FOR THE LOVE OF A SON
Jean Sasson
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Published by:
Jean Sasson at Smashwords
Copyright (c) 2011 by Jean Sasson
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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Jean Sasson is the sharp-eyed and compassionate chronicler of women’s lives in the Muslim world. Author of the worldwide bestsellers Princess, Daughters of Arabia, Desert Royal, Mayada: Daughter of Iraq, Love in a Torn Land and Growing up Bin Laden, she lived in Saudi Arabia for twelve years, and has travelled throughout the Middle East for thirty years. She currently makes her home in the southern United States.
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For more information on Jean Sasson and her books, see her website at www.jeansasson.com
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Praise for Jean Sasson’s books:
“A fascinating narrative . . . devastating”
Robert Harris, Sunday Times
“Unforgettable in content, fascinating in detail . . .a book to move you to tears”
Fay Weldon
“The startling truth behind the veiled lives . . . frank and vivid”
Sunday Express
“Anyone with the slightest interest in human rights will find this book heart-wrenching”
Betty Mahmoody, bestselling author of Not Without My Daughter
“Must-reading for anyone interested in human rights”
USA Today
“Absolutely riveting and profoundly sad”
People
“Shocking, candid . . . sad, sobering and compassionate”
San Francisco Chronicle
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ALSO BY JEAN SASSON
NON-FICTION
The Rape of Kuwait
Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia
Princess Sultana’s Daughters (Daughters of Arabia)
Princess Sultana’s Circle (Desert Royal)
Mayada, Daughter of Iraq
Love in a Torn Land: One Woman’s Daring Escape from Saddam’s Poison Gas Attacks On the Kurdish People of Iraq
Growing up Bin Laden: Osama’s Wife and Son Take Us Inside Their Secret World
HISTORICAL FICTION
Ester’s Child
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For more information on Jean Sasson and her books, see her website at:
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Maryam with her father and sister Nadia in Kabul Park
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(c) 2010 by The Sasson Corporation.
All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of The Sasson Corporation.
Map of Afghanistan by Evan T. White
Jean Sasson has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a non-fictional account based on the life, experiences and recollections of the heroine as told to the author. In some limited cases names of people, places, dates, sequences or details of events have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The heroine has stated to the author that, except in such minor respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this book are true.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
*
From our heroine Maryam Khail
These memories of Afghanistan are dedicated to three people
who loved Afghanistan with all their hearts:
To my beloved parents, and to Farid, my “big brother,”
I miss you every day of my life.
*
From author Jean Sasson
For every woman in Afghanistan who silently suffers
unimaginable abuse at the hands of the men who
should love and respect her.
I’m sure these women wonder if anyone in the world cares.
I care.
*
A Special Thank You to Paul Hams and Alison MacColl
There's are little stories attached to all important events in our lives. A few years ago while on book tour in London, I was fortunate to meet a unique man named Paul Hams. Paul is a loving husband to Claire and a devoted father to sons Robert and Richard and a talented chef who also owns a London black cab. Paul is a very skilled driver who escorts favored customers around London and other areas in the UK.
Paul and I hit it off immediately. He's an excellent driver who makes life in London much easier for an out-of-towner like myself. Paul and I had some fun days as he was delivering me to various business meetings. He's an interesting man with a wonderful family and I adored hearing about Claire and the boys. When I had a little free time, Paul transported me to Harrods and other fun shopping spots, accompaning me inside the stores to keep me company while volunteering to help me carry bags. Paul and I had a great time and I came to appreciate what a fine young man he is. Later he took me to his warm and inviting home to meet the very lovely Claire, like her husband, who made me feel a member of the family.
A solid friendship was borne and from that time on I knew I'd never call on anyone but Paul when I was lucky enough to be in London, one of my favorite cities in the world.
Paul and I kept in email touch, exchanging news about our families. A year or so later, Paul sent an email saying he had met a woman named Alison MacColl while in holidaying in Spain. This woman was talking about the books I had written, telling Paul that she had a wonderful friend, Maryam Totakhail, who grew up in Afghanistan. According to Alison, Maryam's story was very compelling. She had previously written her story and had even hired an editor to clean it up; yet the book failed to interest publishers. Alison said that it was a great disappointment to all that the book remained unpublished. Alison had the idea that I would be the perfect writer to make Maryam's dream come true. That's when Paul told an astonished Allison that he and I were friends. Allison asked how she might contact me, to tell me about Maryam's compelling life and to ask if I might consider writing her story. Paul, always protective of my privacy, said that he would give me a call to see what I thought of the idea.
