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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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Not forever can one enjoy stillness and
peace.
But misfortune and obstruction are not final
When the grass has been burnt by the fire of the
steppe, it will grow anew in summer.
-Wisdom from the Mongolian Steppe |
UNDER THE INFLUENCE of strong medication, Maha lay
as one dead while her father and I attempted to make some sense of the
precarious situation in which we found our- selves. During the airplane
trip to London, Kareem sat like a stone, pale-faced as he handled the
distasteful objects I had brought in a small bag from Maha's room. He was
as appalled as I at our daughter's fascination with the supernatural.
After a few silent moments, Kareem posed a question I had been dreading.
"Sultana, where did Maha come across such madness?" His brow
furrowed, and he wondered aloud,
"Do you believe it was that foolish girl Aisha?"
I squirmed in my seat, not knowing how to answer my husband. Recalling a
wise Arab proverb spoken often by my gentle mother, 'A fly will never be
able to enter a mouth which knows when to stay shut," I felt that
this was not the time to implicate Noorah, my husband's mother. Kareem had
already endured too many shocks for one day.
Biting my lip and shaking my head, I answered him, "I do not know. We
will tell the doctor what we found. Perhaps Maha will confide in him, then
we will know who or what is behind her knowledge of such matters."
Kareem nodded his head in agreement.
For the remainder of the flight, we took turns sleeping and watching our
child, who appeared in her drug-induced sleep as sweet as an angel. For
some unexplained reason, I was reminded of another Al Sa'ud royal,
Princess Misha'il, a young woman who hid her illicit love. When her secret
was discovered, my royal cousin's life ended in front of a firing squad.
While Kareem slept, I watched Maha, and remembered Princess Misha'il.
Misha'il was the granddaughter of Prince Mohammed ibn Abdul Aziz, the same
Prince Mohammed who had been passed over for the crown because of his
father's ruling that the ferocious behavior of a warrior
had no place on a throne.
While I did not have a close friendship with Misha'il, I had met her at
various royal functions. She was known in the family as a rather wild
girl. I thought perhaps her unhappy temperament was related to her
marriage to an old man who failed to satisfy her. Whatever it was, she was
miserable and became romantically involved with Khalid Muhalhal, who
happened to be the nephew of the special Saudi Arabian envoy to Lebanon.
Their love affair was hot and filled with the tension caused by the
impossible social climate of Saudi Arabia. Many members of the royal
family had heard of their illicit relationship, and when the young couple
were on the brink of discovery, they made a fatal decision to run off
together.
My oldest sister, Nura, was in Jeddah at the time and heard the story
firsthand from a member of Misha'il's immediate family. Misha'il, fearing
the wrath of her family, attempted to stage her own death. She told her
family that she was going for a swim at their private beach on the Red
Sea. Misha'il piled her clothes on the shore, then dressed herself as a
Saudi man and tried to flee the country.
Unfortunately for Misha'il, her grandfather, Prince Mohammed, was one of
the shrewdest and most powerful men in the country. He did not believe she
had drowned. Officials manning all exits from the country were alerted to
search for the granddaughter of Prince Mohammed. Misha'il was
caught-intercepted trying to catch a flight from the airport in Jeddah.
Telephones were ringing all over the kingdom, with each royal professing
to know more than the next. There was a rumor a minute. I heard that
Misha'il had been set free and allowed to leave the kingdom with her
lover. Then I was told a divorce would be granted. Later, a hysterical
cousin called and claimed that Misha'il had been beheaded, and that it had
taken three blows to separate her head from her body. Not only that,
Misha'il's lips had moved and had called out her lover's name, causing the
executioner to run from the scene! Can you imagine, my excited cousin
asked, words from a bodiless head!
Finally, the very real and ugly truth was made known. Prince Mohammed, in
a fit of anger, said that his granddaughter was an adulterer and that an
adulterer should submit to Islamic law. Misha'il and her lover were going
to be executed.
King Khalid, who was our ruler during this time of tragedy, was known for
his indulgent nature. He recommended that Prince Mohammed show mercy, but
mercy was not an agreeable emotion for that fierce Bedouin.
On the day of the execution, I waited with my siblings for news. My
sisters and I hoped for a last-minute reprieve. Ah, not surpnsingly,
expressed the opinion that adulterous women should submit to the laws of
Islam and prepare themselves for death.
On that hot day in July of 1977, my cousin Misha'il was blindfolded and
forced to kneel before a pile of dirt. She was shot by a firing squad. Her
lover was forced to watch her die. He was then beheaded with a sword.
Once again, unsanctioned love had cost two young people their lives.
The affair was hushed up, and the Al Sa'ud clan hoped that talk of a young
woman murdered for the simple act of love would soon disappear. It was not
to be. Though buried in the sands of the desert, Misha'il was not
forgotten.
