PRINCESS SULTANA’S DAUGHTERS
A Saudi Arabian woman’s intimate
revelations about sex, love, marriage
—and the fate of her beautiful daughters—
behind the veil
Jean Sasson
****
Published by:
Jean Sasson at Smashwords
Copyright (c) 2011 by Jean Sasson
****
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Smashwords Edition Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
****
(c) 2011 by The Sasson Corporation
Published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved. This book may not be duplicated in any way without the express written consent of the author, except in the form of brief excerpts or quotations for the purposes of review. The information contained herein is for the personal use of the reader and may not be incorporated in any commercial programs or other books, databases, or any other kind of software without the written consent of the publisher or author. Making copies of this book, or any portion of it, for any purpose other than your own, is a violation of United States copyright laws.
****
Princess Sultana’s Daughters
was previously published by Doubleday, 1994, and by Dell, 1995.
--
The Doubleday hardcover edition contains the following Library of
Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
--
Sasson, Jean P.
Princess Sultana’s daughters / Jean Sasson — 1st edition
p. cm.
Sequel to: Princess
1. Women—Saudi Arabia—Social conditions. 2. Princesses—
Saudi Arabia—Biography I. Title.
--
Cover Design by Lightbourne
Author Photograph by Peter M.M. Sasson
Front Cover Model’s Photograph by Marco Baldi for Studio Babaldi
***
Also by Jean Sasson
NON-FICTION BOOK TITLES:
The Rape of Kuwait
Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia
Princess Sultana’s Circle
Mayada, Daughter of Iraq
Love in a Torn Land: A Kurdish Woman’s Story
Growing up Bin Laden: Osama’s Wife and Son Take Us Inside Their Secret World
For the Love of a Son: One Afghan Woman’s Quest for her Stolen Child
--
HISTORICAL FICTION BOOK TITLES:
Ester’s Child
***
Princess Sultana’s Daughters is a true story. Names have been changed and various events slightly altered to protect the safety of recognizable individuals. In telling this true story it is not the intention of the author nor of the princess to demean the rich and meaningful Islamic faith.
An earlier book, Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia (first published in 1992, and due to its popularity, re-released in a new edition in 2003) set the stage for this work by depicting the life of Princess Sultana from early childhood to the Gulf War of 1991. This book is the continuing story of Princess Sultana, her daughters, and other Saudi Arabian women they personally know. While readers are encouraged to read the first book about Sultana, Princess Sultana’s Daughters is a story in itself and can be read on its own.
Additionally, the third and last book in the trilogy is titled Princess Sultana’s Circle. Although many facts are revealed about a land that is little understood by the Western world, none of these three books propose to be a history of Saudi Arabia, or to reflect the lives of all women who live there.
Know that these three books, linked by one woman, come to one conclusion: that the degradation of women is a worn out habit. Though the double standard is still alive and well in most countries, it is time for male dominance over women to end.
Foreword
I lived in Saudi Arabia from 1978 until 1990, a country well known for its segregation of the sexes. I quickly came to see that forced gender segregation created a close bonding between women.
During that time I met and befriended a number of Saudi Arabian women. After living in the country for five years, I came to know an extraordinary woman the world now knows as Princess Sultana in Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia. What a brave woman! I admire Sultana’s strength and courage more than I can say for she literally risked her life for her story to be told.
After the amazing success of Princess, Princess Sultana requested that I continue to write the stories of abuse that continue to occur in her homeland, Saudi Arabia. And so I have. Like most women who are mothers, Sultana’s deepest concerns are for her own daughters, yet I believe that Sultana’s determination to “right wrongs” also stems from a basic goodness and desire to help mankind.
Although my small town American life has been nothing like the royal life of Princess Sultana, we do share several common bonds: both of us want to help all women who are unable to help themselves; both of us are relentlessly determined to continue fighting the men and women who have made numerous efforts to stop us from revealing these truths; and, bothof us are optimistic in character. Princess Sultana and I both truly believe that by the telling of these true stories that we can make a difference in women’s lives.
When I was young, my optimism in all things knew no bounds. I truly believed that I could solve every problem and right every wrong. In part I believe this optimism stemmed from the fact that I grew up in America’s deep south in a tiny town of only 800 people. Small town life carries a happy innocence that clings to its inhabitants forever. And, the people in my little community were for the most part, decent and kind. Due to this inherent “goodness”, I can’t recall a single incident in my youth where I felt females were less valued than males.
Although Sultana grew up in a wealthy environment that I could not have begun to imagine in my poverty-stricken youth, I now know that I was more fortunate than a royal princess, for I never felt I was second-class in any way, to anyone. This wonderful confidence instilled a great sense of optimism in my every emotion and action.
After years of living an adventurous life that, thus far, has taken me to 66 countries, my optimism has survived, although it has been battered by the reality of life for so many women of the world. I have found that the oppression of women and the social pressures to which they are exposed, are a worldwide problem. Sadly, some governments and social systems are downright hostile to their female population. Too many women of the world are condemned to a life of heart-breaking and even cruel discrimination. Too many men, who are the world’s social or political leaders, turn a blind eye to this “war” against women.
How anyone with an ounce of feeling can turn a blind eye to the horrors inflicted on women is beyond my comprehension. I know that I am haunted by many incidents of abuse against women. I am sad to report that I have personally seen the following:
• While working at a hospital in Saudi Arabia, I personally knew of young girls admitted to the hospital to give birth. “Babies having babies,” as we often sadly observed. For the most part, those young girls were the third or fourth wife of an aging man.
