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Fahd bin Abdul Aziz
Sultan Bin Abdul Aziz
Naef Bin Abdul Aziz
Salman Bin Abdul Aziz
Ahmad Bin Abdul Aziz
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We will give it unto our children, and they unto
their children, and it shall not perish.
-KHALIL GIBRAN |
AFTER THE DISTRESSING incident with Jafer and Fayza,
I underwent a persistent and depressing change, retreating into myself. My
son, Abdullah, plotted his trip to Lebanon with such inspired devotion
that I came to believe him when he said nothing would hinder the
potentially perilous journey.
Kareem cautioned restraint, for he said our son's ardor would cool when
the difficulties of travel to Lebanon became more apparent.
I grew cross with my husband, and with a voice raised in disbelief asked
how he could remain so calm while those to whom we had given life tortured
my mind with grief
With a mysterious half smile, Kareem re minded me that Abdullah's passport
was locked in our safe. It would be impossible for our son to leave the
kingdom.
For these reasons, my resistance to Abdullah's plan was sporadic,
unorganized, and in effectual. In a matter of days, my once close
relationship with my son became one of strained silences.
Everyone who lived in our palace fumed and despaired. While Abdullah
packed his suitcases, his sister Amani mourned to see how little she could
do to improve the morals of her brother and older sister. Spurred on by
her faith, Amani began to spy on our employees. Horrified by what she
called the loose ness of our staff of sixty servants-for there are many
secret romantic encounters among those who serve us-Amani set out with
blunt directness to convert our Christian and Hindu servants into the
superior Muslim faith.
After a hundred quarrels with my daughter
over her inconsiderate and indiscriminate coercion of those who practice a
religion different from our own, I finally acknowledged that I had met my
match in Amani, who continued to outdistance her mother in sheer
perseverance.
I spent many hours in the solitude of my room, mulling over the lives of
my children.
When my three offspring were infants, they gave my life great joy and
meaning. In the days of their early childhood, only Maha generated chaos,
and I had no reason to anticipate peril at every turn. In those
pleasurable times, moments of parental happiness vastly overshadowed the
dark intervals of my fear and worry over the fates of these small beings
to whom I had given life.
Now that my children were nearing adult hood, I came to the frightful
conclusion that the only prerequisite to contented mother hood seemed to
be a precarious dependence upon chance, for nothing I said or did altered
my children's unpredictable behavior.
As one who has enormous difficulty adjusting to failure, I took to my bed,
complaining to Kareem that nothing in my life was progressing as I had
hoped. My psychological decline came at a time when Kareem's business was
quickly expanding. As his free moments were limited, he was ill equipped
to console and liberate my soul from melancholy, that mental interloper
that had intruded and dismantled my joyful pursuit of happiness.
I felt increasingly alone. Suppressing every display of emotion other than
self-pity, I began to sleep poorly and to overeat, gaining unwanted
pounds. Continually ignored by those whom I was attempting to manipulate,
I became progressively bad-tempered with my family and the servants. I
even acquired a disgusting habit of twisting, pulling, and biting on my
hair. The length of my hair became shorter, and the thickness became
thinner, until Kareem, after noticing my habit, sarcastically commented
that he thought I had employed a new and more enthusiastic hair dresser
when in reality I was behaving like a child by pulling it out.
I was quick to snap an ugly retort, unfairly accusing Kareem of loving
none but himself, which was why I, alone, had to keep watch over our
children.
Gently impatient, Kareem got a distant look in his eyes, and I felt as if
he left me without leaving the room. When his spirit returned, he said
that he had been trying to re member a comforting verse he had once read
about the rearing of spirited children. Kareem recited, "You may give
your children love, but not your thoughts, for they have their own
thoughts."
"Kahlil Gibran," I said.
"What?"
"That verse, it is from The Prophet. And it was I who read that
particular verse to you while we were awaiting the birth of our first-
born."
Kareem's stern face softened as a smile parted his lips, and I wondered if
he was remembering the happy moments so long ago that we had spent with
our infant son.
That was not the case, for he complimented me by saying, "Sultana,
you are an amazing creature. How can you remember such a thing?"
Kareem had always marveled at my memory, for once I'd read or heard
something, my recall never failed in accuracy.
