domesticatedbymuslim

[domesticatedbymuslim]

🦢 I’m back ! 🤭

[domesticatedbymuslim]

I’m back after a well deserved break. Missed all my lovely followers. I have a new story coming your way! Xoxo 🤍🍓

[domesticatedbymuslim]

Xoxo 💗

[domesticatedbymuslim]

1 year ago:

He had pursued her unrelentlessly. From the moment he spotted her in the skimpy skin-tight pink dress at a West Hollywood bar a year ago, he knew it was she who he wanted to lay claim on.

She would be the one he would mold into a perfect Muslimah, a pious wife and a devoted mother. She would be the one he would subdue and change forever. In a way, he almost felt bad for her, because she had no idea how her life would change forever. He stared at her from across the bar, his eyes fixed to her every movement — like a tiger watching his kill.

Maybe it was her delicate looking jawline, or maybe it was her slender collar bones, like those drawn on by the most skilled artist. Or maybe it was her swan like movements and demure nature, and then it hit him…. for a brief moment their eyes locked. Her eyes were intoxicating, filled with exhilarating depth he was able to recognize. They were filled with pain, indirection and the yearning to be given the opportunity to be allowed to fulfill her true purpose as a subservient wife and loving mother. She was a special woman and it was she he would convert. He felt protective over her, jealous, angry even…. she didn’t belong in this place.

He was a Muslim warrior, he grew up too fast after his father and mother were killed in a bomb blast in front of him. He had to bear more burdens than a guy his age should’ve. He had worked hard for his reputation and status. He was a well known figure in the Islamic community and gave charity and donations to local mosques, Islamic centers and fitness gyms. Everyone knew him, the guys at the butcheries to the brothers at the car dealerships. His Muslim brothers would drop anyone that wronged him. He always got what he wanted. And today he knew what he wanted.

He confidently put his virgin drink down as he smiled and walked across the floor towards her thinking ……in a year from today, her entire personality, viewpoints, perspective — to her very religion and first/ last name would change.

Present Day:

His buddies picked him up on their shoulders as everyone vehemently fired AK-47s into the night sky shouting and howling in celebration, he was a married man today. The night had drawn to a close and his friends whistled him towards the house where his hard earned prize waited…ready to be claimed, body and soul.

[domesticatedbymuslim]

[domesticatedbymuslim]

Islam is a religion of gender dichotomy, men and women have their defined established roles. There is no confusion and blurred lines between roles as we see in the western cultures.

A man’s role in Islam is to lead, conquer and spread the seed of Islam. He ensures that his children stay protected, guarded, fed and disciplined so he can raise strong warriors and princesses of Islam. He ensures that his wife’s beauty and softness is seen only by him and hidden from everyone else by guarding, protecting and instilling the values of modesty through the Abaya on her. He does this not to enslave her, but to protect her dignity, modesty and uphold HIS reputation in society so that he is not ashamed to step out of the house.

A women’s role in Islam is also very important. Everything begins and ends with her. At her whim, wars can be started and relinquished, home can be made or destroyed. A women seldom does not know the power of her femininity and submissiveness. Without lifting a finger, she has complete control over her husband’s emotions, decision making, well-being and health. She is the foundation of the family, keeping the children and her husband well fed and strong. Bringing peace, happiness, delicate charm, softness and sensibility into an otherwise chaotic world.

It is only fair to keep her hidden and subdued, as she can be easily claimed by another, thus shattering the very foundation for the family her husband worked so hard to build. This picture shows a strak contrast and heterogeneity of how a Muslim man carries himself vs. how a Muslimah carries herself. There is no “shoulder to shoulder concept,” as in the western society, a women’s and man’s place is well defined by Islam. Accept it ☝️

[domesticatedbymuslim]

Salam alaykum sister. What makes you attracted to Muslim men ? 👳🏽‍♂️ ☪️

Introspectively, my attraction to Muslim men stems from two distinguishable variables that I am able to discern.

The first one being that I’ve always been drawn to that which I “shouldn’t” or “couldn’t” have due to various societal and cultural barriers.

My culture and religion tells me that Muslim men are dangerous, vile, and driven by lust, power and hunger. That Islam is the root of evil with an agenda to spread and annihilate. My conscious also tells me that Islamic laws forbid transgenderism (I’m only going to speak from a transgender POV, since I do not identify with other components of the LGBTQ+ spectrum).

Islamic law forbids and condemns my existence and furthermore MY OWN culture and religion forbids Islam and Islamic men in general. These two scenarios work counterintuitively in drawing me towards THAT which I should not pursue because of the “taboo”.

In a way, I’m subconsciously affirming my existence and VALIDITY through the sheer fact that Muslim men ARE attracted to me despite me being transgender. Because they’re drawn to me, I’m indirectly challenging Islamic fundamentals by the sheer fact that I’m attracting devout Muslim men towards me.

As I stated prior, my own religion condemns Islam because of the atrocities the Muslims committed against the founding fathers of my religion. By being attracted to Muslim men innately, I’m also subconsciously challenging my OWN religion due to the unfairness that my own God bestowed upon me during birth by not making me a cis-girl. My battle with my God is an old one. It is a mental battle filled with revenge, hatred and hopelessness at the fact that my God turned my life into a drama and deprived everything I COULD have been if I were born a girl.

I cannot begin to explain the mental struggle, depression and praying I’ve done since my adolescence that I would wake up one day and be a girl. How many times I prayed in the temples and churches before sleep that I would one day wake up from this nightmare and be a girl. A girl that would have been a perfect wife, caring mother and a nurturing caregiver to her family. All this was taken from me because of what my God did to me.

By being attracted to Muslim men, I’m subconsciously seeking revenge against my own God while also proving that Muslim men CAN and WILL be attracted to me DESPITE what Islam says about me. It is how I justify my own affliction.

