An American Bride in Kabul: A Memoirby Phyllis Chesler
Few westerners will ever be able to understand Muslim or Afghan society unless they are part of a Muslim family. Twenty years old and in love, Phyllis Chesler, a Jewish-American girl from Brooklyn, embarked on an adventure that has lasted for more than a half-century. In 1961, when she arrived in Kabul with her Afghan bridegroom, authorities took away her American… See more details below
Few westerners will ever be able to understand Muslim or Afghan society unless they are part of a Muslim family. Twenty years old and in love, Phyllis Chesler, a Jewish-American girl from Brooklyn, embarked on an adventure that has lasted for more than a half-century. In 1961, when she arrived in Kabul with her Afghan bridegroom, authorities took away her American passport. Chesler was now the property of her husband's family and had no rights of citizenship. Back in Afghanistan, her husband, a wealthy, westernized foreign college student with dreams of reforming his country, reverted to traditional and tribal customs. Chesler found herself unexpectedly trapped in a posh polygamous family. She fought against her seclusion and lack of freedom, her Afghan family's attempts to convert her from Judaism to Islam, and her husband's wish to permanently tie her to the country through childbirth. Drawing upon her personal diaries, Chesler recounts her ordeal, the nature of gender apartheidand her longing to explore this beautiful, ancient, and exotic country and culture. An American Bride in Kabul re-creates a time gone by, a place that is no more, and shares the way in which Chesler turned adversity into a passion for world-wide social, educational, and political reform.
Chesler is to be lauded for plunging into dark and treacherous waters, for penning a book in which each page is brimming with rich insights, and for serving as an avatar of inspiration for all oppressed peoples fighting for freedom.
A renowned psychotherapist's richly compelling memoir about how her experiences as an Afghan man's wife shaped her as both a feminist and human rights activist. At 18, Chesler (Psychology and Women's Studies, Emeritus/City Univ. of New York; The Death of Feminism: What's Next in the Struggle for Women's Freedom, 2005, etc.) fell in love with the scion of a wealthy family from Afghanistan. She was Jewish, and her "prince," Abdul-Kareem, was Muslim. Their affair was as unexpected as it was unlikely and led to an even more improbable marriage. Dreaming that she and Abdul-Kareem would travel the world "like gypsies or abdicating aristocrats who have permanently taken to the road," they went to Abdul-Kareem's home in Kabul. A starry-eyed Chesler soon found herself stripped of her passport and a prisoner of her husband's family. Using diaries, letters, interviews, and research and other writings about Afghanistan and the Islamic world, the author offers an illuminating depiction not only of her time as a harem wife, but also of the "gender apartheid" under which Afghan women must live. Chesler could go nowhere and do nothing, including see a doctor, without her husband's or other male relative's permission. She also found herself at the mercy of a maniacal mother-in-law who forced her to convert to Islam and a husband-turned-tyrant bent on keeping his wife in Afghanistan by any means necessary, including pregnancy. A life-threatening illness eventually moved her father-in-law to get her an exit visa to the United States. Chesler managed to get a divorce only after great difficulty. Yet her contentious relationship with the man whom she once saw as her spiritual "twin" endured. Intelligent, powerful and timely.
No human culture compromises the rights of women more than Islam. Today over 700 million women are directly or indirectly affected by the Koran and the teachings of Mohammed. Phyllis Chesler is by far the bravest and most outspoken American feminist to address the plight of Muslim women. In this book she shares with the reader her first encounter with Islam in Afghanistan. It is a moving account of the harrowing experience of one woman who almost meets her death in a culture that could not be more alien to her American upbringing. Yet every page is laden with compassion and love for the ex-husband and his family she unwittingly joined. I recommend this book be put on the reading list of every American school.
Boom. Suddenly Phyllis Chesler is a prisoner in Afghanistan. Without a passport. As a wife without rights of any kind. Her bridegroom, once her equal when they met in New York, now in his own land, is a stranger…she is in an utterly male society where women and children are a man's property--"his to protect or abuse. They are his to kill. It is the way things are." This is disconcerting to say the least…She escapes. This is how it all started. This is a bold book; intimate and rich in detail; as revealing a story about class, gender and religious differences as one will find. Chesler is a voice crying out for women. She had the right training. She will never stop.
