|
Fahd bin Abdul Aziz
Sultan Bin Abdul Aziz
Naef Bin Abdul Aziz
Salman Bin Abdul Aziz
Ahmad Bin Abdul Aziz
| |
Married Life
If there could be one word that would describe the Saudi women of my
mother’s generation, it would be waiting. They spent their lives
waiting. Females of that era were banned from education and job
opportunities, so there was little to do but wait to be married, wait to
give birth, wait for grandchildren, and wait to grow old.
In Arab lands, age brings great satisfaction for women, for honor is
bestowed upon those women who fulfill their productive duties with many
sons and therefore ensure the continued lineage of the family name.
My mother-in-law, Noorah, had spent her life waiting for a daughter-in-law
to bestow the honor she felt was now her due. Kareem was her eldest child,
the most beloved son. Saudi customs of the old days demanded that the wife
of the firstborn son do his mother’s bidding. Like all young women, I
knew of this tradition, but reality tends to fade from my thoughts until
the time I must confront the facts.
Since I had spent my childhood mistreated by the men of my family, I was
in no mood to spend the second part of my life abused by women, even
Kareem’s mother.
For the present, I remained mute. But Kareem’s mother was soon to learn
that I had faced antagonists much more fierce than an old woman with dark
mental recesses. Besides, there is an old Arab proverb that says:
"Patience is the key to solutions." In an attempt to exchange
success for failure, I thought it best to heed the wisdom passed down from
generations. I would be patient and await an opportunity to reduce Noorah’s
power over me.
Fortunately, I had little time to wait. Kareem’s younger brother, Muneer,
had recently returned from his studies in America. lEs anger at being back
in Saudi Arabia bit deeply into the peace of the household.
Although much has been written about the enforced monotony of women’s
lives in Saudi Arabia, scant attention has been given to the wasted lives
of many of our young men. True, their lives are bliss compared with that
of women; still, much is lacking, and the young men of Arabia spend many
languid hours longing for stimulation. There are no movie theaters, clubs,
or mixed dining since men and women are not allowed in restaurants
together unless they are husband and wife, brother and sister, or father
and daughter.
Muneer, only twenty-two years old and accustomed to the freedoms of
American society, did not relish his return to Saudi Arabia. He had
recently graduated from business school in Washington, D.C., and had plans
to be a liaison for government contracts. While waiting for his
opportunity to prove his adeptness in acquiring huge sums of money, a
passion with all the royal princes, he began to keep company with a group
of princes within the family known for their risky behavior. They gave and
attended mixed parties. Foreign women of questionable morals who worked
for the various hospitals and airlines were in attendance.
Drugs were abundant. Many of these princes had become addicted to alcohol,
drugs, or both. In their drug- or alcohol-induced haze, their
dissatisfaction with their kin who ruled the land festered. Not content
with modernization, they longed for Westernization; these young men were
ardent for revolution. Not surprisingly, their idleness bred dangerous
talk and conduct, and before long, their revolutionary intrigues were
common knowledge. King Faisal, once a carefree youth himself who was
transformed into a pious king, diligently followed the actions of his
young kin and attempted, in his solicitous manner, to guide the young men
of the family from the excesses of empty lives. Some of the worrisome
princes were placed in the family business while others were sent off to
the military.
After King Faisal spoke of his concern about Muneer’s unseemly behavior
to his father, I heard loud shouting and angry voices from the study. 1,
like the other female members of the family, soon found some urgent task
in the map room, directly opposite the study. With eyes on the maps and
ears tuned to the shouting, we gasped when we heard Muneer accuse the
ruling family of corruption and waste. Muneer swore that he and his
friends would bring the changes so direly needed in the kingdom. With
curses on his lips and a call for rebellion, he stormed out of the villa.
While Muneer claimed the country needed to move into the future, his
commitment was vague and his real activities troubling. His was a sad tale
of misjudgment; alcohol and easy money had seduced him.
