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

Whenever one
of his wives was in labor, he would become furious, claiming that
his rest was disturbed by their screaming. He would rush into the
room and, oblivious to her pain, shout at her to shut up. If she
could not hold back her cries of pain, he would kick her in the
back until she was silenced.’
    My mouth went dry.
    The daughter continued: ‘Did you know that he
killed four or five of his wives that way?’
    Mother made a small noise in the back of her
throat. I shook my head, no, but could not utter a sound. Now I
knew that Amina had no chance, for her husband was the son of a
beast. Like father, like son, I thought to myself.
    ‘My mother and these two lived but sustained
such grievous injuries to their backs during childbirth that they
could never again walk upright.’ She barked a sarcastic laugh. ‘Now
he strikes them in the face for being crippled! He says that the
sight of them turns his stomach.’
    She gave us a fierce look, as though we were
the enemy. ‘ I will never marry .’
    That’s when I was reminded that a division as
wide as a country separated the lives of Kabul city women from
tribal country women. Looking back, I believe that was the day that
a young girl who sincerely loved her country began to hate her
culture.
    I was haunted by the fate of those innocent
women. But there was nothing any of us could do. Our culture
demands that men rule. Our culture demands that cruel men not be
punished. Our culture demands that women are faulted for every bad
thing that occurs in their lives.
    As I cried myself to sleep at my father’s
absence in Russia, undergoing yet more treatment, little did I know
that I should have been jumping with joy that he was safely far
away in another country, for Afghanistan was entering a dangerous
time of instability. Old hatreds within the royal family combined
with resentment over the famine disaster were generating a backlash
against King Zahir Shah. A government coup was imminent. As a
former military intelligence chief, my father might well have been
in danger from one faction or another had he been in country.
    I was only a young girl, so I had no inkling
that evil’s twin was marching into Afghanistan, setting off a chain
of calamitous events that would alter the future of Afghan citizens
in a most terrible way.
     

Chapter VII
    Amir Mohammed Zahir Shah came to power on 8
November 1933, the same day his father Amir Nadir Shah was
assassinated at a school where he was presenting prizes. Zahir was
only nineteen years old, but he was immediately proclaimed king
after receiving the allegiance of his three uncles, along with
influential tribal leaders. King Zahir ruled wisely and went on to
lead Afghanistan for forty years. Zahir was the king when I was
born, and was responsible for Afghanistan’s longest period of
relative peace and prosperity. But all that harmony came to an end
on 17 July 1973 when I was only twelve years old.
    I remember that day clearly. My father was
out of the country seeking additional treatment for his cancer. It
was early in the morning and I was getting ready for school. Our
doorbell rang and when Mother opened the door to see who our
visitor might be, she saw my tutor.
    He was standing with his head held high and
his shoulders set proudly, looking taller than usual, then he
strode into the house to announce: ‘Today is the happiest day for
all Afghanistan. The era of monarchs is over. We now have a
president. His name is President Daoud Khan.’
    Mother was not too impressed. Her lip curled
and she said said bluntly, ‘How can Daoud be different? He is a
royal prince and the first cousin to the king. Same shit, different
smell.’
    My tutor was horrified by my mother’s lack of
respect for Afghanistan’s new authority. He stammered, ‘I am no
longer a tutor. I have enlisted in the army.’
    Mother gave our tutor the sort of disgusted
look she might convey if confronted by a plate of rotten meat. ‘Man
proposes and Allah disposes,’ she announced.
    The tutor turned military man mumbled
something I could not hear then scurried away.
    Fired by hope that the occasion would call
for missing school, I bounded about the house foolishly shouting,
‘No school! War is coming!’
    But it was not in my mother’s character to
yield ground when it came to her children’s education. Not even a
government coup would move her. ‘You are going to school whether
you like it or not, Maryam, coup or no coup.’
    And so our routine