• I have seen young Asian women auctioned off to the highest bidder for the purposes of unlimited sex. I witnessed young girls, some that looked no older than eight-years-old, stand weeping as heartless men inspected their bodies. I was shocked to see that most of the men buying the young girls were citizens from Western countries.
• I visited a brothel in Asia where beautiful young women had been bought to serve men as sex slaves. During the day the “owners” of these young girls forced them to work in a clothing factory located on the premises. At night they were compelled to return to the brothel on the ground floor to allow strangers to take possession of their bodies.
• I once saved a young woman from a slave-like existence an supported her for years. This same woman later gave her own three-year-old daughter away to a group of men so that she could devote herself solely to supporting her treasured son.
Many well-meaning people have often advised me to temper my reactions to such abuses, that social change comes slowly, and that I must be patient. Although history tells me this is true, as far as I am concerned, change cannot come quickly enough for young females who are so brutally mistreated.
And so a princess from Saudi Arabia and an American woman from small town America continue to tell the stories that we hope will provide knowledge to readers, and that this knowledge will compel people to gather their courage and take action to bring change to our planet.
I am proud to be the voice for Princess Sultana. And, I am proud to present the second book in the Princess Trilogy: Princess Sultana’s Daughters…
Jean Sasson, March 2001
For additional information about Jean Sasson and her books, including maps, timelines, glossaries, and key facts about Saudi Arabia, please visit the author’s website: http://www.JeanSasson.com
PRINCESS SULTANA’S DAUGHTERS
Prologue
A great rock is not disturbed by the wind; the mind of a wise man is not disturbed by either honor or abuse.
—BUDDHA
Once, I read that any good pen can stab any king. As I study the photograph of my uncle, Fahd ibn Abdul Aziz, the king of Saudi Arabia, I contemplate the fact that I harbor no desire to stab our king, or even to spark the wrath of a man I know to be kindly.
I trace my fingers across his face, calling to mind the man, Fahd, from the days of my childhood. The photograph portrays the king in maturity and reveals not a spark of the youthful figure I remember. The king’s stern brow and strong jaw belie the charming man I wistfully summon into my mind. My thoughts wander back in time, remembering the king before he was crowned. Standing tall and broad-shouldered, with his large hand outstretched, he had offered a sweet date to a child in awe. That child had been me. Fahd, like his father before him, was a robust man, and, to my young eyes, had looked more like the son of a bedouin warrior he was than like the statesman he would become. Contrary to my bold character, I had reacted in a timid manner, reluctantly accepting the desert fruit from his fingers, then running away to the arms of my mother. I overheard Fahd’s fond laughter as I tasted the sweetness of the date.
As is our Saudi custom, I have not been unveiled in the presence of the king since the age of puberty. Since that time he has grown into a man of age. Acknowledging that the king now appears somber, I decide that while the years of statesmanship have strengthened him, the responsibilities of leadership have chastened him. And, though massive and regal, our king cannot be judged handsome. His eyelids droop too heavily over his bulging eyes; his nose overshadows his upper lip, which tightly frames a delicate mouth. In the picture so familiar to all Saudis and visitors to the kingdom, the official photograph that hangs conspicuously in every business and institution in my country, I think the king appears to be what I know he is not: forbidding, insensitive.
In spite of his unquestioned power and vast wealth, his position is not to be envied. As absolute sovereign of one of the wealthiest nations on earth, King Fahd’s rule over the hot, dreary land of Saudi Arabia is a perpetual struggle between old and new.
While most nations maintain themselves by abandoning or recasting the old ways, growing slowly into newer and better systems that advance civilization, our king has no such options. He, a mere mortal, must force into unity and peace four divided and completely distinct groups of citizens: the religious fundamentalists, stern, unyielding men of power who demand a return to the past; the prominent, well-educated middle class who cry out for release from the old traditions that stifle their lives; the Bedouin tribes who struggle against enticements to abandon their roving ways and yield to the lure of the cities; and, finally, members of the vast royal family who desire nothing more than wealth, wealth, and more wealth.
Bridging these four factions is the one group of natives who have been forgotten, the women of Saudi Arabia, as diverse in our desires and demands as the individual men who rule our daily lives.
Yet, strangely, I, a woman of great frustrations, have little anger with the king over our plight, for I know that he must have the loyal backing of ordinary husbands, fathers, and brothers before moving against the disciplined men of religion. These clerics claim that they correctly interpret the historic code of laws to allow men to rule harshly over their women. Too many ordinary men of Saudi Arabia are content with the status quo, discovering that it is easier to ignore the complaints of their women than to follow their king in negotiating change.
In spite of the difficulties, the bulk of Saudi citizens support King Fahd. It is only the religious fundamentalists who call for his downfall. To the remainder of Saudi citizens, he is known as a man of generosity and good cheer.
And, I remind myself, the women of our family know the king is well loved by his wives, and who knows a man better than his wives?
While King Fahd rules with a milder hand than did his father and his three brothers, it does not require the wisdom of a sage to know that Princess, the book that tells the story of my life, will be viewed as a slap in the face to the man who rules my country.
That, alone, I regret. I bluntly admonish myself that I, under no duress, made the decision to break the precedent of generations by flinging family secrets to the wind. Now, for the first time, I wonder if I acted with passion rather than wisdom; perhaps my earnestness and enthusiasm led me to overestimate my capacity for intrigue.
In an attempt to soothe my conscience and calm my fears, I vividly recall the intensity of my anger with the men of my family, the rulers of Saudi Arabia, who appeared so oblivious to the suffering of the women in the land they ruled.