The second variable is the fact that I’m drawn to toxic masculinity. I’ve grown up watching movies in which Muslim men kidnap, rape, impregnate and forcefully marry girls from my religion and how these girls are then disowned by their parents for being “marked” by these dangerous men. As I stated prior, being with Muslim men is very taboo and off limits in my culture and religion. The reason I’m drawn to toxic masculinity is most probably because I’ve been deprived from expression of my OWN femininity during the crucial developmental stages of my life all while KNOWING deep down that my soul and mind have always been that of a girl.

I grew up in a culture and country where patriarchy was also very prominent. Traditional male and female gender roles were very much well defined in the culture and in fact submissive women are highly praised and deemed marriage worthy. Women are taught to cook, clean, raise children and be housewives from a very young age by their mothers.

I envied that I COULDN’T play the part of being a submissive, demure and obedient girl that should have also been groomed to be a perfect housewife and mother. I grew up seeing this but could never partake in it, my hopes and dreams were taken from me so young. I felt that I was bound to be in a prison that I could not escape from for something I did in my past life to deserve such a pathetic life now. I had suicidal tendencies as my only way out of this unjust world.

As I became a teenager and into my early adulthood, all my friends have always been cis-females. I saw how my friends wished for materialistic gains such as: money, big weddings, expensive rings, clothes and fancy houses. While the only thing I ever wished for was to be deeply and madly in love with a man that would treat me like his wife. For all I cared, our wedding ring could have been made from wood as long as it was given by him. All I wanted was to love him unconditionally despite our differences, raise our kids, spread his lineage and serve as a rock to our little family.

I never cared about money, houses and clothes. These were all shallow things. I knew our money would be for our home, our kids and future. All I ever wanted and cared for in this world was a traditional family. It hurts me to this very day, that 95% of the men population in this world that I could have been an ideal wife to will not even look at me because of what’s between my legs. It hurts me to see these men struggling, being used and cheated on by those who have no intention to love them.

This is why I’m drawn to whatever the society deems as “toxic masculinity”. Because I genuinely respect and look up to men. I understand my role and purpose in this life, it’s the least I can do. I cannot give the man a child, I may not even be their choice in marriage…. But the least I can do is serve my purpose when I can.

Of course Muslim men and Islam by default personify the ideals of what traditional gender roles are between a man and women. How women should be covered, coveted and protected and the man should be the bread-winners and display ghayrah. These are ideals I could see myself in. This is why I’m innately drawn to Muslim men because they make me feel like a women I have always been deep down with my complex emotions.

They just sort of get me… it’s not an attraction based on their lust and desire for what’s between my legs. Rather they are attracted to me for my hyper-femininity, submissiveness, which is basically the language of my soul and mind. That’s what make me who I am as a women. I like that I can use my submissive, demure and feminine nature and turn that into my strength to attract Muslim men who understand what THEY crave deep inside, which is to dominate and control (as is their instinct). The relationship I have with Muslim men is primal and very innate. It has nothing to do with what’s between my legs.

[domesticatedbymuslim]

He bought me this beautiful abaya from his homeland! He says I must learn to wear it out in public and slowly when I’m used to it, he will introduce me to the niqab, which will cover my entire face. He says women are not meant to be seen or heard by stranger men, it brings their values down. He says soon he will take me to his country and marry me there, where even the law will make me cover up. He says I will not be able to leave the house without him and make any decisions or own property. I’m a little scared …. but I love him so much 🥺😭!

[domesticatedbymuslim]

He wants me to in full sleeves and modest clothing even at home. He tell me he cannot focus on his tasks if I have too much skin showing. I am only allowed to wear his favorite panties and bra when I’m in bed with him. However, He allows me to uncover my head and let my hair out UNLESS his friends are coming over to watch a football match. When he has his friends over, I’m not allowed to leave our room, no matter how long they take. It makes me appreciate the smaller things in life… like reading a book or painting my nails 💅 🤗🤭.

[domesticatedbymuslim]

The Baby Shower

I was going to his niece’s baby shower, a function that would exclusively be attended by women only. I had pleaded for weeks and obeyed him diligently to be allowed to attend and wear my fancy shawl instead of a niqab. He had reluctantly obliged, but obliged nevertheless. Such was my life now, it seemed imagined. Like secrets kept at 4th grade slumber parties, about trying on mom’s makeup or bra without her finding out. It doesn’t seem it would be the true shape of the world. That’s a hangover from an extinct reality… that appeared to be drifting further and further away as I found ways to survive in his country.

I jumped in surprise as Yusuf entered the room behind me, I was not expecting him home from the gym so soon. I watched him through the mirror as he hung his workout equipment behind the door. His wife beater drenched in sweat, he single-handedly whisked his wife beater off, his hairy chest heaving up and down from his hard breathing.

I fumbled to wrap the shawl tighter around my head and neck. Making sure my arms, neck and hair remained covered. My body tensed as I watched him approach behind me, his bare chest and muscles bulging and glistening in the dim light of the room. He looked at me through the mirror, our eyes locking briefly. I smiled at him shyly and looked down quickly pretending to adjust the rings on my fingers.

I felt his big hands grab my hips and pull my body into him. My heart beating in my throat, feeling his engorged and hard erection nudging at me. “Wallahh you look breathtaking….did you get ready for me habibti?”, he said biting his lips, his eyes smiling mischievously. I felt his hands move from my hips and wrap around my waist and stomach. He slowly made circles around my belly button with his thumb. I timidly looked at his reflection in the mirror, our eyes locked again, “I was getting ready for Zainab’s baby shower, it’s today”, I said softly my voice breaking. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively, his eyes becoming stern.

He turned me around effortlessly, one arm wrapped around my waist to ensure my body remained pressed into him. I put my hands on his hairy chest, his pecs still glistening with sweat. With his other hand, he lifted my chin up so that my eyes looked directly into him. “Have you lost your mind hayati ? Were you actually going to step out of my house showing your beauty and MY body to the entire world?” He said loudly and sternly.

