Jean P Sasson - [Princess 02] (6 page)

Not forever can one enjoy stillness and peace.

But misfortune and obstruction are not final

When the grass has been burnt by the fire of the steppe,

it will grow anew in summer.

— Wisdom from the Mongolian Steppe

Under the influence of strong medication, Maha lay as one dead while her father and I attempted to make some sense of the precarious situation in which we found ourselves. During the airplane trip to London, Kareem sat like a stone, pale-faced as he handled the distasteful objects I had brought in a small bag from Maha's room. He was as appalled as I at our daughter's fascination with the supernatural.

After a few silent moments, Kareem posed a question I had been dreading. "Sultana, where did Maha come across such madness?" His brow furrowed, and he wondered aloud, "Do you believe it was that foolish girl Aisha?"

I squirmed in my seat, not knowing how to answer my husband. Recalling a wise Arab proverb spoken often by my gentle mother, 'A fly will never be able to enter a mouth which knows when to stay shut," I felt that this was not the time to implicate Noorah, my husband's mother. Kareem had already endured too many shocks for one day.

Biting my lip and shaking my head, I answered him, "I do not know. We will tell the doctor what we found. Perhaps Maha will confide in him, then we will know who or what is behind her knowledge of such matters."

Kareem nodded his head in agreement.

For the remainder of the flight, we took turns sleeping and watching our child, who appeared in her drug-induced sleep as sweet as an angel. For some unexplained reason, I was reminded of another Al Sa'ud royal, Princess Misha'il, a young woman who hid her illicit love. When her secret was discovered, my royal cousin's life ended in front of a firing squad.

While Kareem slept, I watched Maha, and remembered Princess Misha'il.

Misha'il was the granddaughter of Prince Mohammed ibn Abdul Aziz, the same Prince Mohammed who had been passed over for the crown because of his father's ruling that the ferocious behavior of a warrior had no place on a throne.

While I did not have a close friendship with Misha'il, I had met her at various royal functions. She was known in the family as a rather wild girl. I thought perhaps her unhappy temperament was related to her marriage to an old man who failed to satisfy her. Whatever it was, she was miserable and became romantically involved with Khalid Muhalhal, who happened to be the nephew of the special Saudi Arabian envoy to Lebanon.

Their love affair was hot and filled with the tension caused by the impossible social climate of Saudi Arabia. Many members of the royal family had heard of their illicit relationship, and when the young couple were on the brink of discovery, they made a fatal decision to run off together. 

My oldest sister, Nura, was in Jeddah at the time and heard the story firsthand from a member of Misha'il's immediate family. Misha'il, fearing the wrath of her family, attempted to stage her own death. She told her family that she was going for a swim at their private beach on the Red Sea.

Misha'il piled her clothes on the shore, then dressed herself as a Saudi man and tried to flee the country.

Unfortunately for Misha'il, her grandfather, Prince Mohammed, was one of the shrewdest and most powerful men in the country. He did not believe she had drowned. Officials manning all exits from the country were alerted to search for the granddaughter of Prince Mohammed. Misha'il was caught-intercepted trying to catch a flight from the airport in Jeddah.

Telephones were ringing all over the kingdom, with each royal professing to know more than the next. There was a rumor a minute. I heard that Misha'il had been set free and allowed to leave the kingdom with her lover. Then I was told a divorce would be granted. Later, a hysterical cousin called and claimed that Misha'il had been beheaded, and that it had taken three blows to separate her head from her body. Not only that, Misha'il's lips had moved and had called out her lover's name, causing the executioner to run from the scene! Can you imagine, my excited cousin asked, words from a bodiless head!

Finally, the very real and ugly truth was made known. Prince Mohammed, in a fit of anger, said that his granddaughter was an adulterer and that an adulterer should submit to Islamic law. Misha'il and her lover were going to be executed.

King Khalid, who was our ruler during this time of tragedy, was known for his indulgent nature. He recommended that Prince Mohammed show mercy, but mercy was not an agreeable emotion for that fierce Bedouin.

