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I repeat the words: “There is one God, Allah, and Mohammed was his prophet.” I am now a Muslim — at least in my mother-in-law’s eyes — but that still isn’t enough for her. She calls me “Yahud” or “Jew.” When I complain to my husband, he dismisses me as being dramatic. Looking both ways, I walk out feeling like a criminal. “Is this imprisonment meant to tame me, break me, teach me to accept my fate as an Afghan woman?

I board a bus and notice that all the other women are at the back of the bus wearing burqas. I want to go home.” Abdul-Kareem is fed up with my unhappiness. “Had I known something like this could ever happen, had I known that we would have to live with his mother and brothers, I would never have come here.” I attempt a second escape to the American embassy. Without a US passport, I no longer have any rights as an American.

I try twice more to escape — one with a return to the American embassy and another with the help of a friendly German expat.

But before I can set any plans in action, I fall deathly ill.

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.

Perhaps he never wanted a Jewish American daughter-in-law at all. And when I finally land on American soil, I literally kiss the ground.My family agrees, but only if I am closely guarded. I send word through a servant that I would like to see him.The doctor, however, manages to get me alone for a brief moment and tells me that I must return to the States for treatment. The next thing I remember is someone tugging at my IV line. I call out and am rescued by a sister-in-law, who sits with me through the night. He arrives and almost immediately says: “I think it will be best if you leave with our approval on an Afghan passport, which I have obtained for you. My husband grows incensed and begins to hit me and call me names. Even when I board the first plane out, he still believes that as a dutiful wife I will one day return to him.Because I see the burqa on the streets of Paris and New York and feel that Afghanistan has followed me back to America.I call myself a feminist — but not just any feminist.I’ve never told this story in detail before, but felt that I must now.