I looked up at him shocked, tears welling up in my eyes. “But Yusuf you had promised last week that….”, I started, my voice breaking halfway through the sentence. “ITTAQILLAH, DO NOT EVER put yourself on display, you do not want to see the worst side of me habibti, I promised to ALLAH you will only receive love from me, wallahi DO NOT test my kindness”, he growled his voice thundering of the four walls.

Tears rolled down both my eyes as Yusuf unwrapped the shawl and tossed it aside. I stood silently, as Yusuf removed my long flowy maxi dress underneath. The dress fell to my ankles, revealing my matching nude bra and panties underneath. He raised my chin up so that my watery eyes met with his menacing glare. “You were two thin garments away from this magnificent view, a stupid shawl and a dress — EASY access”, he smirked in disbelief his eyes locked on my cleavage.

“But I….”, I started timidly. He came down rapidly and covered my mouth with his, cutting off my feeble attempt to explain myself . His tongue parted my lips and worked its way in my mouth. He devoured me with a deep kiss. I looked into his eyes helplessly, my hands gripping on his strong biceps to catch myself from falling as he backed me towards the bed mere inches away. I accepted my fate as I felt the bed side hit my legs. I fell back onto the bed on my back before Yusuf had the chance to throw me onto the bed. His body was heavy, and he was pressing down onto me with full force. He hungrily continued to kiss me as I struggled to catch my breath to breathe and push him back to alleviate the weight of him.

His eyes briefly locked into mine, the look of awe and helplessness embellished into my eyes. He pulled back, unlocking his lips from mine and shifting his weight slightly. I gasped for air, as I struggled to catch my breath, Yusuf had moved to my neck. His thick beard scratching the soft of my neck as he kissed, suckled and lightly bit my neck. I heard him growl and grunt as he grabbed my swollen breasts from under the bra and plopped them out. I noticed my nude color bra had changed to a darker color due to being drenched in his sweat. I flinched at the firmness of his grasp, “Yusuf….”, I gasped, “please….”, I said absentmindedly as my hands wrapped around his broad shoulders and legs involuntarily opened underneath him.

Yusuf lowered himself to my breasts, wrapping his mouth around my puffy nipples. My eyes rolled back as I felt him swallow my boobs. He was being gentle, making love to them. I looked down at him amazement, he caressed and sucked my breasts, milking them with his mouth and tongue. His tongue probing my areoles at the same time. He looked up at me, from this angle he looked like a lion enjoying his kill. I felt fire forming in my pelvic floor and inner thighs.

Yusuf worked his way back up to my neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses and bite marks along the way. I stared blankly up at the ceiling as I felt him shift his weight to the side to lower his boxers, unleashing his manhood. With the same hand, he grabbed one of legs, lifted it and pinned it to the side, stretching my legs painfully apart to their limit. He lowered his hand again as I held the position, and pulled my panties to the side. Like a deer caught in headlights, I laid there under him, limp and helpless. I tasted his sweat, the smell of his body, his pheromones, his sweat soaking my body, his weight pressing me down— immobilizing my mind, body and senses.

I prepared my body and mind to be invaded by him. My grip around his biceps tightened as I felt the tip of his manhood pressing against my hole, threatening to fill my insides. “F*CK”, he growled loudly in my ears, still buried in my neck. I flinched, my hands shooting up involuntarily to cover my face anticipating a strike.

“ASTAGFIRULLAH…. give me control and RESTRAIN me ALLAH TA’ALA”, he shouted as he raised himself push-up style from on top me. He looked down and examined my bruised neck and lips, red nipples, smeared lipstick, running mascara, destroyed foundation. His sweat dripped on my face and glistening boobs, now red as plum on my fair skin.

I stared blankly at his sweaty hairy chest, avoiding his stare, perhaps in shame of how he was seeing me. My eyes caught a glimpse of his manhood, dangling fully erect at 9 inches between his legs, covered in veins, and thick as my wrists, twitching and dripping with pre-cum. My eyes widened as they quickly darted away and I turned my face to the side, towards his hairy arms, which had locked me under him. My legs were still open to receive him, dangling to the side. “Habibti…”, he said in disbelief, with guilt in his tone. His tone triggered waves of buried emotion, my eyes flooded with tears again. I turned to my side, still locked between his arms, and scrunched up in fetal position as I sobbed uncontrollably. The truth was, no matter how much Yusuf tried, how gently he made love to me, how much he promised to raise kids together, how much he promised to grow old together……he had stolen from me everything I had ever known. He had ripped me away from my loving family, my country, my reality, my identity and the part that hurt the most…. my individuality, integrity and down to my very body.

He had broken me enough to induce a complex feeling unbeknownst to me, a feeling that caused me to yearn for him, my captor, to come home safely and to protect me, because I’d rather him feast on me than men on the streets waiting their turn — he used my fears to establish my need for him. He induced feeling that caused my body to betray me and send waves of orgasms convulsing through my body every time he mounted me, despite feeling broken and dead on the inside — he used my body to betray my feelings for him.

I cried, because I was scared I could never love him. I cried, because how could I raise his children born of r*pe and trauma? Was it possible to fall in love with my subjugator? He unmounted me and laid behind me spooning me, kissing the back of my neck. “Take a shower and get dressed appropriately baby, I’m gonna drop you off at Zainab’s,” he said giving me a small nudge. I shook my head between tears. “Don’t make me repeat myself…. unless you want your friends coming to your baby shower in 3 months”, he said sternly moving his hands to my belly and rubbing it.

[domesticatedbymuslim]

Muslimah Etiquettes

I seldom get questions asking me, “how to be a proper Muslimah?” In order to be a proper Muslimah, a women (cis or trans), must become the product and extension of her husband’s and Islam’s discipline. She must understand the art of being demure, silent, subservient, subordinate to the almighty ALLAH SUBHANAHU WA TA’ALA first and second to her Husband. When she carries herself how she would in front of her husband in the world around her, she will exude elegance, femininity and modesty beyond all belief.