I was pleased with his recognition, but the causes of my discontent were
too deep and varied to be so easily dissolved. In a collision with my
children, my mad passion had blinded me to my husband's clear and logical
mind. With no one else to battle, I continued to snarl at my husband. In
contempt I com pared Kareem with Nero, the mad fiddler of Rome, blind to
disaster even when his kingdom was aflame.
Angered by my repeated insults, Kareem thought better of his solicitous
sympathy and left me alone to consider his parting observation, which was
not comforting. His spiteful words were, "Sultana, you have it all.
Yet, you fear everything and understand nothing. I predict that you will,
one day, be committed to an institution built especially for the insane.
I hissed like a snake and Kareem left, not to return for two days.
Shortly after our heated exchange, I was unconsciously twisting my hair
with one hand while idly thumbing through one of my many foreign
publications when I read an article in an American magazine that told of a
rare disease that strikes females only, causing women to pull their hair
out until they be come completely bald. Once bald, those un fortunate
women then progress pulling out and eating their eyebrows, eyelashes, and
body hair.
I let go of my hair. Did I have that disease?
I ran to view my image in the mirror, and to search through my scalp for
bald spots. My hair did seem thin. Now I was truly worried, for I had
never cured myself of vanity and had no inclination to be bald! Besides,
in the Muslim religion, it is forbidden for a woman to be bald.
Time proved that I did not have the disease, for unlike the women in the
article, my attachment to beauty helped me to quickly cure
myself of the habit.
Despite retaining my hair, I feared that I had lost my passion for life,
and I told myself that if my debilitating depression was not conquered, my
old age would be premature and triumphant. Feeling sorry for myself, I
imagined that I would suffer a slow death through the gradual diminution
of my senses.
I was saved from my self-destructive behavior by my dearest sister.
Sara, a contemplative genius, was sensitive to my dulled lust for life,
and she began to spend many hours by my side, humoring me with her
undivided attention. Sara under stood my feelings perfectly and knew that
worry over Abdullah and Amani now ruled my life.
My sister looked upon me with great pity when I tearfully told her,
"Sara, if I had to live my life over again, I do not believe that I
could survive it."
Sara's mouth curved upward in a half smile as she wryly observed,
"Sultana, few of our family would survive if you were to live your
life again."
Our laughter filled the room.
My sister was so dear. Sara was not without problems of her own. She
herself was burdened with an unruly child, yet she came to my aid at a
time of great need. While four of my sister's five children strove for
perfection, Nashwa, Sara's teenage daughter, born on the same day as
Amani, relished controversy.
In strictest confidence, Sara told me to be thankful that Amani had
attached herself to religion, for Sara had the opposite problem with
Nashwa. Her daughter was wildly attracted to members of the opposite sex,
and twice Asad had discovered her meeting Saudi teenage boys in a music
shop at a shopping center in the city.
Tears streamed down Sara's face as she confided in me that her daughter
flirted outrageously with every male who entered their grounds. In a voice
filled with disbelief, she said that the week before, Nashwa had begun an
explicit sexual conversation with two of the younger Filipino drivers. One
of Nashwa's brothers had overheard the conversation, and when confronted,
Nashwa boldly acknowledged her action, stating that she had to do
something to interrupt the monotony of life in Saudi Arabia.
Asad had been forced to fire the young drivers and to employ older Muslim
men from Egypt who would respect the Muslim way: to ignore the willful
women of the house.
Just that morning, Sara had overheard her daughter speaking with a female
friend on the telephone. The two girls were discussing in great detail the
pleasing physique of the girl's eldest brother. It seemed to Sara that
Nashwa had a crush on this boy, and now my sister had to reconsider or
regulate her daughter's visits to that home.
Sara's face was drawn with worry over the outcome of Nashwa's loose morals
and unbecoming conduct, saying she had often heard that one of nature's
oversights was that beauty and virtue often arrive in separate packages.
Nashwa, my sister said, was an innocent-faced beauty who was sadly lacking
in virtue.
I had to agree that my difficulties with Amani paled in comparison with my
sister's problems with Nashwa. There was some consolation in the knowledge
that Amani's piety had the approval of the religious authorities, while
Nashwa's activities could embroil Sara and Asad in that never-ending web
of the Saudi religious and legal system.