Many Westerners will recall the documentary about her death, called,
appropriately, Death of a Princess. As divided as our family was over her
punishment, nothing compared with the arguments and hostility
generated by the film.
Having comfortably mastered the role of dictators, the men in our family
grew furious over their inability to control the news releases and films
shown in the West. Offended to the edge of madness, King Khalid ordered
the ambassador from Great Britain to leave our country
I heard later from Kareem and Asad, Sara's husband, that our rulers had
seriously considered forcing all British citizens out of our country!
International tensions ran high over the sexual misconduct and execution
of one Saudi Arabian princess.
I despaired of the memory. I held my head in my hands. Now, I was the
mother of a child who had gone mad. In her madness, what act might Maha
commit that would disrupt our family and introduce the pain of young death
into our home? My uncharitable father would surely insist upon the
harshest of punishments for the child of my womb who had so spitefully and
vigorously pointed out his shortcomings as a grandfather.
Maha stirred.
Kareem awakened, and once again we shared our tortured fears for our
daughter.
While we were en route to London, as agreed, Sara had made the necessary
medical arrangements via telephone. When we called from Gatwick Airport,
Sara reported that Maha was expected at a leading
mental institute in London and that her bed was waiting. Sara had
thoughtfully arranged for an ambulance to transport us to the institute.
Once we had fulfilled the tiresome admitting procedures, Kareem and I were
informed by the hospital staff that Maha's physician would meet with us
the following morning, after his initial consultation and his examination
of our child. One of the younger nurses was especially kind. She held my
hand and whispered that my sister had found one of the most respected
physicians in the city, and that he had years of experience with Arab
women and their unique social and mental problems.
At that moment I envied the British. In my land shame over a child's
madness would close the minds and mouths of my country men, and sympathy
would never be shown.
Anguished at leaving our precious child in the hands of strangers, albeit
capable strangers, Kareem and I walked listlessly to the waiting car that
would take us to our apartment in the city.
Aroused from sleep, the permanent staff at our London home was clearly not
expecting us. Kareem was irritated, but I calmed him with the thought that
our personal comfort was the last thing on Sara's mind. We could not fault
her for not telephoning our servants prior to our arrival.
Because of the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, and the recent Gulf War, it had
been almost a year since we visited London, one of our favorite spots in
the Western world. In our absence, our three servants had grown slovenly
and careless. Whether we were in London or Riyadh, they had strict
instructions to maintain the apartment as if we were in the city.
We were too depressed over Maha's condition to complain. Kareem and I sat
on sheet covered furniture in the sitting room and ordered strong coffee.
Servants scurried about the place as best they could,
considering they had been awakened at three o'clock in the morning.
I found myself apologizing for intruding on their sleep, and Kareem
snapped at me, ordering, "Sultana! Never apologize to those who are
paid by us. You will ruin their work habits!"
I felt peevish and wanted to retort that we Saudis could benefit from a
little humility. Instead, I changed the subject and began to talk once
again about our daughter.
I thought to myself that I too must be coming down with some form of
insanity. Twice in one day I had chosen to avoid an argument with my
husband.
After our bed was prepared, Kareem and I rested without sleeping.
Never had a night seemed so long.
The British psychiatrist was an odd-looking little man whose head sat
large on his small body. His brow was vast, and his nose turned slightly
to one side. I could only stare in surprise at the tufts of white hair
that strangely sprouted from his ears and nose. While his appearance was
disconcerting, his manner was encouraging. With his small, blue,
penetrating eyes, I could tell he was a man who took the problems of his
patients very seriously. My daughter was in good hands.
Kareem and I quickly discovered that he was a man who spoke what was on
his mind. Without caring about our wealth, or the fact that my husband is
a high ranking prince in the royal family of Saudi Arabia, he spoke with
fearless honesty about the system in our land that so hobbled the will of
women.
Well informed of the traditions and customs of Arab lands, he told us,
"As a child I was fascinated by the Arabian explorers:
Philby, Thesiger, Burton, Doughty, Thomas, and of course Lawrence. I
devoured their ad ventures. And, quite determined to view what I had read
about, I convinced my parents to send me to Egypt. It wasn't
Arabia, but it was a start, anyway. To my misfortune, I arrived just as
the Suez Crisis occurred. But I was hooked."
His eyes took on a faraway look. "I went back years later . . . set
up a small practice in Cairo . . . learned a bit of Arabic"-he
paused, looking at Kareem-"and found out more than I wanted to know
about the way you fellows treat your women.
Kareem's love of his daughter proved stronger than his love of honor. To
my relief, he remained quiet, his face free of all expression.
The doctor looked pleased. He seemed to be thinking, here is an Arab who
would not spout nonsense about the need to lock females in purdah.
"Will our daughter recover? Fully recover?" Kareem asked. The
worry in his voice told the doctor of his love for Maha.