I'm lucky enough to receive five to ten requests each month from women who have lived through dramatic times, stories that I believe the world should know. Sadly, I can only write one book every year or so; therefore, I must turn down most requests. Also, once I have written a story that takes place in a specific country, I rarely write another story set in that same land since I take care to write about the historical background of each heroine's homeland. At that time Paul contacted me, I had written about Princess Sultana of Saudi Arabia, Mayada of Iraq and Joanna of Iraqi Kurdistan and was working on the story of Najwa and Omar Binladen, which was set in various countries. For years I have wanted to write stories set in Lebanon, Afghanistan, Yemen, Pakistan, India and Thailand, but thus far the moon and stars had not come together for me to write a book with those countries as a backdrop.
Trusting Paul's judgment completely, after he told me about Alison's enthusiasm for her friend's dramatic story, I said that he should feel free to pass along my private email address.
Soon I heard from Alison when she wrote a heartfelt letter about Maryam. Alison was a sincere friend of Maryam's wanting nothing more than to jump start the project that as to that time, remained unsuccessful. After speaking to Alison, I agreed to speak with Maryam. It's important for me to get to know the subjects I write about, to deeply feel their intense emotions. Unfortunately, there are times when there is no heart-to-heart connection and I must turn away from a promising book project. Therefore, until I met Maryam, I had no way of knowing if her story would be my next project. Maryam and I spoke several times and I heard her story from her own lips, as I did not want to read the story previously written about her. Soon I felt connected to Maryam and her family life, asking her to fly to London to meet with my publisher there, plus to travel on to the USA and meet with my literary agent in New York. For those who question whether my 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 all called Muma, thoughtlessly dressed me in a pair of shorts that were difficult to unfasten.
I can forgive her now for that critical mistake, because Nanny Muma was so old that her hair had turned as white as the mountain snow, although she sometimes colored it with henna. She was from Pansher, an area of Afghanistan where women are rumored to produce more milk than they need for their babies. For that reason, many educated families hired Pansheri women as wet nurses. Muma had been a wet nurse for my mother’s family for many years. When my mother was pregnant for the first time, my grandmother Hassen sent Muma to my mother to care for her. Once my sister Nadia was born it quickly became apparent that Muma’s milk had long since run dry, but my mother kept the faithful nurse by her side all the same.
Later that morning when I felt the urge to answer nature’s call, I found my small fingers could not release the buckles. The attendant assigned to the boys’ toilets offered to assist me, but I had a secret I did not wish to reveal so I brushed him away. But soon I became desperate, for I was in danger of urinating in my clothes. My customary confidence melted away, replaced by sobs of alarm. Just then the attendant grabbed my hand and returned me to my teacher in the classroom. When my teacher leaned down to help, I whipped away, trying to escape her prying hands.
My extreme distress increased the volume of my cries, so my bewildered teacher sent the attendant to locate my older sister, Nadia. Nadia rushed into the room and unbuckled the waistband of my shorts. My sister was not thinking clearly, because instead of leaving it there, she pulled down my shorts in front of the whole class.
Everyone gasped.
I looked down, struggling for breath. My secret was exposed. Yousef Khail was not a boy! Yousef Khail was a girl!
In horror, I yanked up my shorts and ran from the room and into the boys’ toilets, where I finally relieved myself. Afterwards I lurked in the hallway of the school, too embarrassed to face my teacher or my classmates, but I was soon told to return to my classroom. When I entered, my classmates stared openly, their faces twisted in puzzlement. I overheard some of them sniggering so I hurried to my seat and sat with my head bowed, suddenly resembling the little girls I had so scorned. In a matter of moments, I had gone from being a popular boy to a lowly girl.
My teacher was kind and didn’t say a word about the fact that 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 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 head. I collected toy cars, and over the years I became quite skilled at flying kites, a favourite hobby for Afghan boys, and I rollerskated and pedalled boys’ bikes. I felt I was as good as any boy.
I was so good at hiding my sex that soon almost everyone in the neighbourhood and in my family appeared to forget I was not what I pretended to be. I foolishly thought I could carry on the charade but reality was quick and painful when my sister unthinkingly exposed my secret. School had become the biggest part of my small world, and never again would I be accepted as a boy in that very important arena outside my home and neighbourhood.
