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

I had fallen in
love with a Saudi man, her temper flared. ‘A Saudi? My God,
Maryam!’
    ‘Yes. A Saudi. A Saudi who happens to be the
nicest man I’ve ever known.’
    ‘Do you have any idea of what life is like
for women in Saudi Arabia?’
    ‘Tell me, Nadia, how can life for women be
worse in Saudi Arabia than it is for women in Afghanistan?’
    ‘Well, it is,’ she insisted. ‘Do you have any
idea of how Saudi men regard women?’
    ‘Better than how Afghan men behave towards
their women. Listen, this Saudi man treats me with respect and with
love. He is the best man. There is no man in Afghanistan who is his
match.’
    Nadia studied my face. ‘Does Papa know?’
    ‘No. And you will not tell him. You destroyed
my life once, Nadia. I won’t let you do it again.’
    Admittedly, I dreaded telling Papa. Since
Duran had been kidnapped, all the happiness had gone out of Papa’s
life. He would not be pleased I was dating anyone, but to date a
Saudi would be particularly unacceptable because Afghan men
believed other Muslims were beneath them. Not even the King of
Saudi Arabia would be considered worthy of a Pashtun woman.
    To keep arguments at bay, I used a trusted
girlfriend as an alibi, making it easier to see Khalid.
    One special night I confessed to Khalid
everything that had happened to me. Without seeking sympathy, I
told him about the brutality of my first husband and the abuse I
had endured. Finally I told him about losing Duran. The painful
memories brought back my fears for Duran’s safety because
Afghanistan was still hell on earth. Before the confessional ended,
I was weeping in Khalid’s arms.
    Khalid was gentle, wiping the tears from my
face. ‘Never give up hope, Maryam. You son will come back to you
one day.’
    That’s when Khalid asked me to marry him.
    I was happy for the first time in years when
I said, ‘Yes. Yes, Khalid, I will marry you.’
     

Chapter XIX
    Things did not go so well with Papa. I was
too nervous to tell him in person, so I wrote him a heartfelt
letter and left it on his pillow.
    Papa, I have fallen in love with a wonderful
man. He is gentle and kind, everything that Kaiss was not. Khalid
is from Saudi Arabia. I am asking for permission to marry him.
Please do say yes. If you say no, I will marry him anyway. Please
tell me soon that you will bless my marriage. Your loving daughter,
Maryam
    I longed for Papa to smile his approval, but
he did not respond at all. A month passed while I was never brave
enough to raise the subject. Then my father asked that I drive him
to the airport. He was leaving for a three-month holiday in France
to visit Uncle Hakim and other family members. When Papa kissed me
goodbye, he handed me a fat envelope. His face was solemn. ‘Maryam,
please consider this letter very seriously. I hope you answer it
positively.’
    Then he was gone without his usual
affectionate goodbyes. My heart sinking, I tucked the letter away
in my purse to read it later after I returned to our apartment.
    Daughter, if you marry this Khalid, you will
never see me again. You will no longer be my daughter. Khalid is a
Saudi Arabian. His society is the most conservative in the world.
You could never survive in it. In Saudi Arabia, men are given full
custody of their children. If you marry this man, and you have
children, if he decides to leave you, he will not have to kidnap
your children. They will be his legally.
    He is only living in the States to finish his
studies and when he returns to Saudi Arabia he will abandon you.
You will be brokenhearted.
    Have you learned nothing, Maryam?
    Don’t forget, if you want to see Duran again,
you must never remarry. You must be patient and wait for your son
to be returned to you. I am trying to find a way to seize Duran and
bring him back, but if you take a new husband, no one in
Afghanistan will help us.
    Most important, Maryam, remember you are a
Pashtun. It is your duty to marry a Pashtun man. Please do not
forget your family history. My own mother lived courageously under
her brother’s harsh rules. She never remarried. She lived for her
children. Unless you remarry another Pashtun, you, my daughter,
must do the same.
    I wept in despair. How could Papa forget his
own struggle against our culture’s antiquated traditions to marry
the woman he loved from outside his own tribe? How had he so easily
slipped back into the dark ages? Who could be more dangerous, toxic
and dishonorable than the man I had married: a Pashtun