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

Papa said, ‘Daughter, please forgive
me for what has happened. This was my fault. I am the one who chose
your beast of a husband.’
    I wept in my father’s arms, forgiving him. It
was the first time he had taken responsibility for the agony I was
enduring.
    Three days later Kaiss burst into my father’s
apartment, pleading for another chance. ‘Yes, I hurt your daughter,
Ajab, I admit it. I love Maryam so much that I lose my mind with
jealousy. But that will never happen again. You have my word.’
    Papa stared at him.
    I watched Kaiss, wondering how such a wicked
man could seem so charming. My violent husband began to shed false
tears. He grabbed my father’s hand and began kissing it. ‘I beg you
to forgive my many shortcomings.’
    Just then Duran awoke from his nap and
noticed his father. He gurgled in pleasure.
    Papa gazed at Duran, then stared at me. His
feelings were plainly written on his face: your son needs a
father.
    I heard my mother’s voice whispering in my
ear: ‘Your husband’s strategy is to divide and conquer, Maryam.
Walk away, my daughter. Walk away.’
    I stared pleadingly into my father’s eyes,
trying to convey a silent message. He will do it again, Papa. He
will do it again.
    Papa looked away helplessly.
    Kaiss threw himself at my feet. ‘I beg you,
Maryam. I beg you. I promise, from this day I will treat you only
with love and respect.’
    Helplessly, I watched two Pashtun men, my
husband and my father, ganging up on me.
    I was united with every Pashtun woman who had
ever lived. We had no rights, no power. We were too feeble to
defend ourselves. Grandmother Mayana had always told me that a
woman must be obedient, devoted and self-sacrificing to be worthy
of her Pashtun Muslim heritage. Never once had I agreed with her,
but for all my fighting talk as a child, now that I was a woman, I
was weak, too.
    As I knew he would, my father cleared his
throat and urged: ‘Maryam, go back to your own home. Make a fresh
start, daughter. It is the best thing for your son.’
    Without one person to stand up for me, I felt
my former strength wilting away. Why? I do not know. My Afghan
upbringing had stripped me of my sense of self-worth.
    With a deep sigh I began gathering Duran’s
things. Kaiss lifted our son in his arms. I didn’t speak as I
followed Kaiss from my father’s house.
    When Nadia next visited us from India on
vacation, I had gone back to work. Never at ease leaving my son
alone with his father, I arranged for my sister and father to care
for him telling them that Nadia would enjoy my son’s cute antics.
One evening I went home to prepare Kaiss’s dinner before leaving
for work. I was in the kitchen cooking when he came in and stood
behind me. Suddenly he pinched my buttocks as hard as he could. I
screamed and turned around. ‘That hurt, Kaiss! Why did you do
that?’
    ‘Well, Maryam,’ he whispered threateningly,
‘I did it because you are wearing tight slacks and your ass looks
very sexy.’
    Assuming he was trying to compliment me,
albeit in a very odd manner, I said, ‘Thank you.’
    But before I could move, he grabbed a knife
and slit my trousers down the back.
    I gasped and, squirming, tried to pull
away.
    He rolled his fist and punched me as hard as
he could in my stomach.
    I fell backwards on to the floor.
    He kicked me in the stomach, screaming: ‘Here
is my law, Maryam: my wife will not show her butt to other men!’ He
kicked me a second time. ‘God knows how many men thought of
sticking their dick in you!’
    I pushed away, scrambling to my feet, running
to the bathroom, the one room where there was a lock. I quickly
slammed the door and secured the lock.
    Panting, I examined my face in the mirror. I
didn’t remember Kaiss slapping me in the face, but my lips were
already swelling. Upon further examination I found a big gash
across my back where Kaiss had cut my trousers off my body.
    I remained locked in the bathroom until I
heard Kaiss turn on the television, then I crept out to dial my
boss at the restaurant. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I am sick. I
can’t come in tonight.’
    I heard my boss exhale loudly. ‘Maryam, if
the bruises are on your face, don’t come in. But if Kaiss just
kicked you on the legs and the bruises are not noticeable, I really
need you to come to work tonight. I am short-staffed.’
    I stifled a cry. My charade of a life was
fooling no one. I was a pathetic creature unable to defend herself
against one man. Never had I