I was once again overtaken by the thought that Nashwa was my true child,
while Amani must be attached by blood to Sara. I thought to ask Sara about
the matter, but had a moment of anxiety that an actual exchange of
daughters might result from my baseless speculation. I reminded myself
that in my country it is better to wrestle with a persistent religious
fanatic than with a young girl habituated to sexual stimulus.
In an effort to raise my sister's spirits, I told her that too often when
dealing with our children, we parents see little but the defects. I
thought to mention some of Nashwa's good traits, but could find nothing to
say.
Sara and I were still for a time, looking at each other. We knew
instinctively that we understood each other perfectly.
With her daughter in mind, my sister began to ponder the progress of
civilization. Our children have been sheltered from all worldly concerns,
lavished with creature comforts, provided with intelligent pursuits and
moral guidance, yet the careful organization of their lives had made
little impact on their development.
Sara said she had come to the conclusion that human character was linked
to nothing more than genetics, and that her children might as well have
grown like weeds instead of meticulously tended plants.
"Besides," she said with a laugh, "the radicals of one age
become the reactionaries of the next, so who knows the eventual outcome of
our off spring?"
Since it always lightens one's burdens to be reminded of another's
troubles, even if that person is one greatly loved, I began to feel more
cheerful than I had in days.
I laughed and agreed with my sister, saying that the seeds we planted had
not all flowered. Thinking that all of life is in God's hands anyway, I
promised myself I would worry no longer.
Sara went to inquire about her youngest children, who were playing in our
palace playground, which is located next to Amani's zoo, while I promised
to bathe and dress my self for a visit to Fayza. Neither Sara nor I had
seen the poor girl since she was forced to return to the kingdom, though
we had heard, with some surprise, that she had recovered and was now
seeing close friends and relatives.
Enjoying uncommon peace for the first time in days, I was unprepared for a
shocking telephone call from my husband.
His voice was alarmingly intense. "Sultana, go to the safe and locate
Abdullah's passport."
"Why?" I asked.
Kareem told me to shut up and do as he said.
Thinking the worst, I dropped the telephone receiver to the floor and ran
rapidly into my husband's home office, which is located on the first floor
in our home. My hands refused to cooperate with my memory, and it required
three attempts to open the combination safe.
My husband kept his passport in his office safe, while mine and the
children's were kept at home.
My fingers riffled through the various documents and papers. Abdullah's
passport was missing!
I was then struck with the horrible realization that I could account for
only two out of four passports. Looking closely, I saw that Maha's
passport had disappeared along with that of her brother.
What was going on? How had this happened? No one, other than Kareem and I,
knew the combination of this particular safe.
"No!" I said to myself when I could not find the special papers
of permission Kareem had signed for the women of his family to travel
outside the kingdom without the company of a male member of our family.
I was confused. Was Maha traveling alone? Or did she and her brother flee
the kingdom together?
The private telephone in Kareem's office began to ring.
My husband had tired of waiting. When I picked up the receiver, he
shouted, "Sultana! What is going on?"
I told Kareem of my unsettling discovery.
"And the dollars?"
I had not thought to look for the large amount of money we kept in dollars
in our safe for the purpose of fleeing the kingdom should a religious
revolution ever grip our land. It was money we hoped we would never be
forced to use to bribe safe exit from our country
I opened the large drawer at the top of the safe. It was as Kareem had
expected. The money was no longer there! As our fears of unrest in Arab
lands had grown, the money had increased. Abdullah had taken over a
million dollars in cash from his parents' safe. Had my son lost all his
good sense?
"The dollars have disappeared," I glumly reported.
"Go, see if Maha is at school. I am on the way to the airport."
I cried out, "Hurry!" I knew that my son was on his way to
Lebanon. But how was Maha involved in this? Surely Abdullah was not taking
his sister with him to that dangerous land. I was giddy with fear and
confusion.
"I will try to call you from the car. Now. Do as I say. Find
Maha!"
I fetched a simple dress and hastily pulled it over my head. Reaching for
my abaaya, veil, and shayla, I threw on my outer garments
as I ran through the house, calling out for my sister Sara to accompany me
to Maha's school yelled at Connie to find Mousa, the youngest
of our Egyptian drivers, a man who, I knew from past experience, could be
urged to break the city speed limit.