Despite being fully veiled, a proper Muslimah will turn eyes of all men and women because of her softness, frailty and divine feminine energy. For this reason, she should take extra precaution to ensure her visage is not up for display for lustful eyes and jealously.

Some tips you can follow in public:

Ditch revealing clothes. Change your wardrobe to flowly shawls and stoles. Cover your face with a face mask if you’re not a niqabi.

Occupy as little space as possible while sitting, standing or walking. Decrease the distance between your strides.

Speak only when spoken to. Don’t speak in front of any man, nod and say as little as possible if you can.

Do not shake hands with men. Greet men by nodding and greet women by hugging them or embracing them shoulder to shoulder. Do not shake hands with anyone.

Keep your gaze lowered, do not hold eye contact with men. If you must look at them, only do so for a quick second and then avert your gaze.

If a man is blocking your path, simply wait for him to move away. Do not invade his space. If a women is blocking your path, it is ok to kindly ask her to move and give her a warm smile and say “thank you.”

Do not attempt to walk faster or in front of men in public. Rather, slow down, take a deep breath and stride behind them. The fundamental rule of Islam is that a man’s eyes should never be on your back in prayer, in sitting or walking.

Avoid walking through groups of men or walking into a room filled exclusively with men. Stay in female only spaces.

Avoid harsh movements with hands or arms. Develop a whimsical, dance like and elegant way of hand movement and body positioning.

If fellow women are in need of assistance with their children, holding something or anything appropriate, offer to help them.

Always walk on the side away from the road by default. If the street is narrow and you must cross path with a man, hug the wall and allow him to pass.

[domesticatedbymuslim]

Hello sister

Your blog has great stories and I love your posts !

1st : are these photos the real you ? Cuz you look so beautiful.

2nd : are your stories real ? Cuz I'm from Iraq and I don't know if they have foreign trans women in our country.

P.S. I'm a trans woman as well , just living in the closet unfortunately.

As-salamu alaykum sister, I hope you are safe and well!

1.) Yes, those are my photos. Thank you for the compliments 😘

2.) Yes, majority of my stories are real, such as the truck stop, meeting my boyfriend (Denali) and the Iraq trip (Baqia) and others contain segments of real life scenarios that my boyfriend “Yusuf” and I enact in our daily lives or during role plays.

My trip to Iraq was from a standpoint of a foreigner transgender women (myself) visiting the country. By no means did I have a safe time there, as I highlighted in very descriptive detail of the “Baqia” story. I would not recommend any transgender women to visit alone due to sexual harassment and ra*pe. The reason why I write about my stories is because it helps me cope with the mental trauma that I have faced throughout my life… since younger years. It’s my way of confronting what has happened, by sharing it with others.

[domesticatedbymuslim]

Is this a trans muslim tradwife blog?

this is a domesticatebymuslim blog…. clearly

[domesticatedbymuslim]

Tumblr is now putting “Community Labels” on my writing and stories as well 🤦🏻‍♀️. This takes the fun out of writing, creativity and self expression. Very unfortunate to see this kind of policing happening on writing blogs where writers can’t even share their stories freely. Tumblr has truly hit an all time low. What a shame.

[domesticatedbymuslim]

🖤

[domesticatedbymuslim]

tonight, the stars have my lips, and the moon has my heart 🤎

[domesticatedbymuslim]

Autobiography Series:

Part 2: Bitaqat Altareif (بطاقة التعريف)

My heart raced and stomach hurt from anticipation as I sat in the sea of women in black niqabs waiting to get their photo taken for their بطاقة التعريف - bitaqat altareif (Identity cards). This was the first time I had been allowed out in the 4 months I’ve been here, wherever here was. The small room was packed with women only, not to my surprise, even the photographer was a fully veiled women. Some women had even removed their veils, their eyes appeared tired and sunken as if defeated by a lifetime of enduring misogyny in silence. The pain in their eyes was momentarily filled with excitement from being allowed to uncover briefly for a picture. I didn’t dare remove my veil, my husband, no…. my captor, Yusuf, was merely a wall away from me waiting patiently for me to be done before driving me back to his home.

I stared absentmindedly at the women over the low whispering of conversations in Arabic. Studying and surveying their faces for a beacon of hope, a sign or perhaps a clue on how to survive in this land. This country, which I came to find out, was a totalitarian patriarchal oligarchic dictatorship governed by Islamic directorial Sharia laws. Here women (cis and trans) only had one purpose, it was to bear children and raise them to spread the seed of Islam. “Love” was considered a western infidel ideology, the only legitimate relationship between a man and his wife was transactional - women were to carry and raise children to ensure the future spread and strength of Islam. Anything that needed to be done to accomplish this task, such as beating and rape, were fully permissible by law. If women still had any fight left in them for whatever reason, they were simply “released” by their husbands for defiance. A “released” women’s fate was thousand folds worst than any kind of death here.

Once released from their husband’s or father’s ownership, a women in this predicament were often sold to pleasure houses by the Govt. officials, where 100s of bachelor men took turns defiling them. They were not allowed to die, for this reason they were kept in chains to ensure their safety. If they were lucky, most killed themselves and their children immediately after becoming released, widows or orphans.

“Yallah tali tali”, shouted the women photographer, the line was moving, but very slowly, the women that were done with their photos were reluctant to leave, this was their only escape from the daily routines of cooking, cleaning, sexual servitude and looking after children.

————————4 months earlier———————

I do not remember much about the last 4 months, despite it seeming like decades. Perhaps, I do not want to remember either. I heard the human brain erases memories when the trauma experienced outweighs human comprehension. In the 4 months I’ve been here, I have been reduced to an “existing” vessel for Yusuf, without soul, mind or understanding. I have been stripped away from my country, identity, dignity, family, friends, language, culture and everything that I had once valued and knew. One would say that when you lose everything, it is easier to escape from this world. I’ve tried, several times, but Yusuf has ensured that hurting myself would cause him to snap and target my innocent father, mother and brothers back in California — my true home. I wouldn’t have believed him, if he hadn’t showed me live surveillance of my family in distraught after my disappearance. I had to be alive in order to ensure their safety. Watching them and their innocent bewildered look on Yusuf’s phone that night, I had shut down and fallen to my knees in front of him, surrendered my fight and my body to his whim. He broke me… I might’ve been alive superficially, because I had no other choice, but inside I was still dead. My deadness was my only power, that he or his land could never take away from me.

