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

a house servant to the mother of my
new husband.
    I had still not spoken a word when a very
quiet Muma led me away, my feet and legs dragging from the weight
of my despair. I truly felt I had lived the last happy day of my
life. I had relished every moment of my life as Yousef. I had no
desire to be Maryam, for over the years I had heard too many family
members express disappointment over my gender.
    *
    I was the second daughter and last child born
to my parents, Ajab Khail and Sharifa Hassen. After my sister Nadia
was born, family and friends were desperate for the second child to
be a son because in Afghanistan there is no respect shown to a
mother, or a father, who produces only daughters. So I was a
disappointment for many from the moment of my first noisy
appearance. Although I was not the boy they were longing for, I did
bring a lot of excitement, for I made a spectacular entrance into
their world.
    I was born late on a Friday night, on 16
December 1960. Earlier in the day my mother had had her final
pregnancy examination. Mother told the doctor that she felt so
uncomfortable she was certain her second child would be born soon,
but the doctor disagreed, telling her that she might as well relax
because in his expert opinion her second child would not be coming
for at least another ten days. I proved the doctor wrong only a few
hours later when I awoke my mother during the early part of the
night. I was ready to get out, already prepared to create a bit of
mischief in the world.
    Afghanistan suffers through long and brutal
winters, and on that December night snow was piled over a foot
deep, with more on the way. My mother was scheduled to deliver in
hospital, so transport was needed. At the time of my birth few
homes in Afghanistan had their own telephone so my father had to
dash to the main road to use the public one. He phoned the
ambulance service, telling them, ‘Come quickly! You must take my
wife to the hospital!’
    But nothing moves fast in Afghanistan, so my
poor father waited in the snow for at least two hours, remaining at
the agreed-upon-spot so he could escort the ambulance driver
directly to our front door. He was delayed for so long that
Mother’s labor pains grew more and more intense. To calm her, Nanny
Muma and Grandmother Mayana Khail, my father’s mother who lived
with us, took turns rubbing her back. Finally the three women heard
the ambulance siren, and Grandmother carefully bundled Mother in a
heavy winter coat. They hurried outside the house to wait on the
front porch.
    After a particularly powerful contraction,
Mother slumped down on the top porch step. As she sat down, I came
out. Thankfully, Muma was a capable baby-catcher. She pounced to
grab me as I popped out, for I had become airborne on that high
step. Perhaps the icy cold air made me more alert than most
newborns because Muma later told me that I was bright-eyed and
eager from the first moment.
    I’ve been told that from the beginning I was
a wilful, difficult daughter, never sweetly obediently as Muslim
daughters are expected to be. Perhaps my attitude came from the
fact that any time our family would gather for a celebratory
occasion, I would be greeted by aunties and uncles and cousins with
hurtful comments such as, ‘What a pity she wasn’t a boy!’ Although
my parents were more modern and wise than most, brushing off such
stinging remarks by retorting, ‘But Maryam is our boy,’ my
feelings about being a girl were forever tainted.
    I started feeling apologetic about my sex,
but later I became angry at myself for not being the boy I wanted
to be. I hated being a girl so much that I foolishly thought I
could will myself into becoming a boy. I rebuffed girls my own age
and instead played with male cousins or the boys in the
neighbourhood. My parents went along with me, allowing me not only
to dress in boys’ clothes, but also letting me keep my thick hair
cut short. They made no objection when I later insisted on shaving
my