Unveiled
Despair weakens our sight and closes our ears. We can see nothing but specters of doom, and can hear only the beating of our agitated hearts.
—KAHIL GIBRAN
It is October of 1992, and I, Sultana Al Sa’ud, the princess featured in a tell-all book, follow the days of the calendar with a mixture of feverish excitement and morose depression. The book that exposed the life of women behind the veil was released in the United States in September. Since its publication, I carry with me a somber presentiment of my doom, feeling as though I were precariously suspended in space, for I am aware that no deed great or small, bad or good, can be without effect.
While taking a deep breath, I hopefully remind myself that I am likely to be safe in the anonymity of the extended Al Sa’ud family. Still, my trusty instincts warn me that I have been discovered.
Just as I conquer my conflicting guilt and fear, my husband, Kareem, enters our home in a rush, shouting out that my brother, Ali, has returned early from his trip to Europe and that my father has called an urgent family meeting at his palace. With black eyes glaring in a pale face marked with blotches of fiery red, my husband looks madder than a mad dog.
I am struck with a horrifying thought. Kareem has been told of the book!
Imagining suffocating confinement in a subterranean dungeon, deprived of my beloved children, I surrender to my agitation for a moment, and in a thin, high voice that bears no similarity to my own, I implore, “What has happened?”
Kareem shrugs his shoulders, answering, “Who can know?” His nostrils flare with irritation when he remembers, “I informed your father that I have an important appointment in Zurich tomorrow, that you and I could see him when I return, but he was adamant that I cancel my plans and escort you to his home this evening.”
Like a windswept figure, Kareem charges into his office, exclaiming, “Three meetings have to be canceled!”
Weak-kneed, I collapse on the sofa with relief, thinking that all conclusions are premature. Kareem’s anger has nothing to do with me! My courage flickers hopefully.
Still, the threat of discovery persists, and I have many long hours before the unexpected family meeting.
*
Feigning a gaiety I do not feel, I smile and chat as Kareem and I walk through the wide entrance hall, over the thick Persian carpets, into an enormous and grand sitting room in my father’s newly constructed palace. Father has not yet arrived, but I see that Kareem and I are the last of the family to make an appearance. The other ten living children of my mother, without their spouses, have also been summoned to my father’s home. I know that three of my sisters had to fly into Riyadh from Jeddah, while another two sisters flew in from Taif. Looking around the room, I verify that Kareem is the only outside member of the family present. Even Father’s head wife and her children are nowhere to be seen. I surmise that they have been dismissed from the premises.
The urgency of the meeting leads me back to the book, and my chest tightens from fear. My sister Sara and I exchange worried glances. As the only member of my family aware of the book’s publication, her thoughts seem the same as mine. Each of my siblings greets me warmly except my only brother, Ali, and I catch a glimpse of his sly eyes following me.
Within moments of our arrival, Father enters the room. His ten daughters rise respectfully to their feet, and each of us expresses her greetings to the man who has given her life without love.
I have not seen my father in some months, and I think to myself that he looks exhausted and prematurely old. When I lean to kiss his cheek, he impatiently turns away, failing to return my greeting. Giving my fears full range, I know at that moment that I have been naïve, thinking that the Al Sa’uds are too busy accumulating wealth to care much for books. My trepidation mounts.
In a stern voice Father asks us to sit, saying that he has some disturbing news to relay.
Lured by a stare, I see that Ali, with his morbid interest in the suffering of others, is gloating, regarding me with a pitiless stare. There is little doubt in my mind that Ali is privy to the evening’s business.
Father reaches into his large, black briefcase and retrieves a book none of us can read. It is written in a foreign language. My mind in conflict, I think that I have made a mistake with my earlier fears, wondering what this particular book has to do with our family.
In a voice filled with undisguised rage, Father says that Ali recently purchased the book from Germany, and that the book tells about the life of a princess, a stupid and foolish woman who is not aware of the royal obligations that accompany the privileges of royalty. Circling the room, he holds the book in his hands. The picture on the cover is plainly that of a Muslim woman, for she is veiled and is standing against a backdrop of Turkish minarets. I have a wild thought that an aging, exiled princess from Egypt or Turkey has written a revealing book, but quickly realize that such a tale would hold no interest in our land.
When Father steps closer, I read the title: Ich, Prinzessin aus dem Hause Al Saud.
It is my story!
As I had not been in touch with the book’s author since learning of its sale to William Morrow, a large and respected American publishing house, I was unaware that the book, Princess, was a huge success and had sold to numerous countries. The one before me is quite obviously the German edition.
I have a short moment of elation followed by sheer terror. I feel the blood rush to my face. I am numb and can barely hear my father’s voice. He explains that Ali had been curious when he saw the book in the Frankfurt airport and had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to have the book translated because he saw that our family name was written on the cover.
At the time, Ali had an irritating thought that some obscure, disgruntled princess within the Al Sa’ud family had divulged the gossipy secrets of her life. Once Ali had read the book and clearly recognized himself from our childhood dramas, the truth was revealed. He canceled the remainder of his holiday and hastily returned to Riyadh in a fury.
Father has had copies of the translated version made for the meeting.
He nods at Ali, giving a small signal with his hand. My brother grapples with a bulky pile of paper at his side and proceeds to hand each person a bundle secured with a large rubber band.
Confused, Kareem nudges me, raising his eyebrows and rolling his eyes.
Until the last possible second, I express my denial, returning an expression of bewilderment. Shrugging my shoulders, I stare, unblinking and unseeing, at the papers in my hand.
