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

heroines/heroes live, I'd like to add the fact I've never
written about any heroine or hero who did not first meet, or at
least speak with my publisher(s) and literary agent(s), and this
goes for Princess Sultana, Mayada, Joanna, Omar and Najwa Bin
Laden, and Maryam.  Publishers routinely speak with, or
meet, all the subjects of my books.
    My publisher fell in love with the very
beautiful and dramatic Maryam, agreeing that her story was one
that should be told.
    Given a green light, I notified Maryam and
Alison, who were were estatic.  I saw that Alison's joy
matched Maryam's excitement.  I knew that Maryam was lucky to
have such a staunch friend.
    This is a book that I would have
never written had Paul Hams not met Alison MacColl. I am
very pleased and happy to thank Paul and Alison for their role
in bringing this very important story to my attention.
    Maryam feels exactly the same. 
    Thank you Paul!  Thank you Alison!
     

Author’s
Note
    The heart of evil beats in Afghanistan. When
men hold every advantage, neither wealth, nor beauty, nor
intelligence, nor education, nor strength, nor family can compete
with gender. Women have only prayer and hope as allies. Whether the
men in their lives choose to marry them off to an old man, take
away their children or even murder them, women live with the
knowledge that there will be no rescue. Female liberation is not in
the Afghan culture.
    This is the story of Maryam Khail, a
beautiful Afghan woman born into one of the most influential
families in Afghanistan, a family of wealth and power. Despite her
beauty, her education and her strength, the evil that lurks in
every home in Afghanistan finally caught up with Maryam.
    This is Maryam’s story. Pray that her story
does not become yours.
    Jean
Sasson

    On holiday with family
in Afghanistan. Maryam is sitting on the truck, in her customary
garb.
     

Prologue
    In Afghanistan girls can dream, but only the
dreams of boys come true. Boys own the world they live in, while
girls are basically servants, compelled to please the men in their
families. Although Afghan boys are supposed to be tough towards
females, my heart plunged in pity as I observed little girls shyly
making their way into the Kabul Share-i-Now school to begin their
first day of kindergarten.
    But I straightened my shoulders, puffed out
my chest and tugged at my mother’s hand, pulling her along as I
walked smugly past the timid creatures fearfully huddled near their
older sisters or mothers.
    I felt the importance of the moment, for
everything I was wearing was crisp and new, from my collared white
shirt to my grey shorts and even my black loafers. I glanced down
to double-check that the dust of Kabul had not ruined their shine,
so glossy I could nearly see my reflection. I was expensively
dressed, for families in Afghanistan will spend their last pul to
provide their sons with the best, although such sacrifices were not
necessary in our home, for we were financially comfortable.
    The year was 1966 and I was five years old.
Afghan boys and girls were segregated at puberty but when they were
younger they were permitted to associate. Thus I would be in the
same classroom as girls my age although, as a boy, I would be
considered more important.
    We filed into the classroom and my mother and
I selected a small desk and chair in the area where all the boys
were congregating. My mother leaned forward to brush my cheek with
her lips, but I pulled away, feeling all grown up, scorning public
displays. My mother caressed my head, her hands fingering my newly
shaved head, a good fashion for a young boy. She gave me one last
poignant look before she reluctantly turned and left her only son,
Yousef Agha Khail. That was the happiest moment of my young life,
for I knew that I was on my way to becoming a man, something I had
always yearned to be.
    I glanced around the room. Girls were
gathering on one side and boys on the other. Unaccustomed to being
without their mothers, the little girls looked paralysed by
anxiety, their small heads bowed, while the boys were sitting up
straight with self-belief. I glanced back at my mother lingering in
the doorway and gave her a quick, self-possessed nod.
    During those first months of kindergarten I
remember playing, assuming my position as the boldest of the boys
and working hard on my lessons, for much was expected of male
children. Daily school life was basically repetitive, until one
dreadful day when my old nanny, whom we