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

man
specially chosen for me?
    Truthfully, my anger had been building
against my father and sister since the day Duran was stolen from
me. I felt that my closest family members had made it possible for
Kaiss to kidnap Duran. Without Papa and Nadia’s support of Kaiss’s
cause, my baby would have still been with his mother. My anger
spiked anew, and I knew then that never again would I trust anyone
to make personal decisions for me, not even my father.
    I stomped into the kitchen and grabbed a pair
of scissors and cut Papa’s letter into many pieces. Then I called
Nadia, who was living temporarily in Maryland to do her medical
residency. I was so angry I shouted at her down the phone. ‘I am
going to marry Khalid whether you and Papa like it or not! I don’t
give a damn.’
    Nadia was so shocked that I, the ‘good’
daughter, was so aggressively self-assertive that she didn’t say a
word.
    Khalid and I married while Papa was still in
France. We drove to Las Vegas for a real honeymoon. I had fun for
the first time in my adult life. I had found true love at last with
a wonderful man.
    Three months later my bravery had deflated a
bit. After Papa returned I could not find enough courage to confess
I was married. Instead, I said, ‘Papa, I read your letter
carefully. And I thought about it. But, Papa, I really love this
man. I will never be happy with another. Please, all I ask you to
do is meet him. You will like him, Papa, I promise.’
    Papa didn’t speak.
    In the meantime, Khalid was staying with
friends while I tried to talk my father round. He soon grew
impatient and insisted on meeting my father.
    So I announced to Papa, ‘Khalid is coming
over tonight. Please be nice.’
    Poor Khalid was so nervous that he brought
his nephew with him. He told me later that to gather his courage he
had paused to recite verses of the Koran before entering our
apartment.
    Papa received our visitors with a cold, limp
handshake. Then he took his newspaper and sat in his favorite
chair, rudely burying his face in the paper.
    Khalid cleared his throat and said in a low,
sweet voice, ‘How are you, sir?’
    Papa did not answer.
    ‘Papa,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘Khalid has very
kindly asked you how you are.’
    Papa looked up from his paper. ‘Which
university are you studying at?’ he barked.
    ‘The University of Southern California.’
    ‘What is your area of study?’
    ‘Business.’
    Papa grunted, and made it clear he had
nothing further to say. He stood up, went into his bedroom and
closed the door behind him.
    I followed. ‘Do not act like this, Papa. It
is beneath you.’
    Papa said, ‘I want to catch the news. Close
the door when you leave.’
    ‘Papa, you yourself did not marry a pure
Pashtun woman. Do I need to remind you of the difficulties you
faced to marry my mother?’
    ‘This is different,’ he said firmly, as he
turned his back to me.
    ‘Different? Why? Because you are a man and I
am a woman? This is beneath you, Papa. I am so disappointed in
you.’
    The next day, Papa abruptly left California
to visit Nadia in Maryland and to help with her two-year-old
daughter. As soon as he arrived Nadia broke my confidence,
gleefully revealing to Papa that I was already married. Papa sent
word via my sister. ‘Tell Maryam I will never see her again. I will
never speak to her again.’
    I am not the kind of daughter who can live
without speaking to her father, so I called Uncle Hakim and pleaded
with him to intervene. Papa would always hear Hakim even when he
would listen to no one else. It soon produced results.
    Khalid and I were invited to Maryland for a
visit. Although Papa was initially dismissive and rude to my
husband, soon he couldn’t help appreciating Khalid’s kindly ways.
Papa finally agreed to return to Los Angeles to live with us. And I
returned to school, studying to become a respiratory therapist. I
enjoyed my classes and I loved my husband.
    Over time, Khalid and Papa became very close,
and I felt myself part of a happy family for the first time in many
years. But our family circle had a missing piece, and that piece
was little Duran, still held hostage in Afghanistan. I fretted that
my poor baby would never have known a moment of peace since his
father had taken him to Afghanistan. Since that July day in 1986,
my son had lived through the Russian war and was now living through
a civil war. Despite the fall of Kabul, the city was still under
constant rocket fire because none of the powers