We are slaves.
There is no way to sugar coat it or make it seem another way. We have officially become slaves. I had my first day of work with my master. She is stern and proper and bitter all the time. I can only address her as Ma'am. She wouldn't even tell me her real name.
She made me scrub the floors until they shone, muddied them up again and the scolded me for not cleaning properly. Then, I needed to look after her children, cook supper for eight, and tidy the kitchen, starved after a full day's work, watching them eat the food I made for them.
I was hungry and exhausted and it was late in the day, and still she made me stay and work and prune the garden and wash the pots and pans and knead the dough for the next days bread, and bring her more water from the well, and feed all of the family's eight camels, and polish their hooves...
Enough is enough! I don't know how much more of this I will be able to take!
My poor father and brothers have the worst of it. They spend their days in the fields making clay bricks for Pharoah's next pyramid....I don't know how they can bear it without breaking out into a fight or a protest.
I myself am on the brink of exploding.
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