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

to raise my son. We were starting a new life, a life without
violence and pain and anger, or so I thought.
     

 
    Chapter:
XIV
    I filed for divorce and, in view of Kaiss’s
violence, full child custody. I cared nothing for child support. I
didn’t want Kaiss’s money. I only wanted to raise my child in peace
and unmolested.
    Being so far away comforted me. I began to
feel human again, experiencing occasional sparks of happiness.
Duran was a merry, robust child and didn’t seem to miss his father
at all. Soon he was saying a few words, and he picked up on my
family nickname, Malo. He tried to say it, but it came out as Mano.
The sweetest sound I’d ever heard was my little Duran calling me,
‘Mano! Mano!’
    Still, the danger was real, and fear of Kaiss
meant that we had to guard our address and telephone number, only
giving it out to our closest family members. Then one morning my
auntie from Texas called. Kaiss had been phoning round all members
of my family, pleading with them that he wanted nothing but to make
me the happiest woman in the world. He claimed he loved his wife
and son so much and missed them so. When he realized that my auntie
was weakening, he concentrated his efforts on her and she crumbled
to his bogus charisma. Unknowingly duped, she gave Kaiss my
telephone number and address. After only a few telephone
conversations, she was confident that she alone knew Kaiss’s true
temperament, telling me, ‘Maryam, he is a good man. He will be
different. He will be a good husband, now.’
    Divorce was so unthinkable in my culture that
most family members wanted me to accept my miserable lot as a woman
and to endure the abuse in silence, in the way women in Afghanistan
had always done.
    I put down the phone and ran to my father
screaming, ‘Auntie gave him our address!’
    At that moment the telephone rang again. I
grabbed it, thinking it was my aunt once again. ‘Maryam,’ I heard
Kaiss say in a menacing whisper, ‘if you fly into the sky, I will
catch you by the leg. If you hide under the ground, I will catch
you by your head. You cannot hide from me! ’
    With a frightened gasp I hung up.
    The phone rang again. Papa rushed to answer
it only to hear, ‘Ajab, I am coming to Los Angeles. I am coming to
kill Maryam and you. I will even kill my own son if that is what it
takes. Do you think I am afraid of the electric chair? I will make
history. An Afghan man defending his honor will sacrifice his life
for the satisfaction of killing his wife, his son and his
father-in-law.’
    ‘If you want to make history,’ Papa shouted
back, ‘go do jihad in Afghanistan! Fight the Russians! Go! But
don’t ever call here again!’
    Papa crashed down the receiver. My gentle
Papa had never harmed anyone in his life, but at that moment he
swelled with warrior energy. Had Kaiss appeared then and there, I
am certain that my father would have fought him to the death.
    While sympathetic, the police again told us
that they could do nothing against verbal threats. Kaiss would have
to physically assault one of us before they could arrest him. We
were frustrated to discover that America’s justice system was
splendidly fair for the criminal, but less so for the victim.
    My lawyer filed some papers, for whatever
good that would do.
    Kaiss called again. This time I was surprised
to hear he was calm. ‘OK, I am giving up. But I wanted to tell you
that I did not hit you because I hated you. I hit you because I
loved you. I did not want any other man looking at you. Maryam, if
I could make magic, I would carry you in my pocket all the time.
But I can’t make magic. So, because I do love you, I will let you
go. I will give you a divorce . . . on one condition. You will
never marry again.’
    I responded as he wanted only because I
didn’t know what else to do. ‘All right. I agree. I will never
marry again. Why would I? You taught me that marriage is a
nightmare. All I want to do is to be left alone so that I can raise
my son in peace.’
    ‘All right. Let’s agree. Let’s work together
to be a mother and a father to our son.’
    ‘I agree,’ I said, feeling a tinge of relief.
Had Kaiss come to his senses? Had he finally realized that America
was different to Afghanistan, that American men did not routinely
beat their wives?
    A week later Kaiss called again, claiming
that he must see his son on a regular basis. He was moving to Los
Angeles.
    I was panic-stricken, but there was nothing I
could do to stop him.