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

his
illness or of his medications.
    Mother took a moment to catch her breath
before walking rapidly from the room.
    My chest felt so tight I could barely
breathe. I looked at my papa. He was wearing a resigned expression,
yet his hands were trembling. Never had I loved him more. At the
worst moment of my life I was helpless. The armed men were watching
us. We were at their mercy. They could massacre us all and there
was nothing anyone could do.
    My hatred of the new government went up a few
notches.
    Just then mother came rushing out of the
bedroom with Papa’s pills. She was also stuffing a change of
clothes and a few cigarettes into a small bag. Thankfully she still
had her wits about her, packing items that might provide him with
some relief if he was held as a prisoner for more than a few
hours.
    The leading officer nodded and one of the
other soldiers took my father’s bag. They began to lead him away.
Finally I found the strength to breathe and to scream all at once.
I clutched at my father, terrified I would never see him again,
that he would disappear, just as Sabor and Mohammed had
disappeared.
    I had no shame. ‘Don’t take him,’ I begged,
my voice breaking. ‘He is a sick man.’
    One of the soldiers pulled my hands away from
my father. I realized then that we were dealing with men whose
hearts were made of stone.
    My mother cried out, ‘Please don’t make her
an orphan. Don’t!’
    We were powerless. All I could do was watch
my father’s back as he walked away to the military vehicle. He was
pushed into the back seat and driven away, perhaps out of our lives
for ever.
    Mother collapsed, but I quickly collected
myself and ran to the telephone. I dialed the number of the
Minister of Agriculture. He was a family friend and had been a
long-time recipient of my father’s good graces. Papa had been
responsible for his scholarship to a European university, where he
obtained a Ph.D. My father had also helped to arrange his current
post in the government. I was not shy to remind him of these facts,
saying, ‘Please. My father did you many favors, and he did those
favors with a good heart. Now he needs a favor from you.’
    If the minister was shocked by my impudence,
he didn’t show it. I’m sure by then every Afghan citizen holding a
government post had become accustomed to this kind of desperate
plea.
    He said, ‘Maryam, there is nothing I can do
tonight. But I will act first thing tomorrow. I promise.’
    We were frantic at the thought that Papa had
to spend one moment in prison. Close family and friends came to the
house to sit with us. No one could sleep. We paced and wept,
terrified at the thought that Papa was undergoing interrogation and
torture.
    The doorbell rang unexpectedly around two in
the morning. We stumbled over each other to answer the door. I was
stunned to see the Minister of Agriculture standing there, smiling
at me. He stepped aside and Papa moved into view.
    My mother and I were screaming and
crying.
    Papa was smiling broadly. ‘I was about to be
taken for interrogation, and who pops in the door? My friend.’ He
patted the minister on his shoulder.
    We were mindless with joy.
    Our fear returned after we learned the reason
for Papa’s arrest. Members of the Khail tribe had recently started
an uprising against the Russian regime.
    In the new Afghanistan, everyone was
considered guilty of something . After Shair’s death, Papa
had become the symbolic head of the Khail tribe. He was so well
loved and respected by Khail tribal members that he was suspected
of being the one who had called for the rebellion. Nothing
frightened the new regime as much as tribal rebellion in a country
populated by fierce tribal warriors.
    Had the minister not saved Papa, he might
have died during interrogation, because torture was popular with
the new government and Papa’s health was not sound. Papa would have
been unable to tell the interrogators what they wanted to hear,
because the Khail uprising was news to him, although I suspect he
was secretly pleased about it. As for me, I was bursting with
pride. Our Khail tribesmen were upholding our cherished honor. But
later we learned that the Khail tribesmen were targeted for
annihilation by the regime. Many thousands were arrested and sent
for detention or worse.
    My anger was mounting.
    The most horrible news came when the
government published a list of names of those arrested since the
coup. There were thousands of names, including Sabor Khail