PRINCESS
SULTANA’S CIRCLE
Book
III in the Princess Trilogy
Jean Sasson
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Published by:
Jean Sasson at Smashwords
Copyright (c) 2011 by Jean Sasson
Front Cover Model’s Photograph by Marco Baldi for Studio Babaldi
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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.
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Jean Sasson is the sharp-eyed and compassionate chronicler of women’s lives in the Muslim world. Author of the worldwide bestsellers Princess, Daughters of Arabia, Desert Royal, Mayada: Daughter of Iraq, Love in a Torn Land and Growing up Bin Laden, she lived in Saudi Arabia for twelve years, and has travelled throughout the Middle East for thirty years. She currently makes her home in the southern United States.
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For more information on Jean Sasson and her books, see her website at www.jeansasson.com
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ALSO BY JEAN SASSON
NON-FICTION
The Rape of Kuwait
Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia
Princess Sultana’s Daughters (Daughters of Arabia)
Princess Sultana’s Circle (Desert Royal)
Mayada, Daughter of Iraq
Love in a Torn Land: One Woman’s Daring Escape from Saddam’s Poison Gas Attacks On the Kurdish People of Iraq
Growing up Bin Laden: Osama’s Wife and Son Take Us Inside Their Secret World
HISTORICAL FICTION
Ester’s Child
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For more information on Jean Sasson and her books, see her website at:
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This book is dedicated to all the young girls and women in the world.
May you have the right to live your life in dignity.
And, a personal dedication from me, to our precious Kayleigh Brooke
Books by Jean Sasson
The Rape of Kuwait
Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia
Princess Sultana’s Daughters (UK title: Daughters of Arabia)
Princess Sultana’s Circle (UK title: Desert Royal)
Mayada, Daughter of Iraq: One Woman’s Survival Under Saddam Hussein
Love in a Torn Land: One Woman’s Daring Escape from Iraq
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
Ester’s Child
Princess Sultana’s Circle is a true story. For the personal safety of the people featured in this book, names have been changed and various events have been slightly altered.
By revealing these true life stories, neither the Princess nor the author intend to demean the rich and meaningful Islamic religion, of which the princess is a member.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to those wonderful people who must go unnamed, yet have assisted me so that I might continue telling the significant and wonderful story of a very unique Princess.
Update from Jean Sasson
The world as we know it was utterly changed on September 11, 2001. Few people were left untouched by the carnage brought against so many by so few. That eventful day even provoked military action. The haunting images of the war against terrorism were often tragic while others were uplifting, and none more so than the endearing smiles on the faces of the previously burqa clad women and girls of Afghanistan. Although our purposeful military mission was to seek justice and to stop suicide bombers from future odious acts, I have always believed that the emancipation of women is a freedom worth fighting for. A great imbalance is created in the world when women are treated as liabilities, as they are in many countries.
As the Afghani women celebrated, I rejoiced with them. As I listened to First Lady Laura Bush’s now famous radio broadcast about these women, I waited in anticipation, hoping that some golden words of hope would be cast to women in other countries. Consider the fact that women in Saudi Arabia are forbidden to drive or to participate in public life, or that newborn females have their spines snapped in India, or the outrage that men are acquitted for killing women who are raped in Pakistan, or that young girls are routinely forced into prostitution in Thailand.
I spoke with Princess Sultana during that time and was not surprised when I learned that she, too, was hoping that the great victory for women in Afghanistan would magically sweep her world. She, as I, was disheartened when she saw that the time had not yet come when every democratic government will do the responsible thing and proclaim that freedom is just as important for women, as it is for men. Surely, the world now knows that what imperils women, imperils the world.
Tragically, after the passing of nine years, the situation for women in Afghanistan is little better. The presence of the American military has done little to foster humanitarian rights for women. Young girls of age 8 are still wed to men of 30 or 40 years. There has been an increase in suicides of Afghan girls and women with most choosing to set themselves on fire. As far as I know, the Afghan government has not made one effort to help their own women. The future looks bleak for females in Afghanistan.
Shame on the American government and shame on the Afghan government for not making this most important issue a priority.
I felt so strongly about the plight of Afghan women that I took nearly two years out of my life to write the story of Maryam Khail, an Afghan woman who grew up in Afghanistan and escaped after the invasion of the Russians. Sadly, Maryam became a victim of her husband, and in the process lost her son. Princess Sultana told me that when she read Maryam’s story that her heart plunged in fear that a thousand years from now most men will still not care about the plight of women. From now on, the princess is including Afghan girls in her charity work.
The princess and I hope that readers will read Maryam’s story in For the Love of a Son: One Afghan Woman’s Quest for her Stolen Child.
The princess and I thank you for your support. I am hopeful that you will learn a lot from this latest book about Princess Sultana and her family. We would like to tell you that a full chapter will be added to this book sometime during the next year, a chapter that will update you on the life of Princess Sultana, her three children, and now, her two grandchildren. We also hope that you will join our “Circle of Women,” an organization finally to be formed in September 2012.
For additional information about Jean Sasson and her books, and updates on Princess Sultana, women’s issues, and the Middle East, please visit the author’s website: www.JeanSasson.com
You can also check out Jean’s blog at http://jeansasson.wordpress.com/ or write to Jean Sasson directly at wbbooks@hotmail.com.
Preface
On September 7, 1978, I traveled to Saudi Arabia with the idea that I would live and work in the country for only a few years, but I remained in Riyadh, the capital of that desert kingdom, until the spring of 1992.
In 1983, I met Sultana Al Sa’ud, a royal princess. This delightful woman exercised upon me a fascination that has not left me since.
I had worked at the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Centre for four years. During that time, I had met various members of the large Saudi royal family and had made the sad discovery that on the whole they were spoiled and self-absorbed. Most could see no further than the monarchy and all its trappings.
