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

and
Mohammed Khail. There was a specific charge against Sabor and
Mohammed, who had never broken the law in their lives. They were
arrested only because they were two educated and accomplished men
belonging to an influential tribe. Long before the coup, the
Communists had made plans to eliminate everyone deemed to be part
of the intelligentsia. They would leave no men alive capable of
plotting or leading a rebellion against the regime. Many of our
young men were shipped to Siberia, to be worked to death. Others
were murdered according to the whim of their interrogators.
    By the side of their names, the Khail
brothers Sabor and Mohammed were listed as having ‘died in prison
of natural causes’.
    Dead? Dead? There is no word to
describe our family’s despair. We could not imagine those two
handsome and friendly young men dead. Although our family pleaded
for the return of their bodies, our pleas went unanswered. Later,
we finally learned how they died through a friend in the
government. Sabor and Mohammed had been interrogated by one of the
most vicious brutes in the new regime during their months of
imprisonment. Both brothers had suffered horrible injuries under
torture. Neither ever confessed to working against the regime,
because they were innocent. Then one day they were taken from their
cells. My cousins were giddy with relief, thinking the nightmare
was finally behind them. They believed they were returning to their
wives and children. Instead, they were taken for a ride on a Soviet
helicopter. While on the helicopter they were cruelly taunted, told
that their lives were not worth a single Soviet bullet. Over a
barren area they were tossed out of the helicopter, their perfect
bodies broken as they landed on the rocks of the land they had
loved.
    The image of their final moments was too
horrible to bear. The idea that their promising lives had been cut
short haunted my days and nights.
    I was so angry I had no tears. For the first
time in my life, I felt myself capable of murder.
    One fateful day, Papa gave me permission to
drive to collect a girlfriend so that we could treat ourselves to
an ice cream. On the way I had to pass over one of Kabul’s main
bridges. Just as I was approaching the bridge, I saw two Russian
women walking across. They were laughing and talking as though they
didn’t have a care in the world. Suddenly my fury rose. I thought
to myself: those two bitches must surely know that their men are
imprisoning and killing young Afghan men. Perhaps it was one of
their husbands who had tossed Sabor and Mohammed out of the
helicopter.
    I was gripped by a mad courage, and focused
on those two Russian women as if they were the source of every
Afghan sorrow. I jerked the steering wheel round and floored the
gas pedal. The car engine roared as I bore down on the women. They
heard the roar of the engine and glanced behind them to see a car
swerving wildly at them. One of the women nimbly grabbed the
railing and heaved herself up and over into the river not far
below.
    The second woman attempted the same agile
ploy but she was a bit chubby and lost her footing and fell down on
the bridge. I could have run her over as she was spinning around on
the ground, but at the last minute I found I did not have a
murderer’s heart. I wrenched the wheel to the left, veering away
from her. To make good my escape, I pressed the gas pedal and tore
away. In my rear-view mirror I could see the woman on the bridge
jump to her feet to stare after me.
    I felt no regret. Rather I enjoyed a surge of
exhilaration. When in conflict with pure evil, all is fair, I told
myself. My cause justified the means.
    I took a few deep breaths and calmly drove on
to collect my girlfriend. While eating our ice cream, she commented
that I seemed more relaxed than she had seen me since the coup. I
was tempted to tell her about my potentially murderous morning, but
something made me hold back. My spirits were lifted for days to
come.
    Approximately a week later my father came
home visibly upset. He shouted, ‘Maryam, someone saw our car on the
bridge. They are looking for a young woman who was driving our
vehicle. What happened? What did you do there?’
    I’m sure the blood drained from my face, but
I didn’t answer.
    ‘Maryam, you are in big trouble this time! I
was told that the girl driving my car was going to be charged with
a serious crime.’
    My mind was racing. I should have known that
my stupid act would be traced back to our