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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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Dark Secrets
The completion of our birth ends in death. life begins with only one
passageway; however, there are unlimited means of exit. The usual and
hoped-for method of departure follows the wondrous fulfillment of life's
promise. When death claims one blooming with life and cause for hope, it
is the saddest of all events. When blossoming youth ends as the result of
another man's hand, it is the worst of life.
At the rapturous occasion of the birth of my son, I was confronted with
the mindless death of a young and innocent girl.
Kareem and the medical staff attempted to cloister me from the other Saudi
women who were short steps away from my suite. While my son slept beside
me, with an entourage for protection, other sons and daughters were kept
in the nursery. Curiosity about their life stories lured me from my rooms.
As with most of the royals, I had led a life sheltered from ordinary
citizens, and now
my inquisitive nature led me to conversation with these women.
If my childhood had been bleak, the lives of most Saudi women had been
more bleak, I soon learned. My life was ruled by men, but there was
protection of sorts because of my family name. The majority of women
gathered around the nursery window had no voice in their destiny.
I was eighteen years old at the time of my first child's birth. I met
girls as young as thirteen nursing their young. Other young women no more
than my own age were delivering their fourth or fifth infant. One young
girl trigued me. Her black eyes were dulled with pain as she gazed at the
mass of screaming infants. She stood so quiet for such a lengthy time that
I knew her eyes did not see what was before her; instead she was immersed
in a drama far from the spot on which we were standing.
I learned that she was from a small village, not distant from the city.
Normally, women in her tribe gave birth in their homes, but she had been
in labor five long days and nights, and her husband had driven her to the
city for medical assistance. I befriended her over a period of several
mornings and discovered that she had been married at the age of twelve to
a man of fifty -three. She was the third wife, but much favored by her
husband. Mohammed, our beloved Prophet of Islam, taught that men should
divide their time equally among their wives. In this case, the husband was
so occupied with the charms of his young bride that to please their
husband, wives numbers one and two frequently agreed to lose their turns
for mating. The young girl said her hus-band was a man of great power and
did "it" many times a day. Her eyes widened as she moved her arm
up and down in the pumping motion for added effect.
Now she was frightened, for she had given birth to a daughter, not a son.
Her husband would be angry when he came to claim them for the trip back to
the village, for the firstborns of the other two wives had been sons. Now,
with foreboding, she sensed that she would be scorned by her husband.
She recalled little of her childhood, which now seemed ages ago. She had
been raised poorly and experienced little but hard work and sacrifice. She
described how she had helped her numerous brothers and sisters to herd the
goats and camels and tend to a small gar-den. I was anxious to know her
feelings of men and women and life, but since she was sadly lack-ing in
education, I did not receive the answers I was seeking.
She was gone before I could say good-bye. I felt cold from the thought of
her bleak life and wandered back to my suite in a despondent state.
In a fit of anxiety over the safety of his son, Kareem had posted armed
guards at the door of my suite. When I had made my morning walk to the
nursery, I was surprised to see guards standing in front of another room.
I thought that another princess must be in the ward. I eagerly asked a
nurse to tell me the name of the princess. A crease formed on her brow
when she told me that I was the only princess in the hospital.
She told me the story, but not before she advised me that she was
absolutely scandalized. Then she proceeded to insult all the people on
earth before she described the happenings in Room 212. She said that
nothing of the sort would ever happen in her country, that the British are
quite civilized, thank you, and that they make the rest of the world seem
simply barbaric. My imagination could not take me to such depths of anger,
so I implored her to tell me what was happening before Kareem paid his
afternoon visit.
The day before, she told me, the hospital staff had been dismayed to see a
young girl about to deliver, shackled in leg irons and handcuffs, escorted
to the maternity ward by armed guards. A group of angry mutawas, followed
by the frightened administrator, had accompanied the guards; they, not the
administrator, had appointed a physician to her case. To the physician's
consternation, he had been informed that the girl had been tried in the
Shari’a (the law of God) courts and found guilty of fornication. Since
this was a crime of Hudud (a crime against God), the penalty was severe.
The mutawas, clothed in self-righteousness, were there to bear witness to
the appropriate punishment.
