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

our class had suddenly gained an extra female
pupil. The mortifying day finally ended and I fled to the front of
the building to wait impatiently for my nanny to arrive. I ached to
take my shame home.
    Our family home in the city suburb of
Share-i-Now was so near the kindergarten that Muma walked me to
school in the mornings and collected me each afternoon. I breathed
a sigh of relief when I saw her familiar figure walk up, but then
my teacher stepped out to greet her and led her into the office of
the school principal. I watched in dismay, my face flushed and my
heart beating rapidly.
    I longed for my mother, who was out of the
country with a medical condition. At the time, most educated and
well-connected Afghans travelled out of Afghanistan for medical
treatment, and my father had recently taken my mother to Moscow
with her overactive thyroid. My mother was so clever and bold she
would have succeeded in convincing the principal that a bizarre
misunderstanding had occurred, that her youngest child was indeed
male, but I knew my poor nanny would never find the courage to
stand up to authority. My shoulders slumped. Nanny would tell my
teachers everything, explaining why the daughter of a prominent
Afghan Pashtun, Ajab Khail, had passed herself off as a male
child.
    The meeting unfolded just as I feared. The
principal quickly learned my life story: that I so longed to be a
boy I had acted out the role for my entire life, that I refused to
play with those of my sex and reacted angrily if anyone refused to
accept I was male.
    The principal sent a teacher to find me. My
heart fluttered when I was told that all the teachers of the school
were waiting to see me. I was shaking. I assumed I would be
punished for living such a lie and then my humiliation would be
complete. Surprisingly, when the door opened and I saw the many
faces looking at me, everyone was smiling. I exhaled in relief. Had
Muma convinced them of the impossible, that I truly was a boy and
the day’s events had been nothing more than a terrible
misunderstanding?
    The kindly lady principal lightly touched my
shoulders and led me to the front of the room, announcing, ‘This is
a very special day for all of us. This is the official day that our
young pupil Yousef becomes Maryam.’ She smiled winningly at her
audience. ‘Please, let me introduce you to Maryam Khail.’
    I was so shocked I couldn’t speak. I
scratched my shaved head in puzzlement. All the teachers appeared
extremely amused, and one by one began congratulating me. The
principal then presented me with the school uniform for girls,
telling me, ‘Maryam, you are the most precious little girl, a
beautiful girl who is special in every way.’ I was startled when
another teacher walked briskly into the room to present me with a
large bouquet of colorful flowers. The principal even called in the
school photographer, who made a big fuss of taking an official
picture. Despite the heartfelt celebration, and the kindness of
those teachers, I was numb with misery. I glanced at the clothes in
my hand. Now I would have to wear the uniform I so hated, a drab
black dress that dipped below the knee, with black stockings and a
white scarf. Boys could wear any combination of shorts or long
trousers with any clean shirt, but all the girls in the school were
required to wear the uniform dress. It made it impossible for us to
play with abandon, to pedal a bike or rollerskate, for it would be
a scandal if a girl fell and exposed her limbs or her panties.
    Once again my future as an Afghan girl loomed
before me. I would now be expected to remain subservient to boys.
Interesting courses of study would be offered to male classmates,
while I would be shuttled off with the girls, taught to stitch in a
straight line or to prepare large meals for the men of the family.
Before long the blood would come and I would be staring into the
mirror at a mature face. Then I would leave my family to marry into
a strange household, becoming