Few foreigners today are aware that alcohol was not banned to nonbelievers
(non-Muslims) in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia prior to 1952. Two separate
and tragic events involving royal princes brought about the ban by our
first king, Abdul Aziz.
In the late 1940s, Prince Nasir, the son of our ruler, returned from the
United States a different man than the one who had departed the kingdom.
He had discovered the enticement of the combination of alcohol and
uninhibited Western women. In his assessment, alcohol was the key to
idolization by women.
Since Nasir held the position of governor of Riyadh, he found few barriers
to his ability to maintain secret supplies of the desired liquid. Nasir
held forbidden parties, entertaining men as well as women. In the summer
of 1947, after a late-night gathering, seven of the partakers died from
drinking wood alcohol. Some of the dead were women.
Nasir’s father, King Abdul Aziz, became so incensed at this needless
tragedy that he personally beat his son and ordered him to jail.
Later, in 1951, when Mishari, another son of the king, while intoxicated,
shot and killed the British pro vice consul and almost killed the man’s
wife, the old King’s patience expired. From that time forward, alcohol
was banned in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and black marketing schemes were
born.
The people of Saudi Arabia react to the prohibited much in the same manner
as people of other cultures: T’he forbidden becomes even more enticing.
Most Saudi men and women I know drink socially; a large number have
acquired serious addiction to the substance. I have never been in a Saudi
home that did not have a large assortment of the finest and most expensive
alcoholic beverages to offer to guests.
Since 1952, the cost of alcohol had risen to SR 650 for a bottle of Scotch
($200). A fortune could be made in importing and selling the illegal
drink. Since Muneer and two cousins who were high-ranking princes were of
the opinion that alcohol should be legalized, they banded their energies
and soon became fabulously wealthy trucking illegal alcohol from Jordan.
When border guards became suspicious of the cargo, they were paid off. The
only obstacle to the illegal importation of alcohol are the ever-roving
bands of the committees for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention
of Vice. These committees were formed by the mutawas, religious men who
tremble in anger at the effrontery of members of the Saudi Royal Family
who, above all others, are presumed to uphold Islamic law, yet prove time
and again that they consider themselves above the teachings of the
Prophet.
One of these committees soon was Muneer’s undoing and unwittingly
provided the solution to my obtrusive mother-in-law.
It was a Saturday, our first day of the week (Muslims celebrate their
religion on Fridays), a day none of Kareem’s family will ever forget.
Kareem sullenly walked through the doorway, weary from a hot, trying day
at his office, and came upon his mother and wife in a rough shoving match.
When she saw her son, Noorah widened the twilight war with her new
daughter-in-law by sobbing and loudly proclaiming to Kareem that I,
Sultana, was filled with disrespect for his mother, and that for no
apparent reason, I had started the brawl with her.
As she fled the scene she pinched me on the forearm, and 1, in a widening
mood of anger, rushed after her and would have taken a swing at her but
for Kareem’s intervention. Noorah looked hard at me and turned to
Kareem. She hinted darkly that I was an unfit wife, and that if he
investigated my activities, he would be prompted to divorce me. Any other
day Kareem might have laughed at our ridiculous and infantile display, for
women with little but time on their hands tend to maneuver themselves into
numerous squabbles. But on that day he had been informed by his London
broker that over the previous week he had lost more than a million dollars
in the stock market. In his black mood, he rushed to meet violence with a
vengeance.
Since no Arab man will ever contradict his mother, Kareem slapped me three
times across the face. They were slaps meant to insult, since they
accomplished little more than to redden my jaw.
My strong character was formed by age five. I have the tendency to be
nervous at the sight of trouble looming. As the danger draws near, I
become less nervous. When the peril is at hand. I swell with fierceness.
As I grapple with my assailant, I am without fear and fight to the finish
with little thought of injury.
The battle was on. I swung at Kareem with a rare and priceless vase that
just happened to be nearby. He saved his face by a quick move to the left.