The physician, a Muslim from India, made no protest to the mutawas, but he
was incensed at the role he was forced to play. He told the staff that the
usual punishment for fornication was flogging, but in this instance, the
father had insisted upon death for his daughter. The girl was to be
guarded until she delivered, at which time she was to be stoned to death.
The nurse's chin quivered in indignation as she report-ed that the girl
was no more than a child. She guessed her age at fourteen or fifteen. She
knew few other details and left my bedside to gossip with the other nurses
in the hallway.
I begged Kareem to uncover the story. He hesitated, saying that this was
not a matter of our concern. After much pleading and the shedding of tears
on my part, he promised to inquire into the matter.
Sara lightened my day when she brought me bright news of her evolving
romance. Asad had spoken with Father and had received the expected
positive answer. Sara and Asad were going to marry within three months I
was thrilled for my sister, who had known so little happiness.
Then she divulged other news that made my stomach sink with fear. She and
Asad had made plans to meet in Bahrain the following weekend. When I
protested, Sara said she was traveling to meet Asad, with or without my
assistance. She planned to advise Father that she was still at our palace,
helping me in my new role of motherhood. She would tell Noorah that she
was back at Father's home. She said no one would guess otherwise.
I asked how she could travel without Father's permission, for I knew he
kept all the family passports locked in his safe at the office. Besides,
she would require a letter of permission from Father or she would never
gain entry onto the plane. I cringed when Sara told me she had bor-rowed a
passport and a permission letter from a girlfriend who had planned a trip
to Bahrain to visit relatives, but had had to cancel when one of the
relatives became ill.
Since Saudi women veil, and the security guards at the airport would never
dare ask to see a woman's face, many Saudi women borrow each other's
passports for such occasions. The letter of permission was the added
difficulty; but they too are swapped, along with the pass-ports. Sara
would return the good deed at a later date by planning a trip to a nearby
country and canceling at the last minute, then lending her credentials to
the same friend. It was a detailed, underground operation that none of our
men ever figured out. I had always been amused at the ease with which
women tricked the airport officials, but now that it was my sister, I was
shaken with worry. In an effort to discourage Sara from any reckless acts,
I related the story of the young girl waiting to be stoned to death. Sara,
as I, was distraught, but her plans remained solid. With increasing
trepidation, I agreed to be her cover. She burst out laughing at the
thought of meeting Asad without supervision. He had arranged to borrow a
friend's apartment in Manama, the capital of the tiny country of Bahrain.
Sara, in her mood of anticipation, lifted my son from his silken cocoon.
With joyful eyes, she absorbed his perfection, and said that she too would
soon know the joys of motherhood, for she and Asad longed for the six
little ones predicted with such certainty by Huda. I displayed the happy
countenance expected by my sister, but fear settled in my belly like
frozen fire.
Kareem returned early in the evening with information about the condemned
girl. He said she was known to be wanton and had become pregnant after
having sex with numerous teenage boys. Kareem was disgusted with her
behavior. He said that in her disdain for the laws of our land, she had
humiliated the honor of her family name; there was no other course
possible for her family to take. I asked my husband of the punishment for
the young males who had participated, but he had no answer. I suggested
that they had more than likely received a stem lecture in lieu of a death
sentence; in the world of Arabs, blame for unsanctioned sex is placed
wholly on the shoulders of the female. Kareem stunned me with his calm
acceptance of the planned execution of a child, no matter what the crime.
In spite of my appeals for him to make some effort to intervene with the
king, who could often attain success with a father bent on violent
punishment, Kareem dismissed my cries of alarm with unconcealed irritation
and insisted that the subject be dropped. I was withdrawn and sullen when
he bade me farewell. He lavished our son with kisses and promises of a
perfect life while I sat dull and unresponsive.
I was preparing to depart the hospital when the British nurse entered my
suite in a white glow of anger. She brought heavy tidings of the condemned
girl. She possessed an uncanny memory and recalled every painful detail,
in perfect clarity, that she had been told by the physician from India.