In a soaring voice Father shouts out my name, “Sultana!”
I feel my body jump into the air.
Father begins to speak rapidly, spitting out words as I imagine a machine gun expels bullets. “Sultana, do you recall the marriage and divorce of your sister Sara? The wickedness of your childhood friends? The death of your mother? Your trip to Egypt? Your marriage to Kareem? The birth of your son? Sultana?”
I have stopped breathing.
Relentless, my father continues to accuse. “Sultana, if you have difficulty in recalling these momentous events, then I suggest that you read this book!”
Father throws the book at my feet.
Unable to move, I stare, mute, at the book on the floor.
My father orders, “Sultana, pick it up!” Kareem grabs the book and stares at the cover. He gasps—a deep, ragged breath—and then turns to me. “What is this, Sultana?”
I am paralyzed with fear. My heart stops beating. I sit and listen, longing for the life-giving thump.
Quite out of control, Kareem drops the book to the floor, grabs my shoulders, and shakes me like a rag.
I again feel the familiar heartbeat, though I have a childlike thought—a moment of sorrow that I did not die on the spot and so burden my husband’s conscience with lifelong guilt. I hear the muscles of my neck snapping from the force of Kareem’s strength.
My father yells, “Sultana! Answer your husband!”
Suddenly the years evaporate. I am a child again, at my father’s mercy. How I long for my mother to be alive, for nothing less than maternal fervor can save me from this vicious encounter!
I feel a whimper forming in my throat.
I have told myself many times in the past that there can be no freedom without courage, yet my courage fails me when I need it the most. I had known that if members of my immediate family read the book, my secret would be discovered. Foolishly, I had felt protected by the fact that in my family, only Sara reads books. Even if gossip of the book had spread throughout the city, I assumed that my family would take little note of it, unless mention was made of a particular incident they would recall from our youth.
Now, ironically, my brother, a man who scorns the mention of women’s rights, had read the book that focused attention on the abuse of women in my land. My demon of a brother, Ali, had foiled my precious anonymity.
Timidly, I look around the room at my father, my sisters and brother. Together, as if they had practiced, their looks of surprise and anger slowly forge into a united hard stare.
After only one short month, I am discovered!
Finding my voice, I protest weakly, blaming my deed on the highest authority, saying what all good Muslims say when caught in an act that will bring punishment on their heads. I thump the papers with my hand. “God willed it. He willed this book!”
Ali is quick to retort, scoffing, “God? Not so! The devil willed it! He willed it! Not God!” Ali turns to my father and says with perfect seriousness, “Since the day of her birth, Sultana has had a little devil living inside her. This devil willed the book!”
Quite rapidly, my sisters begin to flip through the pages in their hands, to see for themselves if our family’s secrets have been made public.
Only Sara gives me her support. She quietly gets to her feet and slips behind my back, resting her hands on my shoulders, reassuring me with her soft touch.
After his initial outburst, Kareem is quiet. I see that he is reading the translated copy of the book. I lean sideways and see that he has discovered the chapter that tells of our first meeting and consequent marriage. Sitting perfectly still, my husband reads aloud the words that he is seeing for the first time.
Father’s angry shouting arouses the enthusiastic hatred of Ali, and my father and brother quite outdo each other in their verbal assaults on my stupidity. Amid the passionate disorder, I hear Ali shout out the accusation that I have committed treason.
Treason? I love my God, country, and king, in that order; and I shout back that “No! I am not a traitor! Only a haphazard council of mediocre minds can reach a conclusion of treason!”
As my anger builds, my fear is receding.
I think to myself that the men in my family are proof that men and women can remain at peace only when one sex is strong enough to completely dominate the other. Now that we women in Saudi Arabia are becoming educated, and are beginning to think for ourselves, our lives will be filled with additional discord and mayhem. Still, I welcome the battle if it means more rights for women, for a false peace does nothing more than further women’s subjugation.
Yet, I know that this is not the most opportune moment for argument.
The hot controversy continues to rage, and I become lost in the details. My initial fright had dimmed my memory of why I had requested Jean Sasson to write my story in the first place. Now, I stop listening to the accusations and force myself to remember the drowning death of my friend Nada. I was a teenager at the time, and religious authorities had discovered my good friends Nada and Wafa in the company of men to whom they were not wed nor related. Because both girls were still virgins, they were not punished by the State for their crime against morality; instead they were released to their fathers for punishment. Wafa was wed to a man many years her senior. Nada was drowned. Nada’s own father called for the cruel punishment, saying that the honor of his family name had been ruined by the sexual misconduct of his youngest daughter. With Nada’s execution, he dubiously reclaimed the honor he had lost.
My thoughts then drifted to the crushing imprisonment of the best friend of my sister Tahani. Sameera was a young woman whose parents had died in an automobile accident. She fled to the United States with her lover when she felt threatened by her uncle, who had become her legal guardian at the death of her parents. A great tragedy occurred when Sameera’s uncle tricked her into returning to Saudi Arabia. In a rage over her love affair, he married his niece to a man not of her choice. When it was discovered Sameera was no longer a virgin, she was confined to the “woman’s room,” where she was still locked away even as my own crisis unfolded.
Even before the book was published, I had realized that neither tale seemed credible, unless the book’s readers would consider the barbarities that men inflict upon women. Yet, something was telling me that those with genuine knowledge of my land—its customs and traditions—would recognize the truth of my words. Now, I wonder if Nada’s and Sameera’s tragic lives have yet touched readers’ hearts.
The memory of my unfortunate friends and their sad fate renews my strength.