It was a year and half ago, when I had first met Yusuf. Our very separate lifestyles and paths had crossed because he was my Uber driver. I was at my lowest point in life. Vulnerable, impressionable, lonely and lost. I was a human after all.

He had picked me up from a date with another man that night, a reality and truth he could not bear to listen to or think about. I didn’t dare bring up any past relationships or men into our conversations. Little did I know that despite my best efforts, he would punish me for the rest of my life for the actions I committed before I ever even crossed paths with him.

According to Yusuf, I only ever belonged to HIM and I was destined to be HIS, since before i knew him and now… after knowing him. He would make it his life’s priority to ensure I understood that fact. There were many red flags along the way, but of course I was blind to it all. My upbringing in an upper class neighborhood in West Hollywood, private schooling, parent’s wealth, comfort, luxury and a reputable job as a fashion director did not prepare me for what was about to come.

The first mistake was that I took Yusuf’s toxic obsession and possessiveness with me as “love”. The only things that mattered to me were our moments together, looking into each other’s eyes under the sheets, sleeping in his arms and listening to his words of comfort and wisdom about how he would turn me from a girl into a women, give my life a purpose and meaning, save me from the brainwashed capitalist western society, give me a family and children to raise and protect me, our children and EVEN my parents and brothers. He often came to my house to help my father and brothers out with car related troubles. My father was a renowned Pediatrician, my mother was a real estate mogul and sold luxury villas in Hollywood Hills, and my brothers were students at the University of Southern California, bound for Medical School.

My father and mother loved Yusuf despite his lack of wealth and education, he made up for his gaps with his display of utmost respect, his conversations about countries and politics my parents never even thought of. His street- smart attitude, wittiness and handyman capabilities were very well regarded in a family that lacked all the hall marks of a simplistic life. My father and him often spent time in the garage looking at my father’s car collection before coming in for dinner. My father often called Yusuf a car surgeon, and commended him on his knowledge of every car part and wire. I would proudly beam at Yusuf at the dinner table.

I could tell Yusuf had a harder time breaking through to my patriotic brothers and feminist girl friends. My siblings and friends often warned me about Yusuf and his ultra-conservative lifestyle. My brothers especially warned me about the uprising of the Islamic State in the Middle East and the takeover of Europe. They warned me about the Islamic agenda and how countries surrounding the Middle East were all falling into the grasp of a “central system” that was built on a totalitarian patriarchal government under the Islamic directorial Sharia laws. They warned me that the Muslim Caliphate was recruiting many European and American women from outside the Central Islamic State and taking them, forcefully marrying them and converting them to Islam.

I asked my brother why they would do such a thing?! He told me that during the takeover, many women fled to the South East Asia and up North into Russia. Now the Islamic State only had 30% women left and 70% men. Because of this, horrific things were happening inside their regime. Very little is known about the conditions inside, because once you get in, nothing gets out— not even information.

A pang of fear constricted my throat. But Yusuf cannot be one of those men. He’s here in the USA and he loves me I thought. My parents love him. Yusuf had advised me to stay away from strangers and distant friends that questioned our relationship. However, he had advised me that family was everything and to respect them and listen to them. He promised he would eventually win over my brothers and girl friends and prove them wrong. He would prove to them that he was worthy of having me. Yusuf had told me that every relationship is met with challenges and those challenges often made the love and relationships stronger. Yusuf had the answer to every question I asked and would ever ask. He knew how go deal with and talk about scenarios that had happened and that were yet to happen. I knew Yusuf and my parents knew him and that’s all that mattered. How could my brothers and friends be so wrong about him? He was the kindest and the most compassionate and caring human being I had thought.

Often, Yusuf insisted we cook at home and make memories that way, however I was a wild spirit and wanted to dress up and go out on dinner dates. He would reluctantly oblige as long as I dressed modestly and did not touch an alcoholic beverage. I would smile jokingly and peck his cheeks with a kiss. He had promised me that he respected my choices and would never force me to cover my head or body if I didn’t want to. However he wanted me to respect his beliefs also. He wanted me to dress modestly in long sleeves and shawls and refrain from drinking alcohol in his presence but around his family, he did want me to cover my head with a hijab and segregate myself with the women during family events.

Like with most Gen Zs, I was a devout feminist (like my friends) and very respectful towards all religions, cultures and expressions. I happily obliged to wear the beautiful shawls he bought me to cover my head when around his family members. I had become best friends with his nieces, Saja and Maryam and his aunts, who always admired my looks, clothing style and complimented me unconditionally. We spent hours talking about makeup, and they all seemed so happy and content in their hijabs.

I especially loved playing with their children. Yusuf would particularly look towards me during the times I spent with little children. His look was that of pure hunger — a bit unsettling, but it made me blush nevertheless because I knew what he was thinking about, especially because he often talked about making me a mother.

Yusuf never crossed the line with me, we rarely fought. Every time I would act out or become snappy, he would grab both my shoulders to ground me and kiss my forehead. It was hard to stay mad at him. Many times, I found myself begging Yusuf to take my body, he always declined and told me not to tempt him and that proper women should not speak like that. Yusuf never penetrated me, our love making was only confined to kissing and hugging. He had told me that he wanted to wait until we were married before he “defiled me”. I cringed at his choice of words, the feminist inside me screaming.

“Habibi, I understand this is something very personal to you and I respect that, but can we just…ummmm…. not say “defile me”! I would love for you to make love to me when you’re ready, there is nothing “defiling” about that!” I had told him. He had simply just smiled back at me. I had also told him that I was not ready to get married so soon. I found his nonchalant behavior regarding waiting 4-5 years until marriage and therefore sex quite shocking knowing how sexual Yusuf could be. But I did not think much of it at the time.

