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

marriage anyway. The shock overwhelmed them. Yet they
lived in the hope that Nadia would come to her senses and the
marriage would never happen.
    Both were distracted from Nadia’s illicit
love affair by Mother’s illness and death. The moment we settled in
Virginia, Papa had time to dwell on his eldest daughter’s
disobedience. Since he was helpless to control Nadia so far away in
India, he focused on his youngest child, pondering on the endless
marriage proposals coming my way.
    I was not consulted because Papa’s heart and
head were still in Afghanistan where choosing a spouse is
considered much too important to be left to one’s children. I grew
frantic. The last thing I desired was a husband. I was only twenty
years old, new to a very exciting country, with plans of pursing my
education. I politely asked Papa to wait, to give me a little time.
He and Mother had always preached their aversion to marrying before
finishing one’s education.
    But ruled by his Pashtun fears that his
daughter would run wild unless she was bound to a husband, Papa
stubbornly moved ahead.
    My stomach grew knots. I felt myself caught
in a great family drama, all the people I loved living for the
moment I would be married. I had never missed Mother more, for I
knew if only she had lived that she would have stopped the rush for
marriage. Mother’s goal for her daughters was to see college
diplomas tucked in their pockets before watching them walk down the
marriage aisle. But Mother was dead in her grave, far away in
India. She could no longer protect me.
    I was startled when the rest of my family
threw their undivided support behind Papa. Suddenly a huge family
campaign was unleashed against a twenty-year-old girl. Auntie
Shagul quietly reminded me of my familial obligation and duty.
‘Losing your mother has been so difficult for your father,’ she
sighed. ‘The strain of living in a new country and worrying about
Nadia’s unfortunate romance is too much for your father. Don’t you
disobey him as well.’
    I even received a telephone call from Uncle
Hakim in France, the conversation drifting to Papa’s state of mind.
‘Your father is lonely, Maryam. He needs something to make him feel
joyful again. A grandson would bring him out of his misery.’ I
grunted, knowing that I was the one expected to deliver that
child.
    I knew that my position was perilous when
other relatives made my life their business and echoed like a
chorus: ‘God will see this, Maryam. He will reward you. God will
make you the happiest woman in the world.’
    Nothing mattered to my family as much but
that I marry, and marry soon.
    I had always sworn I would never marry
against my will. I was too intimate with the details of tragic
lives lived by women like Grandmother Mayana and Cousin Amina, and
so many other good women. But guilt over my father’s grief, and a
desire to be a good daughter, created a great conflict with my
youthful vow.
    For months I swam against the tide, brushing
off talk of marriage. I hoped that Papa would weary of interviewing
potential husbands. I prayed that something or someone would
intervene. I grew more and more frantic with each passing day. My
heart lived in my throat, as I waited for Papa to tell me he had
selected my husband. Never have I felt so alone, so anguished.
Alone against the united will of my family, I felt my resistance
wavering.
    One day Papa felt ill. He told me he did not
believe he was long for this world, and that he would soon be
joining Mother. Such talk created a moment of such weakness in me
that I finally gave in. I bowed my head, and with a forced smile,
trying to feel good that my actions were sure to please everyone, I
said, ‘Papa. If it makes you happy for me to marry, I will marry. I
don’t care who you pick to be my husband. As long as you are happy,
I shall be happy.’
    Papa’s health rallied immediately. Suddenly
he was vigorous, and organized meetings with several potential
grooms by phone.
    I felt some relief that I had made my poor
Papa so happy, but after he retired for a nap, I retched until I
was weak. I cursed myself for giving in.
    My obedience won me praise from every corner.
I was the good daughter. In spite of my personal feelings, I would
do my father’s bidding. Unlike my sister, I was faithful to our
Pashtun tradition.
    For a brief period of time I felt some
pleasure and even anticipation. I believed there would be
advantages to agreeing to an arranged marriage. Single girls