However, Sultana was unlike any royal I had met.
Sultana was young and beautiful. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders and her eyes sparkled with curiosity. Her lips frequently opened wide in spontaneous laughter. Dressed in expensive clothes and decorated with eye-catching jewels, Sultana captured the undivided attention of everyone around her.
Beyond her obvious beauty and charm, I had expected this royal to be like every other princess I had met, but I was both surprised and pleased to learn that Sultana was a woman with an independent mind who seemed to hunger to bring change to the lives of women in Saudi Arabia. Although she had been raised to the privileges of the enormously wealthy ruling family of Saudi Arabia, she made no effort to conceal that where issues regarding women were involved, she was in a rebellion against the traditions and customs of her own country.
As our friendship slowly developed, I came to know a woman of great strength of will and character. Although her judgment and conduct is often clouded with passion, frequently creating emotional situations unexpected among adults, it is easy to overlook such behavior, for Sultana is selfless, caring and sensitive when it comes to other women. When Sultana discovers any injustice against another woman she springs into action, regardless of any personal danger to herself.
When Sultana confided to me that she had conceived many plans to make the tragic stories of Saudi women known to the world, but had never been free to do so because of the danger it would attract to her immediate family and herself, I agreed to help her make her wish come true. Together, we would bring these horrifying and unbelievable true stories to the world’s attention.
And so, protecting her anonymity, I became the voice for a princess.
In the book, Princess, the world first learned of Sultana’s life as an unwanted daughter of a cruel man in an unforgiving society that places little value on females. Sultana’s most beloved sister, Sara, was married against her will to a much older man whom she did not know nor love. From the time of her wedding, Sara was subjected to terrible sexual assaults by her husband. Only after Sara attempted suicide would her father allow her to seek a divorce and return home.
Sultana’s own unhappy childhood experiences caused her to become a rebellious teenager. But she learned in a most horrifying manner that rebellion against the harsh system of her country could only lead to disaster when one of her own friends was executed by her own father, for the “crime” of sexual misconduct.
At age sixteen, Sultana was told by her father that he had arranged for her to marry a cousin, Kareem. Sultana and Kareem’s betrothal was unlike most Saudi engagements, for Kareem requested to meet his future bride, and his request was granted. Upon their first meeting, Kareem and Sultana were strongly attracted to each other. They quickly fell in love, and enjoyed a special union of mutual love, so unlike most Saudi marriages.
The early years of her marriage brought Sultana the tranquility she had always desired. She and Kareem were blessed first with a son, Abdullah, and then with two daughters, Maha and Amani.
Sultana and her family remained in Riyadh during the Gulf War of 1991. The princess was saddened that this war, rather than helping the status of women in Saudi Arabia as she had hoped, made their lives even more difficult. Sultana mourned that when the war ended, “thin veils thickened, bare ankles were covered, and loosened chains were tightened.”
In Princess Sultana’s Daughters, the princess and I told the world that her immediate family had learned that she was the princess behind the book, Princess, which had become a bestseller in many countries, but that the secret of her identity had been maintained as far as the rest of the royal family was concerned.
Readers also learned that despite Sultana’s constant battle against the status quo, and her own relatively enlightened marriage, her own two daughters did not escape the pressures of feudal prejudices against women in Saudi Arabia.
Sultana’s daughters each reacted differently to her Saudi heritage. Her eldest daughter, Maha, hated the life of a woman in Saudi Arabia, and following in Sultana’s own path, rebelled against the injustices she saw inflicted on women in her country. She became so unsettled in her mind that she had to undergo psychiatric treatment in London before she could resume life in Saudi Arabia.
Amani, Sultana’s youngest daughter, reacted in a way which was even more troubling to her mother. Amani embraced the Islamic faith with a distressing degree of fanaticism. As Sultana fights against the veil, Amani battles for the veil.
In this third book, Sultana has asked me to be her voice once more. Although she continues to challenge the treatment of women in Saudi Arabia by letting the world know that the ongoing abuse of women in her country is both alarming and routine, Sultana has discovered a new direction for helping women worldwide, and persists in her gallant crusade for reform.
Although readers of this book will learn that Sultana is far from perfect, and that her imperfections are often all too human, no one can doubt her sincerity when it comes to fighting for the rights of women.
As a writer, and her friend, I am proud to tell the story of this extraordinary princess.
Introduction
My Dream
A few months ago as I lay sleeping, my beloved mother came to me in a dream. Mother was robed in an embroidered cloak of vivid red; her long, black hair was braided with golden threads. Her face was shining and unlined, and her luminous eyes were all-knowing and wise.
Her appearance under a shimmering green tree beside a spring of the bluest water dazzled me. Bright flowers grew lush and abundant all around her.
In my dream, my heart was beating wildly as I called out, “Mother!” With arms outspread, I anxiously hurried toward her. But there was an invisible barrier keeping her tantalizingly out of reach.
Mother gazed at the youngest of her earthly children with great love mingled with sad resignation.
And then she spoke. Although her voice was sonorous and sweet, her revelation was stern. “Sultana,” she said, “my journey here has been frustrated by your pains, discontents, disappointments, and misfortunes.” She quietly scrutinized me.
“Daughter, when you were a wayward child, I often had to frighten you into reasonable behavior.” She arched her eyebrows, “I see that my presence is still needed, Sultana.”
The knowledge that I had created worries for my mother, even after she entered paradise, caused me to burst into tears.
I was born a Princess in a rich desert Kingdom where the persecution of women is increasing, and I could not dispute that I have led an unconventional life.
I cried out, “Mother, a great wind has carried me through life! How might I have lived my life differently?”
Mother slowly shook her head. “Even in the midst of a heated battle, Sultana, a good heart fights clean.”
