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In a far flung corner of northern Afghanistan, Aziza reaches into the dark wooden cupboard, rummages around, and pulls out a small lump of something wrapped in plastic. She unwraps it, breaking off a small chunk as if it were chocolate, and feeds it to four-year-old son, Omaidullah. It's his breakfast -- a lump of pure opium.
If it hurts them, I don't care.
I am in control of myself, and what my own kids eat. That's where I am the boss.
And so my kids eat good foods, and I am thankful for that.
But under no circumstance do any of us have the right to force them to eat or not eat something.
Honestly, how is this different from Westerners constantly drugging up their kids on Tylenol or whatever in order to make them stop crying? I see no difference at all.