Afghani dating sites interviews with dating gurus cory skyy

Because I hear some westerners preach the tortured cultural relativism that excuses the mistreatment of women in the name of Islam.

Because I see the burqa on the streets of Paris and New York and feel that Afghanistan has followed me back to America.

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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.

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.

I see how endemic indigenous barbarism and cruelty is and unlike many other intellectuals and feminists, I don’t try to romanticize or rationalize it.

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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.

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