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

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 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