<p><strong>A Day of Trials in the Jordanian Palace</strong></p><p><strong>Breakfast: Roasted nuts and Bedouin tea</strong><br><strong>Lunch: Kunafa, Zarb tea, and Fattir</strong><br><strong>Dinner: Mansaf, Shawarma, and fresh juice</strong></p><p><strong>This morning, I started with preparations for breakfast. From the store, I found some bread similar to pita and gathered the necessary ingredients. Roasted nuts mixed with cashews or peanuts seemed appropriate, and I combined dried Bedouin tea leaves with mint, ginger, and cloves to brew a traditional tea, just as my grandmother does at home.</strong></p><p><strong>By 6 AM, I was done and performed my prayers in the kitchen, which also has an adjoining bathroom. Afterward, I transferred the food into large warmers and set it up in the dining room. Once everything was in place, I returned to clean up the kitchen, making sure every surface gleamed, as it’s entirely black and white in design.</strong></p><p><strong>After a while, I noticed the guards around the dining table. As I tried to avoid them, my robe caught on a flower vase, causing it to crash loudly to the floor. Their anger was swift; they beat me mercilessly with whips until I was forced to gather the shattered pieces and dispose of them.</strong></p><p><strong>One of them then pushed me to the food and ordered, "Eat."</strong><br><strong>Tears filled my eyes as I obeyed, even though my body ached from yesterday's fever and today's punishment. I ate quietly—roasted nuts, Bedouin tea, and bottled water—before they took the food away.</strong></p><p><strong>Later, the lead guard returned and said, "The cooking is good, but Sultan Ashraf will not eat your food because you're black. You will cook for his dogs and cats and clean the palace. Someone else will prepare his meals."</strong></p><p><strong>"Cook for animals?" I thought bitterly. "Am I a slave?"</strong></p><p><strong>They left me alone in the hall. Overwhelmed, I returned to the kitchen, broke down in tears, and nursed the painful welts on my body. By 8:30 AM, I began sweeping the massive living room. It took me until 10 AM just to clean it completely.</strong></p><p><strong>Afterward, I noticed a display case filled with perfumes and approached out of curiosity. Just as I leaned in to inspect it, Sultan Ashraf entered, dressed in sportswear and holding a bottle of water. Sweating and wiping his brow, he startled me so much that I knocked over a perfume bottle, shattering it.</strong></p><p><strong>The guards stormed in, glared at me, and made me clean up the mess. They then dragged me to a cold, dark room and locked me in for hours. When they finally let me out, I could barely move. They poured hot water over me twice before I regained consciousness.</strong></p><p><strong>By now, I regretted ever coming to the Jordanian palace. I opened my bag and found a note alongside some money:</strong></p><p><strong>"Welcome to the Jordanian palace. Inside your bag, you’ll find a phone and Bluetooth headset, along with this cash. Enjoy yourself, but remember, you will work for us. If you refuse, you’ll open your eyes in the afterlife."</strong></p><p><strong>Horrified, I realized I was trapped. Shortly after, I overheard influential people discussing illegal plans to smuggle resources and documents out of the country. I began to wonder if Sultan Ashraf was truly in control or merely a puppet for those around him.</strong></p><p><strong>Four Weeks Later</strong></p><p><strong>My routine involved cooking for animals and cleaning, enduring constant racial discrimination and abuse. One day, I discovered that Sultan Ashraf never even read the documents he signed. Instead, he blindly trusted his advisors, Amir Ukshe and Amir Abu Zarri.</strong></p><p><strong>When I learned that my fellow servant Zakiya had been sentenced to three years in prison for defending herself against an assault, I could no longer stay silent. I stormed into the Sultan’s quarters, crying out, "What kind of leader are you, failing to bring justice to your people?"</strong></p><p><strong>He ignored me, but his guards dragged me out and punished me severely. This time, the abuse left me bedridden for three days.</strong></p><p><strong>When I returned to the kitchen, Samin, another cook, warned me, "Be careful with Sultan Ashraf. Speaking directly to him could cost you your life. You were spared only because his pets refused to eat anyone else’s cooking."</strong></p><p><strong>I nodded, tears streaming down my face. Despite everything, I resolved to survive until Sultan left the country. But on my final day of cooking for his pets, I accidentally made their food too spicy. This caused chaos as the animals refused to eat and grew agitated. Sultan Ashraf himself ordered me punished.</strong></p><p><strong>"Let her feel pain so intense that she’ll fear even seeing me in the future," he commanded.</strong></p><p><strong>I was taken to the torture chamber again, where I endured unspeakable suffering. My body was left battered, my spirit broken. I realized that surviving in the Jordanian palace required more than resilience—it demanded submission, even at the cost of my dignity.</strong></p>