The condemned girl had given birth to a baby daughter in the early hours
of the morning. Three mutawas had been told of the indignation from the
foreign community, and they stood with the armed guards at the entry of
the delivery theater to ensure that no sympathetic foreigner assisted the
girl to escape. After delivery, the girl was wheeled back into her room.
The mutawas informed the physician that the new mother would be removed on
that day and taken away to be stoned for her crime against God. The fate
of the newborn had not been determined since the family had refused to
raise the child as their own.
With horror in her eyes, the nurse stated that the young girl had
tearfully told the physician the events that had led to her tragic
situation. Her name was Amal and she was the daughter of a shopkeeper in
Riyadh. She had been only thirteen years old when the event occurred that
shattered her world. She had just begun to veil.
It was a Thursday night (equivalent to Saturday nights in the Western
world). Amal's parents had traveled to the Emirates for the weekend and
would not return until Saturday noon. Three Filipino house servants were
sleeping and the driver was in his small gate house, far removed from the
main dwelling. Amal's older married siblings were living in other areas of
the city. Of the farnily, only she and her seventeen-year-old brother were
left at home. Her brother and the three Filipinos had been instructed to
take care of her. Her brother had taken the opportunity to entertain a
large group of teenage friends while his parents were out of the country.
Amal heard loud music and voices late into the evening; the game room was
located directly below her bedroom. She thought that her brother and his
friends were more than likely smoking marijuana, a substance with which
her brother had lately become enamored.
Finally, when the walls of Amal's bedroom began to vibrate from the sounds
of the bass from the stereo, she decided to go downstairs to ask her
brother and his friends to turn down their music. Dressed only in her thin
nightgown, she had no intention of entering the room, just poking her head
into the doorway to yell for peace and quiet. The lights were dim, and the
room was dark; her brother did not respond to her cries, so the girl went
inside to look for him.
Amal's brother was not to be found. The other teen-age boys in the room
were obviously heated with drugs and talk of women, for Amal was pounced
upon by several boys at once and found herself pinned to the floor. She
screamed for her brother and tried to make the boys understand that she
was the daughter of the house, but her pleas did not register in their
drugged minds. Her gown was ripped from her body. She was brutally
assaulted by her brother's friends, as they had turned into a frenzied
mob. The volume of the music muffled the sounds of the attack, and no one
heard her screams for help. Amal lost consciousness after the third boy
raped her.
Her brother had been in the bathroom, but he was so drugged that he had
slumped against the wall and slept in a haze through the remainder of the
night. Later, when the dawn of light cleared the heads of the attackers
and Amal's true identity was revealed, the boys fled the villa.
Amal was taken to a nearby hospital by the driver and the Filipinos. The
doctor in the emergency room notified the police. The mutawas became
involved. Due to Amal's seclusion as a female, she could not identify her
attackers by name, only that they were acquaintances of her brother. Their
names were taken from Amal's brother, but by the time they were collected
and asked to appear before the police for statements, they had taken great
pains to collaborate on their story. According to the boys' version of the
evening, no drugs had been present. They acknowledged only that they had
been playing loud music and having innocent fun. They said the girl had
entered the room in a sheer nightdress and enticed them to have sex. She
told the boys she had been upstairs reading a book on sex and had a great
deal of curiosity. They swore that they had turned her down at first, but
that she behaved in such a bold manner—sitting on their laps, kissing
them, fingering her body—that they could not hold back any longer. The
girl had been left without a chaperon and was determined to have a good
time with some boys. They declared that she was insatiable and had begged
them all to participate.
The parents returned from the Emirates. Amal's moth-er believed her
daughter's story; although demented with grief, she was unable to convince
her husband of the girl's innocence. Amal's father, who had always been
uncomfortable with daughters, was stricken by the event, but felt that the
boys had done only what any male would do under the circumstances. With a
heavy heart, he concluded that his daughter must be punished for shaming
his name. Amal's brother, fearful of severe punishment for using drugs,
did not step forward to clear his sister's name.
The mutawas offered the father moral support in his strong stance and
showered him with accolades for his religious conviction.
The girl would die today.
