as they do. His eldest brother never talks to his wife.
He is slipping away from me. I am a burden, a liability. He can’t even be bothered to buy a contraceptive. He is putting me at great risk. He is hard, indifferent.
Abdul-Kareem is waiting to be told what he can do next. He is waiting for his father to fix it up with the King and the government for him to become Somebody Important. But first, they are watching him carefully.
I am an unhappy and complaining wife. It is the only thing that makes him uncomfortable enough to hit me, yell at me, stomp out of the room.
He has begun to hit me.
Had I known that 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.
Dear Diary: Thank you. Had I not written some things down, I would never have remembered that I had been asking that he use contraceptives.
I have no memory of Abdul-Kareem’s hitting me—yelling at me, yes, avoiding me, yes—hitting me, no. I would not have remembered this if I could not read it here. Worse than any slap or kick Abdul-Kareem might administer, worse, even, than refusing to use a condom, is that my very Western husband has confined me to a very Eastern harem. I am in purdah, however posh. And he acts as if this is all quite normal.
My female relatives drink tea; eat luscious fruit, nuts, sweet, sticky cakes; entertain their many, mainly female, relatives who come to call. They also sew, cuddle infants, prepare young children for school. Above all they supervise the servants. This alone can be made into a full-time occupation.
The servants and the daughters-in-law usually bear the brunt of the oldest woman’s or highest-ranking wife’s frustrations. And herfrustrations are many. I had known something about female-female cruelty in the West, but I learned even more about it in Afghanistan. Forty years later I published a work titled Woman’s Inhumanity to Woman. It has a global perspective.
I have been talking about living in a harem. Let me explain what that means.
A harem is not a brothel, as so many Westerners erroneously believe. It is merely the women’s living quarters. Male relatives can join them—but no male nonrelatives may do so. It is hardly a den of eroticism.
Western men have never been able to visit a harem—it is forbidden to them because the women are sacred (property), which must be kept separate and apart in order to protect them from strange men. Because foreign men have not visited the women’s quarters, their imaginations have run riot. True, like a brothel (or a women’s prison) a domestic harem is an all-female and a female-dominated environment. But it is more like a celibate nunnery or a nursery and sewing room. It is not a place where seductions and orgies take place. Historically only Western women travelers, who were allowed to visit domestic and imperial harems, have been able to render a more accurate report.
Eventually, like prisoners everywhere, so-called protected women are blinded by the light; their eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. The outside world seems dangerous, certainly unfriendly to women. Hence understandably, women become claustrophobic and agoraphobic. Women may even become anxious when they are outdoors.
I have begun to internalize the unspoken rules: Wait, and watch what the other women do before acting. Even I feel a bit too daring when I make my escapes into the city. I am beginning to experience as taboo, dangerous, what would be perfectly acceptable behavior back in New York. I am also getting used to spending my days at home, reading and waiting for the men to return.
It is impossible for a Westerner to imagine the deadening torpor of a protected life under house arrest. Eventually, one is grateful for the smallest outing outdoors—a lovely picnic in a burqa, being allowed to watch the men and boys fly kites or swim.
I am looking at a photograph taken in 1865 that is titled “Sweet
He is slipping away from me. I am a burden, a liability. He can’t even be bothered to buy a contraceptive. He is putting me at great risk. He is hard, indifferent.
Abdul-Kareem is waiting to be told what he can do next. He is waiting for his father to fix it up with the King and the government for him to become Somebody Important. But first, they are watching him carefully.
I am an unhappy and complaining wife. It is the only thing that makes him uncomfortable enough to hit me, yell at me, stomp out of the room.
He has begun to hit me.
Had I known that 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.
Dear Diary: Thank you. Had I not written some things down, I would never have remembered that I had been asking that he use contraceptives.
I have no memory of Abdul-Kareem’s hitting me—yelling at me, yes, avoiding me, yes—hitting me, no. I would not have remembered this if I could not read it here. Worse than any slap or kick Abdul-Kareem might administer, worse, even, than refusing to use a condom, is that my very Western husband has confined me to a very Eastern harem. I am in purdah, however posh. And he acts as if this is all quite normal.
My female relatives drink tea; eat luscious fruit, nuts, sweet, sticky cakes; entertain their many, mainly female, relatives who come to call. They also sew, cuddle infants, prepare young children for school. Above all they supervise the servants. This alone can be made into a full-time occupation.
The servants and the daughters-in-law usually bear the brunt of the oldest woman’s or highest-ranking wife’s frustrations. And herfrustrations are many. I had known something about female-female cruelty in the West, but I learned even more about it in Afghanistan. Forty years later I published a work titled Woman’s Inhumanity to Woman. It has a global perspective.
I have been talking about living in a harem. Let me explain what that means.
A harem is not a brothel, as so many Westerners erroneously believe. It is merely the women’s living quarters. Male relatives can join them—but no male nonrelatives may do so. It is hardly a den of eroticism.
Western men have never been able to visit a harem—it is forbidden to them because the women are sacred (property), which must be kept separate and apart in order to protect them from strange men. Because foreign men have not visited the women’s quarters, their imaginations have run riot. True, like a brothel (or a women’s prison) a domestic harem is an all-female and a female-dominated environment. But it is more like a celibate nunnery or a nursery and sewing room. It is not a place where seductions and orgies take place. Historically only Western women travelers, who were allowed to visit domestic and imperial harems, have been able to render a more accurate report.
Eventually, like prisoners everywhere, so-called protected women are blinded by the light; their eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. The outside world seems dangerous, certainly unfriendly to women. Hence understandably, women become claustrophobic and agoraphobic. Women may even become anxious when they are outdoors.
I have begun to internalize the unspoken rules: Wait, and watch what the other women do before acting. Even I feel a bit too daring when I make my escapes into the city. I am beginning to experience as taboo, dangerous, what would be perfectly acceptable behavior back in New York. I am also getting used to spending my days at home, reading and waiting for the men to return.
It is impossible for a Westerner to imagine the deadening torpor of a protected life under house arrest. Eventually, one is grateful for the smallest outing outdoors—a lovely picnic in a burqa, being allowed to watch the men and boys fly kites or swim.
I am looking at a photograph taken in 1865 that is titled “Sweet
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