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

I realized the reason President Amin involved himself so
personally with the medical exits. No doubt his pockets were
bulging with the fees paid.
    Our president was a thief; albeit a charming
thief.
    The family gathered in the waiting area and
stood around while Papa and I settled into two seats. Our luck
turned bad when two plainclothes policemen approached us. They
checked our papers and passports as well as my medical documents
before asking my father, ‘You are leaving, too?’
    My father’s voice was very controlled. ‘Yes.
My daughter must have her follow-up surgery.’
    The tallest of the two agents looked at me
with a smirk, saying, ‘Take care of your injured leg in those high
heels.’
    I didn’t respond although I was silently
cursing myself for being so stupid as to wear shoes unsuitable for
someone with an injured ankle and leg.
    The two sat beside us, trying to find some
reason to arrest us, I assumed. Praise Allah that our Air India
flight was called a few minutes later. I began kissing and hugging
my mother and uncle and cousin. Mother was weeping, which set off
Papa and me too. Who knew when we would see her again?
    As we left the waiting area I felt the eyes
of the two policemen on me. I did my best to fake a limp, but I
never was a great actress and I am sure they saw through me. But
they made no move to stop us.
    When Papa and I settled in our assigned
seats, I began to weep in earnest. Despite everything, I loved my
country. My great sorrow was linked to the feeling deep in my soul
that I might never return.
    Papa too was stricken by the emotion of the
day. ‘Daughter, I wanted nothing more than to live and die here,
the country where I was born, the country where I should die.’ He
forced back a sob. ‘This is a ghastly twilight to my life.’
    He turned his head to look out of the window
and I followed his gaze, wanting a last memory to treasure. We were
both startled suddenly to notice numerous Soviet planes offloading
tanks, armaments and personnel. Russian soldiers were running all
over the tarmac. What was going on?
    I gasped, and my father’s complexion turned
sallow.
    Something very significant was about to
happen in Afghanistan. Were we witnessing the Russian giant
arriving to occupy our land by force?
    My father began to shiver. He tightened his
lips and turned to gaze intently out of the aeroplane window until
we had lift-off. Throughout our two-hour flight to New Delhi, my
anxious father never spoke another word.
     

Chapter
XI
    For years New Delhi had been a place where
our family vacationed. We had always arrived in the city in a happy
mood of anticipation. But our mood was grave when we arrived on 27
December. Our first stop was to see Mr and Mrs Delep, a Hindu
couple who had put us up on our vacations, who were startled by our
unexpected arrival. But they were such good hosts that they had an
elaborate Indian lunch prepared almost instantly. While we ate,
Papa began to tell them about the bad times that had come to
Afghanistan. They reacted with sympathy to our desperate
plight.
    I excused myself from the room so that I
could discreetly retrieve the bag of Afghan soil from where I had
hidden it in my bra. I walked back into the room and said, ‘Papa,
look. This is for you.’
    Papa glanced at the bag of soil with a
puzzled expression before recognizing its significance. He grabbed
me in his arms and kissed my forehead and hair over and over.
    After our meal ended, Mr Delep escorted us to
the small, furnished two-bedroom house in Greater Klash Colony that
we would rent from him. It was near his house, so the couple would
continue to take care of our needs.
    Still wondering when we would hear the
reasons behind the Soviet military activity at the airport, I went
to bed almost immediately, and slept soundly only because I was
physically exhausted.
    Early the next morning, Papa woke me with
loud shouts. ‘Maryam! Wake up! Maryam!
    He was listening to the BBC, his favorite
radio station. ‘Maryam! I can’t believe it. The Russians! It was an
invasion! As we were leaving, daughter! Afghanistan has just been
occupied.’
    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘What
did you say?’
    ‘They are all dead. The Russians killed
President Amin and his entire family.’
    ‘Dead?’ I repeated in disbelief. It was
impossible to imagine him dead. Although I hated him for bringing
communism to my country, and had wanted him out of office and out
of the country, he was not a man