The vase shattered as it struck a Monet painting worth hundreds of
thousands of dollars. The vase and the water lily painting were destroyed.
In a fine fury, I grabbed an expensive Oriental ivory sculpture and threw
it at Kareem’s head.
The crashing and banging, along with our shouts, alerted the household.
Women and servants burst suddenly upon us with loud cries. By this time,
Kareem realized I was going to destroy the room, which was filled with his
father’s beloved treasures. To stop me, he punched me in the jaw. Inky
darkness surrounded me.
When I opened my eyes, Marci was standing above me, dripping cold water on
my face from a soaking cloth. I heard loud voices in the background and
assumed that the excitement over my fight with Kareem was continuing.
Marci said no, the new disturbance concerned Muneer. Kareem’s father had
been summoned by King Faisal regarding a container of alcohol that had
leaked the illegal substance in a trail down the streets of Riyadh. The
Egyptian driver had stopped at a shop for a sandwich and the pervasive
smell of alcohol had caused a crowd to gather. Detained by a member of one
of the committees to prevent vice, he, in his fear, had volunteered the
name of Muneer and one other prince. The head of the Religious Council had
been alerted and he had contacted the king. The king was in a rare rage.
Kareem and his father left the villa to return to the king’s palace. The
drivers were sent in search of Muneer. I nursed my swollen jaw and plotted
a new plan of revenge on Noorah. I could hear her cries of grief-, I
gathered myself and walked down the circular staircase, sniffing the air
for her sobs. 1, a woman far removed from sainthood, wanted to see and
feel the full pleasure of her distress. I followed her cries to the
sitting room. I would have smiled but for my painful jaw. Noorah was
crumpled in a comer of the sitting room, crying out for Allah to save her
beloved Muneer from the wrath of the king and the men of religion.
Noorah saw me and instantly quieted. After long moments of silence, she
looked at me with contempt and said, "Kareem has promised me he will
divorce you. He agrees that ‘Who grows up on a habit will die with it
[Arab proverb],’ and you have grown up wild. There is no place for such
a one as you in this family."
Noorah, expecting tears and pleas, which are common from those deemed
helpless, searched my face closely when I replied that I myself was going
to demand a divorce from her son. I declared that Marci was at that very
moment packing my bags; I would leave her oppressive home within the hour.
As an added insult, I called over my shoulder that I was going to
influence my father into calling for Muneer to be made an example for
those who so disdain the laws of our faith. Her precious son would more
than likely be flogged or jailed, or both. I left Noorah with her jaw
hanging in fear.
The tables had turned. My voice rang with a confidence I did not feel.
Noorah had no way of knowing if I possessed the behind-the-scenes power
that could accomplish my threats. She would celebrate if her son divorced
me; she would be mortified if I were the one to seek a divorce. It is
difficult, but not impossible, for a woman in Arabia to divorce her
husband. Since my father was a prince closer in blood to our first king
than Kareem’s father, Noorah had a moment of fear that I could be
successful in my claim to call for Muneer’s punishment. She had no
knowledge that my father would more than likely turn me out of our home
for my imprudence, and that I would have nowhere to turn.
Appropriate actions to follow my bold threats were required. When Marci
and I appeared at the door loaded with traveling cases, the household
broke open like an explosion.
By coincidence, Muneer, located at the home of a friend and ordered home,
had just arrived with one of the drivers. Unaware of the seriousness of
his predicament, he swore when I informed him that his mother had brought
about the pending divorce of her eldest son.
A wave of perverse optimism swept through my body as Noorah, incited into
action by the possibility of my vociferous wrath, insisted I not leave the
house. The double crisis had impaired Noorah’s resolve; she emerged
thoroughly weakened in our bitter feud. After much pleading on her part, I
reluctantly remained.
