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There I received an education — an expensive, almost deadly one — but a valuable one, too.I understand firsthand how deep-seated the hatred of women is in that culture.I am unprepared for my first-ever Muslim prayer service. As the excitement over our arrival wears off, so does my special treatment. Two weeks into my confinement and I have only left the compound twice — both times with a calvary of people guarding and watching. One day, I decide to sunbathe on the private terrace that adjoins my bedroom. Then I hear a loud commotion that sounds like men yelling at each other. You have managed to upset all of Kabul,” my husband says. I discover that mother-in-law has instructed the servants to stop boiling my drinking water.Suddenly, all the men drop to the floor on all fours, prostrating themselves. He explains that a group of workmen a quarter-mile away caught sight of a “naked woman” and could not concentrate on work. Because the sewage system consists of open irrigation ditches that are used as public bathrooms and for drinking water, I contract dysentery. She gives me prayer rugs and prayer beads and urges me to convert to Islam.La version Flash comprend toutes les fonctionnalités et est optimisée.Nous recommandons que tous nos utilisateurs optent pour la version Flash du chat.“Our food isn’t good enough for her — she eats from cans,” she says.I am her captive, her prisoner; she, my jailer, might treat me more decently if I find ways to please her.

I tell my husband about his mother’s attempt on my life. But he now realizes that if I survive this disease, I will leave him. That night, a he climbs into my bed when I am feverish and sick and forces himself on me. He is trying to impregnate me because if I am carrying his child, I will not be allowed to leave. You have been granted a six-month visa for reasons of health.” He must have decided that he did not want a sick — or dead — American daughter-in-law who was trying to flee on his hands. When the plane takes off, I am filled with more fierce joy than my body can contain.My dad worked door-to-door selling soda and seltzer. My husband’s father owns a compound comprised of numerous two-story European-style houses where the various families sleep with patios, expensive Afghan wool carpeting, indoor gardens, and verandas. Because of my foreign stomach, the foods — kebabs, rice dishes, yogurts, nuts — are baked with Crisco instead of ghee, an evil-smelling, rancid, clarified butter that is loved by locals but wreaks havoc on a non-native’s stomach.I am only 20, and I am now a member of this household, which consists of one patriarch, three wives, 21 children (who range in age from infancy to their 30s), two grandchildren, at least one son-in-law, one daughter-in-law and an unknown number of servants and relatives. The smell of ghee alone can make you throw up if you’re unused to it. He speaks Dari (even though I cannot) and leaves me with the other women. And I will spend every morning and afternoon that follows alone with my mother-in-law and female relatives. Secretly I stow away canned goods that I indulge on in the brief moments that I’m left alone.A delegation had descended upon our house to demand that all women, especially I, be properly dressed. “Please, please just come in and put something on,” he says. By tonight, they’ll be telling their friends we are running a brothel.” I do as I’m told. Perhaps she thinks I am already “Afghan enough” to withstand any and all germs. If I don’t, I think, will she continue her campaign to sicken and kill me?Later I write in my diary: “I have no freedom at all. The next day she barges into my room with a servant and confiscates my precious hoard of canned goods.

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