Consumed by emotions of sorrow and fear, I barely heard the continued
exclamations of the British nurse. I felt the miserable decline of my
happiness as I imagined the girl's innocence and the futility of her
mother's efforts to save her from a cruel death. I myself had nev-er
witnessed a stoning, but Omar had done so on three occasions and had taken
great delight in describing to us the fate that awaited weak women who did
not carefully guard their honor, which was so prized by their men. I
thought of the vivid description with which Omar had burdened my memory.
When I was twelve years of age, a woman in one of the small villages not
far from Riyadh had been found guilty of adultery. She was condemned to
die by stoning. Omar and our neighbors' driver decided to go and view the
spectacle.
A large crowd had gathered since early morning. They were restless and
waiting to see the one so wicked. Omar said that just as the crowd was
becoming angry with impatience in the hot sun, a young woman of about
twenty-five years of age was roughly pulled out of a police car. He said
she was very beautiful, just the sort of woman who would defy the laws of
God. The woman's hands were bound. Her head hung low. With an official
manner, a man loudly read out her crime for the crowd to hear. A dirty rag
was used to gag her mouth and a black hood was fastened around her head.
She was forced to kneel. A large man, the executioner, flogged the woman
upon her back; fifty blows.
A truck appeared and rocks and stones were emptied in a large pile. The
man who had read off the crime informed the crowd that the execution
should begin. Omar said the group of people, mostly men, rushed toward the
stones and began to hurl the rocks at the woman. The guilty one quickly
slumped to the ground and her body jerked in all directions. Omar said the
rocks continued to thud against her body for what seemed to be an
interminable time. Every so often, the stones would quiet while a doctor
would check the woman's pulse. After a period of nearly two hours, the
doctor finally pronounced the woman dead and the stoning ceased.
The British nurse interrupted my sad ponderings when she returned to my
rooms in great agitation. The police and mutawas were taking the girl away
for her punishment. She said that if I stood in my doorway I could see her
face, for the girl was not veiled. I heard a great commotion in the
hallway. Quickly, I fastened my veil around my face. My feet moved my body
forward with-out thought or intention.
The doomed one was fragile and childlike between the tall, stoic guards
who led her to her fate. Her chin rested on her chest, so it was difficult
to see the expression on her face. But I discerned that she was a pretty
child, one who would have grown into beauty had she been allowed the
opportunity to age. She glanced up with dread and peered into the sea of
faces that was watching her with great curiosity. I saw that her fear was
great. There were no relatives to travel with her to the grave, only
strangers to see her off on the darkest of journeys.
I returned to my suite. I held my baby son with great tenderness and
considered the relief I felt that he was not of the weaker sex. I gazed
into his tiny face with wonder. Would he too uphold and thereby harden the
system that was so unfair to his mother and sisters? I considered the
possibility that all female babies should be put to death at birth in my
land. Perhaps the stern attitude of our men would be tempered by our
absence. I shuddered and the question came into my mind. How could a
mother protect the young of her own sex from the laws of the land?
The eyes of the stalwart British nurse were wet with tears. She sniffled
and asked why I, a princess, did not intervene in such madness. I told her
that I could not help the one condemned; women are not allowed a voice in
my land, not even women of the Royal Family. With sorrow I told the nurse
that not only would the girl die as scheduled but her death would be hard
and her life and death would go unrecorded. With bitterness, I thought of
the truly guilty ones roaming free, without thought or care for the tragic
death they
had wrought.
Kareem arrived with a joyful face. He had organized our return to the
palace as carefully as a plan of war. Police escorts eased our journey
through the bustling traffic of the growing city of Riyadh. Kareem told me
to hush when I related the incident at the hospital. He had no desire to
hear such sadness with his new son in his arms, traveling toward his
destiny as a prince in a land that soothed and nurtured such a one as he.
My feelings for my husband suffered as I saw that he cared little for the
fate of a lowly girl. I gave a deep sigh and felt lonely and afraid of
what I and my future daughters might face in the years to come. |
Death of a King
The year 1975 holds bitter sweet memories for me; it was a year of both
glittering happiness and discouraging sadness for my family and my
country.