I was sleeping when Kareem returned, exhausted from an evening of
mortification. I overheard his appeal to Muneer to consider the name of
their father before committing acts that were forbidden. I did not have to
strain to hear Muneer’s insolent response, accusing Kareem of helping to
oil the mammoth machine of hypocrisy that was the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
King Faisal was revered by most Saudis for his dedicated and devout style
of life. Within the family itself, he was held in deep respect by the
elder princes. He had led our country from the dark days of King Saud’s
rule into a position of regard and even admiration from some quarters. But
there was a deep divergence between the elder princes and the younger
princes within the family,
Devoured by desire for unearned wealth, these young men of the family
hated the king, who cut their allowances, prohibited their entry into
illegal businesses, and chided them when they strayed from the path of
honor. There was not even a flicker of compromise between the two camps
and trouble continuously brewed.
That night, Kareem slept a great distance from me in our large bed. I
heard him through the night as he tossed and turned. I knew he was plunged
in dark thoughts. I had a rare touch of guilt as I pondered the severity
of his troubles. I decided that if my marriage survived that day’s
grievous wounds, I would temper my attitude.
The next morning, a new Kareem emerged. He failed to speak or acknowledge
my presence. My good intentions of the previous night vanished into the
pale moming light. I told him in a loud voice that I thought a divorce
best. In my heart I longed for him to appeal for peace.
He looked at me and replied in a dry, frightening voice, "Whatever
you think, but we will settle our differences when this family crisis is
behind us." Kareem continued to shave, as if I had said nothing out
of the ordinary.
This new foe, indifference, quieted me and I sat, humming a tune, as one
unconcerned, while Kareem finished his dressing. He opened the bedroom
door and left me with this parting thought: "Sultana, you know, you
deceived me with your warrior’s spirit, hidden behind the smile of a
woman."
After he departed, I lay in the bed and sobbed until I was exhausted.
Noorah coaxed me to the table of peace and we settled our differences with
gestures of love. She sent one of her drivers to the jewelry souq to
purchase a diamond necklace for me. I hurriedly traveled to the gold souq
and purchased the most expensive gold breast-plate necklace I could find.
I spent more than SR 300,000 ($80,000) and cared little what Kareem would
say. Now I saw the possibility of peace with a woman who could cause me
endless grief should my marriage be saved.
Weeks passed before Muneer’s fate was decided. Once again, the family
saw no benefit in publicizing the misadventures of the royal sons. The
wrath of the king was somewhat tempered by the efforts of my father and
various princes who sought to downplay the incident as one of a foolish
young man recently influenced by the evils of the West.
Noorah, thinking that I had somehow influenced my father, was grateful and
responded by exclamations of the joy in her heart for having such a one as
I as her daughter-in-law. The truth was never revealed: that I spoke not a
word to my father. His interest stemmed from the very real fact that I was
married into the family and he did not desire association with Kareem’s
brother should a scandal arise. His concern was for himself and Ali. Even
so, I was thoroughly pleased at the outcome and was a heroine, admittedly
undeservedly, in my mother-in-law’s
eyes.
Once again, the mutawas were quieted by the king’s efforts. King Faisal
was held in such high esteem by the Religious Council that his appeals
were heard and heeded.
Muneer was brought into his father’s business and sent to Jeddah to
manage the new offices. To buy off his discontent, he was awarded large
government contracts. Within a few months, he told his father he wanted to
wed, and a suitable cousin was found and his happiness increased. Within
months he began to gain weight and joined the ranks of the royal princes
who live for the deal of making more and more money until their bank
accounts overflow and produce enough income from the interest to rival the
budgets of small countries.
Kareem had moved into a separate bedroom the day of our conversation.
Nothing his mother or father could say or do persuaded him to reconsider
our decision to divorce.
Much to my honor, one week after our estrangement. I discovered I was
pregnant. After much soul-searching, I decided I had no option but to
abort my pregnancy. I knew that Kareem would never agree to a divorce if
he discovered I was with child. But one such as I had no use for a husband
under duress.
