(...) she is still the fourteen year old girl who left, because her life had not changed. She has not had the chance to grow up. She doesn’t know what growing up means.
She was nine years old when she was taken and had already had three miscarriages when she became pregnant a fourth time. This child had been stillborn. The death of this little baby had taken the child-mother’s sanity. She was twelve years old. ...
I’m absolutely petrified from Abdul Khada! Hee hits me whenever he chooses, whenever he pleases. Even if he is in a bad temper, he just takes it out on me and hits me for nothing. I haven’t done anything wrong to them. I’ve just been patient, that’s all. All on my own!
Why, oh why could they not understand? Imagine a man raping your daughter; blackmailing her with her own children to keep quiet. Think of his hands touching her intimately. These same hands beating her. Now do something about it! Do something about it in a country like Yemen.
Muthana’s words, impressed indelibly on my brain, rang loud and clear in my ears. “I kept you pregnant to hold you down!” I knew, I knew, that now this was what was happening to Nadia, too.
Fred could go on getting me pregnant for years. I was only thirty years old, and likely to be fertile for a few more years. Perhaps I would reach the change life about fifty at the earliest. Another twenty years of being able to produce babies! No, that was it. Enough.
Imagine a strange man touching her, beating her, raping her impregnating her then laughing smugly in her face as she suffers. Imagine your flesh and blood enduring these degrading, incalculable atrocities. A slave.
What would you do? Give up? Forget it?