Maha's school was fifteen minutes by auto mobile from our palace, but we
arrived in ten minutes. Along the route, I told Sara what little I knew of
the situation.
The seventeen girls in Maha's history class were taking notes while
listening to a male instructor, who appeared on a large television screen
in the center of the room. The lesson was being given via video, since it
is forbid den in Saudi Arabia for a male professor to come into personal
contact with female students.
Maha's face turned crimson red as I burst into her classroom, calling her
name. Seeking the face of my child, I hovered over her desk and said,
"Maha! You are here!"
Maha pushed my arms from her neck, exclaiming, "Where did you think I
was?"
I told the headmistress that I needed my daughter to return to our home.
Without a hint of curiosity about my unusual behavior, she calmly
instructed Maha to gather her books. She asked if Maha would be away for
longer than a week. Since I did not know, I said that she would. The
supervisor said in that case she would have Maha's instructors save my
daughter's lessons for her return.
"Mother! What is going on?" Maha wanted to know as we settled
ourselves in the car.
"I feared that you were with Abdullah."
"Abdullah?"
Maha, only seventeen years old at the time, was a junior at a girls' high
school. My son, at age nineteen, was supposed to be at his university, an
institution that girls did not attend.
Maha looked at me in astonishment. "Mother, you are behaving like a
crazy person." She looked at Sara for confirmation. "Auntie,
what is wrong?"
Sara explained the mystery of the pass ports, saying that we could not
understand why Abdullah had taken hers.
My sister's eyes met mine across the head of my daughter. Sara's thoughts
matched mine perfectly.
"Fayza!" We uttered her name in unison.
I told the driver to take us to the home of Fouad and Samia. "Quicky!"
Abdullah's plans ran clear through my mind. My son had taken Maha's
passport for Jafer's wife, Fayza! Abdullah had plotted her rescue. It was
Fayza who was traveling on Maha's passport. Fayza was going to Lebanon
with my son, not Maha! With her face veiled, it is possible for a Saudi
woman to travel abroad using the passport of another.
When Maha understood the significance of her brother's deed, she pleaded
for us to re turn to our home.
"Mother! Let them go!"
It was a difficult moment. If I made no move to notify Fayza's parents, I
was an accomplice to my son's unwelcome intrusion into another man's
private affairs. If I was the cause of Fayza's continued separation from
the man she loved enough to wed, I could never again claim to battle for
the rights of women in my land.
Sara and I stared at each other for many moments. Sara's eyes were clear
and penetrating, and I knew that my sister was reliving the horrible
sexual abuse she had endured in her own first marriage. Had our mother not
revolted against our father, risking a divorce and possible permanent
separation from her own precious children, Sara would have remained in
sexual bondage to a man she hated, never knowing the wonderful love she
now shared with Asad.
My decision was the result of the intolerance and severe restraints
suffered by the women of my land. Wanting to live up to the best, and not
the worst in my ancestry, I instructed Mousa, "Take us home."
Maha laughed and kissed me time and again, crushing me against the seat of
the automobile.
Sara's eyes grew luminous. My sister smiled and squeezed my hand, saying,
"Sultana, do not worry, you have made the correct decision."
Mousa's eyes grew unnaturally wide, and his mouth opened and closed,
reminding me of a bird that had become overheated in the desert sun. His
face grew darker in color, and I could see that he violently disagreed
with this turn of events.
I spoke in French, a language he did not understand. "Look at the
driver's face," I told my sister and my child. "He does not
approve.
"What man in this country would approve a woman's right to choose her
husband?" Maha wanted to know. "Tell me one! And . . . and I
will wed him!"
I looked back upon the events of that day and felt a rush of recognition.
My heavy spirit had at last achieved tranquility,
for I under stood that my daughter shared the blood of one who was
enlightened, yet had no knowledge of his liberation.
"Abdullah," I answered quietly. "Your brother. My son.
Abdullah is such a man."
In happy silence I stared at my daughter's face, but was imprisoned in my
past. I saw the form of my firstborn as he lay in his mother's arms. The
emotions I felt on the day of his birth returned to me in a flash, such a
rush of joy that by its nature must be brief
I had wondered then if my newborn son would uphold and thereby reinforce
the harsh rules pertaining to females in my land. I had prayed that such
would not be the case, but that he would influence our country's history
in an agreeable manner and help to bring change to the rigid social
customs of Saudi Arabia.
