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

learning English, and so I enrolled in an English
language course. Then one day, several months after my crime, my
father told me that I had been a model of good behavior. Due to my
repentance, I would be allowed to have lunch alone.
    I was so weary of constant supervision that I
was overjoyed over a simple free lunch. I walked from my father’s
office and went into the nearest restaurant, the Sitra, which
served delicious kabobs and burgers. Never have I been so happy to
be alone. After finishing my meal, I casually strolled back to my
father’s office. I found myself walking past two parked official
Russian automobiles. Driven by an instinct I cannot explain, like a
robot under orders, I walked close to those vehicles, opened my
purse and slipped out my Swiss army knife, which was always in my
bag. I looked around to see that no one was watching before
slashing the two tires of each vehicle on the side of the
pavement.
    A sweet release of pent-up anger swept
through my body. I returned to my father’s office, humming.
    I was not the only Afghan citizen to feel
thus. With every passing day, Afghanistan heated up even more with
unrest and violence. In February 1979, the US Ambassador to
Afghanistan was kidnapped and killed. In March there was a mutiny
by Afghan soldiers stationed in Herat. In August there was a
military revolt in an army fort near Kabul when a rebel group
attacked the government forces there, resulting in a major military
battle. In September further chaos erupted when President Taraki
was overthrown in a coup. Hafizullah Amin became President,
announcing that his rule marked ‘the beginning of a better
socialist order’.
    Later in September a general amnesty was
announced. The government thought it would placate angry citizens
who hated the socialist government. They were wasting their time.
The Afghan people had endured enough. They were finished with the
Communists. That’s when our Muslim neighbours and friends –
Pakistan and Saudi Arabia – began to arm our Afghan rebels. Since
the Soviet Union was America’s enemy in the middle of the Cold War,
we learned that America and England were also lining up to help us,
and also China. We wept with joy that such big, important countries
were taking our side.
    I was elated, finding myself praying for war,
knowing that was what it would take to purge my country of the
Communists.
    During this time, our family luck also
changed.
    At the end of October 1979, the new president
Hafizullah Amin made it known to the educated elite that he would
allow some people to travel to India for medical treatment. He did
not make a public announcement, so the offer was never open to
ordinary people. He would grant a special three-day pass to those
who were truly ill. All you had to do was to pay the government
25,000 Afghani dollars (500 US dollars).
    We received a telephone call from one of our
cousins still working in the government. He knew that our entire
family was afraid of what violent act I might next commit that
would get everyone in the Khail and Hassen families imprisoned or
killed. He also knew that I had expressed an interest in attending
medical college in India.
    His advice was: ‘Use Maryam’s accident in
India, when she injured her leg, as your medical reason.’ He named
two relatives who had good relations with the authorities and
suggested: ‘Tell them to escort Maryam to the President’s
headquarters tomorrow where she can give details about her injury
and fill out a passport application for India.’
    The following day my cousins escorted me to
President Amin’s headquarters, where I was presented with an
application form on which I had to write why I needed to travel to
India. After writing my tale of woe, I turned in my application and
waited. At two that afternoon I found myself facing the Afghan
President. Unbelievably, our head of government insisted on
speaking personally with every person who made an application for a
medical visa.
    I told the President that I needed yet
another operation to correct my ankle. I handed him my money, and a
medical statement signed by an Indian orthopedic surgeon that I had
had in my possession since the days after my accident several years
before. Thankfully it was undated, and indicated that Maryam Khail
had undergone several operations to correct the injuries received
after being threatened by a horned cow and then run over by an
automobile, and that she would need another operation. I