A short while before, my parents had left Afghanistan to seek medical treatment for my mother. I could not stop worrying about my mother and now the day’s events made me miss my parents more. My parents were wonderfully advanced, so different from most other Afghan adults, and I longed for a miraculous intervention from them. Both were highly educated and adept at accepting new ideas, and they doted on me, rarely failing to support their youngest child’s eccentric behavior. I believed my parents could protect me from my fate, but of course I was too young to realize the full implications of being a woman in Afghanistan. What I was to learn was that even the queen could be murdered on a whim by her king husband or even by her father, brother or a cousin. Should such a thing happen, no one would stand up to defend her. They would accept any flimsy explanation given out by her family, because if a man feels he must murder a female member of his family, everyone will assume the woman was to blame. The only question they would ask is: ‘What sin did she commit to cause her poor male relatives to have to kill her?’
My pace picked up when I spotted the outlines of our home. I wanted nothing more than to seek refuge in a small corner.
I didn’t know it at the time but we lived in the most plush area of Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan. It is an ancient city, over three thousand years old, situated in the dramatic Hindu Kush mountains, straddling the Kabul river. In my youth it was the economic and cultural heart of north-eastern Afghanistan. Kabul was a beautiful city in those days, and every schoolchild learned by heart poems praising its beauty, the most popular being ‘Kabul’, by the Persian poet Saibi Tabrizi.
Kabul
The beautiful city of Kabul wears a rugged mountain skirt,
Even the rose is jealous of its lash-like thorns.
The dust of Kabul’s blowing soil smarts lightly in my eyes.
But I love Kabul, for knowledge and love come from her dust.
I sing bright praises to her sparkling water,
colorful flowers and the beauty of her trees.
Men choose Kabul over Paradise, for her mountains
bring them near to heaven’s delights.
Every street in Kabul fascinates the eye.
In the bazaars, Egypt’s caravans pass through the winding streets.
Hundreds of lovely suns hide behind her walls.
No one can count the moons on her rooftops.
Kabul’s morning’s laugh is as gay as flowers,
while her dark nights shine like beautiful hair.
Kabul’s tuneful nightingales sing with flame in their notes.
Fiery songs like burning leaves fall from their throats.
Even Paradise is jealous of Kabul.
Everyone found Kabul splendid in those days, never imaging the horrific ruinous wars lurking in my country’s dark future that would take nearly every building in the city down to dust.
Although we lived in a wealthy neighbourhood, our family home was not elaborate – it was a modest, one-story building. There was a small living room, a second family room and a tiny but adequate kitchen. The largest room in the house was my parents’ bedroom, so spacious that four beds were positioned there. Nadia and I slept in two American standard-sized beds located in one corner while our parents’ larger beds were in the back of the room. My father’s bed was the nicest of the four, distinctive with solid expensive wood, a gift from a British general who once lived in Afghanistan. There was also an ancient wooden side table beside my father’s bed, ornately carved, a present from a maharaja of India. Wood has always been prized in my country because trees are quite scarce in most of Afghanistan.
I remember how I enjoyed the pleasure of slipping into my mother’s bed to sleep for a few hours and then, after becoming restless, leaving her bed to climb into my father’s bed for a few extra hours of sleep. Those were such innocent, sweet times. There was a second tiny bedroom and that is where Grandmother Mayana slept, but she was a sad loner and we saw less of her than we should have.
Just as Muma and I were about to enter the front garden, I caught a glimpse of my grandmother walking around, her head bowed, an old woman deep in thought. I slowed down and seized Muma’s hand and pulled back. Grandmother Mayana was as sweet as sugar, yet she was the last person I wanted to see on that day because she had the most depressing aura of anyone I had ever known. Father once said that all the grief she had suffered over her lifetime had moulded her face into a mask of eternal sadness.
I kept a tortoise’s pace, hoping she would disappear into her small room, her little haven, a place she rarely left. At that moment she glanced up and saw me, but her eyes remained without expression and her lips failed to spread in a smile. But then I didn’t smile at her either. After my awful day I was in no mood to be reminded that her past might be my future.
Family legend claimed that Grandmother Mayana had been one of the most beautiful girls in the country. But as with any Afghan woman, even celebrated beauty could not save her from the evil lurking in Afghanistan.