This is a wondrous, invaluable memoir and meditation on women, culture, history, and the meaning of freedom. Phyllis Chesler tells a moving story in a direct, unaffected style and is able to draw conclusions of a wider import: reflections on the complex interplay of culture, more complex than the cliché of "a clash of cultures." Chesler is remarkably generous to her husband. In trying to understand him, she is able to tease out valuable historical and cultural lessons. After fifty years of reflection, Chesler is able to distil mature and wise judgments from her dramatic experience, on the persecution and suffering of Muslim women. Chesler's own feminism really began with these experiences in Afghanistan. One of the other merits of the book is her introduction to the reader of a whole host of writers, travelers, and diplomats who have written perceptively about Islamic countries in general but on Afghanistan in particular, especially the treatment of women and slaves.
With a deft pen and a half-century of experience, Chesler revisits her brief, unpleasant, but life-changing and ultimately precious time in an Afghan harem. Although hardly the only feisty Western woman to despair at finding, on their visiting his home country, her debonair Muslim husband turned into an unrecognizably primitive tyrant, she drew unique benefits from the experience. These included finding her career focus (feminism), her field of study (psychology), her world outlook (principled liberalism) –and this marvelous book.
In her fascinating new memoir, Phyllis Chesler offers a vivid account of landing in Afghanistan in 1961 as a young bride – and finding herself a victim and virtual prisoner of that country's cruel anti-women customs and habits. Ms. Chesler was only 20, the product of a sheltered Orthodox Jewish household in Brooklyn, when she married a fellow student, a Muslim who came from a prominent Kabul family. Her companion was seductive, exotic, alluring, and seemed to promise her the world. But Ms. Chesler, who would go on to become a famous feminist leader and the author of the classic Women and Madness, attributes some of her later accomplishments, including her passionate stance on behalf of women, to insights she gained in that period. She finds herself trapped in a household replete with madness, including a mother-in-law who is sadistic and punitive and a husband who emerges as mean and uncaring. Despite her in-laws' wealth, she is often hungry, denied the foods that she can eat, and she can't even go out on her own to see a country she had longed to explore. Stripped of her U.S. passport when she landed, she finds her movements severely restricted. Many of the book's insights about 1961 Kabul seem oddly relevant to Kabul in 2013 – a culture that, if possible, has become even more heinous to women with the advent of the Taliban. This is an eye-opening work.
With An American Bride in Kabul, Phyllis Chesler, brilliantly brings to life the plight of so many Muslim women helplessly trapped in the prison which is Islamist misogyny. Through the eyes of her innocent and insightful Brooklyn girl, Chesler provides humanity a service--a window into the internal workings of the male-dominated Islamist familial conspiracy against women. Her story is believable because it is sadly repeated millions of times around the globe. A must read, An American Bride will leave readers finally able to feel the powerlessness which overwhelms Muslim women who are victims of honor abuse and violence. Readers will leave understanding like so many Muslim reformers already do that Islamist misogyny is a Muslim problem that needs Muslim solutions.
I love this book and could not put it down. It is the romantic and riveting story of a young woman from the orthodox Jewish neighborhood of Borough Park, who rebelled against a sheltered life in which women were religiously dominated by men and who then traveled to Afghanistan where she saw women who were far more oppressed and who lived under conditions of polygamy, purdah, poverty, and the burqa. This journey sowed the seeds of a very American feminism. We learn about other westerners, especially women, who travelled this route and we learn about the ancient history of the Afghan Jewish community. This book has the power to inspire a new kind of interfaith dialogue. Book club members will discuss this work for a good long time.
I loved every second of reading Chesler's amazing book. Kudos to her for standing in her truth. An American Bride in Kabul is a very courageous piece of work and I am in awe of Phyllis Chesler's determination to tell the truth of her experience, a truth which confirms the stories of so many Muslim women. I couldn't stop reading this book and felt Phyllis's powerful words grabbing my heart and opening up the deep emotions. A must read!
Phyllis Chesler's An American Bride in Kabul is the most compelling autobiography I have read in a long time. It not only vividly tells us about women's lives in Afghanistan from the perspective of an American woman, but more importantly how and why American women fall into the trap of an Islamic marriage.