On our 1 year anniversary, Yusuf told me that he had bought us and Saja (his niece) a plane ticket to Australia to visit his parents. He stated he had met majority of my family and spent time with them, but now he wanted me to meet his father and mother - whom he loved dearly. He advised me to ask my parents for permission first. I was excited about the opportunity to travel with Saja (whom had become my close friend). I happily obliged, he came with me to reassure my parents that I would be in good strong hands and that we would be back in 2 weeks. My parents gave us both $500 as a parting gift, giving us their blessing to go. It was later that evening, when I was home, that my brothers blew up on my parents and me. My brothers warned my parents that they would never see me again if they allowed me to go with Yusuf. They warned me that I was being very stupid to trust a devout Muslim man I’ve only known for 1 year and flying across the world with him to goodness knows where. Over the heated argument, the yelling and shouting, I was keeping Yusuf up to date on what was transpiring at home. He asked if he needed me there, I told him it was best if he stayed out of it this time. I asked Yusuf to send me the proof of round tickets to Australia.

Yusuf promptly sent me the plane tickets, which I showed to my brothers and parents, in the end my parents and me blamed my brothers for their racist outlook. I tried to convince my brothers that there was another girl (Yusuf’s niece) traveling with us, but of-course my headstrong brothers tried to convince my parents and myself that this was still a very bad idea.

I spent the first 3-4 hours after take off with Saja, chatting away about the adventure awaiting us in Australia. Saja seemed a bit off, quieter than usual, even a bit down in fact. I asked her if everything was ok? She stated she just frightened from planes and heights in general. Understandable. I reassured and comforted her and told her that if she fell asleep, she won’t notice a thing. Finally, Saja told me she was going to try sleeping, she veiled her face completely in a black niqab and reclined her seat. I excitedly made my way two seats behind Saja towards Yusuf. Who was smiling warmly at me, he had been waiting so patiently for me.

I slept in Yusuf’s strong arms majority of the flight. Yusuf said we would switch planes during our short layover in Istanbul Turkey before departing for Sydney Australia. I looked into his eyes worried. “Yusuf, isn’t Turkey one of the countries that fell to the Islamic State we hear about in the news so much?” He pulled me onto him, and wrapped both arms around me. His dark intense eyes smoldering into mine. “You think I will let ANYTHING happen to my queen and the future mother of my children?” He asked me. “Of course not, thank you daddy” I replied shyly and playfully. “Look at me when you say that mamas,” he commanded smiling widely. Before I had the chance to look up at him, Yusuf’s tongue invaded my mouth and his lips made love to mine. His coarse beard rubbing against my chin. His warmth, his strength, his smell, his low groaning washed over my senses. Everything else faded into the background.

16 hours later, Yusuf woke me up with a kiss to my forehead. “Yallah habibti let’s go, we have arrived”. I stood up and looked around, the plane was completely empty. “Baby, where is Saja?” I asked Yusuf. “She took your stuff and is already in the terminal habibti”, he replied. I darted down the aisles to exit the plane. “Wait…” I heard Yusuf say behind me. I continued down the aisles. “WAIT”, Yusuf shouted loudly and sternly, his voice thundering in the empty plane. I stopped in my tracks, and looked back. Yusuf was carrying a black cloth, he looked menacingly into my eyes. “Do not walk in front of me like this again”, he said again firmly and sharply. I looked wide eyed at Yusuf, “I’m sorry baby”, I replied timidly. “Here wear this”, he said holding out the black cloth. I reluctantly accepted the black cloth, scared to offend him again. I made my way to the lavatory near the front exit of the plane. Yusuf stood outside. I slowly slid on the niqab, I realized, unlike the decorated hijab I would wear to his family events, it had a facial covering as well. I reluctantly looked at myself in the mirror. There I stood, shrouded in a black garment that I had begged Yusuf to never force on me. A tear rolled down my eyes, I wasn’t sure if I was crying about Yusuf’s sternness just moments before or because I couldn’t stand to see myself in a repressive niqab. I slowly opened the lavatory door, Yusuf stared me directly into the eyes. “Wallahi, you look even more beautiful in a niqab habibti”, he said grabbing both my shoulders and planting a kiss on my forehead. “Yusuf, how long do I have to wear this”, I asked softly? “Until I tell you, now walk behind me quietly, do not speak”, he said quickly as we both exited the plane.

I followed Yusuf into the terminal, the terminal was completely void of people except for few men wearing a long white thawb behind the counters. They had bushy dark eyebrows and long pointed beards. I observed cigarettes littering the dirty floor, lights flickering on and off, one light was even hanging down by the wire from the ceiling. Yusuf signaled for me to sit on a worn down chair in the corner, as he walked towards the men and started a conversation in Arabic. I sat down and looked around me, searching for Saja. She was still no where to be found. I watched Yusuf hand the man my USA passport, which was encased in a cute booklet I had bought. The man briefly looked towards me, staring directly into my worried eyes before quickly looking away again.

It was getting harder to breathe in the niqab, especially compounded with the smell of cigarette smoke that hung in the densely hot air within the terminal. Luckily, after 10-15 minutes of Yusuf conversing with the men, he turned back around and walked towards my direction. My heart pounded in my throat, as Yusuf reached for my trembling sweaty hands, kneeling in front of my seat, he took my hands and said, “Habibti, we have to go through medical clearance in order to get on the next plane, it will be quick, yallah”. “Yusuf… I don’t understand…” I interjected. He reached up and lowered the remainder of the veil over my eyes. Yusuf grabbed my hands and guided me out of the terminal. “Yusuf, my passport, did you get it back?”I said sounding panicked. “They will give it to us after medical clearance habibti and I will be right here with you,” he replied.