Chapter I
There was a time when Grandmother’s girlish dreams held great promise. Although her family was deprived when it came to worldly goods, even the poor of Afghanistan dream of neat huts, a shoulder of lamb to serve at occasional feasts and a satisfactory marriage followed by many sons.
Mayana’s father was a poor farmer from Sayid Karam, a district in the Paktia province, an area sixty miles south of Kabul inhabited by members of the Khail tribe. Largely mountainous and lacking trees and most other greenery, it suffers from a particularly dry climate and it is difficult for any farmer to grow enough produce to support his family.
Despite the harsh climate, which multiplied demand on a farmer’s labors, Mayana’s father was not dissatisfied, for he had a wife who worked hard and children he held dear. The family was known to breed handsome sons and attractive daughters, but none was more alluring than the farmer’s daughter Mayana. She was so beautiful that even other women noticed her appeal, whispering that Mayana Khail was exquisite, with a dimpled mouth, lips sensually full and large dark eyes that danced.
Although birth records were not kept on female children, the family believes that Grandmother Mayana was born around 1897, at a time when Afghanistan’s affairs were relatively quiet. The Afghanistan of Grandmother’s youth was one of nearly total isolation, created both by rulers who distrusted their neighbours and the inaccessibility of the country due to the lofty mountains encircling the entire land. Afghanistan was then a country of approximately six million citizens composed mainly of fanatic tribes, warring with each other or with any foreigner foolish enough to cross its borders. The British had tried to occupy Afghanistan, as it was the shock absorber between their interests in the area and Russia, but defeat and retreat had left scattered British bones bleaching white in the hot Afghan sun.
‘Keep Out’ was the signal at every border crossing, guarded by soldiers. Stone watchtowers were scattered along the ancient caravan trails, the same trails that had been used by Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan. There were no railways or telegraph lines. Any products coming in or going out were loaded on to pack animals, caravans consisting of donkeys, horses, camels and even elephants.
Cruelty was part of the culture, with state-sanctioned punishments ranging from prisoners being fired from cannons, beheadings by sabre, live burials, intentional blinding or stoning. Perhaps the most merciless punishment came in the form of starvation, when thieves were locked into metal cages and raised high above the city centres on metal poles so their friends couldn’t pass them poison or food. An agonizing death came from lack of water and food, with the lucky ones dying more quickly from either heatstroke or hypothermia, depending on the time of year.
A monarch ruled with undisputed authority, but the royals were just as brutal to each other as they were to their subjects. Many royal heirs were deliberately blinded, because no man with a physical disability may hold a place of honour in Afghanistan.
Grandmother would have been around fifteen or sixteen years old in 1913. The Amir of Afghanistan was having a lot of trouble with outlaws, warrior bands carrying out raids across the north, escaping into the Khost valley. That was also the year a conspiracy against the Amir was discovered in Kabul. The conspirators were exposed and stoned or stabbed to death, so nothing came of the uprising. The land was abuzz with that news but Grandmother probably wouldn’t have noticed the upheaval because political matters were a subject solely limited to men. Her teenage sights would have been firmly on her upcoming marriage.
Grandmother’s beauty, rosy cheeks and bright eyes would have brought many suitors to the family door but her marriage had already been arranged at the time of her birth. She was destined to become the bride of her very gentle first cousin, the son of her father’s brother. Everyone was pleased with the arrangement – Afghan culture encourages marriages between cousins – but fate would intervene when Mayana’s exceptional beauty created a diverging path.
Government law backed by Afghan tribal culture ruled that women were forced to veil, although Grandmother’s family allowed the women to dart from one family home to the other without a face covering since the houses were nestled so close to each other. Nevertheless the women did dress with great modesty, covering their bodies with cloaks and draping their heads with scarves.
And so it came to pass that one day in 1913, when my grandmother stepped out of her father’s humble family home to walk to her auntie’s house, at the same moment Ahmed Khail Khan, the head of the Khail tribe, happened to pass by on his horse.
Mayana’s classic beauty struck Ahmed Khail with a passion so powerful he later claimed to have been rendered speechless. A man accustomed to having all his wishes granted, he decided instantly that he would make the village beauty his fourth wife. Ahmed Khail Khan had already been married six times, but on that particular day he had only three wives so there would be no need to divorce any of them in order to take a fourth. Not only was he the most powerful man in the Khail clan, he was a Pashtun Sunni Muslim, and four wives are allowed by our Muslim religion.
