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

lived in utter misery, that I be beaten daily,
that I be used as a sex slave by my husband, anything was better
than for a Pashtun woman to have sought independence and a
divorce.
    For the first time in my life I fully
understood what Grandmother Mayana had been up against. The utter
helplessness of her life struck me anew.
    I straightened my back, feeling a fury taking
hold. My family was wrong, and it was up to me to set them
straight. I was not Grandmother Mayana, a woman who bent to
submit to men. I was Maryam Khail. I was no longer in Afghanistan.
I was in America, a country where women’s rights and needs were
recognized.
    I would handle this matter once and for all.
I would get rid of Kaiss. I would break every rule of civilized
society by revealing every humiliating detail of the horrors that
criminal had committed, from beatings to rape.
    I stepped into the living room, my eyes
automatically seeking my son, something I always did to reassure
myself my son was safe. I couldn’t see him. ‘Where is Duran,’ I
asked.
    Papa explained: ‘Oh, his father took him down
to the shopping centre to get some juice.’
    My breath left my body. I was paralysed.
‘ What? You let Kaiss take Duran?’
    Papa waved me away dismissively. ‘Don’t be
silly, Maryam. They only walked across the street. They went to get
some juice.’
    Without a word I ran from the apartment and
down the stairs and across the street, dashing frantically from
store to store and then back again. The shopkeepers there knew
Duran. None had seen my baby.
    I ran back into the apartment. Kaiss and
Duran were not there. I started screaming, ‘Call the police!
Somebody call the police!’
    My relatives began pulling on my arms,
pleading with me to sit down, imploring me to get a grip on my
emotions, ‘Control yourself, Maryam. They will be back. Don’t
worry.’
    I shook them off so that I could call the
police myself. I listened in horrified silence as I was told they
could do nothing. The standing court order allowed Kaiss
visitation. Monday was the day we were going to get the visitation
orders changed. Monday was three days away.
    I lost my mind. I wept. I screamed. I set
upon my father and sister, blaming them for getting my baby
kidnapped. Despite my warnings, they had underestimated Kaiss. ‘You
let that kidnapper into our house. You gave him my son!’
    I grabbed my purse and keys and fled the
room. I broke every speed limit driving to the Los Angeles
International Airport. The miracle was that I did not crash, for my
tears were flowing and I could barely see. God was with me on that
day for I arrived at the airport in one piece. Once there I ran
inside, dashing from one airline stall to the other, pleading for
the ground crew to help me. Once they heard my story, all began
scrambling, checking their flights, looking for Kaiss’s name.
    Nothing .
    I refused to leave, even after being told
that my husband and son had not left LA International, not unless
they had traveled on an assumed name.
    I called my father, hoping that Kaiss had
come to his senses and returned Duran to his home.
    Nothing .
    I remained at the airport all night, thinking
that Kaiss might have hidden out waiting for a specific flight.
    Nothing .
    At 6 a.m. I called my father again. But my
baby was still gone. Papa pleaded with me to come home, but I
refused. Finally he drove to the airport to convince me. I fell
weeping into his arms, agreeing to follow him home. I drove while
weeping.
    Nadia tried to comfort me. ‘Oh, Maryam, he
has done this before. He just wants you back. You’ll get a
call.’
    ‘No. This time it is different. I will never
see Duran again.’
    I sat on my bed holding Duran’s clothes and
his pillow. By now Duran would be crying with fright. He was a
mama’s baby. He didn’t know his father, only than that his father
created fear.
    I sobbed. I ran into the kitchen. I was going
to kill myself. My family scrambled to hide all sharp
instruments.
    I was tortured by my last image of Duran, his
beautiful smiling face, his sweet lips blowing kisses, calling out,
‘Bye, Mano!’ I cried bitter tears, already missing my son more than
I could bear. I wanted my baby back. ‘ Duran! ’ I had to have
my son back. I couldn’t live without him. I had to hold that tiny
being my body had made. ‘ Duran! ’
    I fell into bed, nursing the grief that
threatened to bury me. I knew in my heart I would never see my baby
Duran again.
    At twenty-five, my life was