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

presidential palace. What terrible things had happened
there? Where were my friends? Where were the women and children of
the royal family? Without our moderate-minded president, what would
happen to Afghanistan?
    There was pandemonium at the market. Shoppers
shouted and pushed while hurling food into shopping bags. Askar and
I began to grab, too, although we were luckier than most since the
merchant knew my family well. That kindly soul began stacking bags
of rice, cans of dried milk and other canned goods, toilet paper
and other items in a pile, before helping us to load it in the car.
When Askar and I tried to pay for our goods, the stall owner
refused our money, shouting, ‘Go! Go! We will settle later!
Go!’
    We raced to return home because the violence
has escalated, and there were moments when I thought we wouldn’t
make it. It was the highest adrenalin rush of my life. When we
reached our building we nestled the car as closely as possible to
the front door and made haste to unload the provisions. I was proud
of myself, expecting a heroine’s welcome. But instead, I was met by
a wall of fury from both parents, shrieking wildly.
    My mother was squealing, ‘Maryam! Maryam!’ I
could see that she was wavering between wanting to hug me in relief
and slap me in anger.
    My sweet father’s face was distorted in angry
rage. ‘Maryam! How could you? We are in the middle of a revolution ! Have you lost your mind, spi zoia !’ My
father rarely cursed, and now he was calling me a ‘son of a dog’,
one of the harshest expletives in our Muslim world.
    I fell to the floor, wrapping my arms around
his knees. ‘I am sorry, Papa. I am sorry. I was not thinking.’
    Neither of my parents made a conciliatory
move towards me. It would be days before they dropped their brusque
manner with me.
    *
    On that first night of the revolution,
Mother, Nanny Muma, Nadia and I slept in the living room. My father
and Askar slept in a small room in the back of the house. Gun
battles and explosions plagued our sleep. We heard tanks rumbling
down the street in front of our home. This violent rebellion bore
no resemblance to the bloodless revolution of 1973. This was a
serious business. With every new sound of carnage, my mother and
sister would wail. For some reason I was calm and coped best,
managing to snatch some sleep in spite of the noisy
disruptions.
    The following morning mine was the only
rested face at the breakfast table. My father had the radio tuned
to Kabul’s main government station, which blasted forth only
cheerful music. Finally, around ten in the morning, a voice with a
Pashtun accent speaking Farsi interrupted the music, telling
listeners: ‘Afghanistan has been freed from feudalism and
imperialism. Afghanistan is now the free republic of Afghanistan.
Afghanistan is for the people of Afghanistan.’
    Once again, the happy music began. I took a
deep breath before scrutinizing the worried faces of my mother and
father. My mother spoke first, her voice filled with repugnance.
‘The Communists are going to turn Kabul into a suburb of Moscow. We
will be ordered to share our home. Your father will be told to
divide up his profitable business. Private lands will be
confiscated and given to people we have never known. These
God-hating Communists will even outlaw Islam.’
    A religious woman, Nanny Muma gave a small
cry before placing her hands over her mouth.
    I was saddened into silence. For the first
time in many years, our family had a lot to lose. Just when Father
was making a good living, the Communists had come to take it all
away. It was not fair! I could tell by the expression on my
father’s face that he was thinking much the same thing but he said
nothing, although he grunted deep in his throat.
    Just then the music from the radio stopped
and the same voice announced, ‘I am the Republic of Afghanistan’s
Minister of Defense, Major Aslam Watanjar.’
    I almost laughed. It was too good to be true!
Watanjar translates as ‘to die for one’s country’. What a clichéd
symbolic name for a man who wanted to give the impression he was a
patriot. Later I was surprised to learn the man’s name was indeed
Watanjar, an ironic coincidence.
    Before we had a chance to discuss his
message, another voice, this time speaking Pashto, interrupted the
major. The new announcer said, ‘My fellow citizens. Justice has
arrived for both men and women, who will be treated with equal
respect in your new Afghanistan.’
    While