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“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.After days of struggling — and falling into a coma—a local doctor is called.He diagnoses me with hepatitis, explaining there’s nothing more he can do. I fear that if I die here I will be buried in a Muslim cemetery, forever forgotten.
In her 14th book, “An American Bride in Kabul” (Palgrave Macmillan) out early next month, she shares for the first time the story of the five months she spent, as a young bride, held prisoner in a Afghan household. I did not enter the kingdom as a diplomat, soldier, teacher, journalist or foreign aid worker.
But before I can set any plans in action, I fall deathly ill.
My temperature climbs to 105 degrees, but I receive no sympathy from my family.
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.