Phyllis Chesler's brilliant and courageous memoir will resound in your heart and mind long after you turn the final page. Dr. Chesler, an American Jewish woman, escaped from starvation and isolation in Afghanistan--and came close to death in the process. Perhaps most inspiring is Dr. Chesler's voyage in using those unimaginable experiences as a springboard to become a leader of women's rights around the globe. Her decades of academic and professional work advocating for women who cannot cry out for themselves is a tremendous legacy: the seeds of this deep calling were sown in Afghanistan and are now recounted here in this moving and marvelous book.
Chesler pens a cautionary tale of the perils of far-flung passion and the hazards of romantic exoticism. In precise, pungent and, at times, granular detail, she summons a world festooned by fantasy and myth. In An American Bride in Kabul, she gives full-throated voice to the beguilements of the East, etching a portrait-in-the-round, at once grand and engrossing.
Phyllis Chesler's newest book is rich and operatic, taking us into a world few of us have known about, telling us in descriptive, historical, political, religious, and deeply personal detail things that can transform our ways of thinking and feeling about everything from interpersonal dynamics to global politics. And this book illuminates one major reason she has for decades been the insightful, ardent, tireless feminist educator and activist she became.
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An American Bride in Kabul
By Phyllis Chesler
Palgrave MacmillanCopyright © 2013 Phyllis Chesler
All rights reserved.
From Brooklyn to Kabul
I am eighteen and I have just met my prince. He is a dark, handsome, charming, sophisticated, and wealthy foreign student. We are in college in America. I am the only woman who matters to him. I have a nineteen-inch waist and embarrassingly full lips. The whole world is mine. I believe I am invincible and will live forever.
True, he is a Muslim and I am a Jew. I am very Jewish. But he is the Agha Khan, and I am Rita Hayworth. He is Yul Brynner, and I am Gertrude Lawrence in The King and I.
Years later I would learn that this beloved musical is based on the chilling diary of Anna H. Leonowens. Entitled Siamese Harem Life, it documents the slavery, cruelty, and other practices that are considered customary in the East.
Unfortunately I fall in love before I find this extraordinary volume.
My prince, Abdul-Kareem, is from Afghanistan. He is not really a royal prince but he conducts himself like one. Everyone around him treats him with exaggerated deference — especially Americans who love to rub shoulders with royalty.
His father helped found Afghanistan's first modern banking system and owns and runs the country's largest import-export company, in addition to many farms, homes, and properties. When he visits New York, he stays at the Plaza.
I am a first-generation American on my father's side. My mother is the only one in her family who was born in the United States. Her parents and sisters came from the Austro-Hungarian empire — in other words, from Poland. I feel lucky to live in a country where a young woman on a full college scholarship can meet such an interesting person from such a faraway place.
Abdul-Kareem wears a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of his well-made suit. He also wears designer sunglasses, even in winter. I've seen men do that only in movies. He is suave and self-assured and has thick dark hair, golden skin, and penetrating eyes. I have never met anyone like him. Years later I decide that Abdul-Kareem most resembles the Egyptian actor Omar Sharif.
The whole thing is biblical. He is Prince Shechem, I am Dina.
Some say that one of the lost tribes of Israel left Babylon for Persia and then went to Afghanistan. Maybe Abdul-Kareem is a descendent of Joseph, that most splendid Hebrew Egyptian, a figure I adore.
When I get to Kabul, it is like stepping into the Bible. Here are the nomads, caravans, fat-tailed sheep, camels, turbans, veiled and shrouded women, a pleasant confusion of ancient dust and mingled male voices.
When we meet in America, Abdul-Kareem has just returned from his first visit home in almost ten years. He tells me nothing about his trip and I do not press him for details.
I am curiously indifferent.
Afghanistan never comes up in our conversations.
Abdul-Kareem spent some time in Europe, then attended private school in the United States. He speaks English perfectly.
Apart from his appearance, there is little evidence of any real foreignness about him. We never discuss Judaism, Islam, or the role of women. It will be a long time before I learn anything about the history of his country or about its religious and tribal culture.
For now we share more bohemian interests: the new Italian and French cinema. Vittorio De Sica's The Bicycle Thief and Two Women. Federico Fellini's La Strada, Nights of Cabiria, and La Dolce Vita are quasi-religious experiences for us.
We adore Giulietta Masina, Sophia Loren, Marcello Mastroianni, and Anna Magnani. After seeing François Truffaut's The 400 Blows and Jean-Luc Godard's Breathless, we talk of nothing else. The Swedish director Ingmar Bergman is a fast-rising god to us.
