Anna Schmidt stood at the center of the carpet laid out on the suburban Kabul football field. The morning wind brushed through her long golden hair, carrying the dry, crisp chill unique to the Central Asian highlands. She was twenty-four, tall and athletic, with long, powerful legs, a firm, rounded ass, and a supple waist like a white poplar in the mountains—all thanks to years of climbing in the Alps and Bavarian ranges. That Germanic tenacity for conquering steep rock faces alone, facing glaciers and rushing torrents, had always been the proud tribal mark in her blood. She was a proud daughter of Germania, with the freedom and strength of ancient tribes flowing in her veins. Yet during her long years in a foreign land, she had gradually felt a deeper summons, surging like the great northern rivers.

Back in Germany, she lived in an old Berlin apartment. Her landlord, a man in his fifties, would always leer at her with ambiguous eyes in the hallway. Countless evenings, she showered in the tiny bathroom, water splashing loudly. She would habitually bend over, carefully washing her snow-white, rounded buttocks and the hidden folds with her hands. Her pink private parts and the slightly contracting anus glistened under the hot water. She thought only she knew, but the landlord had long been spying through the vent or door cracks. The humiliation and helplessness of being watched pierced deep into her proud soul like a thorn.

She reported it to the police many times, filed complaints, wrote letters, but fell into Germany’s endless paperwork hell: forms, proofs, hearings, lawyer letters, waiting for replies… Year after year, the files piled up. The bureaucratic machine turned slowly and indifferently; her complaints were forever “under processing.” Germanic order and efficiency had become the most ironic shackles. She often stood by the window at night, looking at Berlin’s gray sky, a nearly epic desolation surging in her heart. She craved a purer, more thorough cleansing—a ritual that could wash away all the filth from her soul and body—rather than endless forms and cold law.

So she came to Afghanistan.

As an NGO volunteer, she liked to climb the slopes behind the village alone in her free time. The Central Asian mountains were not as majestic as the Alps, but they carried a vast, epic sense: the wind blew over the ancient Pashtun land, telling of Alexander the Great’s iron cavalry, Genghis Khan’s wolf-smoke signals, the wreckage of Soviet tanks, and the warmth and tenacity of Islamic faith flowing like a great river for a thousand years.

She first met Hamid on just such a slope.

She crested the ridge and saw the young Pashtun man, Hamid, squatting behind a ewe. His hands gripped the sheep’s hips as he fucked it. The scene looked primitive and raw in the setting sun—the most instinctive connection between man and animal.

Anna’s Germanic pride exploded instantly. She rushed forward and shouted in English: “Stop! Don’t do that to the sheep! How can you… You’re fucking the sheep! Is this the rumor about ‘Muslim sheep-fuckers’? It’s too barbaric!”

Hamid looked up, his face covered in sweat, but he gave a gentle, tolerant smile. He slowly pulled out, straightened his clothes, brushed off the dirt, and said in fairly fluent English: “Miss Anna, you misunderstand. This ewe was in heat and suffering. There was no suitable ram in the village, so I was using the oldest way to help her relieve it. She’s much calmer now… Thank you for running over so kindly to stop it. You have a kind and brave heart, like a clear spring in the mountains.”

At that moment, Anna was stunned. Hamid showed no anger, no defense. He calmly explained the symbiotic relationship between people, sheep, and nature in Afghan Central Asian folk customs. Here, people multiplied amid war and barrenness, following the pure teachings of Islam: Ghusl for complete cleansing inside and out, Wudu for daily purification before prayer. Those vulgar Western rumors about “fucking sheep” were nothing but malicious slander against an outsider culture.

From that day on, Hamid repeatedly shielded her with his body during armed clashes and told her about Afghanistan’s river-like history and warmth amid the ruins. Anna’s proud Germanic soul was gradually touched. She was no longer the superior Western “savior,” but had thrown herself into a broader, deeper river. She actively learned Dari, read the Quran, and completed her conversion before the wedding. She told herself: this was not betrayal, but like the ancient Germanic Valkyries or the northern rivers, a search for true purity and belonging.

But now, the morning after the wedding, all the rumors had become reality.

The football field had been simply prepared. Old carpets, a copper basin of warm herbal infusion, enema tools… The old mullah held the Quran, his voice kind and solemn:

“Anna, my child. Allah is the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. You, a German girl from afar, have willingly converted—this is Allah’s guidance. So that the whole village may witness your sincerity, I, as mullah, have specially granted this benevolent exception for you: the Purity Oath ritual must be performed publicly on the football field. You will thoroughly cleanse the residual pork fat filth from your body and publicly swear to abstain from pork for life, becoming a pure Muslim. This is both the condition and the blessing.”

Anna stood there. The intense cultural shock surged over her like the rapids of a northern river. The humiliation of being spied on in the German bathroom, the helplessness of the paperwork—all converged into this public, thorough ritual before her. Her cheeks burned red, tears welled in her eyes, yet she faintly felt a strange, epic summons—like the Rhine River finally rushing toward a vaster sea.