It was difficult to judge Abdullah's actions calmly, but in an honest
appraisal of his activities, I knew that my deepest desire had been
realized. A male child born of my womb would remodel the land of my birth.
How brave was my bold son!
No longer caring about Mousa's reaction, I spoke in Arabic, reminding Sara
and Maha that the men of Kareem's generation had once sounded the voice of
reason when it came to their women, but that this voice had been silenced
by their clash with the militant men of religion. Grieving over the timid
men of our age, I no longer looked to them for relief.
But hope was not lost, so long as we women of Arabia gave birth to men
such as Abdullah.
I told Maha and Sara what I knew to be the truth, that my beloved son was
a prince who would one day use all his power and influence to enhance the
status of Saudi women.
Renewed by my son 5 brave act, I talked of nothing else the remainder of
the trip home, scandalizing Mousa with my frank discussion of complete
freedom for all women, even for his own wife, whom he forced to live with
his parents in a small village in Egypt while he worked in Saudi Arabia.
Kareem was impatiently awaiting my re turn. He did not seem surprised that
I ex pressed great happiness, and I imagined that he supposed my change of
mood was linked to the safe recovery of our daughter. Never did he know
that my happiness was linked to our son and the fact that Abdullah had
turned his back upon injustice, and his face to a free life for all
people.
Maha was a bit frightened by the intensity of her father's blazing eyes,
and she mentioned some small task that required her time.
Sara gathered her children and went home to Asad, whispering in my ear
that I should call her as soon as possible.
I could hear Amani's voice in the back ground, rising and falling with the
sounds of her deeply felt communication with God.
Finally, I was alone with my husband. I thought that Kareem's face was
hardened by the oppressive weight of his discovery, and I was unprepared
for his ruthless accusations.
He declared his feelings without questioning his wife. "Sultana, your
scent is on Fayza's flight."
For a short moment, I was silenced by his insinuation. As one whose anger
runs to extremes, I appeared at my worst when I struck out at Kareem's arm
with my fist.
Well acquainted with my passions, Kareem was prepared. He sidestepped,
avoiding the blow.
Over the years, Kareem had disciplined his reactions so that he appeared
moderate, always making me appear the worse in our conflicts. Today was no
exception. "Sultana. this is no time to fight. Our son and Fayza have
fled the kingdom." My husband grabbed me. "You must tell me
their travel plans."
All my denials failed to convince Kareem that while our son might have
inherited my talent for brilliant deception, I had no hand in his present
action.
Like the town thief who is not believed when a loaf of bread is stolen, my
past ached into the present, and a frightening avalanche of accusations
flamed out against an innocent woman.
I was paying a dear price for my militant past.
I thought Kareem's conduct as a husband might have been more loyal, and I
told him so.
Kareem asked how he could believe me. He said he had married a woman who
was half angel and half devil, and the devil in me often ruled the angel,
and when it came to issues that concerned women's lives, I could not speak
without lying and could not act without treachery!
Angrier than I have ever been-for what human endures false censure with
grace-I spat at Kareem's feet and left the room, promising never again to
enter a conversation with the man to whom I was wed.
Kareem thought it best to bury his doubts, for he was concerned that
without my assistance, lie might not succeed in finding his son or in
returning Fouad's daughter. Kareem said that if he was in the wrong he was
sorry, and that I must save our son from commit ting an offense that would
further entangle him in another man's personal affairs.
Suspecting his true motives, I refused to answer his request for
forgiveness, squeezing my eyes shut so I did not have to view his face,
and motioning with my hand for him to go away.
As soon as the door slammed, my pleasure at revenge faded.
Where was my son? Was he safe?
For five days there was no peace in our home, for Kareem and I had no
peaceful communication. Amani prayed and wept, while Maha sang love songs
and celebrated Fayza's escape.
Is anything in life more sweet than success? With a singleness of purpose,
Fayza evaded the snares that had been prepared for her and was reunited
with the man she loved.
I could never have anticipated the reaction of Fouad and Samia to Fayza's
desperate flight. Prepared for Kareem to be forced to use his position as
protection for our only son, I was pleasantly surprised by Fouad's meek
acceptance of his daughter's behavior - - On the fifth day after their
disappearance.