Somehow life seems more romantic and certainly more serious in black and white and in a foreign language. The actors, especially the intercontinentals, Anthony Quinn, Ingrid Bergman, and Irene Papas, seem sexier and more important with their tragic outlooks on life.
We agree: Most American actors seem far too optimistic and naive. The movies all have happy endings; we are far too unconventional and too pretentious to believe in them.
I make an exception for Marlon Brando (The Wild One, On the Waterfront) and James Dean (Rebel Without a Cause and East of Eden).
When we see Satyajit Ray's Apu Trilogy (Pather Panchali,Aparajito, and Apur Sansar), Abdul-Kareem is uncommonly quiet. These films about the life of the poor in India speak to him in another way. India is closer to home. The on-screen, on-the-wheel-of-life suffering is endless, irredeemable, yet the people maintain enormous dignity.
This is who we think we are: film buffs, culture vultures, artists, intellectuals, bohemians. Abdul-Kareem decides that he will be a film and theater director. He suggests that I write scripts, stories, and novels upon which he'll base his films. Or, he says, maybe I should act in the productions: "That's what you once wanted to do, isn't it? Now you'll have your chance."
This sounds both unrealistic and delightful. It appeals to my vanity.
We also talk endlessly about Camus, Sartre, Dostoevsky, Strindberg, Ibsen, and Proust. We listen to jazz, ragtime, opera, show tunes, doo-wop, rock 'n' roll, and the blues.
We fancy ourselves existentialists, twin souls spinning in space without moorings, except in each other. Neither of us is Christian. We are both somewhat exotic in America. Together we are a trendy item on a campus where many students party in the Caribbean during winter break and spend summers at family homes in France or Italy.
As for me, I must succeed academically or I will lose my scholarship. I am always studying: in the coffee shop, in my room, on the lawn, in the library, even in class. Abdul-Kareem and I read side by side in the school cafeteria or at the diner down the road, where we enjoy greasy hamburgers smothered in fried onions.
We spend hours talking animatedly to each other, unaware of the world around us.
Abdul-Kareem is the first man with whom I sleep. The earth does not shudder beneath me, and I do not see God, but I still have to marry him.
I am a good Jewish woman and as such am not supposed to sleep with a man before marriage. But now that I have broken this rule, we must marry. These are the rules. The die is cast.
Abdul-Kareem and I live together in series of small furnished apartments in New York City during our winter and summer breaks.
I would rather just travel the wide, wide world together, like gypsies or abdicating aristocrats who have permanently taken to the road — but Abdul-Kareem tells me we must marry, that there is no other way for us to travel together in the Muslim world or for me to meet his family. To embark on this adventure of a lifetime, I must, ironically, embrace the tradition of marriage. Yet this marriage is not exactly traditional because I am marrying a non-Jew, a non-American — a stranger, really, from a distant land.
My parents are religious Jews; they are hysterical and terrified. My father is bereft. My mother has always viewed me as a bad seed and a changeling, and that view is now confirmed.
I believed that marriage to Abdul-Kareem would grant me all the freedoms that I never enjoyed as a child. I would be out of my family's tight grasp; I would travel to Europe, the Middle East, North Africa, Central Asia, India, and the Far East. We would live in Kabul for a while, then move on to Paris, and then back to New York so I could finish college.
The rebel that I am is a slave to romantic fantasies. Finally all those fairy tales have had their way with me. I am special, not at all provincial. My life will unwind like a foreign film. Ah, but the rebellious runaway is also a good girl who's doing precisely what the fairy tales advise: marry a prince, live in a villa, if not exactly a castle.
I was a complete fool. When I finally returned to America, I literally kissed the ground at Idlewild (Kennedy) Airport.
Abdul-Kareem believes that he is rescuing me from my savagely critical mother and from my father, who loves me but who, in Abdul-Kareem's view, cannot provide for me properly, lavishly.
Abdul-Kareem assures me that he will be able to take care of us far better as his wealthy father's son than as Mr. Muslim Foreigner in America. He convinces me that we will travel widely and lead cultured lives. He does not tell me that once we land in Kabul, I will be placed under house arrest.
I can just hear him! "House arrest — really? Phyllis, you are so dramatic. If we lived alone, how could you have managed on your own?"