I couldn’t see much detail from inside the niqab, but I observed walking into an open space filled with men. Their loud voices echoed off the walls. There were no women in sight anywhere. Some men were sitting on chairs with their feet rested on the desks smoking cigarettes and others were cornered around a small TV showcasing what appeared to be Arabic news. The disorderly atmosphere in the room did not resemble any airport I had ever been to before. I squeezed Yusuf’s big hands as he walked me towards the end of the room. Men stared towards us, their eyes lingering only briefly on my black shrouded appearance as if trying to peer through before turning towards Yusuf and shouting “Allahu Akbar”, fists raised in the air. Yusuf responded back with the same energy and enthusiasm. I sighed and rolled my eyes under the niqab, as I thought about the warm beaches of Australia and sunbathing in my cute bikinis I had purchased at Nordstrom. I just had to put up with this for 1-2 more hours and I would never step foot in this part of the world again.

Finally, we arrived in the next room, which I assumed was “medical” based the dirty curtains that hung from the ceiling for “privacy”. This room was also filled with men carrying large guns and rocket launchers. Arabic slogans brandishing their clothes and arms. They stared directly at me as I walked behind Yusuf, I squeezed Yusuf’s hand and I felt him tightening his grip in response. I briefly looked up and found my eyes locked to a man carrying a large rocket launcher, he grinned at me. My stomach flipped as I quickly looked back down. Was he able to see inside the niqab I wondered? I continued to look down observing Yusuf’s boot prints on the dirty tiled floor as he led me towards the end of the room.

Yusuf sat me down on a rusty chair and drew the curtains around me. He told me to wait there quietly and keep my veil drawn while he went to look for the nurse. I nodded reluctantly. I looked around, the medical equipment appeared out dated and unsanitary. My heart started to pound again and before I could gather my thoughts, the curtain opened up and a women in a niqab walked in. She closed the curtain behind her and started preparing two injections. “Where is Yusuf…. Yusuf….”, I cried alarmed. “Khalaas khalaas azizi”, the nurse remarked. “Your husband is not allowed in, while I give you injection”, she added in a thick Arabic accent. “He is not my husband”, I declared quietly so that only we heard. The nurse ignored me.

The nurse removed her veil, revealing a stern looking chiseled yet beautiful face. She appeared to be in her mid 30s, with full lips and thinly shaped eyebrows. I also took this opportunity to unveil my face as well, glad for the opportunity to breathe air even though the air inside the room felt heavy, unclean and dusty. The nurse flashed a smile towards me. “Wallah you are beautiful! So tell me azizi, how much estrogen and progesterone are you taking? Also what anti androgens you take?” she asked as she tapped the syringe filled with clear fluid. I was relieved to find the syringes were at least sterile from a packet. “Ummmm… I’m taking 6mg estradiol…..wait, why are you asking me this, what are these injections for?” I said in a loud shaking voice. The nurse grabbed my arms as she prepared to give me the injection. I yanked my arm away. “Yusuf…. Yusuf please,” I cried out panicked. I heard the curtains rustle as the nurse quickly drew her veil over her face again. Yusuf emerged from behind the curtains and stared into my watery eyes.

Yusuf walked towards me domineeringly. He came and crouched down next to the chair. “Baby… these injections are for vaccines since we are going into an area with different animals and other diseases ”, he said sternly and calmly, putting both his hands on my shoulder. He leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “It will be ok and over soon mamas”, he finished smiling warmly at me. The sight of Yusuf instantly calmed me down, as I extended out my arm again.

The nurse emptied both syringes inside my arms and wrapped the injection site with clean cloth. “Ha’anti dha azizi … there you go” the nurse said squeezing my hands. I looked at her surprised, I couldn’t see her expression from under her niqab, but her hand squeeze sent shivers down my spine. She got up, nodded at Yusuf from under her niqab, lowered her head and walked out quietly. The world started to spin, as I forced my eyes to stay open. “Yusuf… Yusuf… something is happ… I think I am allergic …” I muttered disoriented clinging onto his shirt. “Please Yusuf, don’t let me….” I began staring into his red smoldering eyes. Before I finished my sentence, I collapsed onto his lap.

I woke up with a pounding headache, nausea, numbness and unable to move my arms and legs. Only my mind was awake. I looked up, I was laying on what appeared to be a hard bed, in a small enclosed section, still fully clothed in a niqab, only my face uncovered. I was in a plane… the loud humming of the plane engine invaded my ears. I thought my heart would give out from the pounding, I felt my body convulse in response to the loud beating of my heart. I tried to scream, nothing came out. My brain forcing me to shut down again and let go.

I swung myself off the bed with any strength I had left, my body hitting the floor of the plane with a loud thud face down. I heard footsteps approaching, the footsteps stopped outside the enclosure. “GHAZI” shouted a man, as the footsteps retreated. Mere seconds later, I heard another loud set of footsteps hastily coming towards me. I felt heavy and firm hands on my shoulders, as my perpetrator flipped me over. My quivering eyes were met with Yusuf’s intense gaze, mere inches from my face. “Habibti….,” Yusuf said sounding relieved. He wrapped his broad arms around my tiny waist as he lifted me from the floor effortlessly and put me back on the bed. “We will be home soon beautiful” he said avoiding my watery eyes. “SAJA, ahdur laha almaih ,” Yusuf shouted towards the aisle asking her to bring water. As Yusuf started to walk away, I grabbed his hand.

“Yusuf.. why,” I said weakly still clinging to his hand. Tears welled up in my eyes from anger, fear and confusion. He looked back at me and walked towards me. He stood on top of me, “you will understand one day baby. When you are not driven by your emotion and anger towards me, only then will you realize and understand the purpose I will give your life and the purpose you will give my life and our future family” he said quietly, his eyes searing into my soul.