I was in a dilemma, for abortions are not common in my land-many children
are desired by most-and I did not have the slightest clue where to go and
whom to see.
My investigation was delicate. Finally, I entrusted my secret to a royal
cousin who infontied me that her younger sister had become pregnant the
year before while vacationing in Nice. She had been unaware of her
condition and returned to Riyadh. Her fear of her father finding out was
such that she had attempted suicide. ‘Me mother had shielded the
daughter’s secret and had located an Indian physician who, for excessive
fees, performed abortions for Saudi women. I carefully planned my escape
from the palace to the offices of the abortionist. Marci was my
confidante.
I was waiting, despondent, in the physician’s office when a red-faced
Kareem burst through the door. I was a veiled woman among other veiled
women, but he recognized me by my unusual silk abaaya and my red
Italian-made shoes. He pulled and pushed me through the door, screaming to
the receptionist that the office had best be closed immediately for he,
Kareem, was going to see the doctor in prison.
I was similing beneath my veil and in the best of tempers as Kareem
alternately professed his love for me and cursed me. He glittered and he
glared! He cast away my fears of losing him as he vowed that he had never
considered divorce; his stance was merely a combination of pride and
anger.
Kareem had discovered my plan when Marci divulged the secret to another
maid in the house. This maid had gone directly to Noorah, and my
mother-in-law had frantically located Kareem in the office of a client and
hysterically reported that I was going to kill her unborn grandchild.
Our child was saved by mere moments. I would have to reward Marci.
Kareem herded me into the house with curses. In our room he covered me
with kisses and we wept and made our peace. It had taken a series of
mishaps to lead us to our peak of happiness.
Miraculously, all had ended well. |
Birth
The most complete and powerful expression of life is birth. The acts of
conceiving and birthing are more profound and beautiful than any miracle
of art. This I learned as I waited for our first child with such great Joy
and happiness.
Kareem and I had meticulously planned the birth. No detail was too small
to take into account. We made res-ervations to travel to Europe four
months before the expected date of arrival. I would give birth at Guy’s
Hospital in London.
As with so many carefully laid plans, minor occur-rences prevented our
departure. Kareem’s mother, blinded by a new veil made of thicker fabric
than usual, sprained her ankle when she stumbled over an old bedouin woman
sitting in the souq; a close cousin on the verge of signing an impor-tant
contract requested that Kareem postpone his departure; and my sister Nura
frightened the family with what the doctor thought was an appendicitis
attack.
Once we were past these crises, false labor pains began. My physician
forbade me to travel. Kareem and I accepted the inevitable and set about
making arrange-ments for our child to be born in Riyadh.
Unfortunately, the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Centre
that would offer us royals the latest medical care had yet to open. I
would give birth at a smaller institution in the city, best known for
harboring germs and for its lackadaisical staff. Since we were of the
Royal Family, we had options not available to other Saudis. Kareem
arranged for three rooms in the maternity ward to be converted into a roy-al
suite. He hired local carpenters and painters. Interior decorators from
London were flown in, tape measures and fabric samples in hand.
My sisters and I were guided through the unit by the proud hospital
administrator. The suite glowed a heav-enly blue with silk bed covers and
drapes. An elaborate baby bed with matching silk coverlets was fastened
with heavy bolts to the floor, in the event that a member of the negligent
staff might carelessly tip the bed and toss our precious child to the
floor! Nura bent double with laughter when told of the precaution and
warned me that Kareem would drive the family insane with his schemes to
protect our child. I sat speechless when Kareem advised me that a staff of
six would soon arrive from London to assist me in the birth. A well-known
London obstetrician, along with five highly skilled nurses, had been paid
an enormous fee to travel to Riyadh three weeks prior to the estimated
deliv-ery date.