I flinched.
Mother’s look softened. “But, that is not the matter of which I am now speaking, child.”
“Then, what?” I entreated.
“Sultana, your life is as that of a mindless magician unfurling endless silks. You seem to have everything in life; yet, you have nothing. Your existence does not bring you happiness, my daughter.”
Desperate for Mother to comfort me as she had done in the past, the significance of her words slipped past me.
Then the fragile petals of the flowers around her began to fold, and Mother’s countenance, too, began to fade.
I cried out, “Mother! Please stay! Wait!”
Her incandescent form was now barely visible, yet I clearly heard her say, “Sultana, in the middle of a feast, you are starving. Dissolve into something greater than yourself, my child.”
I emerged from that dream in an ecstasy of joy, but the memory of Mother’s mysterious message has continued to haunt me.
Sadly, I had to acknowledge that Mother’s words were true, that I have let my life stagnate. Once, I embarked on a noble and stimulating quest to improve the lives of women in my land. But finding myself helpless against the unassailable power of Saudi Arabian men, I let myself grow discouraged. Yet, so long as women in my own country can be married against their will, physically abused and raped under the sanction of the law, even legally murdered at the whim of their fathers, husbands, and brothers, how could I stop fighting?
Following my mother’s visit, I took courage from the knowledge that there was still a purpose for me in this ongoing struggle, a new role that I was meant to fulfill. At this moment, however, I had no understanding of where that might lead.
Chapter One
Munira’s Destiny
One of the major traditions of Islam is reported to have originated from a meeting of the Prophet Mohammed and his followers when the Prophet took a stick and pointed to the ground, “There is not one among you whose sitting place is not written by God, whether in fire or in paradise.” From this tradition, the Islamic faith teaches that all things in life are predestined and that every person’s fate has been decreed by Allah. While this fatalism creates a dignified resignation to life’s hardships for many Muslims, I have fought against this pessimistic inertia throughout my life, and I cannot accept the tragic lives lived by so many Saudi women as the preordained will of Allah.
So when I learned that a dreadful piece of our family history was about to be repeated, I knew that I could never just fatalistically accept a horrifying and shameful destiny being assigned to one of my nieces.
Our family had recently returned to our palace in Riyadh from a trip to Egypt. My husband, Kareem and our eldest child and only son, Abdullah, were in Kareem’s home office. Amani, our youngest daughter, was in the garden with her pets, and I was sitting in the living room with our elder daughter, Maha.
Suddenly, my sister Sara, and three of her four daughters, Fadeela, Nashwa, and Sahar, burst through the door.
I rose with a smile to greet my most beloved sister, but I saw the fear shining through Sara’s eyes. Sara’s dark eyes desperately sought mine as she clasped my hands. She told me to sit down, that she had appalling news.
“What is wrong, Sara?”
Sara’s melodious voice betrayed a great bitterness. “Sultana, while you were away, Ali arranged for Munira to be married. The wedding is ten days from tomorrow.”
Maha grabbed my hand from Sara’s, and dug her nails into my palm. “Oh, Mother, no!”
I pulled away. My hands twitched nervously as I spread my fingers across my face. One idea beat mercilessly into my brain. Another young woman, my own flesh and blood, to be married against her will.
Munira was the oldest daughter of my despised brother, Ali. She was a pretty, though slight girl, who appeared many years younger than her true age. Munira had always been an obedient child whose timid demeanor aroused our sympathies and affection.
Munira’s mother was Ali’s first wife, Tammam, the royal cousin my brother had married so many years before. At the time, Ali had readily boasted that his marriage to Tammam was for the sole purpose of sexual release when he came home to our country in between school terms abroad. Love and affection were never on his agenda. Anyone could have easily predicted Tammam’s miserable future.
She had been married while still a child, and she never had an opportunity to develop emotionally. Even as a mature woman, Tammam rarely entered into conversation, and when she did speak, her voice was so low the listener was forced to lean close to hear her.
Three years after his marriage to Tammam, Ali took a second wife. Since Tammam was a most dutiful wife, Ali was questioned by our eldest sister, Nura, as to his need for a second spouse. Nura later revealed to us that Ali had declared that his displeasure was linked to Tammam’s unhappiness. He was angry and baffled over the fact that his young bride had become a melancholy wife. With the greatest puzzlement, Ali claimed that Tammam had not once smiled since the day he had become her husband!
Tammam’s union with Ali produced three children, two daughters and a son. The daughters were as cheerless as their mother, while the son was a perfect arrogant duplicate of his father. By now, their ranks had been swelled by twelve other children, by a total of six women apart from Tammam.
Munira had lived a troubled and unhappy life. As the daughter of a man who cared little for daughters, Munira had spent her early years striving to win the love of her father, a man who had no love to give. In that respect, Munira’s childhood quest for a father’s love resembled my own. But that is where the similarity ended. At least I had survived the deprivation of my father’s love with my ability to love intact. Munira’s thwarted love for her father gradually twisted into open dislike before turning into a combination of fear and hatred. Those feelings had now grown to include all men—even those men who were kind. Five years before, at age sixteen, Munira had told her mother that she wished to remain celibate.
And so, unlike most Saudi girls, who spend much of their youth perfecting methods to keep their future husbands content, Munira determined a different life for herself. She trained as a social worker with the intent to spend her life assisting the handicapped who are so scorned in our land. Nevertheless, she made it clear that she would only attend to the female handicapped.
For a period of time it appeared that Ali had simply forgotten the fact that his eldest daughter was unwed. But sadly, he had been reminded of her single state during a recent family social event. Now Ali was denying his daughter the one pleasure she sought, which was to be allowed to remain unmarried.
