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

followed the events of
Afghanistan from the moment I fled, once my baby was in Kabul I
became even more obsessed with every bit of news. With my baby’s
photographs hanging on every wall, I kissed his image, weeping and
raging while the television reported explosions and shelling and
murder and mayhem. There were estimates of over 12,000 Afghan
civilians having been killed during the previous months. News
reports said that the situation in Afghanistan was approaching
genocide. My father’s tribe had fought the Russian invaders from
the beginning, and I heard that 700 resistance fighters were killed
in the Paktia province, my ancestral home.
    How would such a tiny boy survive such a
holocaust? I had protected him from the moment of his birth,
keeping him safe and happy. Who would prepare his favorite foods?
Who would keep him warm? Who would read him stories? Who would play
hide and seek and make him laugh?
    Kaiss was not the sort of man to waste his
time on a toddler.
    Papa tried to comfort me. ‘I am praying to
Allah that Duran will be back soon.’ He paused and then stupidly
remarked, ‘But at least you know that your son is with his
father.’
    I didn’t bother to remind Papa yet again that
Kaiss was a brutal man who had admitted to his own sister that he
did not love Duran. I simply walked away.
    Nadia couldn’t admit she had been wrong. ‘You
should have stayed with Kaiss. None of this would have happened had
you stayed with your husband.’
    ‘And been beaten to death?’ I asked, my voice
rising in disbelief.
    ‘He only beat you because you answered back.’
Nadia shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t have been so disrespectful.’
    Nadia was distracted from my troubles because
Papa had finally given her permission to marry her Iranian Shiite
boyfriend, little knowing that in reality Nadia had already married
him years earlier. So with her marriage finally out in the open,
her life was just peachy, while mine was unbearable.
    I plotted to slip into Afghanistan to find my
son, but Papa feared that very thing so he hid my passport, saying
he would keep it in a safe place. Nothing could convince him that I
should hire someone to slip me into war-torn Afghanistan, reclaim
my son and return with him to America. Although I didn’t think so
at the time, perhaps Papa was right, for those were the days when
the war with Russia was in full swing and the borders were closed.
Even hardened warriors had difficulty moving about within the
country. It was a no-go area. When it came to war-torn Afghanistan,
either you were in, or you were out. My son was in. I was out.
    Papa had never lost contact with family
members or friends who had remained behind in Afghanistan. Now he
called on those contacts, enlisting the support of everyone he knew
to try and track down my son’s whereabouts. ‘I will get your son
back, Maryam, I will,’ he promised loyally.
    Eight months after Duran was taken, my father
received an address. We knew for the first time where Kaiss and
Duran were living. I dashed to the Los Angeles State Department,
naively believing the American government would now send in the
troops to rescue my son from his father. Their response was more
than disappointing. ‘There is nothing we can do,’ I was told by the
official. ‘The United States has no diplomatic relationship with
the current Afghan government.’
    Accustomed to a country where the leaders
often respond to an individual’s needs, I wrote to President
Reagan’s office, pleading with the American president to do
something to help me get my son back. I received a form letter with
the exact message I had already received from the state department. The United States has no diplomatic relationship with
Afghanistan.
    When I fell to pieces yet again, Papa showed
me a newspaper article about a small boy in Florida who had been
kidnapped and murdered. ‘Why are you showing me this?’ I asked, my
voice rising in panic. Had something similar been discovered about
Duran and this was Papa’s way of breaking the news to me?
    ‘Think how lucky you are,’ Papa replied. ‘At
least your son was not kidnapped to be murdered by a stranger. At
least he is with his father, Maryam.’
    I could only shake my head and marvel at the
lack of understanding and the absence of compassion from my own
family.
    We realized that Duran was still alive when
Kaiss sent me a message via my father’s friends and relatives in
Afghanistan: ‘If Maryam sets one foot inside