Read Online For the Love of a Son: One Afghan Woman's Quest for Her Stolen Child by Jean Sasson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jean Sasson
Tags: Islam, women in the middle east, islamic women, muslim women, islam and gender, losing a child, divorce, womens studies, gender studies, womens rights, women in afghanistan, stolen child, middle eastern women, middle eastern memoir, islam and divorce
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relax a moment, Rahim excitedly
shouted, ‘There! There! Look on the top step. There she is.’
My father exhaled in irritation, then leaned
forward to take a hurried look at the woman Rahim was pointing out.
My father blinked, then squinted. First he noticed that the woman
was dressed in a chic green coat, an unusual garment for any woman
living in Afghanistan. Then he observed that the woman was tall and
thin. Then he noticed the woman’s shapely legs. They were exposed
from the knees down, perfect legs with delicate ankles. The woman
was so fashionable that she was wearing silk stockings and high
heels. This was highly unusual in a country where women’s bodies
were more often cloaked by the burqa. As the woman moved closer, my
father was able to see her face, for she did not slip on a veil
until she actually left the school grounds. She was beautiful, with
light skin and extremely dark eyes that set off her shimmering
brown hair.
Suddenly one look was not enough.
My father caught his breath, terrified to
find himself mesmerized by the woman on the steps. She was having a
conversation with another female teacher, and laughter rang out
between the two women. The beauty had a nice sense of humor too, he
thought to himself.
My father was a man who had been subjected to
little happiness, and much sorrow. He believed he had seen it all
but suddenly he was a man renewed, startled by the level of
attraction he was experiencing for a woman he had never met. He did
not believe in love at first sight because his education and
sophistication barred such ideas. Yet he was fighting the greatest
urge to walk straight up to Rahim’s cousin. He had never wanted
anything more in his life. He yearned to look full into her face,
to find out her thoughts on everything.
My father was a worldly man who had met and
romanced a number of women during the years he lived in Europe. But
he was no longer in Europe. He was no longer living in a relaxed
society where men and women socialized easily. In Afghanistan a
casual meeting with the beautiful schoolteacher would create a
scandal, possibly causing men of her family to seek violent
retribution.
Frustration rippled throughout him. He didn’t
know what to do.
He realized he was considered a catch in
Afghanistan, in a position to have almost any woman from any good
Pashtun family. Now, he wanted a woman impossible to have.
That woman was Sharifa Hassen. She was from a
wealthy family held in high regard in Kabul. In fact, her father
held influence with the royal family, and had been at one time a
top advisor to the former king. Her family appeared modern and
happy compared to my father’s conservative family. She was an
unusually ambitious girl. She had been one of the first women to
enroll in medical school, although she had switched her major to
education. After graduation, she postponed marriage to assume a
position teaching history and geography at the prestigious Malalai
High School, built specially for girls in the early 1920s with
French cooperation. And that is where my father first saw my
mother.
‘Arrange the marriage,’ my father choked.
Although jubilant to be proven right, Rahim
said nothing as the two men drove away from the school grounds.
During the long drive back to the galah, my
father experienced a roller-coaster of emotions, exhilaration and
terror. He was energized because he had made up his mind that he
would marry Sharifa Hassen. He was petrified because he knew his
uncompromising brother would ruthlessly fight against a union
linking the Pashtun Khail family with an educated Tajiki woman, an
unthinkable combination in Shair’s bigoted mind. In fact, there was
a good chance Shair Khan would murder his brother to avoid such a
scandal.
Over the next few weeks my father visited
Sharifa’s father and brothers, although he didn’t ask for her hand
in marriage. He was impressed by the Hassen men, finding them
intelligent and thoughtful. They were men whom he felt
shouted, ‘There! There! Look on the top step. There she is.’
My father exhaled in irritation, then leaned
forward to take a hurried look at the woman Rahim was pointing out.
My father blinked, then squinted. First he noticed that the woman
was dressed in a chic green coat, an unusual garment for any woman
living in Afghanistan. Then he observed that the woman was tall and
thin. Then he noticed the woman’s shapely legs. They were exposed
from the knees down, perfect legs with delicate ankles. The woman
was so fashionable that she was wearing silk stockings and high
heels. This was highly unusual in a country where women’s bodies
were more often cloaked by the burqa. As the woman moved closer, my
father was able to see her face, for she did not slip on a veil
until she actually left the school grounds. She was beautiful, with
light skin and extremely dark eyes that set off her shimmering
brown hair.
Suddenly one look was not enough.
My father caught his breath, terrified to
find himself mesmerized by the woman on the steps. She was having a
conversation with another female teacher, and laughter rang out
between the two women. The beauty had a nice sense of humor too, he
thought to himself.
My father was a man who had been subjected to
little happiness, and much sorrow. He believed he had seen it all
but suddenly he was a man renewed, startled by the level of
attraction he was experiencing for a woman he had never met. He did
not believe in love at first sight because his education and
sophistication barred such ideas. Yet he was fighting the greatest
urge to walk straight up to Rahim’s cousin. He had never wanted
anything more in his life. He yearned to look full into her face,
to find out her thoughts on everything.
My father was a worldly man who had met and
romanced a number of women during the years he lived in Europe. But
he was no longer in Europe. He was no longer living in a relaxed
society where men and women socialized easily. In Afghanistan a
casual meeting with the beautiful schoolteacher would create a
scandal, possibly causing men of her family to seek violent
retribution.
Frustration rippled throughout him. He didn’t
know what to do.
He realized he was considered a catch in
Afghanistan, in a position to have almost any woman from any good
Pashtun family. Now, he wanted a woman impossible to have.
That woman was Sharifa Hassen. She was from a
wealthy family held in high regard in Kabul. In fact, her father
held influence with the royal family, and had been at one time a
top advisor to the former king. Her family appeared modern and
happy compared to my father’s conservative family. She was an
unusually ambitious girl. She had been one of the first women to
enroll in medical school, although she had switched her major to
education. After graduation, she postponed marriage to assume a
position teaching history and geography at the prestigious Malalai
High School, built specially for girls in the early 1920s with
French cooperation. And that is where my father first saw my
mother.
‘Arrange the marriage,’ my father choked.
Although jubilant to be proven right, Rahim
said nothing as the two men drove away from the school grounds.
During the long drive back to the galah, my
father experienced a roller-coaster of emotions, exhilaration and
terror. He was energized because he had made up his mind that he
would marry Sharifa Hassen. He was petrified because he knew his
uncompromising brother would ruthlessly fight against a union
linking the Pashtun Khail family with an educated Tajiki woman, an
unthinkable combination in Shair’s bigoted mind. In fact, there was
a good chance Shair Khan would murder his brother to avoid such a
scandal.
Over the next few weeks my father visited
Sharifa’s father and brothers, although he didn’t ask for her hand
in marriage. He was impressed by the Hassen men, finding them
intelligent and thoughtful. They were men whom he felt
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