Surrounded by those who loved him, Abdullah, my adored son, celebrated his
second birthday. A small circus from France was brought over on our
private planes to entertain. The circus stayed for a week at the palace of
Kareem's father.
Sara and Asad had survived their daring courtship and were now happily
married and awaiting their first child. Asad, in great expectation of the
child to be born, had flown to Paris and purchased all the baby clothes in
stock at three large stores. Noorah, his disbelieving mother, told all who
would listen that Asad had lost his mind. Enveloped in such love, my
long-suffering sister, Sara, beamed with happiness at last.
Ali was studying in the United States and was no longer intimately
involved in his sisters' affairs. He gave Father the fright of his life
when he announced that he was in love with an American working-class
woman, but much to Father's relief, Ali was fickle and soon informed us
that he preferred to have a Saudi wife. We later discovered that the woman
had struck Ali over the head with a candlestick when he became belligerent
and demanding at her refusal to be obedient.
We young, modern-thinking Saudi couples embraced the subtle relaxation of
the severe restrictions upon women as the years of efforts by King Faisal
and his wife Iffat for women's education and freedom proved successful.
Along with our education came a determination to change our country. A few
women no longer covered their faces, discarding their veils and bravely
staring down the religious men who dared to challenge them. They still
covered their hair and wore abaayas, but the bravery of these few gave
hope to us all. We royals would never be allowed such freedom; it was the
mid-dle class that showed their strength. Schools for women were now
opening without public demonstrations of dis-approval by the mutawas. We
felt certain that women's education would eventually lead to our equality.
Unfortunately, the punishment of death for women among the uneducated
fundamentalists still occurred. One small step at a time, we grimly
reminded each other.
Suddenly, over a six-month period, Kareem and I became the owners of four
new homes. Our new pal-ace in Riyadh was finally completed. Kareem decided
his new son would grow more hardy if he inhaled fresh sea breezes, so we
purchased a new villa by the seaside in Jeddah. My father owned a spacious
apartment house in London only four streets away from Harrods, and he
offered the property, at a grand bargain, to any of his children who might
be interested. Since my other sisters and their husbands already owned
apartments in London, and Sara and Asad were in the process of purchasing
an apartment in Venice, Kareem and I eagerly seized the opportunity to
have a home in that colorful city so loved by Arabs. And finally, as a
special three-year wedding anniversary gift for presenting him with a
precious son, Kareem bought me a lovely villa in Cairo.
Upon the occasion of Abdullah's birth, the family jeweler had flown to
Riyadh from Paris to bring a selection of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds
that he had designed into seven distinctive necklace, bracelet, and
earring sets. Needless to say, I felt richly rewarded for doing what I had
wanted to do. Kareem and I spent as much time as possible in Jeddah.
Happily, our villa was located on a coveted spot frequented by the Royal
Family.
We played backgammon as we watched our son, sur-rounded by Filipino maids,
paddle in the warm blue waters that teemed with exotic fish. Even we
females were allowed to swim, though we kept our aboayas tight around us
until we were up to our necks in water. One of the servants relieved me of
the aboeya held high with my hand so that I could swim and splash with
abandon. I was as free as it was possible for a woman to be in Saudi
Arabia.
It was the end of March, not a hot month of the year, so we did not linger
long after the midday sun. I told the servants to gather our laughing baby
and rinse him under the specially made portable hot shower. We watched him
as he gurgled and kicked his short, fat legs. Our smiles were broad with
pride; Kareem squeezed my hand and said he felt guilty for feeling such
happiness. I accused him later of bringing us, and all Saudis, bad luck by
voicing his joy with life. Most Arabs believe in the evil eye; never do we
speak aloud of our joy with life or of the beauty of our children. Quite
possibly, some evil spirit will hear and steal the object of our joy or
cause us some grief by taking away a loved one. To ward off this evil eye,
our babies are protected by blue beads pinned to their clothing. As
enlightened as we were, our son was no exception. Moments later, we
recoiled in horror as Asad ran toward us with the words "King Faisal
is dead! Murdered by one of the family!" Struck dumb, we sat
quivering as Asad told us the scanty details he had learned from a royal
cousin.