Although struck by great desire, Ahmed Khail kept his composure, saying nothing at the time but noting his surroundings so that he might send his emissary to arrange the marriage. The following day the Khan’s representative appeared at Mayana’s home, bearing many expensive gifts. The man presented the treasures to Mayana’s astonished father, and at the same time asked for his most beautiful daughter for Ahmed Khail, the leader of the Khail tribe.
Mayana’s father was an honorable man, and although he was surely tempted by the great wealth and prestige that would come to him and his family at such a connection, he refused the Khan’s offer. He softly replied, ‘Our home is most honored, but I cannot accept these fine gifts or the proposal of marriage. My daughter is soon to be married to my brother’s son. She was pledged to him at her birth.’
The emissary was struck dumb. Never had the powerful Ahmed Khail Khan been refused. The poor man squirmed, fearing he might forfeit his own life when he returned with rejected gifts rather than with the promise of a beautiful bride. He reluctantly departed and braced himself for what was to come. The bride Ahmed Khan so desired was promised to another.
As expected, the Khan flew into an uncontrollable rage. Everyone around him remained motionless, fearful to call attention to their presence. ‘Who is this poor farmer who dares refuse the head of his tribe?’ he demanded, flinging his arms about, shouting louder and louder. ‘Where can I find this undeserving groom who plans to claim such a beauty?’
While Mayana’s family carried on with their wedding plans, a grisly plan was already in motion. Mayana would never marry her betrothed, the only man she had ever considered as a possible husband and the father of her children.
Two days after the Khan’s emissary left their home a disappointed man, an expert horseman thundered by, tossing a large dilapidated burlap bag at the farmer’s door. Mayana’s father slashed the bag open before recoiling in horror. The mangled body of his dead nephew had been stuffed into the bag. Everyone understood that the ominous message must have come straight from the ruler of the Khail tribe: no one could refuse the Khan. The murder was a harsh reminder that the Khan held undisputed power over his tribe. In order to avoid any further bloodshed, the petrified family sent word to the Khan that their young daughter Mayana would arrive in a few days.
As usual, Ahmed Khail had his way.
*
And so it came to pass that my grandmother Mayana became a ‘prize bride’ like so many other beautiful Afghan women who are given to the man with the most influence and wealth.
My grandmother rarely discussed her youth or early married life with me. Although she showed me and my sister great affection, she was dolefully silent about her own life story, her stoic nature discouraging her inquisitive granddaughters’ curiosity. I longed to ask about her early life but I could never muster the courage to ask if she had felt affection for her ill-fated cousin, the man she had believed would be her husband, or if she mourned his violent death.
Silence reigned around those who knew my grandmother. I was ten or eleven years old before I knew anything substantial about her history. No one in my family dared to discuss her marriage openly, for who knew if word might hit the ear of the Khan, thus condemning them all. But as I grew older, my parents and others in the family would sometimes let slip small stories about the life Mayana had lived as the wife of Ahmed Khail. I remember weeping from stories so sad. At the sight of my tears, Grandmother would caution, ‘Do not speak of such depressing things in front of this child.’
But the family gossip continued.
I knew that any girl’s wedding should be a cause for celebration, but instead my grandmother was given to someone she did not know. The women of the family dressed a frightened Mayana in her wedding dress, then she was placed on the back of a gaily decorated horse, with ribbons of vivid colors woven into its mane and tail, and escorted to the grand home of the Khan, approximately six miles away.
While an impatient Ahmed Khan waited to claim his bride, his three existing wives were riddled with jealousy. Through household gossip they had discovered that their husband was overly excited about the exceptionally beautiful daughter of an ignorant peasant. They felt themselves superior to such a simple girl, but they weren’t the only ones who were infuriated. Ahmed Khan’s grown-up son Shair, the proclaimed heir of the Khail Khan title and fortune, was also tormented by the realization that a youthful bride brought with her the possibility of siblings, who would be rivals for his father’s wealth. Should the new bride present his father with a son, Shair would be expected to share his inheritance. And so it was that many aggrieved people were looking out, waiting to catch their first glimpse of the simple farmer’s uneducated daughter.