The moment a girl is born in Arab lands, the parent immediately begin to think of an appropriate marriage. With the idea of future allegiances, suitable families with eligible sons are studied keenly. While a Saudi girl remains unmarried, she must stay a virgin. On the other hand, virginity prolonged is deemed a family disgrace. Now that Munira had turned twenty-one years old, her unmarried state was causing her father grave discomfort.
Maha interrupted my thoughts. She loved her cousin and knew Munira’s views on marriage. “Mother! Uncle Ali can’t force Munira to marry, can he?”
“To whom is Munira promised?” I sputtered.
Sara hesitated so long that I thought she did not know the answer. Finally, she said, with a long sigh, “Sultana, Munira is to wed Hadi.”
My memory was barren of a face to connect with the name. “Hadi? Who?”
“The Hadi. Sultana, don’t you remember? Ali’s boyhood friend who traveled with our family to Cairo.”
I could barely speak. “That Hadi?”
Sara nodded woefully. “Yes. That Hadi.”
The memory of our shared traumatic experience slammed down between us. In disbelief, I stared into my sister’s eyes.
“No, No,” was all that I could utter.
“Who is this Hadi?” Maha demanded.
Who, indeed? Where was I to begin?
I mumbled. “He’s Ali’s friend from childhood, Daughter. You do not know of him.”
Sara settled closer to me as her hands sought mine. We continued to gaze into each other’s eyes. Our thoughts were in unison. Sara was reliving the most traumatic time of her life.
More than twenty years before, against her will, Sara had been wed to a much older man, a man who had sexually abused her from the first moment of their union. It was only after Sara’s attempted suicide that our mother had managed to convince our father into allowing Sara to divorce. Despite her return to our family home, my dear sister had been unable to shake off a chronic and debilitating depression.
During this same period of time, our eldest sister Nura and her husband Ahmed were in the process of building a new palace. Nura planned to travel to Italy to purchase furnishings for this home, and along the way, visit Cairo.
Much to my surprise and delight, Nura and Ahmed invited both Sara and me to accompany them and their children on the trip. Every coin has two sides, and my happiness was soon tempered when father decided that my brother, Ali, and his friend, Hadi, would also be a part of our entourage. That distressing news was dispiriting, nevertheless, we went along on the trip.
While we were in Cairo, Sara and I were astounded to discover that our brother’s friend was even more obnoxious than Ali! Neither of us had imagined that such a thing was possible! We soon learned that in comparison to the spoiled and difficult Ali, Hadi was pure evil.
Although a student at the Religious Institute, which was a boys’ school in Riyadh for training Mutawwas, or men of religion, Hadi had absorbed none of the goodness called for in our Holy Koran. His black soul remained untouched by his religious education.
Hadi hated women with a purposeful vengeance, and often expressed his opinion that all young girls should be wed at the first sign of their menses. In Hadi’s mind, women were on this earth for three purposes: to provide for a man’s sexual pleasure, to serve a man, and to bear a man’s children.
Of course, Hadi thought that Sara and I were uncontrollable females, and often said so. If he had been the master of our destinies, Sara and I were convinced that we would have been stoned to death, and that Hadi would have been there to throw the first stone!
Despite his expressed hatred of the female gender, Hadi was keen to have sex with as many different women as possible. And on that trip to Cairo and Italy, he had done just that. Most disturbing of all, Ali had joined Hadi in his perverse behavior! While in Cairo, Sara and I had inadvertently come upon Hadi and Ali sexually assaulting a girl who was no more than eight years old! The scene had been one of horror and violence, and neither Sara nor I had ever overcome the haunting images of what we saw that day.
Certain that such an evil boy would have grown into an evil man, we were now filled with panic at the thought that such a person would soon have absolute control over a dear and sweet child unprepared to defend herself.
Sobbing, I fell into Sara’s arms. Our tears were so contagious that our daughters began sobbing with us.
The sound of our anguished cries evidently reached Kareem’s office, for he and Abdullah soon came rushing into the room.
Full of concern, Kareem pulled me away from my sister. “Sultana! Sara! Whatever has happened?”
And Abdullah demanded of his sister Maha, “Who has died?”
I stammered through my wails, “Death would be better!”
Kareem was becoming increasingly alarmed. “What? What?”
Maha spoke up. “It’s about cousin Munira, Father. Uncle Ali has arranged her marriage.”
Even Kareem was sobered by that news. Every member of our extended family knew of Munira’s repulsion for men and marriage.
Unlike many Saudi males, my husband was not a man who believed in force when it came to marriage. Kareem and I had agreed many years before that our daughters should be educated before marriage and that, when the time came for them to be wed, they would have the right to choose their own husbands. Never would Maha nor Amani have to face Munira’s grim situation. Indeed, our religion forbids the forcing of females in a union not of their liking, but like so many things, much that is good in our Islamic faith is misinterpreted or simply ignored.
“Who is she to wed?” Kareem asked loudly to make himself heard over the sounds of sobbing women.
“You will never believe it,” I sighed.
“It is a great disaster,” Sara added, dabbing at the tears flowing down her cheeks.
“Tell me, who?”
I gazed up at Kareem with sorrow. “Ali is going to wed his daughter to an old friend.”
“Old in years?” Kareem questioned with a grimace.
“Two ways old,” I said, “An old friend, who is old!”
An exasperated Kareem said, “Please, Sultana! Don’t make me guess.”
Sara could sit still no longer. She rose to her feet, wailing. “It’s Hadi…Ali’s friend from many years ago. The detested Hadi!”
My husband’s face turned white. His eyes grew fierce. His voice was disbelieving. “Hadi, from the Egyptian trip?”
“That very Hadi!”
“Oh! This will never do.” Kareem looked at his son. “Abdullah, I must speak with Ali at once. We’ll reschedule our morning meeting.”