Since I was a motherless child, Sara moved into the palace toward the end
of my pregnancy. She watched n~e as I watched her. I observed her
carefully, absorbing the sad changes in my dear sister. I told Kareem I
feared she would never recover from her abhorrent marriage; her quiet
moods were now a permanent component of what had once been a thoroughly
cheerful and joyous character. How unfair life could be! I, by my very
aggressive-ness, could have better dealt with an abusive husband, for
bullies tend to be less forceful in the face of some-one who will stand up
to them. Sara, with her peaceful soul and gentle spirit, had been an easy
target for the arrogance of her untamed husband.
But I was thankful for her smooth presence. As my body swelled, I becarne
jittery and unpredictable. Kareem, in his excitement over fatherhood, had
lost all his good sense.
Due to the presence of Kareem’s brother Asad and various cousins who
came and went at will, Sara had been careful to veil when she left our
apartments on the second floor. The single men of the family were housed
in another wing, but they roamed the palace at all hours. After Sara’s
third day in our home, Noorah sent word through Kareem that there was no
need for her to veil when she entered the main living areas of the villa
or the gardens. I was pleased for any loosening of the tight restraints on
women that so encumbered our lives. Sara was apprehensive in the
beginning, but soon shed the excess covering of black with ease.
One evening, late, Sara and I were reclining in wick-er lounges, enjoying
the cool night air of the common garden. (There are women’s gardens and
common, or family, gardens on most Saudi palace grounds.) Unex-pectedly,
Asad and four acquaintances returned from a late-night appointment.
When she heard the men approaching, Sara turned her face to the wall, for
she had no desire to bring disgrace on the family by showing herself to
strangers. I felt no inclination to emulate her movement, so I loudly
pro-claimed our presence by shouting to Asad that there were unveiled
women in the garden. The men with Asad hur-riedly passed our way without a
glance and entered one of the side doors to the men’s sitting room. As a
cour-tesy, Asad casually walked our way to speak and inquire of Kareem’s
whereabouts when his eyes happened to rest on Sara’s face.
His physical reaction was so sudden that I feared he had been stricken
with a heart attack. His body jerked so grotesquely that I moved as
rapidly as my belly allowed and shook his arm to get his attention. I was
genuinely concerned. Was he ill? Asad’s face was flushed and he seemed
unable to move without direction; I led him to a chair and called out
loudly for one of the servants to bring water.
When no one responded, Sara jumped to her feet and rushed inside to get
the water herself. Asad, embar-rassed, tried to leave, but I was convinced
that he was about to faint. I insisted he stay. He said he felt no pain,
yet he could not explain his sudden loss of movement.
Sara returned with a glass and a bottle of cold mineral water. Without
looking at him, she poured a drink and raised the glass to his lips. Asad’s
hand brushed Sara’s fingers. Their eyes locked. The glass slipped from
her grasp and crashed to the ground. Sara swept past me as she ran into
the villa.
I left Asad to his friends, who had become impa-tient and begun to empty
into the garden. They were more flustered upon viewing my face than my
huge, protruding belly. I defiantly waddled by them, and made a point of
greeting them full in the face. They responded with embarrassed mumbles.
Kareem awoke me at midnight. When he arrived at the palace, he had been
intercepted by Asad. Kareem wanted to know from me what had happened in
the garden. I sleepily related the evening’s occurrence and inquired
about Asad’s health.
I sat up with a start when Kareem replied that Asad was insisting on
marrying Sara. He had announced to Kareem that he would never know
happiness if Sara were not his wife. This, from the playboy of all
play-boys! A man who had, only a few short weeks earlier, saddened his
mother when he vehemently swore never to marry. I was astonished. I told
Kareem that it was easy to surmise Asad’s attraction to Sara by his
behavior in the garden, but that this insistence on marriage was
unbelievable! After a few moments of visual pleasure? I dismissed it as
nonsense and turned back on my side.
While Kareem was showering, I rethought the event and left our bed. I
knocked on Sara’s door. Since there was no answer, I slowly pushed the
door open. My sister was sitting on the balcony staring at a star-filled
sky.
