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

home.’
    My son refused to reply.
    ‘Now that you are here, Duran, what is it
that you want? What will make you happy, son?’
    He looked at me with pure hatred, hatred
transported from his father in Afghanistan to me in Jeddah. ‘I came
here to get money,’ he sneered. ‘I wanted a lot of money.’ He
shrugged. ‘I thought everyone in Saudi Arabia was rich. I was
wrong. I have seen that you and your husband have nothing for me. I
don’t want to stay if you don’t have any money.’
    ‘I am your mother. I love you. I will make
many sacrifices for you. I want to get you educated. How can you
have no feelings for your mother who loves you beyond measure?’
    He laughed hatefully. ‘No. You are merely my
biological mother. I don’t even like you. You are too young to be
my mother. I hate the sexy way you look and dress. You do not look
like a mother. You are a sex object that turns men’s heads.’ He
stalked away, shouting. ‘I want a mother who is pious, who is
veiled. I want a mother who stays at home and doesn’t do tennis or
yoga or go to the beach. I . . .’ My son was so angry he was
stuttering. ‘I want to be just like my father.’
    I remained calm, keeping my horror within,
acknowledging to myself what I had feared, that my son was
seriously disturbed. ‘Duran, you said you hated your father. You
want to be like someone who beat his wife? Who beat his son?’
    ‘Maybe I hate him. But I want to be like
him.’ He stalked around the room like a caged bear. ‘I have decided
to leave and go to live in Germany.’
    ‘ Germany? ’ I was dumbfounded.
    ‘I am going to live in the home of my
father’s brother.’
    ‘But we planned on going to Virginia in June.
I—’
    ‘I have changed my plans. My father wants me
back. I want to go back to my father.’
    ‘But what of your dreams, Duran? You told me
your dream was to get an education and to live in Virginia
and—’
    ‘My dream?’ He laughed menacingly, moving
very close. ‘My only dream is to kill you.’
    I was brokenhearted. ‘Duran. Whatever have I
ever done to you but to love you?’
    He turned away indifferently.
    Frantically I cast around in my mind for
something I might say to keep him with me so that I could arrange
psychological help. If he left now, he was lost for ever, and I
knew it.
    ‘Duran?’
    ‘I’ve got what I wanted, my American
passport. You have no money. You have nothing else I want. I am
going to Germany. I will marry a cousin while I am there. Then I
will go back to Kabul and live with my father. He promises to give
me anything I want.’
    ‘Duran, you said you so hated your father
that you were going to change your name,’ I reminded him.
    He smiled his menacing smile. ‘Oh yes, I hate
him. But he taught me how to be a good player.’
    My heart was breaking. But I couldn’t stop
him. He was a grown man and he had made his choice. When Khalid
heard about the threats he had made against my life, he was
horrified and told me I must let Duran go.
    He quickly booked my son on a flight to
Frankfurt, Germany. He was returning to his father. Khalid and I
accompanied him to the airport, still pretending that all would be
well, after all.
    Despite everything, I still loved my poor
disturbed son with a mother’s bottomless love. As I wept at the
gate, and Duran started to walk away to board the plane, he looked
back at me with his dead eyes and empty smile. ‘You are so naive,’
he said pitilessly. ‘See how easily we fooled you.’
    And with that, my son was finally and forever
gone.
     

Epilogue
    Shortly after my son boarded the flight and
left Saudi Arabia for ever, my innocent younger son confided that
his older brother had tried to convince him to do something really
bad. The act was so terrible, he said, that he would not tell us
the details, much as we pleaded with him. As happy as Little Duran
had been to welcome his big brother into his life, he was now
relieved that Big Duran had left. His big brother has turned into
the bogeyman. He had tried to strangle him to death. His big
brother had plotted dark deeds against his mother. From the day Big
Duran left our home, traumatized Little Duran never again mentioned
his name.
    There was more bad news. Just when Farid was
having great success bringing the family’s businesses in
Afghanistan back to good order, his throat became sore and did not
heal. He became so weak that he left Kabul for Paris to seek a
doctor’s opinion. I was devastated to learn that