Abdullah nodded solemnly.
While Ali was a friend of Hadi’s, none of Ali’s brothers-in-law claimed a relationship with the man. He was so thoroughly disliked that everyone kept a distance from him, except Ali. Only Ali was able to find admirable qualities in Hadi. He was certainly not a part of our small coterie of close relatives and friends.
Although schooled as a man of religion, Hadi now made his living working for the Saudi government. As a friend of a high ranking Prince, he had maneuvered himself in a perfect position to become fabulously wealthy.
Due to his excellent financial prospects, those who did not know his wicked disposition might consider him an eligible and desirable husband. But two of my sisters-in-law were acquainted with Hadi’s three wives, and they had heard that his evil nature had grown rather than lessened. It was enough to know that Hadi was secretly named “Satan’s most favored son,” by the women he had wed.
With Kareem’s words I felt a small flicker of hope. While I knew that the sisters of Ali could never have the slightest influence on him, if the men of our family took action, perhaps poor Munira could be saved from a destiny she surely would consider worse than instantaneous death.
“When will you see Ali?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Asad will go with you,” Sara promised. “And, I’ll telephone Nura. Perhaps Ahmed will go with you, too. This marriage must be stopped!”
With such plans under way, I felt somewhat relieved.
Kareem and I were so physically and emotionally exhausted by this family drama that we slept that night without our usual loving embrace.
Early the next morning, I lay in bed while Kareem took his morning shower, wondering what the day might bring. Since I feared that Kareem might forget to tell me some important points in his talk with my brother, I was trying to think of a way that I might listen in to their conversation.
When Kareem went into the adjoining sitting room to telephone my brother, I slipped the receiver from the phone by the bed and listened in on their call. I heard them agree to meet at the palace of Tammam, where Ali was taking Kareem’s call. Obviously, Ali had spent the previous evening with his first wife.
I rushed into Maha’s room and said, “Dress quickly! We are going to visit your Auntie Tammam and Munira. They need us.”
When I told Kareem that Maha and I were leaving to visit Tammam and Munira, I saw a line of worry crease his forehead.
“Sultana, if you and Maha wish to visit Tammam and Munira, I will not stop you. But, take care and promise that you will not intrude on my meeting with your brother.”
Full of innocence, I gave my word that I would not disrupt their talk. But Kareem did not request that I promise not to listen in on them.
Tammam was not expecting us, but she seemed pleased to have visitors and was very gracious. After greeting her Auntie, Maha went directly to the room of her cousin, Munira.
Prior to Kareem’s arrival, I convinced Tammam that it was in our best interest to sit quietly in the banquet hall adjacent to Ali’s sitting room. “We might be summoned,” I told her.
As soon as we entered the large room, I began to rummage through the contents of my large handbag.
I had learned many years ago that to request permission for whatever unconventional action I might take would open the door for a negative response. Therefore, I now simply act and let others react.
Tammam’s jaw dropped but she was too timid to protest when I took an electronic device out of my purse and inserted the small listening aid into my right ear. I smiled at the astonished Tammam, and said, “Who knows what men are plotting against good women?”
I had purchased this device several years before at a specialty shop in New York City which stocked an amazing variety of spying devices, after seeing their advertisement in a hotel guest information book. At that time in my life, it had been of the utmost importance to closely follow the secret activities of Amani. Fearing she might bring harm to herself through her extreme religious fervor, I had felt compelled to spy on my youngest child. But I soon became bored with her endless conversations regarding detailed aspects of our religious faith, and I had put away the listening device. However, earlier that morning, before leaving for Ali’s house, I had remembered the contraption, and had come prepared to eavesdrop on the all-powerful men who ruled our lives.
I fiddled with the gadget for a few moments. Past experience had shown me that, even if the mechanism did not work perfectly, it did greatly amplify voices coming from adjoining rooms.
I gave Tammam a reassuring smile, but I could see that she was fearful. My sister-in-law sat like one stricken dumb, her hands cupped over her mouth.
Unintentionally, I had placed the volume level to its highest point, so when in the next room Kareem, Asad, and Ahmed loudly greeted Ali, my feet left the floor, throwing my body against the wall.
Tammam gave a small shriek of alarm.
After I had gathered my wits, I held my finger to my lips. Thankfully, the men’s prolonged greetings were so boisterous that they had heard nothing amiss. I smiled as I listened. I had always taken the greatest secret pleasure in listening to forbidden conversations.
The four men spent long, silent moments preparing their tea to their liking. When they finally did speak, their conversation dwelt on unimportant matters. After everyone’s health was assured, there was talk of various business matters. Their talk lingered for a long time on the declining health of the King. Uncle Fahd is my own immediate family’s leader of choice, and there is great dread of the day he will no longer rule.
I was getting impatient when Ahmed finally approached the subject that had really brought them together.
“Ali, we hear news that Munira is to be married.”
There was a short pause. Then Ali rang a bell for one of his servants to go and fetch some freshly baked pastries to accompany his tea.
I presumed that my brother was playing for time to deliberate his response to such an unexpected question. Still, it is true that my brother does eat to excess. Much to my amusement, he was getting wider by the year.
The listening device was functioning so efficiently that I soon heard the smacking of Ali’s full lips as he devoured one honey-laced pastry after another. The other men sat in silence.
Finally, his appetite satiated, Ali was ready to respond to Ahmed’s question. “Yes. You are correct, Ahmed. Munira is at the age to be wed. And, I have found a good match.” He hesitated before adding, “Surely, Tammam has notified my sisters of the date for the wedding celebration.”
Kareem cleared his throat, then begin speaking tentatively. “Ali, consider us as your brothers. And, as brothers, we are here to support you in whatever decisions you might make—on any matter.”