With great difficulty, I maneuvered myself into a cor-ner of the balcony
and sat, silent, in a stupor at this tum of events. Without looking in my
direction, Sara spoke with cer-tainty. "He wishes to marry me."
"Yes," I agreed in a small voice.
With a burning look in her eye Sara continued. "Sul-tana, I saw my
life ahead of me when I looked into his soul. This is the man Huda saw
when she said I would know love. She also said that as a result of this
love, I would bring six little ones into the world."
I closed my eyes in an attempt to bring to mind the comments made by Huda
on that day long ago in our parents’ home. I remembered talk of Sara’s
unrealized ambitions and the mention of marriage, but little else of the
conversation remained fresh in my mind. I shivered when I realized that
much of what Huda had predicted had come true.
I felt compelled to dismiss the idea of love at first sight. But I
suddenly recalled my charged emotions the day I first met Kareem.
I bit my tongue and made no sound.
Sara patted my belly. "Go to bed, Sultana. Your child needs rest. My
destiny will come to me." She turned her gaze back to the stars.
"Tell Kareem that Asad should go and speak with Father of this
matter."
When I returned to the bed, Kareem was awake. I repeated Sara’s words,
and he shook his head in wonder and muttered that life was indeed strange,
then wrapped his arms around my belly. Sleep came easily to us, for our
1ives were fixed on a carefully charted course, and neither of us expected
unknowns.
The following morning I left Kareem to his shaving and moved heavily down
the staircase. I heard Noorah before I saw her. She, as was her favorite
pastime, was quoting a proverb. I cursed under my breath but listened
quietly at the doorway.
" ‘The man who marries a woman for her beauty will be deceived; he
who marries a woman for good sense can truly say he is married.’ "
I bad no feeling left to fight so I thought to cough to announce my
presence. When Noorah began to speak again I changed my mind. I held my
breath and strained my ears to hear her words. "Asad, the girl has
been married before. She was quickly divorced.
Who knows the reason? Reconsider, my son, you can wed whom you wish. You
will be wise to start with a woman that is fresh, not one that is wilted
from use! Besides, my son, you see the ball of fire that is Sultana. Can
her sister be of a different substance?"
I followed my stomach into the room, my heart aflut-ter. She was
cautioning Asad against Sara. Not only that, the leopard had not changed
its spots; in secret Noorah still hated me. I was a bitter potion for her
to swallow.
Aware of Asad’s carefree character, I had not been in favor of his and
Sara’s love. Now I would be a resolute supporter of their wishes.
Relieved, I could easily see by Asad’s expression that nothing would
alter his plans. He was a man possessed.
The conversation folded when they saw my face, for I have difficulty in
clothing anger; I was furious that Noorah assumed that grief would arise
from her son’s union with my sister. Surely, I could not argue against
my own rebellious nature. I had assumed the role at an early age and had
no inclination to alter. But for Sara to be labeled with my reputation was
maddening!
In my youth, I had heard many old women say: "If you stand near a
blacksmith, you will get covered in soot, but if you stand near a perfume
seller, you will carry an aroma of scent with you." I realized that
as far as Noorah was concerned, Sara was carrying the soot of her younger
sister. My feeling was now bottomless rage at my mother-in-law.
Sara’s beauty had sparked jealousy in many of our sex. I knew that her
appearance closed the possibility of any consideration given to her gentle
character and blazing intellect. Poor Sara!
Asad stood up and nodded slightly in my direction. He excused himself from
our company. Noorah looked like someone suffering from a dagger wound when
he turned back to her and said, "The decision is made. If I am
acceptable to her and her family, no one can delay me."
Noorah yelled at his back about the insolence of youth and tried to layer
him with guilt when she exclaimed that she was not long for the world; her
heart was weakening by the day. When Asad ignored her obvious ploy, she
shook her head in sorrow. Brows knitted, she thought-fully sipped at a cup
of coffee. No doubt she was plotting against Sara as she had against the
Lebanese woman.
