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

place for me.
    I was so on edge about the trip that I was
terrified something might keep us from our journey. I prayed to
Allah all night that nothing would happen to keep us from leaving
Afghanistan.
    The weather was freezing cold, which is
normal for Afghanistan in January. My mother insisted I bundle
myself up in an unfashionable coat and I was devastated to be seen
in attire less than beautiful. But when my father’s cousin arrived
in a taxi to transport us to the Kabul bus station, my thoughts
moved on to more important matters. At the bus station a crowd of
our friends and relatives swarmed around us, chattering with
excitement. It seemed the entire tribe had come to see us off.
Aunties and female cousins enticed us with baskets of food to eat
while on the trip. Even our former tutor had forgiven Mother her
harsh words on the day of the coup and was there with a smile as
wide as the Kabul river.
    My father had purchased tickets for the
family on a luxury bus, so I scrambled onboard to select the best
seats. The bus driver came aboard, closed the big doors and we set
off. I could hear the sounds of our friends and relatives shouting
their goodbyes for nearly a city block.
    Thankfully the road from Kabul to Jalalabad
was a better highway than most in my country. The bus rattled only
slightly as we made our way out of the city before twisting up
between the treacherous mounds of snow-covered rocks. I studied the
sight of brooks rippling through the dry land and bright plumed
birds flitting from green bushes.
    I gazed at the folding hills which soon grew
into mountains, wondering how many travellers had seen the same
view for the thousands of years our lands had been inhabited. Soon
we were climbing so high we were nearly in the clouds. Mother was
so frightened by the dangerous curves that she closed her eyes to
avoid seeing the road falling so far below us that it resembled a
curled ribbon.
    When I was young, Afghanistan had not yet
been stripped of its wildlife. We saw gazelles, their nimble bodies
leaping high in the air, and I spotted a number of wild greyhound
dogs from the road. The highway often followed the river, which
grew wider and bluer, bordered by a variety of lush old trees and
dramatic rocks. Most interesting for me were the mud forts
littering the landscape. Rural tribespeople were vulnerable to
surprise attack so their homes were often fortified with four
towers built with rifle slits.
    I was upset by seeing a donkey that had
become lame and been left by the side of the road to die. It was a
pathetic sight. In my country, animals that go lame on the march
are abandoned to their fate. Afghan people will not kill the animal
to put it out of its misery, but instead leave its fate to Allah,
who must decide whether it will live or die. I sighed and turned
away. There was nothing I could do.
    Soon the sun dropped low over the mountains,
turning the white snow to a pink glaze and the shadows to bright
indigo. That’s when Papa announced we had cleared the Afghan border
and reached Pakistan. We quickly disembarked from our luxury ride
and crammed our luggage and four selves into a taxi so decrepit I
was afraid it might break down on the way to Peshawar.
    Suddenly the streets were teeming with
bustling crowds. Never had I seen so many people all together.
Accustomed to a land only lightly populated, I felt disquiet,
although once we left our taxi I was fascinated by the train that
would carry us to New Delhi. I had never before had the opportunity
to ride on a train.
    I asked my father, ‘How come Pakistan is so
much more advanced than Afghanistan?’
    My father patiently explained. ‘The British
develop any country they occupy. They build roads, trains,
government buildings, schools and many commercial
establishments.’
    ‘Then I wish the British had occupied
Afghanistan,’ I said with a sigh, knowing that the British had
tried and failed a number of times to occupy my country. I was
ashamed to see that my country was many years behind our
neighbour.
    ‘My daughter,’ my father said sadly, ‘do you
wish to live under another country’s flag?’
    ‘No,’ I admitted. I was proud that no country
had been able to grab hold of and hang on to Afghanistan. Our men
were fierce, brace and ready to fight off any invaders. Even the
biggest and most well-trained armies in the world could not conquer
Afghanistan.
    He nodded with satisfaction. ‘All right. That
is your reward. You are Afghan. You are