With mounting exasperation I think that those who desire freedom must be willing to pay for it with their lives. The worst has happened. I have been discovered. Now what?
It was a pivotal moment. Feeling my strength return, I stand up and face my foes. I feel the warrior’s blood of my grandfather, Abdul Aziz, surge through my body. From the time I was a child, I have been most to be feared when I stand in real danger.
My courage gives me a hardened resolve. Thinking back, I remember the face of a kind man who offered a little girl succulent dates. I have a wild idea. Without hesitating, I shout brave words over the din, “Take me to the king!”
The shouting stops. Incredulous, my father repeats my words, “The king?”
Ali makes an impatient tsking sound with his tongue. “The king will not meet with you!”
“Yes. He will! Take me to him. I wish to tell the king the reasons why the book came to be. To tell him of the tragic lives of the women he rules. I will confess, but only to the king.”
My father looks askance at his son, Ali. Their eyes lock. It is as if I could read their minds. “One must be honorable, but not too much!”
“I insist upon confessing. To the king.” I know this king well. He hates confrontation. Even so, he will punish me for what I have done. I think to myself that I will need someone from outside Saudi Arabia to keep my memory alive. I say, “But before I go to the king, I must speak with someone at a foreign newspaper to make my identity known. If I am to be punished, I refuse to be forgotten. Let the world know how our country deals with those who unveil the truth.”
I walk toward the telephone that sits on a small table next to the hallway door, thinking that I must notify someone of my plight. I am desperate, trying to recall the telephone number of an international newspaper that I had memorized for just such an occasion.
My sisters begin to wail, crying out to our father that he must stop me.
Kareem jumps to his feet, rushing to beat me to the phone. My husband stands tall over me, blocking my path. With a stern face, he holds out his arm and points to my chair as if it were the executioner’s block.
Despite the seriousness of the moment, something about Kareem’s expression amuses me. I laugh aloud. My husband can be a foolish man and still has not learned that to silence me, he must bury me. That, I know, he can never do. My knowledge of Kareem’s inability to commit violence has always given me strength.
Neither Kareem nor I move. Keenly feeling the drama of the moment, I shout out, “When the beast is cornered, the hunter is in danger.” The thought enters my mind to ram into his stomach with my head, and I am considering this option just as my oldest sister, Nura, takes center stage and quiets us all with her calm voice.
“Enough! This is not the manner to solve a problem.” She pauses, glancing at Father and Ali. “All this shouting! The servants will hear every word. Then we are in a true dilemma.”
Nura is the only female child of my father who has gained his love. Father motions for everyone to be quiet.
Kareem leads me by the arm and we return to our chairs. Father and Ali continue to stand, both quite speechless.
Since the book’s publication, I have been weakened by my fear. Now, for the first time in weeks, I feel absolutely fierce, recognizing that the last thing the men want is to turn me over to the authorities.
The meeting continues much more calmly, with serious talk of how to keep my identity a secret. We understand that there will be much talk and speculation within the kingdom as to the identity of the princess in the book. My family decides that it will be impossible for the common men of Saudi to uncover the truth, for they are outside our family circles. And there is no real danger from male relatives within the extended Al Sa’ud family, for females and their activities are carefully guarded from male view. In Father’s mind, there is genuine concern regarding close female relatives, since they sometimes participate in our intimate gatherings.
There is a moment of panic as Tahani remembers that one old auntie who was closely involved in Sara’s calamitous marriage and divorce is still living. Nura calms their fears by revealing that our auntie, just a few days before, had been diagnosed with a disabling brain disorder that affects the elderly. Nura says that our auntie is rarely, if ever, coherent. If by some remote chance she hears of the book, nothing she says or does would be taken seriously by her family.
Everyone breathes a sigh of relaxation.
I, myself, have no fear of the old woman. She was an anomaly in her time. I understand her frisky character better than the others. My intimate knowledge has come from past conversations when she whispered in my ear that she supported me in my quest for small female freedoms. This auntie had bragged to me that she was the world’s first feminist, long before the European women thought of such matters. She said that on the night of her marriage, she had insisted to her startled husband that she handle the money from the sale of the sheep, since she could figure numbers in her head and he had to use a stick in the sand. Not only that, her husband had never even thought of taking another wife, saying often that my auntie was too much woman for him.
With a toothless laugh, my auntie had confided in me that the secret to controlling a man was in a woman’s ability to keep her husband’s “leather stick” rigid and ready. I was a young girl at that time and had no idea what a “leather stick” might be. Later, in my adult years, I often smiled, thinking of the lusty activities that must have shaken their tent.
After her husband’s early death, my auntie confessed that she missed his tender caresses and that it was his memory that kept her from accepting another mate.
Over the years I have jealously guarded her happy secret, fearing that such a confession would nibble at my auntie’s soul.
For several hours my family pore over the translated pages and satisfy themselves that no one else alive, or traceable outside of our immediate family, is aware of the family dramas and squabbles divulged in the book.
I can see that my family feels a keen sense of relief. In addition, I catch a trace of mild admiration that I had so cleverly altered the pertinent information that would have led the authorities directly to my door.
The evening closes with Father and Ali warning my sisters not to tell their husbands of the night’s business. Who knows which husband might feel compelled to confide in a sister or mother? My sisters are instructed to say that the meeting involved nothing more than personal female matters not worthy of their husbands’ attention.