“That is true,” Asad said promptly.
Kareem continued with great tact. “Ali, the zigzag of human life is so puzzling. I wonder if you have shone the torch of light on Munira’s particular character, or on the age of the man she is to wed.”
Ahmed was the one who finally came to the point. “Is Munira not younger than some of Hadi’s own children?”
There was perfect silence.
Asad hurriedly suggested, “If Munira must wed, is there not another nearer her age who would be more to her liking?”
Undoubtedly, Ali was not pleased by this highly unusual interference in his private business. Still, he must have felt himself ensnared, for he made a surprising concession. “I will let Munira decide!”
I held my hands over my mouth to keep from creating a commotion. Once I could control myself, I motioned to Tammam, and then held both hands over my head and then toward the ground, as a signal that I was praying and praising Allah.
Dull-witted Tammam looked at me with a bewildered expression. She seemed to think that I was telling her it was time for the noon prayer, for she glanced at her watch and shook her head back and forth, no.
In a slow, measured whisper I mouthed to her, “Ali is to let Munira decide!”
Tammam smiled meekly.
For the first time ever I felt a twinge of sympathy for Ali. Tammam was such a spineless creature! Were I the mother of Munira, I would have great difficulty in suppressing my joy at this news. Charitably, I decided her emotions had been permanently dulled by years of maltreatment.
“I will call Munira now,” Ali said decisively. I heard the sound of his muffled footsteps as the door opened and closed.
While Ali was absent, the three waiting men turned to small talk regarding our recent Egyptian holiday. I felt a flicker of disappointment since I was hoping that they would discuss some confidential family business that I did not know, but not so confidential that I could not repeat it.
Soon I heard Ali re-enter the room. His booming voice sounded self-assured. “Munira, your uncles love and esteem you greatly. They have taken precious time from their busy schedules to personally deliver congratulations for your upcoming marriage.”
Kareem, Asad, and Ahmed murmured quietly, but Munira said nothing in reply.
Knowing Munira’s dread of men, I suspected that the poor girl was so overwhelmed by the male attention directed toward her that she was struck dumb.
Ali continued, “Munira, child, the man Hadi has asked that you become an adored wife. You are aware of his friendship with this family and of his ability to provide for you and any children you might have. I have sought permission from the Almighty God to give you in wedlock to Hadi. Tell me now, Munira, if you approve.”
I waited for Munira’s words. And waited. And waited.
“Munira?”
Silence.
Ali spoke in an exhilarated tone, “God is great! Munira’s silence signifies her approval!” He laughed heartily, “Go, return to your room, child, and know that your modesty in this matter has made your father very happy.”
I felt numbness creep into my face and spread throughout my body. I realized that Ali had cunningly used a sly trick to close the mouths of his male kin. He had repeated nearly word for word what Prophet Mohammed had asked his own daughter, Fatima, when he had arranged for her to marry a cousin, Imam Ali. When Fatima made no response, all good Muslims know that the Prophet had interpreted the girl’s refusal to answer as a sign of great modesty.
The door slammed.
Under the circumstances, my husband and brothers-in-law could say no more. If they did, they would be arguing against the Holy Prophet!
Ali thanked them profusely. “Your concern for my family has lightened my heart! I am a most fortunate man! Please, come again soon.”
As the men left, the door slammed once more. I heard my brother’s self-satisfied chuckle.
With a tormented moan, I slumped against the wall. What had happened? Had Ali threatened Munira during their short walk through his palace? Or had the terrorized Munira simply gone mute?
With tears coursing down my cheeks, I looked at Tammam and slowly shook my head. All was lost!
As a woman who had never known the power of hope, Tammam didn’t appear surprised or upset. She rose to her feet and came and stood by my side. I wept while she comforted me.
Within moments the door burst open. We had been discovered by Ali! My brother pulled himself up to his full height as he glared at his wife and sister.
I glared back at him. Disgust swept over me. Surely, today, my brother was physically uglier than I had ever seen him. His figure had taken on a roundness visible even under his thobe. He wore a new pair of horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses that made his eyes appear shockingly large.
Our dislike for each other was mutual. Our childhood experiences had created great distances between us that will never be overcome. At this moment, the hatred between my brother and me was so thick that I imagined the room growing darker around me.
Defiant, I spoke with venom dripping from my tongue, “Ah, my wicked brother! For sure, Judgment Day will not be to your liking.”
Tammam’s sallow face collapsed in fright, and she shrank back in horror at my effrontery. Evidently, she never stood up against her husband. The poor woman tried to apologize for my words, only the words of another lowly woman, but Ali cut short her apology with a dismissive flick of his hand.
It’s little wonder he does not love her, I thought cruelly. No man could respect one so cowardly.
As I watched Ali’s face, I knew that he was searching through his mind for a remark that would wound me. Many were the times I had gotten the better of my brother with words. He had never been particularly quick verbally, and now, he appeared even more lost for words.
I smirked, leaned back, and relaxed. When it came to a battle of wits, I could always outshine Ali. But suddenly he puffed out his hanging jowls. My disdainful sneer slowly began to fade. Had Ali realized, as had I, that when one is the victor, there is no need for verbal repartee?
He began to laugh with relish. The sight of my cheerfully obese brother, standing there triumphant, knowing he was fully supported by the entrenched legal institutions of my country, caused me to sink to the floor in despair.
Munira’s fate was settled, and I feared that there was nothing I could do or say that would change the horror that awaited her.
Even after Ali closed the door and began his slow lumbering walk down the long corridor leading to the front entrance of the palace, I could hear the sound of his low, wicked laughter.
Chapter Two
Munira’s Wedding
The shock of failure in my confrontation with Ali meant that I went directly home and took to my bed. My head was throbbing severely, and I did not join my family for the evening meal.