On the day of the execution, I waited with my siblings for news. My sisters and I hoped for a last-minute reprieve. Ah, not surprisingly, expressed the opinion that adulterous women should submit to the laws of Islam and prepare themselves for death.

On that hot day in July of 1977, my cousin Misha'il was blindfolded and forced to kneel before a pile of dirt. She was shot by a firing squad. Her lover was forced to watch her die. He was then beheaded with a sword.

Once again, unsanctioned love had cost two young people their lives.

The affair was hushed up, and the Al Sa'ud clan hoped that talk of a young woman murdered for the simple act of love would soon disappear. It was not to be. Though buried in the sands of the desert, Misha'il was not forgotten.

Many Westerners will recall the documentary about her death, called, appropriately , Death of a Princess. As divided as our family was over her punishment, nothing compared with the arguments and hostility generated by the film.

Having comfortably mastered the role of dictators, the men in our family grew furious over their inability to control the news releases and films shown in the West. Offended to the edge of madness, King Khalid ordered the ambassador from Great Britain to leave our country.

I heard later from Kareem and Asad, Sara's husband, that our rulers had seriously considered forcing all British citizens out of our country!

International tensions ran high over the sexual misconduct and execution of one Saudi Arabian princess.

I despaired of the memory. I held my head in my hands. Now, I was the mother of a child who had gone mad. In her madness, what act might Maha commit that would disrupt our family and introduce the pain of young death into our home? My uncharitable father would surely insist upon the harshest of punishments for the child of my womb who had so spitefully and vigorously pointed out his shortcomings as a grandfather.

Maha stirred.

Kareem awakened, and once again we shared our tortured fears for our daughter.

While we were en route to London, as agreed, Sara had made the necessary medical arrangements via telephone. When we called from Gatwick Airport, Sara reported that Maha was expected at a leading mental institute in London and that her bed was waiting. Sara had thoughtfully arranged for an ambulance to transport us to the institute.

Once we had fulfilled the tiresome admitting procedures, Kareem and I were informed by the hospital staff that Maha's physician would meet with us the following morning, after his initial consultation and his examination of our child. One of the younger nurses was especially kind. She held my hand and whispered that my sister had found one of the most respected physicians in the city, and that he had years of experience with Arab women and their unique social and mental problems.

At that moment I envied the British. In my land, shame over a child's madness would close the minds and mouths of my country men, and sympathy would never be shown.

Anguished at leaving our precious child in the hands of strangers, albeit capable strangers, Kareem and I walked listlessly to the waiting car that would take us to our apartment in the city.

Aroused from sleep, the permanent staff at our London home was clearly not expecting us. Kareem was irritated, but I calmed him with the thought that our personal comfort was the last thing on Sara's mind. We could not fault her for not telephoning our servants prior to our arrival.

Because of the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, and the recent Gulf War, it had been almost a year since we visited London, one of our favorite spots in the Western world. In our absence, our three servants had grown slovenly and careless. Whether we were in London or Riyadh, they had strict instructions to maintain the apartment as if we were in the city.

We were too depressed over Maha's condition to complain. Kareem and I sat on sheet covered furniture in the sitting room and ordered strong coffee. Servants scurried about the place as best they could, considering they had been awakened at three o'clock in the morning.

I found myself apologizing for intruding on their sleep, and Kareem snapped at me, ordering, "Sultana! Never apologize to those who are paid by us. You will ruin their work habits!"

I felt peevish and wanted to retort that we Saudis could benefit from a little humility. Instead, I changed the subject and began to talk once again about our daughter.

I thought to myself that I too must be coming down with some form of insanity. Twice in one day I had chosen to avoid an argument with my husband.

After our bed was prepared, Kareem and I rested without sleeping.

Never had a night seemed so long.

The British psychiatrist was an odd-looking little man whose head sat large on his small body. His brow was vast, and his nose turned slightly to one side. I could only stare in surprise at the tufts of white hair that strangely sprouted from his ears and nose. While his appearance was disconcerting, his manner was encouraging. With his small, blue, penetrating eyes, I could tell he was a man who took the problems of his patients very seriously. My daughter was in good hands.

