By Krista Bremer
Fifteen years in the past, Krista Bremer was once a surfer and an aspiring journalist who dreamed of a comfy American lifetime of event, romance, and chance. Then, on a working path in North Carolina, she met Ismail, honest, passionate, variety, but from a truly assorted global. Raised a Muslim—one of 8 siblings born in an impoverished fishing village in Libya—his religion trained his existence. while she and Ismail made the choice to develop into a relatives, Krista launched into a trip she by no means can have imagined, an unintentional jihad: a quest for religious and highbrow development that may open her brain, and extra vital, her middle.
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Additional resources for My Accidental Jihad
In its own way, the house was as horsey as Jane’s, but at a higher, wealthier level: wonderful paintings of horses, including a few by George Stubbs himself, bronzes of horses from every era, shelf after shelf of gleaming polo trophies, some of them works of art in themselves. There was a pianist at the big white Steinway grand playing tunes from Cole Porter, Noel Coward, and Rogers and Hart, while the butler circulated through the room reﬁlling people’s glasses. It was all like stepping back into the 1920s.
That’s what I said to him. ” She paused. ” “Up to a point. ” I knew better than to put the blame on Black Jack. You can’t criticize the horse somebody has lent you—it just isn’t done. Jane chuckled. “Nobody’s done that in years,” she said. ” “Aye, that he did,” Thady said contentedly. “I told him that’s what happens when you get a real daredevil in the hunt ﬁeld. ” He sipped his tea, into which Jane had poured a generous shot of Irish whiskey. ” The same thought had occurred to me, which perhaps explains why I never repeated the experience.
I gave a sigh of relief as we turned off the main road into a narrower, 38 Horse People but quieter, dirt one, then, after what seemed like a long time, onto the gravel of a driveway that took us around the side of a magniﬁcent old brick mansion to a vast expanse of lawn, on which I saw two or three dozen more horses and riders, mixed in with a lot of well-dressed people on foot—for foxhunting is as much a social occasion as a sport, in which seeing who is there and being seen are perhaps more important to most people than killing a fox.
My Accidental Jihad by Krista Bremer