Father sternly ordered me not to “come out” in public and announce my “crime.” The fact that the book is the story of my life must remain a well-kept secret within our family. My father reminds me that not only would I suffer dire consequences, house arrest, or possibly imprisonment, but that the men of the family, including my own son, Abdullah, would be scorned and shut out by Saudi Arabia’s patriarchal society, which values nothing more highly than a man’s ability to control his women.
As a token of submission, I lower my eyes and promise compliance. My heart is smiling, for on this night I have made a brilliant discovery that the men of my family are locked to me as if by a chain, that their dominance jails them as surely as it imprisons me.
As I say good night to my father and brother, I think to myself: complete power poisons the hand of the person that holds it.
Cheated of my blood, Ali is displeased and gruff in our parting. He would like nothing better than to see me placed under house arrest, but he cannot risk the wound to his male pride that would come from being associated by blood with such a one as I.
I give him an especially warm farewell, whispering in his ear: “Ali, you must remember that not everyone in chains can be subdued.”
It is a great triumph!
*
Kareem is sullen and stubborn as we make our way home. He smokes one cigarette after another, soundly cursing the Filipino driver on three occasions for not driving to suit his master.
I lean my face against the car window, seeing nothing of what we pass on the Riyadh streets. I brace myself for a second battle, for I understand that I cannot escape Kareem’s great anger.
Once locked in our bedroom, Kareem grabs the pages of the book. He begins to read aloud the passages that most insult him: “His facade was wisdom and kindness; his very bowels were cunning and selfish. I was disgusted to discover that he was merely a shell of a man with little to commend him, after all!”
There is a strain of sympathy in my thoughts, for what human would not feel pain and fury at public notification of their weakest traits. I fight the emotion, forcing myself to recall the activities of my husband that led to my own pain and grief so vividly portrayed in the book.
I am in a dilemma, knowing not whether to laugh or to cry.
Kareem solves the problem for me with his exaggerated behavior. My husband waves his arms and stomps his feet. I’m reminded of the Egyptian puppet show I had attended the previous week at my sister Sara’s palace, a hilarious event featuring puppets in full Saudi dress. The closer I look, the more Kareem resembles Goha, a lovable but eccentric imaginary figure in the Arab world. Goha the puppet had been his usual foolish self in the play, prancing across the stage, disentangling himself from complex situations.
My lips quiver with the urge to laugh. At any moment now, I expect my husband to fall to the floor and throw a childish temper tantrum.
“He swore, he blushed with shame; I thought perhaps he was angered by his inability to control his wife.”
Kareem glares hatefully at me. “Sultana! Do not dare smile! I am truly angry.”
Still battling conflicting emotions, I shrug. “Do you deny that what you are reading is the truth?”
Ignoring my words, Kareem foolishly continues to seek out the most damning passages concerning his character, reminding his wife of the particular traits of her husband’s temperament that had led her to leave him years ago.
Actually shrieking, he reads aloud, “How I yearned to be wed to a warrior, a man with the hot flame of righteousness to guide his life.”
His rage growing with every word, Kareem holds the book under my nose and points with a finger to the words that he deems most insulting, “Six years ago, Sultana was stricken with a venereal disease; after much distress, Kareem admitted that he participated in a weekly adventure of sex with strangers... After the scare of the disease, Kareem promised he would avoid the weekly tryst, but Sultana says she knows that he is weak in the face of such a feast, and that he continues to indulge himself without shame. Their wonderful love has vanished except in memory; Sultana says she will stand with her husband and continue her struggle for the sake of her daughters.”
Kareem is so angry at that particular revelation that I fear he will start weeping. My husband accuses me of “poisoning paradise,” claiming that, “our lives are perfect.”
Admittedly, over the past year I have regained some of my earlier love and trust of Kareem, but it is at moments such as this that my dismay grows over the cowardice of the men of our family. I realize from his behavior that Kareem gives not a thought to the reasons I risked my safety and our happiness to make known the events of my life, or to the very real and tragic events ending the lives of young and innocent women in his own land. Kareem’s only concern is for how he is portrayed in the book, and for the fact that he has fared poorly in many passages.
I tell my husband that he and other men of the Al Sa’ud family alone hold the power to make change in our country. Slowly, quietly, in their subtle manner, they can pursue and encourage change. When he makes no response to my plea, I understand that the men of the Al Sa’ud family cannot risk their power for the sake of their women. They are passionately in love with the crown.
Kareem regains his composure after I remind him that no one outside our family, other than the author, knows who he is! And those persons know him well and are aware of his good and bad traits, even without the publication.
Kareem sits beside me and lifts my chin with his finger. He looks almost appealing as he ponders, “You told Jean Sasson about the disease I caught?”
I wiggle in shame as Kareem slowly shakes his head from side to side, visibly disappointed in his wife. “Is nothing sacred to you, Sultana?”
Many battles end in an outpouring of goodwill. This evening ends with unexpected displays of affection. Strangely, Kareem says he has never loved me more.
I find myself being courted by my husband, and the intensity of my feelings increases. My husband reawakens the desire I had once deemed forever lost. I wonder at my own ability to both love and hate the same man.
Later, as Kareem sleeps, I lie awake by his side and replay in my mind, moment by moment, the events of the day. I realize that despite the evening’s end—the guarantee of protection promised by my family (due solely to their own fears of royal banishment and/or punishment) and the renewal of my marriage—I cannot rest peacefully until genuine social adjustment comes to the land I love for the women whose burden I share. The hard necessities of female life are pushing me to continue my efforts to gain personal freedom for the women of Arabia.
I question myself: Am I not the mother of two daughters? Do I not owe my daughters and their daughters after them every effort to bring transformation?