At the root of our uncle's death was a dispute about the opening of a
television station that had occurred near-ly ten years before. King Faisal
had always stood firm for the progress of modernization for our backward
land. Kareem said he had heard him say once that whether we Saudis liked
it or not, he was going to pull us, kicking and screaming, into the
twentieth century. The problems he faced with the extremely religious
citizens were a continuation of vexing situations encountered by our very
first ruler and Faisal's father, Abdul Aziz. These men of religion fought
furiously against the opening of the first radio station, and our first
king over-came the objections by ordering the Koran read over the
airwaves. The religious ones could find little fault in such a speedy
method of spreading God's word. Years later, when Faisal strove to provide
television stations to our people, he, like his father before him,
encountered much opposition from the Ulema (the religious sheiks).
Tragically, members of the Royal Family joined in such protests, and in
September 1965, when I was but a child, one of our cousins was shot and
killed by the police as he led a demonstration against a television
station a few miles outside Riyadh. The renegade prince, with his
followers in tow, had stormed the station. This episode ended in a rifle
battle with the police, and he was killed. Nearly ten years had passed,
but hate had bubbled in the younger brother of the prince until he had now
retaliated by shooting and killing his uncle, the king.
Kareem and Asad flew to Riyadh. Sara and 1, along with various
female royal cousins, congregated within the confines of a family walled
palace. We all wailed and shouted our grief to each other. There were few
female cousins who did not love King Faisal, for he was our sole chance
for change and ultimate freedom. He alone had the prestige with both the
religious men and royal factions of our land to further the cause of
women. He felt our chains as his own, and beseeched our fathers to stand
behind him in his quest for social change. Once I myself heard him say
that even though there are separate roles for men and women, as directed
by God, no sex should rule with unquestioned supremacy over the other.
With a quiet voice he said that he would know little happiness until each
citizen of his land, both male and female, was the master of his or her
own fate. He believed that only through the education of our women would
our cause be enforced, for our ignorance has surely kept us in dark-ness.
Certainly, no ruler since Faisal has championed our plight. Looking back,
our short but heady climb to freedom began its slippery descent the moment
his life exploded with the bullets of deceit from his own family. Sadly,
we women knew that our one chance for freedom was buried with King Faisal.
Each of us felt anger and hate for the family that had bred such a one as
our cousin, Faisal ibn Musaid, the slayer of our hopes and dreams. One of
my cousins shouted out that the slayer's father himself was not right in
his mind. He, who had been born prominent in the scheme of Saudi royalty,
a half-brother of King Faisal himself, had shunned all contact with family
members and responsibility of the throne. One son had been a fanatic,
willing to die to prevent the innocent installation of a television
station, and another son had killed our beloved and respected King Faisal.
No pain could be worse than the thought of Saudi Arabia without such
wisdom to guide us. Never before or since have I witnessed such national
grief. It was as if our entire land and all its people were swathed in
agony. The best leadership our family had to offer had been struck down by
one of our own.
Three days later, Sara's daughter surprised her mother by entering the
world as a breech baby. Little Fadeela, named for our mother, joined a
nation in mourning. Our grief was so deep that recovery was sluggish, but
little Fadeela revived our minds and we recalled the message of joy
through her new life.
Sara, in her fear for her daughter's future, convinced Asad to sign a
document that said their daughter would be free to choose her husband
without family interference. Sara had suffered a troubling nightmare that
she and Asad were killed in an airplane crash and her daughter was raised
in the rigid manner of our generation. Sara, staring pointedly at Asad,
said she would commit murder rather than see her daughter wed to a man of
evil schemes. Asad, still wild with love for his wife, comforted her by
signing the paper and by establish-ing a Swiss bank account in the baby's
name for one million dollars. Sara's daughter would have the legal and
financial means to escape her personal nightmares should necessity arise.
Ali returned from the United States for the summer holiday and, if it were
possible, he was even more obnoxious than I recalled. He made a great
point of telling us of his escapades with American women and announced
that, yes, it was true, just as he had been told, they were all whores!