His is also a rather grand rebellion. He chose to marry a dark-haired, dark-eyed American Jew whose family has no political standing. He chose to marry for love. He chose a woman as his intellectual companion. In retrospect this was madness.
I was told privately that Abdul-Kareem's older brothers were puzzled, even disappointed, because I did not have blonde hair and blue eyes and could easily pass for an Afghan girl. "He could have gotten one just like this right here at home," I heard one of them say.
Did we once really love each other? Were we soul mates? I am not sure. I dare not remember — the pain would be overwhelming and pointless.
Do photos tell the truth? I am looking at some old black-and-white photos of us holding hands and looking into each other's eyes. We look very much in love. We are in an idyllic setting, surrounded by trees. I cannot remember who took the pictures.
The truth may be more complicated. I wanted to travel. This was the only way I could do so at that time.
Twenty years later, after Abdul-Kareem and his family escaped from the Soviets, he tells me that he has never gotten over me. I remain silent. I find this hard to believe.
At the time he says this, he needs my help. He is probably trying to flatter me — or get me into bed. Have I become heartless — or have I finally learned something?
Abdul-Kareem gently chides me. He asks me how I could forget how close we were — how we once talked for twenty hours, fell asleep, woke up, and immediately continued the conversation.
I do not remember this.
I do remember how safe I felt when he was behind the wheel of his car. I remember how much he enjoyed a good Jewish joke.
Although I do not want to get married (my parents are married; I have never imagined myself as a bride or a wife), Abdul-Kareem nevertheless persuades me. At the last minute I ask a dress designer friend, a woman who once lived in Senegal, to transform a creamy white raw silk Afghan turban into a cocktail-length wedding dress for me.
I wonder whatever happened to that lovely little dress. I never wore it again. I have no memory of what I did with it.
We marry in a civil ceremony in Poughkeepsie, New York. We have no family present. Toby, one of my college roommates, is my witness, and Hussain, an Afghan man with whom we have enjoyed many Sunday picnics, acts as Abdul-Kareem's.
Afterward we all have a glass of wine and a meal and then go home, change into jeans, pack, and leave for Europe. Europe!
We travel to Europe in nineteenth-century style on Le Flandre. I remember we had champagne in our stateroom and that my youngest brother came to see us off. My parents were not there. Indeed my parents tell no one what I've done. No relative or family friend was ever told that I had married a Muslim and sailed clear off to Afghanistan.
On board I feel we are starring in a black-and-white movie. Sometimes we dine at the captain's table, but I spend most of my time on deck, pondering the wide blue sea — and reading. Nestled luxuriously in a deck chair, covered by a blanket, sipping coffee, I read straight through Lawrence Durrell's The Alexandria Quartet. It is all very romantic.
We have a huge fight on board. I cannot remember about what. I do remember that some other passengers looked quite startled, perhaps even frightened. We are fighting as we land in Southampton.
Abdul-Kareem finally has to tell me that our stay in Europe will be a brief one, that we are expected in Kabul as soon as possible, and that his expense allowance, never large, has been curtailed — which is pro forma for all Afghan students studying abroad.
Maybe that's why we were fighting.
He did not, perhaps he could not, bring himself to tell me that we were almost broke. And so our London lodgings turned out to be a rather seedy bed-and-breakfast. I didn't care. I was finally here, in the city of the high red buses and the almost circus-like large black taxi cabs, the country of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Donne, Dickens, the Brontë sisters, George Eliot, and the queen. What did it matter that we'd be eating fish and chips rather than having tea at the Ritz? Still, our suddenly shrunken budget was a sign of more ominous things to come.
I make the proverbial tourist beeline for the British Museum, which brazenly, beautifully houses the treasures of ancient Egypt, Greece (the Elgin Marbles, the muscular but graceful Amazons), Rome, and China, together with the portraits of royalty, and of horses and dogs.
We have tea at Russell Square, where the Bloomsbury literati once gossiped and dined and scandalized. We dash off to Madame Tussaud's, Piccadilly Circus, and the West End. Abdul-Kareem is humoring me. He has done all this before. I want to stop and browse in every used and antiquarian bookstore we pass.
I like being in a city without being surrounded by towering skyscrapers. The human frame seems more the measure of things when it is not dwarfed by shining glass monuments built to scrape the very sky.
Onward we go, too quickly, to Paris. I have a photo of myself in front of a French kiosk. Was I really once that young and thin?