Six miles on a horse was a long journey on Afghanistan’s pitted dirt roads, but Mayana’s entire family made the excursion to the Khan’s home. Some family members were mourning, but others were determined to make the best of the situation. After all, one of their own would now belong to the most influential family in the district. Perhaps there would be some financial benefits for them all.
The tribal ruler’s home was in reality a self-contained fortified village. The fort, or galah, was purposefully isolated, located on high ground for safety from surprise military attacks. Rival tribesmen from adjacent provinces could pose a threat at any time. The galah was self-sufficient, encircled by nearly a thousand acres of grazing land, for a rich man like the Khan owned many horses, sheep and goats. There was also land reserved for his fields of corn, wheat and other produce.
On top of its hill, the galah had been built on a foundation of Afghanistan’s grey-shaded native stone. Above the stone, thick mortared bricks reached a height of more than fifty feet. Tall battle-ready parapets were constructed at each of the four corners. The fort’s windows were specifically built for observation and defense, with slits through which the warriors could fire their arrows or guns.
Coming from the home of a simple peasant, all the women in the bride’s party would have been intimidated at such a sight. They rarely travelled far from their homes and seldom if ever saw such displays of wealth and power as the massive fort the beautiful Mayana would now call her home.
A group of strong men were waiting to open the huge wooden gate to the galah. Once inside the gate, the wedding party arrived at the large central courtyard, which was enclosed by yet another protective wall. Tall apartments rose above the outer walls, specifically designed for the male guests who would never be allowed entrance into Ahmed Khail’s main inner dwelling, where his wives lived.
My grandmother and her female relatives were then escorted to the Khan’s private quarters. The Khan’s personal wing was built behind large windows, so he could watch the daily activities of those who worked for him. His wives and children lived in a separate, restricted wing, their quarters isolated and their windows covered with the traditional Islamic dressing of latticed wood. Fresh breezes would flow through the open trellis, allowing the wives and children to gaze out on the life they are not allowed to take part in, while thwarting curious strangers who wanted to peek into the interior.
House servants and some of the livestock were accommodated near the family section, as well as the galah’s main water supply, a deep well that provided clean water, something rare in Afghanistan unless one lived by a fast-flowing stream.
No one remembers exactly what happened next, but it is thought that the wedding was held almost as soon as Mayana entered the home of the Khan. The Khan was very traditional, so men and women were separated for the actual ceremony.
Grandmother Mayana would have met the Khan’s three senior wives at her wedding, women who felt their pride had been pricked by the inclusion of such an unsophisticated girl in their restricted circle. Although Mayana was reviled prior to her arrival, the hatred increased when her beauty was exposed. One look at Mayana’s lovely face told the older wives why their husband sought to add the young girl to his harem. Little could Mayana know that she had landed in the middle of such venomous resentment. She was accustomed to a degree of camaraderie between the women in her family. Only Ahmed Khail Khan looked forward to Mayana’s appearance, a man energized by lusts, dreaming of enjoying sexual pleasures with a young, beautiful, and obedient bride.
Hopelessly smitten by Mayana’s combination of beauty and sweetness, the Khan soon publicly acknowledged Mayana as his most favored wife. Although the Khan had never been the sort of man to concern himself with the feelings of his wives, he nurtured his young bride. And so their union was happy.
The Khan was so pleased with his young bride that when he heard that the jealousy of his three older wives was causing Mayana such misery, he paid his harem an angry visit. He warned them all that he would not tolerate their behavior. ‘If you are seeking punishment, then you will soon receive your reward,’ he threatened. ‘All living in my household are commanded to regard my wife Mayana as the lady of the galah. Grant her every wish.’ He stomped off, his fury expressed in every movement.
Knowing the Khan was not a man to make empty threats, the three wives attempted to suppress their jealousy and anger. But with each passing day, Ahmed Khail’s favoritism grew more pronounced, creating further bitterness, which only resulted in an even bigger volcano of hate against the new lady of the galah.
Obviously Ahmed Khail remained sexually drawn to his young wife, for she bore him three children, one after the other, within three years. These three children were daughters, named Peekai, Zerlasht and Noor. The fact Mayana had given birth to three daughters delighted the Khan’s jealous wives and older sons. In those days no one knew what science tells us now, namely that fathers are responsible for the sex of a child, so mothers bore the burden of blame. Those wives who did not bear sons were scorned and ridiculed. During this time, one of the older wives gave birth to a son, named Shahmast, adding to the older wives’ glee that Mayana alone was known as the ‘mother of daughters’, a terrible slur in a culture that only values male children.
