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

troubles. The country was in big
trouble, she said, as was our family.
    Starting in 1969, Afghanistan had suffered
three rainless years, followed by heavy winter snows that brought
about spring floods. The drought followed by flooding made it
impossible for Afghan peasants to raise their crops. A terrible
famine had gripped the countryside. Because we lived in Kabul and
our government kept such calamities secret, we heard nothing about
the crippling drought until a big group of strange-looking American
hippies arrived in the city and began to spread the word about
people in rural areas having nothing to eat except roots. There
were horrible tales of little children dying from starvation.
    Although Russian and American humanitarian
aid arrived in the country, there were troubling rumors that
government officials were confiscating the wheat and other supplies
to hold back and sell to the highest bidder. People were becoming
more desperate and angry by the day.
    Although our economic situation had become
tight due to my father’s chronic illness, we did not go hungry.
Mother said we must pray at the shrine for the poor starving
people. She also got the idea that our family would adopt a girl
from the famine area after she heard a report that often the
parents died first, and children as young as infants were left
alone in their mud huts to starve.
    Nadia and I got very excited about the
prospect of saving a little girl who would become our sister.
Mother’s plans grew grander by the minute, saying that we would
make that girl our family cause, and after fattening her up we
would teach her to read and write.
    Mother also whispered that while at the
shrine she would pray for my father’s health so that he would be
cured of his cancer.
    I was overjoyed. I believed that the trip to
the holy shrine would solve all our problems. The famine would
cease, the starving children would be fed and my father’s cancer
would be cured.
    The shrine was packed. After long hours of
praying, my parents were satisfied with the visit. They said it was
time to go, so off we went.
    After all those prayers and high hopes, I was
shocked that we suffered bad luck immediately – on our way back
from the shrine. One of the tires on our vehicle went flat and
there was no spare. We were on a dirt road in the middle of
nowhere, so my father asked the driver to wait with the car while
our family took the flat tire back to the town we had previously
passed. We hitched a ride, arriving a few hours later at the tire
repair shop. While the mechanic repaired the tire, we looked for a
ride to take us back. My father, weak from his treatments, found a
truck driver who agreed to take the tire to our vehicle stranded on
the road. That driver glanced at me then said that one of us would
have to accompany him so he could properly identify the car.
    The driver kept staring at me and said to my
father, ‘OK, you stay here and rest with your wife and daughter,
and I’ll take your son with me to identify your vehicle.’
    My chest swelled with pride. That man mistook
me for a boy, making me happier than I had been in a long time. My
father was a man who didn’t have one bad bone in his body, so he
was overly trusting. He thanked the man and said to me, ‘Go with
this man. You know our car. Once the tire is on the car, drive back
to the city with the driver.’
    The truck driver eagerly grabbed my hand and
pulled me away from my family. I thought he must be in a hurry.
    For some reason my sister Nadia, who was
nearly fifteen years old at the time, was struck by foreboding. She
tugged on my father’s arm. ‘Do not send Maryam with that dirty-eyed
driver. Something bad will happen.’
    My father shrugged, thinking Nadia was
overreacting.
    About that time a shopkeeper who was watching
the incident realized that I was about to be kidnapped; there had
been some recent notorious cases of sex trafficking involving young
boys, and it was a lucrative business. The shopkeeper ran to my
father, who by now was in a taxi with my mother and sister, ready
to return to the city center. The shopkeeper flagged down the taxi,
shouting at my father, ‘If you leave your son with that driver you
will never see him again! I suspect that driver is going to kidnap
your son and sell him in Pakistan.’
    Nadia panicked, shouting out, ‘Father! Go and
get Maryam!’
    My poor mother froze, her long-nurtured fears
of kidnapping coming true.
    My father leapt out of the car and