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

with cigarettes.
Although almost every senior girl had acquired a smoking addiction,
because Afghan teenagers considered smoking to be cool, none were
brave enough to admit to the habit to their parents. Never before
had a grown-up joined in our conspiracy. We were filled with
anticipation.
    My friends and I should have realized that
trouble was brewing when we left school that day. Normally the
school grounds would be surrounded by cars sent by wealthy parents
to collect their daughters. On that afternoon there was only a
single military vehicle on the school grounds. Additionally, there
were two armed soldiers standing guard in front of the school.
Several helicopters were circling in the sky.
    Due to our excitement about the next day’s
field trip, we ignored danger signs. Instead a group of us piled
into a taxi and ordered the driver to take us to our favourite soda
fountain, located in the centre of the city.
    Every soda fountain shop in Kabul employed a
man who could juggle plates and glasses as skilfully as a circus
performer. He was known as a sweets dispenser. The server at our
favourite shop was a talented entertainer who jumped about juggling
dishes, a delight to a bunch of teenage girls. We eagerly watched
as he covered our plates with frozen snow brought down from high
mountain peaks, then trickled syrup over the snow. Sweet paste
shaped into long strips was added to the flavoured snow. Ladles of
cream with a dash of rosewater were then shaken together before
being poured over the tasty confection.
    We were happy girls that day, perhaps the
last happy day of my life in Afghanistan. We chattered about the
upcoming field trip, and how we were going to swim in the cold
waters and picnic in the lush gardens of the resort. I was doubly
excited because my father had agreed for me to drive our family car
to pick up my girlfriends the following morning. Together we would
go to the school grounds and meet the bus. My father would come by
the school later in the day to collect the car.
    Although a small number of women in Kabul
knew how to drive, few took the wheel without male supervision. I
was one of very few Afghan girls whose father allowed her the
privilege of driving without directives from a male passenger.
    At the end of the day when the taxi dropped
me off at home, I was startled to see my mother, sister and Nanny
Muma rush from the doorway. Nanny Muma had her hands in the air as
though she was expecting to ward off a bullet. Mother was weeping.
My sister, who was home on holiday from college in India, had a
worried look on her face as she dragged me from the cab, hugging me
and babbling, ‘You are safe! You are safe!’
    Their terrified behaviour panicked me. I
cried out, ‘What has happened? Is something wrong with Papa?’
    Mother screeched, ‘Get in the house!’
    ‘Thank God you are alive,’ Muma shouted,
dabbing at her red, swollen eyes.
    By that time I was so upset by the unknown
that I began to shake. Surely my father was dead! What else could
so distress my family? Just as we entered the front room, there was
a deafening boom. The entire building rattled on its
foundation.
    Mother screamed.
    The others ran from the room.
    Feeling hysteria rising in my throat, I
screamed, ‘What is happening?’
    Mother was incoherent, so I ran to the
telephone and dialled my father’s office. His line was busy.
    That’s when I heard the sound of machine guns
nearby, followed by thunderous explosions that shook the
building.
    The telephone rang. Papa was on the phone,
‘Maryam, thank God you are home.’
    My stomach plunged when I heard the noise of
gunfire coming through the phone. Was my father’s life in
danger?
    I cried out, ‘Who is shooting?’
    Mother grabbed the phone from my hands. ‘ Come home immediately! ’ she gabbled.
    The line went dead.
    I was rooted to the spot in shock.
    My mother ran down the corridor to her
bedroom, screaming, ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Save him! Save him!’
    In a matter of a few hours, our once safe
world had been turned upside down. I took a chance and redialled my
father’s number, surprised when the phone was picked up, but
horrified when the next moment there was a loud explosion from
somewhere in his office. I was sure my father was dead.
    I ran to my mother and shook her to stop her
crying. ‘Mother! What is happening? Who is attacking us?’
    ‘Maryam, my daughter, there is a coup. A violent revolt,’ she sobbed.
    ‘Where? What?’
    ‘We only know