I smile, once again thinking back on the puppet skit I had watched with Sara’s youngest children, and I recall the words of the funny but wise puppet Goha. “Does a faithful saluki [desert dog] stop barking in his master’s defense when a single bone is thrown his way?”
I shout, “No!” Kareem stirs and I rub the back of his head, whispering sweet words, lulling my husband back to sleep.
I know at that moment that I will not keep the pledge I made under coercion. I will let the world community decide when I should return to silence. Until people choose to close their ears to the plight of women in despair, I will continue to reveal the true happenings behind the secrecy of the black veil. This is to be my destiny.
I make a decision. In spite of the promises I made under threat of detention, when I next travel out of the kingdom I will contact my friend Jean Sasson. There is more to be accomplished.
When I close my eyes to sleep, I am a more focused but much sadder woman than the Sultana who had awakened the previous morning, for I know that I am once again entering a risky arena, and even though my punishment—and possibly even my death— will be cruel, failure will be more bitter, for failure is everlasting.
Maha
The more prohibitions you have, the less virtuous people will be.
—TAO TE CHING
Those whom Kareem and I love best have proved the worst. Abdullah, our son and firstborn, troubles us; Maha, our eldest daughter, frightens us; while Amani, our youngest daughter, puzzles us.
I felt no prophecies of doom as our only son, Abdullah, smiled with boyish happiness when he recounted with relish his wonderful success on the soccer field. Kareem and I were entranced, as most parents would be, upon hearing the successful exploits of a well-loved child. From a young age, Abdullah was seldom sur- passed in physical games, and this fact was a particular source of glee for his athletic father. While listening with pride, we took no note of his younger sisters, Maha and Amani, who were amusing themselves with a video game.
When Amani, our youngest child, began to scream in alarm, it was with a terrible shock that Kareem and I saw flames licking at Abdullah’s clothing.
Our son was on fire!
Acting on instinct, Kareem quickly threw our son to the floor and extinguished the flames by rolling Abdullah in a Persian carpet. After we assured ourselves that our son was unharmed, Kareem tried to find the source of the unexplainable fire.
I cried out that the fire was caused by an evil eye, that we were too boastful of our beautiful son!
Fighting back tears, I turned to comfort my daughters. Poor Amani! Her small frame was wracked with sobs. While I held my baby, I motioned with my free arm to her older sister, Maha, to come to me. Suddenly, I drew back in horror, for Maha’s face was a frightful mask of anger and hate.
Investigating the confusing incident, we learned a terrible truth: Maha had set her brother’s thobe on fire.
Maha, meaning “She Gazelle,” has not fulfilled the promise of her gentle name. From the time she was ten, it has been apparent that our eldest daughter is possessed by the demonic energy of her mother. Often I have thought that there must be a battleground of good and evil spirits hovering over Maha, with evil spirits usually overpowering the good. Neither her life amid imperial splendor nor the unconditional love of a devoted family has tempered Maha’s spirit.
Without justification, she has tormented her brother, Abdullah, and her younger sister, Amani, for as long as they both can remember. Few children have brought so many crises to one family as Maha.
In appearance, Maha is a stunningly attractive girl, with a frighteningly seductive personality. She has the look of a Spanish dancer, all eyes and hair. Combined with this great beauty is a gifted mind. Ever since her birth, it seemed to me that too many blessings had been bestowed upon my eldest daughter. With so many abilities, Maha is unable to focus on one goal, and lacking a unifying purpose, she has failed to harness her talents in any one direction. Over the years, I have watched as a hundred promising projects have been started and then abandoned.
Kareem once said he feared that our daughter was nothing more than a girl of brilliant fragments, and would fail to accomplish one single goal in her lifetime. My greatest concern is that Maha is revolutionary seeking a cause.
As I too am such a person, I am aware of the turmoil raised by a mutinous character.
In her earlier years, the problem seemed simple. Maha loved her father to distraction. The intensity of her feelings increased with her years.
Whereas Kareem adored his two daughters as he did his one son, and strove to avoid the resentments I endured as a child, the makeup of our society drew Abdullah more closely into Kareem’s life outside of our home. This basic fact of our Muslim heritage was the first shock of Maha’s young life.
Maha’s intense jealousy of her father’s affections brought to mind my own unhappy childhood—a young girl who had chaffed under the harsh social system into which she was born. For that reason, I failed to comprehend the seriousness of my child’s discontent.
After Maha set fire to Abdullah’s thobe, we knew that her possessiveness of Kareem went far beyond normal daughterly affection. Maha was ten years old and Abdullah was twelve. Amani was only seven, but she had watched her sister slip away from their game, fetch her father’s gold lighter, and set fire to the edge of Abdullah’s thobe. Had Amani not cried out a warning, Abdullah could have been seriously burned.
The second shocking incident occurred when Maha was only eleven. It was the hot month of August. Our family had left the sweltering desert city of Riyadh and gathered at my sister Nura’s summer palace in the cool mountain city of Taif. It was the first time in years that Father had attended a gathering of his first wife’s children, and his attentions were devoted to his grandsons. While admiring Abdullah’s height and figure, my father ignored Maha, who was tugging on his sleeve to show him an ant farm the children had built and proudly displayed. I saw Father as he brushed her aside and proceeded to squeeze Abdullah’s biceps.
Maha was stung by her grandfather’s preference for her brother and his indifference to her. My heart plunged for the pain I knew was in her heart.
Knowing Maha’s capability for creating a scene, I walked over to comfort my daughter just as she assumed a masculine stance and began to curse my father with fiery invectives of the coarsest indecency, peppered with vile accusations.