Later that evening, when my distressed husband told me of the meeting with Ali, I did not confess that I already knew the outcome of the visit. When I began to cry, a sympathetic Kareem comforted me.
The following morning I was still so distraught that I remained in bed long after Kareem left our home for his offices in the city. As I lay in bed, my thoughts swirled around Munira and the terrifying and grim life she would soon lead. My sense of helplessness in the face of Munira’s predicament brought forth a disturbing question: when it came to improving the lives of individual women, what accomplishments could Sultana Al Sa’ud really claim as her own?
Very little, up to this point, I had to admit. For the first time in my life, I was forced to acknowledge that my lofty aspirations to assist helpless women had come to nothing. My spirits sank so low at this bitter thought that I began to crave an alcoholic drink. I was longing for a drink even before I had my breakfast! Pushing aside any thought of food, I got out of bed and went straight to the bottle of scotch sitting on the bedroom credenza. After pouring myself a generous amount of the liquor, I took a long drink and waited for the expected warmth to flow through my body.
Suddenly I was struck with a second worry. During the past few months, my cravings for alcohol had grown. Would the solace I was receiving from alcohol now lead to a personal predicament? Was I becoming an alcoholic? Such an idea caused me to throw the glass to the floor. I moaned and covered my eyes with my hands.
From my childhood on, I had been taught that intoxicating spirits are evil and totally forbidden to Muslims. I still remember my mother telling me that Prophet Mohammed had cursed many men in connection with liquor. Mother said that our great Prophet cursed the man who squeezed it, the one who carried it, the one to whom it was carried, the one who served it, the one who drank it, the one who dealt in it, the one who devoured its price, the one who purchased it, and the one from whom it was purchased. None were to be spared!
Yet, despite my Mother’s dire warning, somehow, I now found myself ensnared by the promise of fleeting happiness so easily found in a bottle of alcohol.
In the Al Sa’ud family I am not alone in this sin. Alcohol has taken a shocking toll on the lives of many of my royal cousins. To speak truthfully, I must say if these cousins are not buying or selling alcohol, they are drinking it. And, they do this, regardless of both religious taboo and the law. What would our mother think?
Everyone who resides in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is fully aware that it is illegal to consume alcohol. It’s common knowledge that every year there are a large number of Saudis as well as foreigners imprisoned for the offense of possessing or consuming alcohol. It is also well-known that such laws do not apply to members of the Al
Sa’ud family. But, while the male members of the royal family remain unpunished for any crime they might commit, it’s a different matter when it comes to Al Sa’ud females. While we are saved from public condemnation for our missteps because of the embarrassment such an admission would cause our rulers, female members of my family are forced to pay a high penalty should they develop any kind of addiction.
Returning to bed, I tried to count on my fingers all the female royal cousins who had become addicted to alcohol or to drugs, but I ran out of fingers. Within the past few years the problem has become so rampant that special clinics for substance abuse have begun opening within the Kingdom. No longer is it necessary for Al Sa’ud men to send their alcohol or drug-addicted wives abroad for rehabilitation.
Only a few months before, I had visited a cousin committed to one of these clinics. The atmosphere there was one of wealth and privilege. Soft steps and hushed voices told the visitor that they were in a medical facility like no other. The doctors and nurses were foreign, as were all the other staff. To ensure that they were never alone, each patient was assigned five personal nurses, all women who had grown accustomed to working with over-pampered royal Princesses.
I had found my cousin in a large three-room suite where the luxuries of her normal life were duplicated. Special chefs created the finest food, which was served on costly china. My cousin continued to dress in expensive designer gowns while entertaining her closest friends and relatives in the clinic suites. The only accessories lacking in this new setting were alcohol and drugs.
Although her treatment consisted of many sessions with qualified physicians, she was not subjected to the humiliation—or the benefit—of group therapy, as are addicts in Western countries.
The cost for this special treatment at that clinic was over SR 100,000 ($26,000) per week. My cousin remained in the facility for sixteen weeks, and was pronounced cured of her habit. Unfortunately, within a few months of being discharged, she once again resumed her addiction to alcohol. At last count, I hear this cousin has been treated at her special clinic on at least five occasions.
Yet, once admitted for such treatment, whether cured or not, nothing is ever the same again for the unfortunate Saudi wife. Servants gossip to other servants, and the truth always escapes. The addicted Princess is looked upon with great pity by her female cousins, but her husband will usually reject her, possibly take a second wife, or even seek divorce. As every Saudi woman knows, divorce brings the loss of everything—her status and her children. A divorced woman soon becomes socially isolated and ostracized.
Recently, Hazrat Al Sa’ud, another royal cousin afflicted with alcoholism, had been divorced by her husband. Her five young children, who now lived with their father and his other two wives, had been forbidden all contact with Hazrat. Her own blood family had renounced her as well, and she now lived under the supervision of an elderly, blind aunt and two Filipino servants. Yet the attraction to alcohol was so strong that Hazrat still took reckless chances at every opportunity in order to acquire the drink that had brought about her ruin.
Only a week before, my eldest sister Nura had been told that Hazrat had caused an explosion when trying to concoct homemade wine out of grape juice, sugar, and yeast. Nura said that Hazrat’s elderly aunt swore the explosion was so loud that she thought the Iraqis were bombing Riyadh. She took cover under a bed and remained there until she heard Hazrat wailing and weeping over the lost liquor. There was no denying that Hazrat’s life was utterly ruined by the very craving for alcohol that I was now experiencing.
I shuddered. Fearful of what my future might hold if my secret was ever exposed, I promised myself that Kareem must never know that I was consuming alcohol in the morning hours. I had understood long ago that my strength and boldness were the arrows that had pierced my husband’s heart and drawn him to me. Surely, the foundation on which our love was based would crumble should Kareem discover my weakness.