Kareem and I quickly discovered that he was a man who spoke what was on his mind. Without caring about our wealth, or the fact that my husband is a high ranking prince in the royal family of Saudi Arabia, he spoke with fearless honesty about the system in our land that so hobbled the will of women.

Well informed of the traditions and customs of Arab lands, he told us, "As a child I was fascinated by the Arabian explorers: Philby, Thesiger, Burton, Doughty, Thomas, and of course Lawrence. I devoured their adventures. And, quite determined to view what I had read about, I convinced my parents to send me to Egypt. It wasn't Arabia, but it was a start, anyway. To my misfortune, I arrived just as the Suez Crisis occurred. But I was hooked."

His eyes took on a faraway look. "I went back years later . . . set up a small practice in Cairo . . .

learned a bit of Arabic"-he paused, looking at Kareem-"and found out more than I wanted to know about the way you fellows treat your women. "

Kareem's love of his daughter proved stronger than his love of honor. To my relief, he remained quiet, his face free of all expression.

The doctor looked pleased. He seemed to be thinking, here is an Arab who would not spout nonsense about the need to lock females in purdah.

"Will our daughter recover? Fully recover?" Kareem asked. The worry in his voice told the doctor of his love for Maha.

I moved to the edge of my seat. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears.

The doctor clasped his hands together, rubbing them as if he were lubricating his palms. Looking from Kareem to me, he heaped drama upon an already dramatic situation. His face remained blank as he answered, "Will your daughter recover? Fully recover? I have spoken with her for one hour only. Therefore, it is difficult to summarize her case completely." Looking upon my stricken face, he added, "But, her case seems quite typical. I have treated a good number of Arab ladies who suffered from hysterics, women who were visiting our city. Generally speaking, given time and proper care, I would say that your daughter's prognosis is favorable."

I wept in my husband's arms.

Maha's physician left us alone in his office.

For three months I remained in London while Maha underwent psychiatric evaluation and treatment. Once we understood that our daughter would require lengthy care, that a cure could not be achieved in a matter of days, Kareem traveled back and forth to Riyadh, making a point to be in London on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the two days of the week when we were allowed to visit with our child.

During our visits we offered Maha peace, but she preferred to fight. It was as if a thousand terrors denied her ability to speak calmly and reasonably. Nothing we could say or do pleased her. Following the physician's instructions, Kareem and I refused to argue with our child. At those moments Maha argued with herself, even going so far as to speak in two voices! Maha's doctor assured us that eventually Maha's mental state would improve beyond our expectations.

How we prayed for that moment to arrive! The intense visits wore poorly on Kareem. I saw my husband age before my eyes. I said to him one evening, "If nothing else, I have learned that aging has nothing to do with the accumulation of years. Aging is the inevitable defeat of parents by their young."

A small twinkle came into Kareem's eyes, the first sign of joy I had seen in many days. He claimed, in all seriousness, that it could not be so. "If that were the case, Sultana, your long-suffering father would appear the oldest living man on the planet."

Pleased that my husband had showed a glimmer of life, I let the reference pass and leaned fondly on his shoulder, relieved that our family tragedy had brought us closer together rather than pushing us further apart.

At that moment I reminded myself that no person leads an irreproachable life, and I forgave my husband for the trauma I had endured in his futile quest for a second wife. The event had taken place years before, and we had repaired our damaged relationship, but until now, I had not forgiven my husband for his desire to take another woman into our home. Full of emotions I had assumed I'd lost forever, I congratulated myself on the worth of the man I had wed.

In time, Kareem and I witnessed a miracle. Maha's doctor was, as I had expected, a man of genius and perseverance, a devoted physician whose natural abilities soothed my daughter's frightful demons. In happy obscurity, while locked in the drabbest of offices in the dreariest of hospital wards, he combined his medical knowledge with his experience in the world of Arab women and gained my daughter's trust. With this trust, the physician opened her wounds, and torrents of jealousy, hate, and anger spilled from Maha's trembling hands onto the pages of an ordinary notepad, producing an extraordinary journal.