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

remained the same. After
getting dressed and gathering my school books, we got into our car
for the drive to school. Our route passed the royal palace and
there we saw President Daoud, who was standing outside greeting
well-wishers. Mother ordered our driver to stop so we might take a
better look at the prince who had so labored to destroy his king.
While her curiosity was being satisfied, I leaned out of the window
to wave cheerfully at our new president. He waved back, probably
thinking my mother was a fan. But I did wish him well: I had a
vague memory that long long ago when my father was a student, the
same Prince Daoud had saved my father’s life after one of Shair
Khan’s unprovoked attacks. And my memory was correct – it was
Prince Daoud who had rescued my father when he was tossed down the
school stairs by his evil brother Shair. After that incident,
Prince Daoud and my father had remained on friendly terms.
    Despite my childish enthusiasm, the time
would come when I would see the truth: that Prince Daoud’s bold but
reckless action had sealed all our fates, bringing the beginning of
the end for peace in Afghanistan.
    Daoud had served his cousin King Zahir as
Afghanistan’s prime minister for much of the 1950s and early 1960s.
But after he disagreed with the government of Pakistan regarding a
Pashtun tribal region that straddled the Afghan/Pakistan border,
King Zahir removed him from the government post, creating a
bitterness never forgotten.
    The coup might have been avoided had King
Zahir been in the country addressing the various troubles plaguing
it, but he had taken his wife and various relatives to Europe so
that he might undergo eye surgery and other medical treatments.
With the king away in Italy, Prince Daoud had staged a coup d’etat,
setting up the new Republic of Afghanistan, and proclaimed himself
President, announcing: ‘The time of kings has come to an end.’
    Indeed, Afghanistan had been ruled by its
last king after King Zahir was deposed. Rather than return to
Afghanistan and fight for the throne, King Zahir opted to remain in
Europe. Perhaps he knew the world was changing, and that monarchs
were going out of fashion.
    Although the 1973 coup was nearly bloodless,
most Afghan people were apprehensive, for a disruption in
government is a grave business in a country divided not only by
mountains and rivers but by religious and tribal loyalties so
fierce that men are willing to fight to the death for the slightest
insult. But distracted by recent tribulations including famine,
corruption and tribal unrest along the Pakistani border, Afghan
tribes remained mainly peaceful at the change, waiting to see what
advantages the new government might bring them.
    Other than the first few days of excitement,
the coup of 1973 was to have little effect on our daily lives.
Father soon returned from his latest treatment, and for the first
time in years felt well enough to seek work. Rather than return to
his government military position, he set up a business with a
Frenchman he had met on one of his overseas trips, exporting Afghan
handicrafts and carpets. My father said models were needed, so
Nadia and I posed for his clothing line, which was an exciting
opportunity for two teenage girls.
    Our little family was thriving once again,
with money to spare. I felt brushed by angel wings when my father
announced that our family would be leaving Kabul to take a
two-month vacation in India, the first time Nadia and I would be
taken abroad.
    Although since that time I have travelled the
globe, that first experience was so magical that I even remember
the exact day we left Kabul: 2 January 1974, the year following the
coup.
    I was so overcome with excitement I failed to
sleep the night before we left Kabul. I rested my head on my pillow
with my passport propped up at an angle so I could see the travel
stamps for Pakistan and India. My imagination spun out of control
as I stared at the travel stamps I believed would allow me to
travel to America. For some reason, I thought I was going to live
in the state of New York.
    I was only a child and knew absolutely
nothing about New York or America, other than what I had overheard
from adults talking: I had got it into my head that New York City
was heaven on earth, that everyone who lived there was too
beautiful to look at and blessed with riches fit for kings, sitting
on splendid silks and eating the most exotic foods off china
plates.
    It sounded like the perfect