Horrified at the turn my life had taken, I vowed that I would overcome this progressive and dangerous desire for alcohol. I began to recite the ninety-nine names of Allah aloud, hoping that, by proving my devoutness, the God of all Muslims would take pity on me, and give me added strength to defeat my weakness. My lips moved as I whispered the words, “The Compassionate, The Merciful, The Sovereign, The Holy, The Giver of Peace, The Protector, The Mighty One, The Creator, the Majestic, The Great Forgiver…”
My sincere devotions were interrupted by a hysterical Maha. My daughter said that Munira had just telephoned in tears. The poor girl had confirmed to Maha what I had already expected, that she had good reason for her silence on the day her uncles had visited. Munira said that Ali had threatened to beat both her mother and herself if she dared to open her mouth in protest about her engagement to Hadi.
Poor Munira also confided that her daily prayers now consisted of pleas to God for an early death before her wedding date.
It was then that memories of Sara’s attempted suicide caused me to rise from my bed. In coalition with Maha, I discarded one risky proposal to rescue the bride after another. Finally, we concluded that a simple plan was best. We decided to hide Munira in our home at Jeddah until Hadi became so mortified by the reluctance of his young bride that he would nullify their engagement.
I eagerly telephoned Sara and told her to come quickly! I was hoping that I could induce my most intelligent sister to join us in devising further strategy.
When Sara arrived, she bewildered me when she balked at the idea, even warning me that she felt compelled to alert Kareem of my reckless objective.
“Sara!” I admonished, “You once traveled the same path as poor Munira. Do your own memories of abuse not compel you to help save this girl?”
Sara appeared frozen in place.
“Sara?”
Sara’s brooding face belied the calm tone of her voice. “Sultana,” she confessed, “every day of my life is clouded by what happened during that time. Even when I am most happy with Asad, a sliver of pain always works its way into my consciousness.” She paused briefly. “If I could save Munira from such a fate, I would do it. But only God can save Munira, Sultana. Only God.”
“God gave women cunning minds in order to scheme,” I argued. “How else can we defeat the evil nature of men?”
Sara placed a light hand on my shoulder. “You may have the years of a woman on you, my sister, but in many ways, you are still a child.”
I turned away, so disappointed and angry that I could not speak.
“Come, Sultana. Try to think clearly for one moment, and you will realize that anything you might do to conceal Munira will only serve to make our brother, and Hadi, even more determined. If you hide Munira, they will find her. Then, Hadi will marry her anyway, but by that time his heart will be filled with anger and bitterness. Her life will only be worsened by your efforts.”
Like the caged bird that finally comes to acceptance of its captivity, the lightness of hope left my body. I collapsed on the sofa and wrapped my arms around my body. Sara spoke the truth, so, for now, I put aside all thoughts of extricating my niece. I knew that excluding a miracle, Munira would be Hadi’s future wife. And there was nothing any of us could do about it.
After Sara departed for her own home, I returned to my bed and spent the rest of the day lethargic with hopelessness.
Nine days passed as fleetingly as mere moments. The evening of Munira’s wedding arrived, all too soon.
Although Ali possessed no love for his eldest daughter, his position as a high-ranking Prince ensured that Munira’s wedding would be a grandiose occasion, indeed. The celebration and wedding were to take place at the King Faisal Hall, a large building in Riyadh where many Saudi royal weddings have been staged.
On the night of the wedding, a stream of limousines wove their way to the entrance of the hall, discharging flocks of veiled women. Our driver stopped at the wide steps that led to the entrance of the building. Two doormen rushed to open the doors of our automobile, and my daughters and I stepped out into a night filled with music. I could feel the beat of Arabic dancing music drifting through the hall as we moved toward the stairs.
Although we were all veiled, I knew that most of the other guests were members of the royal family, or women whose families had high connections with our family.
Other than the groom, his father or brother, the father of the bride, and possibly a Mutawwa, or religious man, we never see men at this kind of occasion. Men and women in my country celebrate weddings at separate locations. Even as we women were gathering at the King Faisal Hall, our men were congregating at Ali’s Riyadh palace.
As my daughters and I walked across the threshold into the large hall, a swarm of female servants dressed exactly alike in red velvet gowns and caps waited to relieve us of our cloaks and veils. The three of us were elaborately dressed in expensive designer gowns that we had purchased the year before while vacationing in Paris. I wore a black evening dress covered in red Italian lace.
A few days earlier, in an attempt to distract me from Munira’s plight, Kareem had sent a trusted Lebanese employee on one of our private planes to Paris for the sole purpose of acquiring a special gift for me. The ten-tiered diamond choker was now fastened securely around my neck.
Maha was arrayed in a lovely burgundy silk dress that draped loosely off her broad shoulders. A diamond and pearl necklace shaped in the form of simple teardrops covered the smooth flesh of her neckline. While selecting her jewelry, Maha had whispered that she thought it appropriate that even her jewels appeared to weep for her dear cousin.
Amani was fitted out in a dark blue gown with a matching jacket. In keeping with her strict religious beliefs, she had chosen a garment most severe in style covered up to the neck.
Since our faith regards the love of jewelry and ornaments as natural and becoming for a woman, if they are not used to attract men and arouse their sexual desires, Amani could hardly object to my wishes that she wear beautiful jewels that night. I had reminded my pious daughter of what she already knew—other than Hadi, his attendant, her Uncle Ali, and a man of religion, no men would be present at our gathering. Once she agreed that her faith did permit her to wear precious stones free of guilt, Amani selected a charming ruby and diamond necklace which had been cleverly fashioned to resemble a cluster of sparkling flowers.
Admittedly, both my daughters were lovely, and on any other occasion, I would have been proud to display them.