I moved to the edge of my seat. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears.
The doctor clasped his hands together, rubbing them as if he were
lubricating his palms. Looking from Kareem to me, he heaped drama upon an
already dramatic situation. His face remained blank as he
answered, "Will your daughter recover? Fully recover? I have spoken
with her for one hour only. Therefore, it is difficult to summarize her
case completely." Looking upon my stricken face, he added, "But,
her case seems quite typical. I have treated a good number of Arab ladies
who suffered from hysterics, women who were visiting our city. Generally
speaking, given time and proper care, I would say that your
daughter's prognosis is favorable."
I wept in my husband's arms.
Maha's physician left us alone in his office.
For three months I remained in London while Maha underwent psychiatric
evaluation and treatment. Once we understood that our daughter would
require lengthy care, that a cure could not be achieved in a matter of
days, Kareem traveled back and forth to Riyadh, making a point to be in
London on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the two days of the week when we were
allowed to visit with our child.
During our visits we offered Maha peace, but she preferred to fight. It
was as if a thou sand terrors denied her ability to speak calmly and
reasonably. Nothing we could say or do pleased her. Following the
physician's instructions, Kareem and I refused to argue with our child. At
those moments Maha argued with herself, even going so far as to speak in
two voices! Maha's doctor assured us that eventually Maha's
mental state would improve beyond our expectations.
How we prayed for that moment to arrive! The intense visits wore poorly on
Kareem. I saw my husband age before my eyes. I said to him one evening,
"If nothing else, I have learned that aging has nothing to do with
the accumulation of years. Aging is the inevitable defeat of parents by
their young."
A small twinkle came into Kareem's eyes, the first sign of joy I had seen
in many days. He claimed, in all seriousness, that it could not be so.
"If that were the case, Sultana, your long-suffering father would
appear the oldest living man on the planet."
Pleased that my husband had showed a glimmer of life, I let the reference
pass and leaned fondly on his shoulder, relieved that our family tragedy
had brought us closer together rather than pushing us further apart.
At that moment I reminded myself that no person leads an irreproachable
life, and I for gave my husband for the trauma I had endured in his futile
quest for a second wife. The event had taken place years before, and we
had repaired our damaged relationship, but until now, I had not forgiven
my husband for his desire to take another woman into our home. Full of
emotions I had assumed I'd lost forever, I congratulated myself on the
worth of the man I had wed.
In time, Kareem and I witnessed a miracle. Maha's doctor was, as I had
expected, a man of genius and perseverance, a devoted physician whose
natural abilities soothed my daughter's frightful demons. In happy
obscurity, while locked in the drabbest of offices in the dreariest of
hospital wards, he combined his medical knowledge with his experience in
the world of Arab women and gained my daughter's trust. With this trust,
the physician opened her wounds, and torrents of jealousy, hate, and anger
spilled from Maha's trembling hands onto the pages of an ordinary notepad,
producing an extraordinary journal.
Weeks later, while reading one of these short but disturbing stories from
her notes, given freely from Maha's hands to her parents, Kareem and I
discovered the depths of our child's plunge into a world more sinister
than either of us could ever have imagined.
Living in the Mirage of Saudi Arabia
or
The Harem of Dreams
by
Princess Maha Al Sa'ud
During the dark period of Saudi Arabian history,
ambitious desert women could only dream of harems stocked with
hard-muscled men, well endowed with instruments of pleasure. In the
enlightened year of
2010, when the matriarchal family ascended into power, with the most
intelligent woman crowned queen, women became the political, economic, and
legal authority of society.
The great wealth accumulated during the oil boom of the year 2000, the
boom that had crippled the powers of the United States, Europe, and Japan
to that of third world powers, assured the land of Arabia plenty for
generations to come. With little but time on their hands, women addressed
social issues that had plagued the land for more years than they could
remember.
A small minority of women voted to abolish polygamy, the practice of
taking four husbands, while the majority, remembering the evils the
practice had spawned when the kingdom was a patriarchal society,
recognized that while the system was not the best that they could devise,
it was the only social system that embittered women would receive. The
pleasures of love that had been forbidden now wormed their way into the
mind of every woman, even that of the waif- like Malaak, the daughter of
the queen of Saudi Arabia.
Malaak danced a hot dance of love, challenging her favorite lover, Shadi,
with a gold sovereign between her lips, motioning with her head for the
man to pull it out with his teeth.
Malaak was small and brown-skinned with delicate features. Her lover was
large and heavy with muscles of steel. Wanting desperately to achieve his
goal of being appointed the most influential man in the
harem, Shadi moved his tongue over every part of Malaak's body, enticing
her senses in an agony of passion.
In a frenzy of movement, Shadi removed the coin with his teeth, and lifted
Malaak into his arms, taking her behind the flimsy curtains of his
assigned section of the harem. There, the lovers pressed against each
other, the warmth of their breath spreading over their faces, and down
their necks, to their chests. Shutting out the world, they began to kiss.
