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

sneered because I was not fasting. ‘Look at you,
eating during Ramadan. You are corrupted by the West.’
    Not wanting to be punched, I bit my tongue.
Kaiss was in a bad mood and his bad moods always resulted in a
beating.
    ‘You look hideous,’ he shouted, ‘hideous and
despicable.’ He turned to my baby. ‘Oh Duran. Your mother is so
ugly.’
    I still did not respond. Duran started to
whimper, my small child already fearing violence and danger when
his father was around.
    I said nothing.
    Kaiss pushed me. ‘Beer. I want beer. Go to
the grocery store and buy me some,’ he ordered.
    ‘Kaiss, please don’t drink beer during
Ramadan.’
    ‘Bring me beer, bitch!’ He looked like a wild
animal when he opened his mouth in a snarl. ‘Who are you to talk?
You are not even fasting! When I break my fast, I want to break it
with some beer!’
    I took a deep breath and turned to walk away,
muttering under my breath, ‘Hypocrite.’ I realized too late that I
had spoken louder than I intended.
    Kaiss went crazy. ‘What did you say, bitch?’
He grabbed my arm, pulling me back, wrapping his hands around my
throat, choking me, shaking me. Everything grew dim. I could hear
baby Duran screaming with fear. I tried to pull away, to look at my
son for the last time, but all I could see were black shadows. I
became hysterical. By talking back, I had cost my baby his mother.
Now Duran would be raised by a maniac.
    The telephone rang, snapping Kaiss out of his
rage. His fingers loosened. ‘I will kill you later,’ he said drily
as he got up to answer the phone.
    I was gagging, desperate to fill my lungs
with air.
    Kaiss said something down the phone, then
walked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
    I crawled to my baby, holding him tight, but
I was gagging and retching. Duran began to kiss my face. ‘Mano,
Mano,’ he cried in his sweet little baby voice.
    I struggled to reach the telephone. I dialed
the police, praying to Allah to complete the call before Kaiss
returned. He would really finish what he had started if he knew I
had alerted the authorities.
    The apartment filled with police officers,
with one writing down my statement while another took photographic
evidence of my injuries. Others were checking out the rooms to find
signs of our struggle. Before Kaiss returned, Duran and I were
driven to the battered women’s shelter where I would remain until I
could get a restraining order.
    I was finally being heard, and the
seriousness of the situation claimed the attention of authorities.
Kaiss was arrested but was out a few hours later after posting
bail. Based on my visible injuries, the judge did approve a
restraining order for Kaiss. A hearing was set in two weeks.
    At the hearing, Kaiss and his lawyers spun
one lie after another.
    According to them, I was the abuser, and beat
Kaiss regularly.
    Kaiss had never threatened to kill me or to
kidnap Duran.
    Kaiss was a saint. His wife was the real
devil.
    The judge examined the evidence, including
the police photographs of my injuries. I was granted full custody
of my son, although to my horror and despair, Kaiss was given
visitation rights. I knew then that during the first visitation
Kaiss would try to kidnap Duran and flee to Afghanistan. I had to
do something or I would lose my baby for ever.
     

Chapter
XV
    I returned to Los Angeles with my son, all
the while planning how I might seek a change in the custody ruling.
My attorney agreed that Duran was in genuine danger of being taken
out of America and carried back to Afghanistan. We decided to wait
until Kaiss arrived for his first visitation, and at that time he
would be told to meet us at the courthouse. We would be legally
prepared.
    While I had been in Virginia rescuing my son
from Kaiss, my sister Nadia had graduated from medical school in
India and moved in to live with Papa. I felt as contented as I
could be under the circumstances, but I was desperately worried
when Kaiss would appear to claim visitation rights.
    He arrived on Wednesday 30 July 1986. Nadia
and I were cooking dinner for invited guests. Papa was sitting with
Duran in the living room. Our building manager knocked on the door,
warning us that Kaiss was downstairs, saying that he had come to
visit his son.
    ‘Do not let him in,’ I ordered, my skin
crawling with fear.
    I knew that something terrible was bound to
happen. My voice breaking, I said, ‘Tell him that before he can
visit with his son, he must have legal