When Kareem interrupted and stated that he had met many women of high
morals when he was in Washington, Ali laughed and suggested that much had
changed. He declared that the women he had met in bars took the initiative
and proposed sex before he had had the opportunity even to bring up the
subject. Kareem told him that was the issue; if a woman was alone in a
bar, she was more than likely looking for a one-night stand or a good
time. After all, women were free in America, the same as men. He advised
Ali to attend church or cultural events, where he would be surprised at
the conduct of the women. Ali was adamant. He said that he had tested the
morals of women from all walks of life in America; they were all
definitely whores, in his experience.
Like most Muslims, Ali would never see or under-stand the customs and
traditions of another religion or land. The only knowledge most Arabs have
of American society comes from the content of low-grade American movies
and trashy television shows. Most important, Saudi men travel alone.
Because of their forced seclusion from female companionship, their only
interest lies in foreign women. Sadly, they seek out only women who work
in bars as strippers or prostitutes. This slanted view distorts Saudis'
opinions of the morality of the West. Since most Saudi women do not
travel, they believe the stories told by their husbands and brothers. As a
result, the vast majority of Arabs truly believe that most Western women
are promiscuous.
Admittedly, my brother was handsome in an exotic way that would attract
many of the opposite sex, but I knew without a doubt that every woman in
America was not a whore! I told Kareem that I longed for the opportunity
to travel with Ali. What fun it would be to stand behind him and hold up a
sign that proclaimed: THIS MAN SECRETLY DISDAINS YOU AND HOLDS YOU
CONTEMPT! IF YOU SAY YES TO THIS MAN, HE WILL BRAND YOU A WHORE TO THE
WORLD!
Before Ali left to return to the States, he told Father he was ready to
acquire his first wife. Life without sex was a hardship, he said, and he
would like a woman to be available to him each time he returned to Riyadh
for the holidays. Most important, it was time for him, Ali, to have a son.
For without sons, a man has no value in Saudi Arabia, and is scorned by
all who know him. His new wife could not live with him in the United
States, of course, but rather would live in Father's vil-la, carefully
guarded by Omar and the other servants. Ali said he must be free to enjoy
the relaxed morals of America. His only requirement for his wife-other
than virginity, of course-was that she be young, no more than seventeen
years of age, exceptionally beautiful, and obedient. Within two weeks, Ali
was engaged to a royal cousin; a wedding date was set for December, when
he would have more than a month between school terms.
Observing my brother, I recognized my good fortune in having wed a man
like Kareem. Doubtless, my husband was far removed from perfection, but
Ali was a typical Saudi male; to have such a one as him as your master
would make life a grinding affair.
Prior to Ali's return to the States, our family gathered at our villa in
Jeddah. One evening, the men had too much to drink and became
argumentative. After dinner, the volatile issue of whether women should
drive automobiles came out into the open for debate. Kareem and Asad
joined Sara and me in our push for a change in the silly custom that had
no basis whatsoever in Islam. We brought up the example of women piloting
planes in industrial nations while we were not allowed to drive an
automobile Many Saudi families could not afford more than one driver, and
where did that leave the family when he was on an errand? What would
happen if a medica1 emergency occurred when the driver was unavailable?
Did Saudi men think so little of their women's abilities that they would
rather twelve-and thirteen-year-old boys drive (which is common in Saudi
Arabia) than adult women?
Ali, Father, and Ahmed thought the very topic madden-ing. Ali declared
that women and men would be meeting in the deserts for sexual
misadventures! Ahmed worried about the veil's hindrance to visibility.
Father brought up the possibility of car accidents, and the vulnerability
of the female on the street while awaiting the traffic officer. Father
looked around the room for confirmation from his other sons-in-law that a
woman behind the wheel of an automobile would endanger herself and others
in the process. My other sisters' husbands busied themselves refreshing
their drinks or going to the bathroom.
Finally, with brash confidence, as if he had the one bright idea that
would win the argument, Ali said that since women are more easily
influenced than men, they would imitate the youth of our land, who raced
their cars through the streets. Naturally, the women would have no
thoughts except to emulate them and this would, as a result, cause our
already soaring accident rate to climb.