In 1917, German agents began to foment unrest in Afghanistan in an attempt to entice Afghan’s ruler to join Germany’s cause against Russia during War World I. But the wise Amir remained stubbornly neutral in that conflict. In that same year my grandmother’s status was escalated when she, his most favoured wife, bore the Khan his long-awaited son. The child was my father, Ajab Khail. The servants and soldiers of the galah erupted in festive celebration. But congratulations from the Khan’s three older wives and heir Shair were muted.
For the first two years of my father’s life he flourished, for love was enthusiastically bestowed on him by his mother and father, three older sisters and the many servants. But Mayana’s joy would not last much longer.
For more years than Afghan people could remember, they had been harassed and buffeted by rebellions and wars. Rival factions often stirred internal strife that was fierce but generally brief. Other wars brought about by external forces created more chaos. That’s what happened in 1919 when new tensions led to a conflict with the British Empire. My father was two years old. The problems began when Afghanistan’s king Amir Habibullah, an astute reformer who had kept Afghanistan at peace for many years, was assassinated. Upon his death, his son Amir Amanullah succeeded to the throne. Less experienced than his father at forging good relations with powerful nations, the successor was soon embroiled in a petty quarrel with the British. The young king quickly turned to a military solution. With the end of the devastating Great War in Europe, he believed the British were so weakened that his forces would be strong enough to defeat British India.
An eager call to arms went through Afghanistan, and the Khan of the Khail tribe, Ahmed Khail, husband to Mayana and father to my father, gathered hundreds of his warriors around him. His heir, Shair, was a general in the Afghan military and headed his own fighting force. And so the leader and the heir of the Khail tribe both marched to war, leaving nervous women and servants behind.
Although the Afghan fighting force were ill equipped, they were tenacious warriors. On 3 May 1919, Afghan troops battled their way across the Indian border and occupied the village of Bagh.
The British responded with a greater force and fierce battles ensued. The well-equipped and well-trained British soldiers quickly gained the upper hand and drove the Afghan invasion from Indian territory. Airpower was a new and excellent asset, allowing the British to extend their reach beyond the border, even threatening the Amir’s own castle when they bombed near the capital, Kabul.
During a battle melee, my grandfather Ahmed Khail received a fatal wound when he was shot in his left eye. Tragically, his death did not come at the moment of the bullet’s entry into his brain. His passing was to be painfully slow. Shair sent his wounded father across the famous Khyber Pass for treatment by a British physician, who was living in what is today’s Pakistan, but the strenuous journey on the back of a horse only added to Grandfather’s anguish. He died on the way.
After Grandfather Khail drew his last breath, his men turned their horses to make a cheerless trek back to Paktia province, to the galah where his wives and children were devastated to learn of his death. Although the war was a tactical victory for the British, King Amanullah managed to negotiate the peace treaty so that at least the Afghans kept the right to conduct their own foreign affairs as a fully independent state.
This upheaval did not bode well for my family. Grandmother Mayana had enjoyed unexpected happiness with Ahmed Khail. His genuine affection for his youngest wife and their four children had been so conspicuous that it was offensive to his earlier families. Now that Shair was the head of the Khail tribe, my grandmother would be ruled by a stepson who had detested her from the first moment she had arrived at the galah. Her beauty could not save her now and neither could her former powerful position as the most favored wife of the Khan. She was helpless without her protector husband and all she could do now was pray, hoping for the best, for that is all a woman can do in Afghanistan.
Chapter II
My grandfather was an extremely wealthy man. Islamic law demands that when a father dies, his property is divided between his wives and children, with his sons receiving a double share. But only Shair had reached adulthood when his father died, and as such he was in charge of the birthrights of his younger siblings. Although by Sharia law wives should receive their portion at the time of their husband’s death, in Afghanistan men often ignore Islamic law when it comes to females, rarely allowing surviving widows and daughters to handle their own wealth. And so Shair seized control of his father’s wealth the moment he knew he was the head of the family. His wishes, decisions and commands became law for every person belonging to the Khail tribe.
My grandmother’s life and that of her four children changed immediately. Shair Khan elevated his own wives to the position his father’s wives had once held, and in their new positions, these women became insatiably greedy. Grandmother Mayana and her daughters were called before Shair Khan. He brusquely ordered them to deliver all their jewels and gold to him so he could drape them on the necks and arms of his own wives. But most unexpectedly and shockingly, he informed Grandmother, ‘You are now a servant. You will join the servants in their duties.’