From that moment, the family gathering rapidly declined. Though humiliated, I had the quick thought that Maha had expressed to my father his manifest due.
Father, who had never held a high opinion of the female sex, made no pretense of his feelings now. Scornfully, he ordered, “Remove this horrible creature from my sight!”
I saw plainly that my daughter had awakened Father’s contempt for me. His eyes were penetrating, and his lips were curled in scorn as he looked from his daughter to his granddaughter. I overheard him mutter to no one in particular, “A mouse can only give birth to a mouse.”
In the blink of an eye, Kareem snatched Maha from Father’s sight and took her squirming and cursing into the villa to wash out her mouth with soap. Her muffled cries could be heard in the garden.
Father left soon after, but not before announcing to the entire family that my daughters were doomed by my blood.
Little Amani, who is too sensitive for such accusations, collapsed into hysterics.
My father has not acknowledged the existence of either daughter since that day.
Maha’s belligerence and hostility did not prevent her from occasional bouts of kindness and sensitivity, and her temperament cooled somewhat after the incident in Taif. My daughter’s angers ebbed and flowed. In addition, Kareem and I doubled our efforts to assure both our daughters that they were as loved and esteemed as our son. While this proved fruitful in our home, Maha could not ignore the fact that she was considered less worthy than her brother in the world outside our walls. It is a distressing habit of all Saudi Arabians, including my own family and Kareem’s, to pour attention and affection on the heads of male children, while ignoring female children.
Maha was a bright girl who was hard to deceive, and the uncompromising facts of Arab life burned into her consciousness. I had strong premonitions that Maha was a volcano that would one day erupt.
Like many a modern parent, I had no clear notion of how to help my most troubled child.
*
Maha was only fifteen during the Gulf War, a time that no Saudi Arabian is likely to forget. Change was in the air, and no one was more tempted by the promise of female liberation than my eldest daughter. When our veiled plight peaked the curiosity of numerous foreign journalists, many educated women of my land began to plan for the day when they could burn their veils, discard their heavy black abaayas, and steer the wheels of their own automobiles.
I, myself, was so caught up in the excitement that I failed to notice that my oldest daughter had become involved with a teenage girl who took her idea of liberation to the extreme.
The first time I met Aisha I was uncomfortable—and not because she was unrelated to the royal family, for I, myself, had cherished friends outside the circle of royalty. Aisha was from a well-known Saudi Arabian family that had made its fortune importing furniture into the kingdom to sell to the numerous foreign companies that had to stock large numbers of villas for the swarm of expatriate workers invading Saudi Arabia.
I thought the girl was too old for her years. Only seventeen, shelooked much more mature, and acted in a tough manner that smelled of trouble.
Aisha and Maha were inseparable, with Aisha spending many hours at our home. Aisha had an unusual amount of freedom for a Saudi girl. Later, I discovered that she was virtually ignored by her parents, who seemed not to care about their daughter’s whereabouts.
Aisha was the oldest of eleven children, and her mother, the only legal wife of her father, was embroiled in a never-ending domestic dispute with her husband over the fact that he took advantage of a little-used Arab custom called mut’a, which is a “marriage of pleasure,” or a “temporary marriage.” Such a marriage can last from one hour to ninety-nine years. When the man indicates to the woman that the temporary arrangement is over, the two part company without a divorce ceremony. The Sunni sect of Islam, which dominates Saudi Arabia, considers such a practice immoral, condemning the arrangement as nothing more than legalized prostitution. Still, no legal authority would deny a man the right to such an arrangement.
As an Arab woman belonging to the Sunni Muslim sect, Aisha’smother protested the intrusion of the temporary, one-night or one-week brides her depraved husband brought into their lives. The husband, disregarding the challenge of his wife, claimed validation through a verse in the Koran that says, “You are permitted to seek out wives with your wealth, indecorous conduct, but not in fornication, but give them a reward for what you have enjoyed of them in keeping with your promise.” While this verse is interpreted by the Shiite sect of the Muslim faith as endorsement of the practice, these temporary unions are not common with Sunni Muslims. Aisha’s father was the exception in our land, rather than the rule, in embracing the freedom to wed young women for the sole pleasure of sex.
Occupied by the plight of helpless girls and women in my land, I questioned Aisha closely about the indecent practice I had heard discussed by a Shiite woman from Bahrain whom Sara had met and befriended in London some years before.
It seemed that Aisha’s father did not desire the responsibility of supporting four wives and their children on a permanent basis, so he sent his trusted assistant on monthly trips into Shiite regions in and out of Saudi Arabia to negotiate with various impoverished families for the right of temporary marriages with their virginal daughters. Such a deal could easily be struck with a man who had four wives, many daughters, and little money.
Aisha sometimes befriended these young girls, who were transported into Riyadh for a few nights of horror. After Aisha’s father’s passion waned, the young brides were sent away, returned to their families wearing gifts of gold and carrying small bags filled with cash. Aisha said that most of the youthful brides were no more than eleven or twelve years old. They were from poor families and were uneducated. She said they seemed not to know what exactly was happening to them. All the girls understood was that they were very frightened, and that the man Aisha called Father did very painful things to them. Aisha said all of the girlscried to be returned to their mothers.
The hard-eyed Aisha wept as she related the story of Reema, a young girl of thirteen who had been brought to Saudi Arabia from Yemen, a poverty-stricken country that is home to a large number of Shiite Muslim families. Aisha said Reema was as beautiful as the deer for which she was named, and as sweet as any girl she had ever known.