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

all called Muma,
thoughtlessly dressed me in a pair of shorts that were difficult to
unfasten.
    I can forgive her now for that critical
mistake, because Nanny Muma was so old that her hair had turned as
white as the mountain snow, although she sometimes colored it with
henna. She was from Pansher, an area of Afghanistan where women are
rumored to produce more milk than they need for their babies. For
that reason, many educated families hired Pansheri women as wet
nurses. Muma had been a wet nurse for my mother’s family for many
years. When my mother was pregnant for the first time, my
grandmother Hassen sent Muma to my mother to care for her. Once my
sister Nadia was born it quickly became apparent that Muma’s milk
had long since run dry, but my mother kept the faithful nurse by
her side all the same.
    Later that morning when I felt the urge to
answer nature’s call, I found my small fingers could not release
the buckles. The attendant assigned to the boys’ toilets offered to
assist me, but I had a secret I did not wish to reveal so I brushed
him away. But soon I became desperate, for I was in danger of
urinating in my clothes. My customary confidence melted away,
replaced by sobs of alarm. Just then the attendant grabbed my hand
and returned me to my teacher in the classroom. When my teacher
leaned down to help, I whipped away, trying to escape her prying
hands.
    My extreme distress increased the volume of
my cries, so my bewildered teacher sent the attendant to locate my
older sister, Nadia. Nadia rushed into the room and unbuckled the
waistband of my shorts. My sister was not thinking clearly, because
instead of leaving it there, she pulled down my shorts in front of
the whole class.
    Everyone gasped.
    I looked down, struggling for breath. My
secret was exposed. Yousef Khail was not a boy! Yousef Khail was a
girl!
    In horror, I yanked up my shorts and ran from
the room and into the boys’ toilets, where I finally relieved
myself. Afterwards I lurked in the hallway of the school, too
embarrassed to face my teacher or my classmates, but I was soon
told to return to my classroom. When I entered, my classmates
stared openly, their faces twisted in puzzlement. I overheard some
of them sniggering so I hurried to my seat and sat with my head
bowed, suddenly resembling the little girls I had so scorned. In a
matter of moments, I had gone from being a popular boy to a lowly
girl.
    My teacher was kind and didn’t say a word
about the fact that our class had suddenly gained an extra female
pupil. The mortifying day finally ended and I fled to the front of
the building to wait impatiently for my nanny to arrive. I ached to
take my shame home.
    Our family home in the city suburb of
Share-i-Now was so near the kindergarten that Muma walked me to
school in the mornings and collected me each afternoon. I breathed
a sigh of relief when I saw her familiar figure walk up, but then
my teacher stepped out to greet her and led her into the office of
the school principal. I watched in dismay, my face flushed and my
heart beating rapidly.
    I longed for my mother, who was out of the
country with a medical condition. At the time, most educated and
well-connected Afghans travelled out of Afghanistan for medical
treatment, and my father had recently taken my mother to Moscow
with her overactive thyroid. My mother was so clever and bold she
would have succeeded in convincing the principal that a bizarre
misunderstanding had occurred, that her youngest child was indeed
male, but I knew my poor nanny would never find the courage to
stand up to authority. My shoulders slumped. Nanny would tell my
teachers everything, explaining why the daughter of a prominent
Afghan Pashtun, Ajab Khail, had passed herself off as a male
child.
    The meeting unfolded just as I feared. The
principal quickly learned my life story: that I so longed to be a
boy I had acted out the role for my entire life, that I refused to
play with those of my sex and reacted angrily if anyone refused to
accept I was male.
    The principal sent a teacher to find me. My
heart fluttered when I was told that all the teachers of the school
were waiting to see me. I was shaking. I assumed I would be
punished for living such a lie and then my humiliation would be
complete. Surprisingly, when the door opened and I saw the many
faces looking at me, everyone was smiling. I exhaled in relief. Had
Muma convinced them of the impossible, that I truly was a boy and
the day’s events had