I felt my confusion and fear turn to rage. “Yusuf, you have always been good with words. That’s how you won over my parents and me. But I want you to know something, I HATE you. I can NEVER be yours, you think you can force me to LOVE you? You are not worthy of my love or anyone’s love. You are a fucking monster, a TERRORIST. You can beat me, torture me, rape me… you’d be fucking a dead body. I want you to realize one thing, I have been fucked and taken countless times by random men and they have gotten more love from me than you will ever receive in your lifetime from me. You are a pathetic…… ”, Yusuf’s hands covered my mouth cutting off my words. I felt his big hands get tighter around my mouth cutting off air flow, I stared helplessly up at him. His eyes were red and for the first time, I saw tears in them.

He released his grip, looking in disbelief at what he just did. I gasped for air. “I told you mamas, when you are not consumed with your hate and anger for me, you WILL love me. I will earn your love. I will NEVER kill you and I will NEVER torture you, you’re too beautiful to kill and torture. I will try my best not to rape you, even though we must start a family in order for us to consummate our marriage. But one thing is for sure, you WILL learn to accept me, you WILL respect me and I will give you the security of a family and freedom (when I can) in return”, he finished.

My anger now turned to fear and helplessness, as if my mind was trying every tactic it could to get out of this situation. “Yusuf, please, please spare me if you EVER loved me. I will kill myself, I swear, I will kill myself before I ever give you the satisfaction of a family”, I begged. He leaned over me, inches from my face, “it’s because I LOVE you, you are here you silly girl and trust me, you won’t kill yourself, I’ll make sure of that” he added. His mouth came down over my lips as he began to hungrily devour my lips. I lay there emotionless. Searching his eyes for any sign of compassion as he kissed me. He quickly pulled away as Saja walked towards us with a glass of water in her hand. Yusuf looked at me one last time before he walked of. I looked at Saja in disbelief and disgust as she attempted to hand me a plastic cup of water. I threw the water at her, “YOU TRAITOR, YOU KNEW, YOU KNEW ALL ALONG, HOW COULD YOU SAJA”, I screamed at her. I fell to the floor, screaming and crying hysterically. Saja quickly backed out of the room as Yusuf re-emerged with a syringe in his hand. “No…. No ….. please I’m sorry Yusuf… please”, I said coiling into a fetal position besides the bed, sitting in a pool of water I had spilled. He waved to someone as he handed them the syringe at the entrance of the room. He alone walked into the room, pinned both my hands down over my head and forcefully lowered the veil over my face. “YALLA” he shouted impatiently. Another man entered the room with the syringe. Yusuf effortlessly pinned me down with his weight and hands as the other man injected me with the syringe. This was the closest Yusuf had allowed another man to get to to me. I felt my mind drift into darkness once more.

———————————Present————-———————

“YALLA HABIBTI TALI”, yelled the photographer impatiently, waking me from my thoughts. I felt a tap on my shoulder as the women next to me motioned for me to get my photograph taken. I slowly walked over to the photographer. The women in the room all stared as I lifted my veil. I heard quite whispering and and the occasional “aajnabi” (foreigner), as the women looked at me in amazement. They knew I was a foreigner, probably by the color of my eyes and skin. They probably even knew I was forcefully brought here against my will. It was a rarity to see a foreigner women (trans or cis), although it was common for the men to abduct many foreign women, but they often killed themselves due to the repression and of course obvious circumstances. Something I would have also done, if I wasn’t blackmailed to keep my family out of danger. I stared blankly at the camera, expressionless.

As soon as I stepped away from the camera, two young hijabi girls (about 9-10 years old), came running towards me enthusiastically, pulling on my niqab. I crouched down as they asked me questions in Arabic, speaking over one another. I looked cluelessly at them unable to understand anything, their mother smiling down at me. The girls grabbed my hands and reached for my face, almost as if to examine me. They looked at the chipped glittery nail polish on my fingers, and looked at each other in amazement. The chipped nail polish on my fingers was the only remaining remnant of my past life. Nail polish was not allowed here, it drew too much male attention to the hands, which made one a target of sexual assault. I forced a painful smile at them. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at their innocent faces. I wish they knew a different life, a life of freedom, education and ability to dream. Women were gathered around me, looking at me in awe. The photographer drew her veil and disappeared to the back. Moments later she motioned for me to follow her. I said goodbye to the girls and the women, as I followed the photographer to the back, also lowering my veil.

Yusuf was standing there, waiting for me. My heart began to pound again, my PTSD and anxiety threatening to collapse me to the floor. The photographer handed him my newly printed identity card. Women were not allowed to keep their own ID cards because of the uncovered face. He nodded quietly, prompting the photographer to leave. He lifted my veil, my face still glued to the floor. He raised my chin up and commanded me to look at him. I slowly looked into his dark and stern eyes. Tears forming in my eyes again. I flinched and withdrew as Yusuf put his arms around my shoulder. “Let’s go HOME habibti”, he said smiling. He lowered my veil again as he led me out of the studio.

The blast of hot air, the loud blaring of horns, the dust hanging low in the air, the smell of petrol mixed with decaying flesh (possible humans and animals I figured), invaded my senses. We walked between a group of men, carrying guns and rocket launchers, smoking cigarettes and laughing. I lowered my head, as Yusuf led me towards the car. He turned the car on and yanked up the AC. He walked back around and beckoned me into the fully tinted back seat. Women were not allowed to sit in the front seats.

He advised me to keep my face covered even in the back seat of the car, while he talked about business with the group of men in front of the photo studio. He reached in his pocket, and handed me the ID card. “You look beautiful mamas. Here you can look at it until I get back,” he said smiling as he walked off.

I looked down at the ID card. It was the first time in 4 months, I had been allowed to hold any kind of paper, let alone read it. Women were forbidden from reading and writing, even in Arabic. I inspected the colorful ID and tried to make out the letters and words I had learned in my 1 year of Arabic lessons back in California. This ID card sealed by fate, I was the sole property of Yusuf. If caught without Yusuf as my mahram, I would be jailed and most likely forcefully released from his marriage vows. Which meant, I would be sold to a pleasure house. I looked helplessly down at my photo, as tears dropped from my eyes and joined the sweat dripping down my face under the niqab.

To Be Cont.