Jean P Sasson - [Princess 02] (2 page)

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.