France: George Sand's land, Colette's land, Edith Piaf's land, too. I have listened to the Sparrow incessantly and know the words of many of her songs by heart. France means Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and Marie-Henri Beyle — the great writer Stendhal — whose work is the subject of my nearly completed college thesis.
We visit the Louvre to ponder the enigmatic Mona Lisa and pay our respects to the Vermeers, Rembrandts, and Caravaggios.
I like Ingres and am entranced by his Odalisque and Turkish Baths. Ironic but telling: I am being introduced to the Muslim world through the eyes of those dreamy Western painters who expressed their own sensuality by painting their European patrons dressed in elaborate turbans, framed by large pillows and a Moorish arch or two.
We pile into the Galerie Nationale du Jeu de Paume, which houses all the riotously colorful French impressionist paintings: Monet, Manet, Renoir, Seurat, Degas, and of course my beloved madman, Van Gogh. I consider them all my friends.
Exhausted, in too much of a rush, we visit Versailles. I find it cold, very cold, and am not impressed by its vast mirrored emptiness or by the manicured formal gardens. Of course at this time we are both huge fans of the French Revolution and are not likely to be impressed by the aesthetic decisions of heartless kings and queens. (Oh, how I have changed my mind about some of this.)
But we are in Paris. We must visit the Left Bank. For me that means hours of dawdling among the bookseller stalls, never wanting to leave, but it also means visiting the cafes where, innocents that we are, we actually hope to run into a living existentialist or two. We walk for hours up and down the Champs-Élysées.
On our last night we go to a cabaret with a garish can-can show (Abdul-Kareem's choice, not mine). The women dance topless, and I am shocked, titillated, slightly disapproving.
All this time Abdul-Kareem is preoccupied, impatient, but he tries hard to hide it. He wishes to indulge my passion for art, history, books, and travel, but he obviously has some serious things on his mind.
He chooses Munich as the city from which we will leave for the Middle East. Munich frightens me, mainly because I like it. I like the large soft comforters on our bed, the homey-cozy restaurants and cafes, and the heavy rich food. But the grotesquely large municipal Hansel and Gretel clock, with its combined German exactitude and deceptively childish facade, offends me. This is the country that, not long before, put all its Jewish, gypsy, and political Hansels and Gretels right into the smoking ovens.
Chamberlain signed the Munich Pact here; it gave Hitler the Sudetenland. It was a consummate act of appeasement. The Nazis marched here only sixteen years earlier. Some areas of debris from wartime bombings still are cordoned off. Why am I comfortable here at all? Years later I will have a much more disconcerting sense of familiarity and comfort in Vienna: the city of both Freud and Herzl — Hitler's city, too.
When we land in Beirut, the air is softer and oddly exciting. But we cannot stay; we are due in Teheran.
Abdul-Kareem's Iranian friends send a car and driver to meet us at the airport. We are given a brief tour of the city. We drive down Isfahan Street and Firdowsi Avenue and the grand Lalezar Avenue. Of course there is also a Pahlavi Avenue.
Our hosts — people much older than we are — pick us up for a night out on the town. I remember a room with access to its own private balcony. The food, the traffic, and the laughter all flow together.
Excerpted from An American Bride in Kabul by Phyllis Chesler. Copyright © 2013 Phyllis Chesler. Excerpted by permission of Palgrave Macmillan.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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Arab culture and Islam--a match made in hell. Everyone, and I include Muslims in that, should learn what Islam is about, and what Afghanistan is about. This is a perfect book for that purpose. Filled with facts, not opinions.
Fragmented and repetitive. 10 weeks in Afghanastitan in the early sixties, isolated and abused, I would expect her to never want to hear another word about Afghanistan.
The story is amazing and so fascinating. I also met the author at a book signing. the second half of the book is a bit too political for me.
I hated this book, couldnt even finish it. I appreciate the research she did but her thoughts are entirely too scattered. Write a memoir or write the history. She has a terrible habit of going on and on....too many lists, etc. I would not recommend this book but would love to meet the author.
The author did her research. I didn't really learn allot about her, but what she learned from others. I liked this book and will look further into the other authors she mentioned in the text.
A very interesting and well written memoir that gives an eye opening account into life in Afghanistan pre Soviet, Taliban and US invasions. I could not put the book down I highly recommend it..