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

door. I was one of the
few Afghan girls who drove in Kabul. Someone probably gave a good
description of our family car, and the fact it was being driven by
a young woman. Perhaps they even memorized the number plate, which
was S 54189 Kabul . Remembering Uncle Hakim’s warning, I
began to fidget, becoming increasingly uneasy. What would be the
consequences?
    When my father saw the expression on my face,
he knew I was definitely guilty.
    ‘Maryam,’ he repeated with a snarl, ‘you are
in big trouble.’
    I bit my lip but still made no reply. I
couldn’t bear to confide the truth of that day, knowing it would
make my father even more upset.
    My gentle father, who had never raised a hand
against his wife or his daughters, grabbed a chair and came at me
with it raised high.
    Terrified, I dropped and rolled under the
dining table. I screamed when I heard a thunderous crash. My father
had broken the chair against the table top.
    I held my breath, thinking that any moment he
would pull me from underneath the table and give me the beating of
my life.
    Just then my mother ran into the room. ‘What?
Ajab? What? ’
    My father told her: ‘Maryam committed some
kind of crime in our car. But she refuses to tell me what she
did.’
    My mother screamed. ‘Dear God! Why do I have
a child like Maryam? Why does Maryam want to kill us all?’
    My father stalked away.
    I crept to my room and closed the door,
avoiding contact with anyone.
    To my profound terror, a team from the KHAD
secret police arrived at our home later that afternoon. I tiptoed
out into the hallway near the sitting room to listen.
    The KHAD were polite, but I knew they would
not be courteous for very long.
    I held my breath as they informed my father
that one of the wives of a high-ranking Russian general had been
walking on the morning in question, out with a friend on a stroll.
An assassin driving my father’s automobile had tried to murder both
women. The two women had escaped, but both were being treated for
minor injuries and psychological trauma. Now the general meant to
find the person who had tried to murder his wife. He was determined
to make an example of this culprit.
    ‘The vehicle was yours,’ they told my father.
‘Who was the woman? Was it your daughter, Maryam?’
    My father’s voice was low, but calm. ‘You
have the wrong girl. Maryam would not have done such a thing. I am
not even sure she had my car on that day.’
    The KHAD security officials finally left, but
not before they told my father: ‘You must bring your daughter in
for questioning tomorrow morning.’
    After seeing the KHAD security men to the
door, I heard my father call a high-ranking acquaintance, the
Minister of Planning, another good friend who happened to be in the
government. Father told him, ‘I must meet with you. No.
Now .’ He put the phone down and dashed out of the door.
    Trembling, I crept back to my bedroom. I
cursed myself for lacking self-control, for putting my poor father
through such anguish. Perhaps my entire family would be put to
death because of my outrageous conduct. And I hadn’t even injured
the enemy. I was not a very effective freedom fighter, I admitted
to myself.
    My father was away for more than three hours.
When he returned, he discussed the situation with my mother. My
father was too angry even to look at me, so Mother came into my
room to tell me what to expect.
    Papa had confessed the truth to his friend
that his stupid daughter had lost her mind and tried to run over a
couple of Russian ladies. Knowing I would be put to death if KHAD
had confirmation that I was the culprit, my father and his friend
devised a viable story, blaming the incident on the wife of my
father’s French business partner. She had accompanied her husband
into the country on a business trip. On the day in question, the
woman had borrowed our family automobile. She was unfamiliar with
our car, and while driving had lost control. She didn’t know the
language, and was too frightened to stop and offer assistance. My
father did not even know the full details of the incident until
KHAD visited his home. In fact, he was unaware that pedestrians
were involved, thinking instead that his partner’s wife had simply
run off the road.
    The truth was that Father’s French business
partner had indeed visited Kabul, but the couple had left the
country a day before the incident. We had to pray KHAD would not
look up their travel documents and check the date they