My name is Nahjaad.  I cannot reveal my whole name, or I will be severely punished, possibly even killed, for revealing too much.  I am eight years old.  I live in the country of Pakistan.

I am also married.  I was forced to marry by my father; he wants more grandsons, so he had me marry a much older man so I can make babies.  I think that is crazy; I am only a child; my body is not designed for that purpose!  If I became pregnant with child there'd be a chance that it could kill me!  I'm only a little girl; I deserve much better than this life!

My husband is fifty years old.  He is always hitting me.  He is very disappointed in me; nothing that I do can ever be good enough to please him.  Every time I hear his gruff, awful laughter or hear his heavy footsteps, I cringe because I know I will be beaten if I don't have his dinner on time or don't clean the house to meet his expectations.

My husband tries to have sex with me, but I find it very disgusting.  I don't want to even think of engaging in that; if I could, I'd kill him myself if I could find something to hit him with!  Every night we fight, and I am often the one who is in tears; my husband thinks it is very funny to force his ugly, nasty body on me.

Up until I married Ali*, I was a happy, carefree child.  I played with my friends, went to school, went to mosque for prayer five times a day.  Now I cannot leave the house; if I do, I have to be totally covered, with just my eyes showing, or I will be mocked or worse.  My life is full of fear and violence; I am scared for my future, and I am scared of Ali most of all.

I have to go.  Soon my husband will be home; I must get the place swept and food on the table.  If I don't have anything done, a terrible beating may be in store for me.  I will write in here another day in secret; I can only do this when nobody is home.  Goodbye; this is Nahjaad saying so long for now!

~Nahjaad, aged eight. 

*to be continued.*

*Name changed.