In just a day my grandmother went from the lady of the galah to a lowly servant, washing and cooking vegetables, scrubbing floors, milking cows or whatever else her stepson and his wives ordered her to do. Menial tasks were maliciously piled upon her and Shair’s wives and children enjoyed the greatest amusement thinking up new humiliations for the woman formerly elevated above them all.
Although he was only a small child, even my father was not spared. He was ordered to forget play and told that he must earn his keep. Any time Shair left the galah, my father Ajab was to climb to the highest point of the stone tower to keep watch for his older brother’s return. He must stare at the road, watching for the dust from the horses’ hooves, and as soon as he saw it he was to run as fast as his little legs would take him down the stone stairway to the main gate. He was also in charge of collecting the Khan’s gun and hat.
The Khan was often away until very late in the day. My father was too young to stay awake until the early hours, so on that first night he fell into a deep sleep while on watch. He was startled awake when his brother Shair pulled him up by his arms and slapped his face. He warned him, ‘If you ever fall asleep again, Ajab, your punishment will be severe.’
After that, my father was terrified of drifting off to sleep again. As well as the threat posed by his older brother, there were other dangers for the young child. Afghanistan has a huge number of venomous snakes, scorpions and tarantulas, so he spent much of his young life looking out for those deadly creatures while trying not to fall asleep. Years later he told me how his great fear would cause him to talk to himself, or jump up and down, or even pinch his flesh between his little fingers, anything to keep him awake.
Shair’s next order was that the family had to move. The King of Afghanistan had recently presented Shair with a few hundred acres on the outskirts of Kabul. Shair built a much larger galah on this land. The basic design followed the model of his father’s old one, but the interior was much more modern and built to the standards of an extravagant palace, including every feature needed for daily life independent of any city or village. Although the new galah was undeniably luxurious, my grandmother and her children had lost the familiarity of the only home they knew. Sadness engulfed the entire family, yet there was worse to come when further restrictions were placed on Grandmother and her daughters.
Although the poor of Afghanistan learned to satisfy themselves with simple foods like coarse bread and a little fruit and vegetables, the wealthy were accustomed to delicious dishes of fowl, mutton, rice and special sweets. The Khail ruling family ate only the finest foods but Shair ordered that from now on my grandmother and her children were only allowed enough to keep them alive. They were permitted tea, but no sugar to put in their tea. They were allowed bread, but no butter or jam to spread on the bread. Grandmother’s hungry daughters pleaded for small chunks of cheese, anything to relieve the monotony of their bland diet, but their pleas were ignored. When Shair Khan heard of their hunger and cry for food, he told them, ‘Lick your fingers.’
My grandmother’s heart shattered when her hungry young daughters wept, pleading for something sweet. She dreaded that Shair would do something to separate her from her children and she knew she wouldn’t be able to bear being far away from them, unable to offer her love as comfort.
My grandmother was still in her twenties, a young woman who remained physically lovely, despite having given birth to four children and the recent traumas she had had to endure. Shair called her to appear before him and she shivered in fear at the anticipation of this meeting, for his loathing for her seemed to expand with each passing day. When she faced her stepson, his face was contorted with hatred. His voice full of spite, he announced, ‘Mayana, an old man far from our galah has offered a large sum for your dowry. You will be married soon.’
Grandmother Mayana felt faint. She understood what such a marriage would mean for her family. Cultural law demanded that her children remain under the control of Shair Khan if she remarried so she would disappear from the galah and never be allowed to see her daughters and son again. She would become the property of a man she did not know, forced to bear his children. Knowing that any protest would only serve to harden her stepson’s decision, she remained silent, staring at her feet as an obedient woman should. Finally she was dismissed.
After that summons, Mayana made a hard decision. She would choose a young death rather than endure the pain of having her children torn from her arms as she was given to another man, a man who by law was free to sexually abuse every part of her body, a man who could beat her daily, a man who would surely keep her away from her children. She decided that if she was going to be wrenched from her children’s lives, she preferred a quiet grave to a living hell. A favourite servant arranged for Grandmother to acquire arsenic, putting just enough in a small snuffbox so that, if needed, she could commit a quick suicide.