Abdullah called us from Cyprus, the- small island nation located close to
the shores of Lebanon. Abdullah had no fear of our reaction and declared
firmly, against our protests, that he had administered justice, not
vengeance, by bringing Jafer and Fayza together.
My breath left my body when Abdullah confided that Fayza had telephoned
her parents an hour before, and that Fouad and Samia had left their anger
behind them and wanted nothing more than a second opportunity to welcome
Jafer as their son. Fouad told his child that if she and Jafer would not
turn their backs on her family, he promised he would not step in the same
raging river twice.
How true it is that humanity refuses com promise during prosperity, and
reaches out for arbitration when weak. Swayed by the fear of never seeing
their beautiful daughter again, Fouad and Samia had come to the conclusion
that they would accept her marriage to someone beneath them in wealth and
status.
Being of a suspicious nature, I thought per haps it was a trick to ensnare
Jafer in a land where he had no rights. Once in Saudi Arabia, he could be
imprisoned on the slightest pretense, if that was Fouad's wish.
Fayza's parents did not confirm my pessimism.
That day, Fouad and his family flew to Greece and met Jafer and Fayza in a
golden land where men had been civilized from an early age. Thoughts more
bitter than death were put to rest, and Jafer and Fayza at last found
happiness in the family unit that had once challenged the legitimacy of
their marriage.
Special permission was obtained for Fayza to wed a Muslim from another
land, and a second, more festive wedding was held in a hotel in Cairo,
Egypt.
Kareem and I traveled there with our two daughters to join our son for the
occasion.
Jafer and Fayza insisted that male and female guests come together for a
reception at the Mena House Hotel. Their great love even made a dour
Kareem smile, although he was a prince ashamed that his son had interfered
in his friend's private life. Kareem's tension was relieved when Fouad
confessed that there could have been no other ending, for long be fore
Abdullah had rescued Fayza, his daughter's extreme misery had led him and
his wife to the knowledge that she must be rejoined with Jafer. Fayza's
grief could not be ignored. Fouad assured my embarrassed husband that
they, themselves, had been on the brink of pa rental surrender the day she
had fled.
Kareem and I watched as Fouad grasped Jafer and Fayza as if they were one.
From the look on Jafer's shining face as he watched his wife, it was clear
that he loved her more madly than ever.
How pleased I was! A Saudi woman was happily wed to one forbidden.
I whispered in Kareem's ear, "See, every straight line can be forced
into a curve!"
A family tragedy was transformed into a scene of great harmony.
Later that evening, from the courtyard at our Cairo villa, Kareem and I
watched the loveliness of the Egyptian sky.
My husband surprised me with a heartfelt apology. Hovering nebulously
between shame and love, Kareem promised that he would not prejudge me
again, that Abdullah had told him I was not privy to his plot to free
Fayza. It had been Kareem who had given our son the combination to our
safe. In the excitement of the moment Kareem had forgotten!
Then, as though it were an afterthought, Kareem reached into his pocket
and brought out the largest diamond I had ever seen. The stone was hung on
a golden chain. My husband tenderly fastened the necklace around my neck,
and I felt his lips as they brushed my shoulder.
A few years ago, I had hated the bitter emptiness of my married life. Just
the month before I had hungrily sought the meaning of life. The moment was
a breeding ground for all sorts of emotions-affection, regret, and, most
of all, confusion. Was Kareem that rare phenomenon, a Saudi husband who
was gentle, virile, practical, and intelligent? Had I been wrong in my
assessment of his character?
How could a Saudi man be the answer to my happiness when I had fought
against Saudi men all my life?
I had once heard that a miser is never satisfied with his money, nor a
wise man with his knowledge. Was I a woman who would never know
fulfillment? That possibility was frightening.
Another thought came to my mind, an Arab proverb, "If your husband is
made of honey, do not consume him."
I looked at Kareem in a new light. Remembering the numerous insults I had
inflicted upon him, I prayed that God would shorten my tongue and increase
my powers of reason-I smiled at my husband- many wounds heal injuries
suffered because of Kareem's conduct earlier in our marriage.
For some reason, my scars could scarcely be detected. |
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