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

happy-go-lucky,
and quick to tease us younger kids. He would laugh at his brother’s
strict principles and would slip us pieces of chocolate and other
forbidden goodies. We were so close to Mohammed that when our
father was out of the country, he assumed some of Papa’s duties,
often picking us up from school and treating us to an ice cream or
a walk in the park near to our home. Every Thursday evening
Mohammed would take our entire family out to dinner, to the
fanciest restaurant in Kabul, which happened to be located in one
of the former palaces. Afterwards he would indulge us youngsters by
taking us to the movies.
    Little did we know how limited our time would
be with those two gentle men. Soon after the Communist-led coup,
there were reports of young men from influential families being
arrested without cause or explanation. Rumor was that thousands had
been detained, never to be seen or heard of again. Although we were
relieved that Farid was safe living out of the country, we worried
about other male cousins, whose ages ranged from fourteen to forty.
Anything might happen to them under the new repressive regime.
    Then one day we heard the terrifying news
that the secret police had raided the hospital where Sabor worked.
Without explanation, tender-hearted Sabor was led away. Later that
same day, other KHAD officials walked unannounced into Mohammed’s
office. He too was seized and arrested.
    Everyone who knew those two kindly men loved
them and couldn’t believe they would do anything wrong. Now we
suffered horrifying visions of their imprisonment in Pulecharkhi
Prison, possibly undergoing torture.
    In Afghanistan, as in many Eastern countries,
it is not who you are , but who you know . So all the
men in our family started calling on their government contacts to
find out why two such gentle and innocent men had been arrested.
But the Soviet style was very different from our ways. No one could
turn up any news. Sabor and Mohammed were far beyond our limited
reach of influence.
    We grew more frantic with each passing
day.
    With the disappearance of my gentle cousins,
the volcano in my heart began spewing fury. I so hated the
Communists that I was finding it difficult to be civil to our
Russian Mekrorayan neighbours, good people who really had little to
do with our troubles.
    We happened to have two other cousins who
were in high-ranking positions in the military. Thankfully they had
not been targeted by the new regime, and in fact were able to help
our family regarding various minor official matters. One of the
cousins had blue eyes and the other had green, so the younger kids
in the family jokingly called them ‘the blue uncle’ and ‘the green
uncle’.
    Some time after Sabor and Mohammed had
disappeared, the telephone rang and the voice on the other end told
me, ‘I am a commandant in the army.’ The voice paused, then added,
‘I am one of your uncles.’
    ‘Are you the blue uncle or the green uncle,’
I asked, playfully.
    ‘I am the blue uncle,’ he laughed. Then he
turned serious. ‘Tell your father to be home tonight because I must
see him. I will arrive at nine p.m.’
    When my father walked into the house, I ran
to deliver the message and I could see he was pleased.
    That evening our doorbell rang at the time
given. I dashed to the door expecting to see my ‘blue uncle’, but
instead I was greeted by the sight of a stranger in military
uniform. Behind him stood two other soldiers, both carrying machine
guns. There was a fourth army officer standing to the side of our
porch. None wore a friendly expression.
    ‘What do you want,’ I demanded.
    ‘We are here to see your father.’
    That’s when I realized that the voice on the
phone had not been my uncle at all. I had been tricked.
    Hearing the conversation, my father came out
of the living room to join me.
    ‘Sir,’ the officer ordered. ‘You must come
with us.’
    My voice grew loud. ‘Why are you taking my
father?’
    I was ignored.
    Papa had a puzzled look on his face. He had
not belonged to the military since his cancer was diagnosed. He was
not in the government. He was no longer a young man.
    By this time my mother had arrived on the
scene. She was so frightened by the sight of armed men she couldn’t
squeak a single word.
    The officer barked at her: ‘Gather your
husband’s medication. He is coming with us.’
    We stared at each other, thinking the same
thing: they had a file on my father or they would not know of