ‘Mother,’ I called out as I ran to her.
‘Grandmother is asking for you.’
    My mother stood and stared at me without
speaking, then walked slowly into Grandmother’s tiny room. I
watched as Mother helped her to the bathroom, where Grandmother
washed herself so that she could make her prayers. Then she
collapsed into her bed, closing her eyes. She looked like a
corpse.
    Mother and I exchanged silent looks, then
Mother went to call the doctor. The same Russian physician returned
and after a quick examination, told us, ‘Her heart is failing. She
will live only a few hours.’
    I was terrified, suddenly sorry for every
moment of my life I had not spent with my sweet grandmother. I
rushed to sit by her side, clinging to her withered hand.
    Grandmother opened her sad eyes. ‘Maryam,’
she whispered, ‘go to school, child.’
    ‘I want to stay with you,’ I replied, my
voice cracking.
    She nodded slightly before saying, ‘Please,
child, go and get my special box.’
    I knew she kept a big box in her room, but I
had never known what treasures she kept in there. I dutifully
tugged the box to her bedside.
    By then my mother had returned.
    Grandmother looked expressively at her
daughter-in-law and said, ‘Sharifa, when I am dead, look in the
box. You will find enough money to bury me. For a long time now I
have saved money so my son would have no need to pay for my
funeral. Please bury me in Paktia. Sharifa, please take me
home.’
    Talk of death and funerals was too much for
my young mind. I remember I ran out of the room, then turned round
in the hallway and ran right back in. I looked at the clock. It was
10.30 in the morning when my poor grandmother took her last
breath.
    Soon my father came home to learn that his
beloved mother had passed away. He ran in to stare at her corpse
and burst into loud weeping, crying like a small child. Never
before had I seen my father weep. I ran to him and looked into his
grieving face. He shuddered violently, and said, ‘Daughter, I weep
for my mother’s sad sad life.’
    My mother was less emotional, but she did
say, ‘Your grandmother was an angel, Maryam.’
    Muslims must be buried within twenty-four
hours of death, so within a few hours we were driving to Paktia
province, to the small village where my grandmother was born and
spent the first sixteen years of her life. There her body was
bathed by my mother, with Shair’s wife and daughters, wrapped in a
clean white shroud and taken away by the men of the family, who put
her body in the ground.
    *
    I could scarcely believe my grandmother was
dead. I had never known life without her peaceful, kindly presence.
Our home was a lonely place without my grandmother, despite the
fact she had participated little in our family life. Although I was
still a child, I felt in my heart that my grandmother had not been
treated properly in our home. Within two weeks Grandmother’s
personal belongings had disappeared, and her small sanctuary was
redecorated and changed into a formal dining room.
    Feelings of guilt crept through me, for I
felt I had been neglectful, never thinking to escort my lonely
grandmother on walks or paying any special attention to her. When I
became a teenager, these feelings persisted. One day I gathered the
nerve to ask my father, ‘Why was Grandmother always in her room?
Why didn’t she join us as a family? Why didn’t she sit with us and
eat her meals? Why did she have to live such a lonely existence
even in her son’s home?’
    My father confessed: ‘Your grandmother did
eat with us, at first. But your mother pushed for the family to sit
at the table and eat with silverware, and your grandmother was
uncomfortable. She liked to sit on the floor and to eat with her
fingers, in the old way, so I asked your mother to remain with the
old way. When you girls were small there was a big row between your
mother and myself about this issue. Your mother packed her bags and
told me she was leaving. She asked for a divorce.