In a state of high emotion, I rang the bell for the cook and
ordered yogurt and fruit for breakfast. Marci came into the room and
relieved the pain of my swollen feet with her skilled fingers. Noorah
attempted conversation, but I was too angry to respond. As I began to
nibble fresh strawberries—flown in daily from Europe—a labor pain took
me to the floor. I was frightened and screamed in agony, for this crushing
pain was too soon, and far too severe. I knew the pain should begin as a
twinge, as the false labor that had nudged me in the past.
Chaos erupted as Noorah called out in one breath for Kareem, for Sara, for
the special nurses, and for the servants. In moments, Kareem lifted me in
his arms and bundled me into the back of an extra-long limou-sine, which
had been especially converted for this event. The seats had been ripped
out and a bed built in on one side. Three small seats had been made ready
to accom-modate Kareem, Sara, and a nurse. The physician from London and
the other four nurses had been alerted and were following in a separate
limousine. I clutched my back while the nurse tried in vain to monitor my
heartbeat. Kareem yelled at the driver to go faster; then he reversed his
orders and screamed for him to go slower, declaring in a loud voice that
his reckless driving would kill us all. He thumped the poor man on the
back of the head when he allowed another driver to cut in front of our
car.
Kareem began to curse himself for not arranging a police escort. Sara did
her best to calm Kareem, but he was like an unleashed storm. Finally, the
British nurse spoke loudly in his face; she advised him that his conduct
was harmful to his wife and child. She threatened to remove him from the
vehicle if he did not quiet himself.
Kareem, a prominent royal prince who had known no criticism in his life
from a woman, entered a state of shock and was speechless. We all breathed
a sigh of relief.
The hospital administrator and a large staff that had been alerted by the
household were waiting at the side door. The administrator was delighted
that our child would be born in his institution, for in those days many of
the young royals traveled abroad for the event of birth. My labor was long
and difficult, for I was young and small in size and my baby was stubborn
and large. I recall little of the birth itself; my mind was seduced with
drugs and my memory is hazy. The nervous tension of the staff inflated the
mood of the room, and I heard the physician insult his staff time and
again. Without doubt, they were, as were my husband and family, praying
for the birth of a son. Their reward would be great if a male child
appeared; if a female child was born, there would be great disappointment.
As far I was concerned, a female child was my desire. My land was bound to
change, and I felt myself smile with anticipation of the agreeable life my
baby daughter would know.
The cheering of the physician and his staff awoke me from a shadowy
hollow. A son was born! I was sure I had heard the physician whisper to
his head nurse, "The rag-head in the dress will fill my pockets for
this prize!" My mind protested at this insult to my husband, but a
deep slumber took me from the room and the remark was not recalled for
many weeks. By that time, Kareem had awarded the physician a Jaguar and
fifty thousand English pounds. His nurses were presented with gold jewelry
from the souq along with five thousand English pounds each. The jubilant
hospital administrator from Egypt received a substantial contribution to
be used for the maternity wing. He was overjoyed with a bonus of three
months’ salary.
All thoughts of a daughter vanished when my yawn-ing son was placed in my
arms. A daughter would come later. This male child would be taught
different and bet-ter ways than the generation before him. I felt the
power of my intentions creating his future.
He would not be backward in his thinking, his sisters would be given a
place of honor and respect, and he would know and love his partner before
he wed. The vast possibilities of his accomplishments glowed and glittered
as a new star. I told myself that many times in history, one man has
created change that influenced millions. I swelled with pride as I
considered the good to mankind that would flow from the tiny body in my
arms. Without doubt, the new beginning of women in Arabia could start with
my own blood.
Kareem gave little thought to the future of his son. He was enamored of
fatherhood and quite rash with foolish statements regarding the number of
sons we would pro-duce together.
We were mindless with joy! |
|
