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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.
    But a few years passed and there was no
further mention of marriage. It was 1922 and the Amir was calling
out for Afghan men to devote themselves to civic duty, telling
educated families that their college-age sons would be sent abroad
for education. Young Afghan men would have the chance to look upon
the world outside our little corner and create a future movement
for change. Although our country was beginning to stir, inching
forward into modernity, everything remained archaic at the galah, a
fact Grandmother was reminded of when Shair tried to kill her only
son, my father.
    Shair had an iron-clad rule that to show
respect my father must remove his hat any time he greeted him. One
day my young father forgot he was wearing his hat and ran outside
to greet his brother. The sight of that forbidden hat drove Shair
into one of his famous rages and he ordered his horse to charge and
trample on my father. My tiny father covered his head with his
hands and waited for the inevitable blows from the horse’s
hooves.
    But that horse had a special affection for my
father. It danced on its hind legs, prancing with front legs in the
air, refusing to trample the young boy. As soon as he recovered his
wits, my father saw his chance to escape and ran as fast as he
could, finding a corner to hide away until Shair forgot his
anger.
    In 1923, a few months after this incident,
Shair ruled that my father would be sent away to a military
boarding school. My grandmother was devastated – her small son was
only six years old, much too young for military training. Shair
brushed her off, saying, ‘Your son needs to be made into a man.’
The parting was quick, for Mayana was informed only at the last
moment. And so she watched helplessly as her young son’s tiny
figure was set upon a horse and taken from the galah.
    Although the military school was only ten or
so miles away from the galah, it was a long journey on horseback on
Afghanistan’s bumpy roads. While Ajab was allowed to visit home on
occasion, he was kept busy by his older brother and only rarely saw
his mother. My father’s only joy at being away from the galah was
the relief from his brother’s cruelty. However, this too soon came
to an end when Shair was appointed the dean of the military school.
There would be no escape from his cruel brother.
    *
    In 1929, the year my father was twelve years
old, Afghanistan was experiencing great upheaval. Amir Amanullah
had grown into a progressive leader and passed reforms calling for
the education of women, the introduction of European dress and the
establishment of business ventures with outside firms. This created
turmoil amongst the tribes who loathed any suggestion of change.
Afghan clerics and tribal leaders were particularly incensed to
discover that Amanullah’s only wife and queen had appeared unveiled
during a recent trip to Europe. Before the year ended the Amir was
forced to issue proclamations cancelling his reforms, but he had
lost the support of the clerics