“No… this is impossible…” Her voice trembled. “I’ve already converted… Why does it have to be in such a public place…”

The night before Anna and Hamid’s wedding, she sat alone in the small courtyard of Hamid’s family’s mud-brick house, the phone screen glowing faintly. Village signal was intermittent, but enough for her to browse those secret forums—places like zity.biz. She had been curious, wanting to learn more about Pashtun wedding customs, and accidentally came across vague rumors about “Muslim rural Purity Oath rituals.”

“I heard some traditional Afghan families are especially strict with foreign brides… They use herbal enemas to thoroughly wash out any residual pork fat from the body, then publicly swear never to eat pork again before they’re truly considered converted.”

“Publicly? On village open ground or next to the mosque?”

“Yes, especially for German or Western girls who marry in. The mullah presides, saying Muslims don’t marry infidels, so it’s a benevolent exception, but it must be publicly witnessed or it doesn’t count.”

Anna had found it absurd at the time. She smiled and tossed the phone aside, thinking: these must be vulgar Western-made rumors, the same as those dirty jokes slandering Muslim men as animal-fuckers—shameless and ignorant. She had already converted to Islam and deeply loved Hamid—the man who had shielded her with his body during clashes. She believed their faith was pure; these rumors were just prejudice.

But now, the morning after the wedding, reality hit like a hammer.

The village football field had been simply arranged. Several old carpets were laid on the flat ground near the goalposts. Semi-transparent curtains and screens were set up around them, leaving enough space for close female relatives and senior male family members to witness. The air carried faint incense and herbal scents. When her mother-in-law and cousins brought Anna here, her legs had already gone weak.

The old mullah stood on a slightly raised stone, his white beard looking especially kind in the morning light. He held the Quran, his voice low and gentle, translated to Anna’s ears through her cousin’s translation app:

“Anna, my child. Allah is the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. You are a girl from another ethnicity who has willingly converted and married Hamid—this is Allah’s arrangement. So that the family and village can truly accept you, I, as mullah, have granted this benevolent exception. The Purity Oath ritual must be performed publicly on the football field—this is the condition. Here, you will use the herbal infusion to thoroughly cleanse any possible residual pork fat filth from your body and publicly swear to abstain from pork for life, becoming a pure Muslim bride. This is not punishment, but a blessing and protection for your marriage.”

Anna’s face turned deathly pale. Those forum rumors… the other shoe had finally dropped. It wasn’t a rumor—it was real. And more direct, more public than the rumors.

She stared at the items placed in the center of the carpet: a large copper basin filled with warm, pale-yellow herbal infusion (a mix of chamomile, mint, and fennel, gently steaming), beside it a smooth traditional enema tube, funnel, and lubricant, plus a thick soft pad. Although most villagers had been asked to stay away, a few distant figures still watched. The curtains only blocked part of the view. That semi-public feeling made her almost unable to stand.

“No… this is impossible…” Anna’s voice shook, her broken Dari carrying a sob. “I’ve already converted! Why on the football field? In front of everyone? Those rumors… I thought they were fake…”

She staggered back a step, clutching her robe tightly. An overwhelming sense of shame burned through her body like fire—a university-educated German girl, about to be treated this way here, under the witness of the mullah and the family. Cleansing the “pork fat,” publicly swearing… everything was exactly as written in the forums.

Her mother-in-law gently held her shoulders, her voice soft but firm: “Child, those online ‘sheep-fucking’ legends are the most vicious lies and prejudices. We are not like that. We pursue purity of body and soul. Prophet Ibrahim offered a sheep in sacrifice as obedience to Allah; today’s ritual is the same—to let you completely leave the past and become truly one of us. The mullah has already been very merciful with this exception. If it’s not publicly witnessed, the family cannot fully accept it.”

Tears poured from Anna’s eyes. She tried to break free from her cousins’ arms, twisting her body in fierce resistance: “Where is Hamid? Does he agree to this? It’s too humiliating… I can’t do it… Please… do it somewhere else…”

The mullah looked at her calmly, his eyes full of kindness: “Hamid knows. This is for your own good. Child, kneel. The ritual is about to begin.”

Under the gentle but irresistible guidance of the female relatives, Anna was slowly pressed down to kneel on the soft pad. Her knees spread, face pressed against the rough carpet. Her traditional robe was lifted to her waist, leaving only her thin underwear exposed to the morning breeze. Her whole body trembled violently, the shame so intense it nearly suffocated her. Warm towels had already begun gently wiping her back and abdomen, massaging her tense muscles. The herbal fragrance grew stronger as the infusion in the copper basin was slowly stirred.

Anna bit her lip and whispered one last time in a tearful voice: “…Mullah… do we really have to do it this way… I’m scared… It’s too public…”

The mullah began to recite Quranic verses in a low voice, blessing the ritual.

The enema tube was carefully lubricated and slowly approached her slightly raised position…