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

also
requested that my father be allowed to accompany me, since I was a
young woman and no Afghan family would allow a female to travel
alone.
    As I finished my little speech I looked up to
see President Amin smiling impishly at me. I so hated President
Amin for what he had done to my country that I was surprised to
find him extremely handsome and charming. He had large brown eyes
that twinkled with mischief. His silvery hair was thick and very
deftly fashioned. He was dressed impeccably.
    He looked at me with appreciation in his eyes
and began to flirt with me. ‘Ah! Maryam Khail. Are you really going
to India for surgery? Or are you going to act in Bollywood?’ He
grinned widely.
    I was taken aback. I was a young girl still
in my teens. For me, he was an old man, albeit a handsome old man.
I managed to force a smile at his little joke, replying, ‘I don’t
believe I am ready for the movies quite yet, Mr President.’
    He chuckled, then without further ado he
signed my form with a flourish. ‘You are going to India!’
    As soon as the form was in my hands, I walked
away. I heard him call out to me as I exited his office: ‘When you
come back to Kabul, come and see me.’
    Our president’s conduct really was unseemly.
I didn’t answer.
    *
    Although I was as joyful to be leaving, I was
also sad and apprehensive because my poor mother would be left
alone in Kabul. Also, several cousins had put in their application
for leaving Afghanistan. Only one cousin, Layla, was granted her
request. Another cousin, named Mona, was refused. Many family
members would have to remain in Afghanistan and suffer whatever the
future held for our beloved country and its trapped citizens.
    There were a few more hurdles. Papa and I had
to pass a criminal check, but we were unconcerned because of the
protection of our friends at the ministries. Within a month we were
issued our passports and our visas from the Indian Embassy. Papa
booked our flight on Air India.
    Never once did I believe I was leaving my
country for ever, yet leaving without a planned return is more
difficult than I imagined. Once all the arrangements had been made,
the reality set in. Soon I would be leaving the land I loved, not
knowing what the future might bring to my country or to my beloved
family. And there was the question of when Mother would be allowed
to join us. Freedom would be joyless without Mother.
    That’s when Papa told me that I could only
pack a small bag so that we could keep up the official illusion
that we were returning.
    I was always a collector of little treasures.
My heart felt heavy when I was warned that I could not risk taking
my coin or stamp collection. For long hours I sat on the edge of my
bed rummaging through my rare coins, my rocks and the scores of
model cars I had saved since my tomboy childhood. I spent many long
hours poring over my rare stamp collection, given to me by
Grandfather Hassen, who had passed on to me many rare and valuable
stamps.
    I was sad when I realized that that the
stamps and the coins were irreplaceable. As I hid them away in my
room, I made a vow. ‘I will be back. I will not lose these precious
family treasures.’
    With a big sigh I packed a few clothes, along
with my diary, which had become as dear to me as a close friend.
The following morning I went into our garden and scratched out a
small pile of Afghan dirt, wrapping it carefully in a small cloth.
I would carry the beloved soil of my country with me when I
departed.
    I couldn’t even say goodbye to my friends and
family, for my parents no longer trusted me and worried that gossip
about our plot to leave Afghanistan permanently might reach the
ears of the officials. Only Mother’s brother Omar and his young
daughter knew we were leaving, and that was because they had
graciously agreed to drive Papa and me to the airport. Mother would
accompany us as well, but would return alone to our empty home.
    December the twenty-seventh, 1979, arrived on
a Thursday, the beginning of the Muslim weekend. Uncle Omar and his
daughter arrived early. When we locked the door to our apartment
behind us I felt nauseous, but said nothing, brushing away my
tears. There were few words spoken on the short journey to Kabul
airport.
    The airport was more crowded and noisy than I
could remember. We could barely shoulder our way through the
swarming multitude. A large number of Afghan citizens seemed to
have paid for a special medical pass to leave the country. That’s
when