Jean P Sasson - [Princess 02] (3 page)

“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.

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 surpassed 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.