My brother still infuriated me! Ali mistakenly believed that I had left my
youthful impulses behind, but his smug look gave rise to my temper. To
everyone's complete surprise, I leaped at Ali, grabbed a handful of his
hair, and began to pull as hard as I could. It took both Kareem and Father
to force me to release my grasp. My sis-ters' loud laughter rang
throughout the room while their husbands stared at me with a combination
of awe and fear.
Ali tried to make peace with me the following day before he departed for
the States. My hate was so reckless that I purposely maneuvered him into a
conversation about marriage and the insistence of our men that their wives
be virgins while they, themselves, tried to sample as many women as
possible. Ali took the conversation seriously and proceeded to quote the
Koran and enlighten me on the absolute necessity of the virginity of
females.
The old Sultana of many sly tricks came back to me with ease. I shook my
head sadly and sighed a deep sigh. Ali asked what was in my heart. I told
him that for once he had convinced me. I agreed with him that all females
should be virgins when they wed. I added, with a hidden malice he did not
see, that the nature of our young girls had so changed that rarely was a
real virgin to be found among them. At Ali's questioning look, I said that
certainly there was little misconduct from Saudi women while in Arabia,
for what woman wants to lose her life? But when our females traveled, I
asserted, they sought out sexual partners and gave their most precious
gift to strangers.
Ali became enraged at the thought of any man other than himself, a Saudi,
deflowering a Saudi virgin! He inquired, with great agitation, as to where
I had learned such information. With a look of appeal on my face, I begged
my brother not to reveal our conversation, for surely Father and Kareem
would be scandalized. But I admitted to him that we women discussed such
issues, and that it was a known topic: The day of the virgin was leaving
our land!
Ali puckered his lips and sank deep in thought. He asked me what these
young girls did on their wedding night; for if there was no blood, a girl
would be disgraced and returned to her father. In Arabia, bloodied sheets
are still proudly handed to the mother-in-law of the bride so that she can
show friends and relatives that a woman of honor and purity has joined her
family.
I leaned closer and told Ali that most young women had surgeries to repair
their hymens. I added that most young women gave their virginity over and
over again to unsuspecting males. It was simple and easy to fool a man.
There were plenty of physicians who skillfully performed the operation in
Europe, and a few who were known for the service in Saudi Arabia.
Then, to Ali's total horror, I whispered that if, by some chance, the girl
could not have a repair job in time for her marriage,
it was a simple affair to place the liver of a sheep inside her prior to
the sex act. The husband could not tell the difference. It was a sheep
liver he was deflowering, and not his wife!
A new fear engrossed my self-centered brother. He immediately placed an
urgent call to a physician friend; holding the telephone, his face became
pale when the friend admitted that such operations were possible. As far
as the sheep liver, the physician had not heard of it, but it sounded like
a viable scheme immoral women would discover sooner or later.
Obviously disturbed, Ali returned twice to the villa on that day, asking
my-advice as to how he could best guard against such trickery. I told him
there was no way, unless he had kept company with his new bride day and
night since the day she was born. He, Ali, would just have to accept the
possibility that the one he wed might very well be human and have
committed mistakes in her youth. A worried and despondent Ali returned to
the States. When I told Kareem, Sara, and Asad of my joke, Sara could not
control her glee. Kareem and Asad exchanged looks of worry and glanced at
their wives with new thoughts.
Ali's wedding remained on schedule. His young bride was achingly
beautiful. How I pitied her. But Sara and I laughed aloud when we saw that
Ali was frantic with worry. Later, my husband reprimanded me for my
mischief when Ali confessed to him that he, Ali, was now dreading the act
of sex. What if he had been tricked? He would never know and would be
forced to live in doubt with this wife and all future wives.
The worst possible nightmare for a Saudi male would be to follow another
in an act of sex with the women he had wed. If the woman was a prostitute,
there was no shame, but his wife represented his family name, bore his
sons. The very thought that he might have been misled was more than my
brother could bear.
I readily admitted to my husband that I had wick-ed moments and
acknowledged without hesitation that I would have to face up to many sins
on my day of judgment. Yet, on Ali's wedding-night, I smiled with a
satisfaction I had never known. I had discovered and exploited Ali's
greatest fear. |
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