Malaak opened her eyes to watch her lover perform his rhythmic movements.
Her muscles tensed when she saw that the man Shadi had softened into a
woman!
Life having produced a cynical soul, Malaak adjusted herself to the power
at hand, and she became enamored of the loveliness of the woman who shared
her bed. Choosing between being feared without love and being loved with
out fear, Malaak could not sacrifice the love.
With Machiavellian subtlety, Malaak became what she had to be in the
circumstances and atmosphere of her time.
With a pale, sickly look, Kareem laid the pages of Maha's journal on the
doctor's desk. Bewildered, he asked, "What does this mean?" He
gestured toward the notepad, his tone accusatory. "You said that
Maha was much improved. This writing is nothing more than the ramblings of
a lunatic."
I know not the source of my instinct, but I knew what the doctor was going
to say before he said it. I could not breathe, I could not speak, I saw
the room through a haze of blue. The doctor's voice came to me
as from a distance.
The doctor was gentle with Kareem. "It's quite simple, really. Your
daughter is telling you that she has made the discovery that men are her
enemies, and that women are her friends."
Kareem still did not comprehend what the doctor was saying. He was
impatient in his ignorance. "Yes? So?"
There was nothing else but to speak bluntly. The doctor verbalized what I
already knew. "Prince Kareem. Your daughter and her friend Aisha are
lovers."
Kareem was quiet for many minutes. When Kareem regained his senses, he had
to be restrained and kept from Maha's side for three days.
Muslims are taught that love and sex between two of the same is wrong, and
the Koran forbids experimenting: "Do not follow what you do not
know." In Saudi Arabia, love and sex are considered distasteful, even
between those of opposite sexes, and our society pretends that
relationships based on sexual love do not exist. In this atmosphere of
shame, Saudi citizens respond to social and religious expectations by
saying exactly what is expected. What we do is another matter al together.
Arabs are by nature sensuous, yet we live in a puritanical society. The
topic of sex is of interest to everyone, including our Saudi gov ernment,
which spends enormous amounts of money employing countless censors. These
men sit in government offices, searching out what they deem to be odious
references to women and sex in every publication allowed into the kingdom.
Rarely does a magazine or newspaper make it past the censors without
losing a number of pages, or having sentences or paragraphs blacked out by
the censor's ever ready pen.
This form of extreme censorship against all conventional social behavior
affects every aspect of our lives, and the lives of those who compete to
claim our business.
Asad, who is the younger brother of my husband and the husband of my
sister Sara, once contracted with a foreign film company to make a simple
food commercial for Saudi Arabian television. The manager of that foreign
company was forced to adhere to a list of restrictions that would have
been amusing had it not been authentic. The list of restrictions read:
1. There can be no attractive females in the commercial.
2. If a female is included, she cannot wear revealing clothing such as
short skirts, pants, or swimming suits. No flesh can be exposed other than
the face and hands.
3. No two people can eat from the same dish, or drink from the same cup.
4. There can be no fast body movement. (It is suggested in the contract
that if a female is used, she has to sit or stand without moving at all.)
5. There can be no winking.
6. Kissing is taboo.
7. There can be no burping.
8. Unless it is absolutely necessary to sell the product (it is suggested)
there should be no laughter.
When the normal is forbidden, people fall into the abnormal. That, I
believe, is what happened to my daughter.
In my country it is prohibited by religious law for single men and women
to see each other. While inside the country, men socialize with men, and
women with women. Since we are prevented from engaging in traditional
behavior, the sexual tension between those of the same sex is palpable.
Any foreigner who has lived in Saudi Arabia for any length of time becomes
aware that homosexual relations are rampant within the kingdom.
I have attended many all female concerts and functions where quivering
beauties and suggestive behavior triumph over heavy veils and black
abaayas. An orderly gathering of heavily perfumed and love-starved Saudi
women festers into spontaneous exuberance, bursting forth in the form of a
wild party with singing of forbidden love accompanied by lusty dancing. I
have watched as shy-faced women danced lewdly with other women, flesh to
flesh, face-to-face. I have heard women whisper of love and plan
clandestine meetings while their drivers wait patiently in the parking
lots. They will later deliver these women to their husbands who are that
same evening being captivated by other men.
While the conduct of men is overlooked, the behavior of women, even with
other women, is often carefully guarded. This is made apparent by the
various rules and regulations governing females.
Some years ago I clipped a small item from one of our Saudi Arabian
newspapers to show to my sisters. I was particularly irritated by yet
another foolish restriction placed upon women. A ban on cosmetics had been
announced in a girls' school. Recently I ran across this clipping while
throwing out some old papers.
This article reads:
Cosmetics Ban in School
The director of Girls' Education at Al Ras, Abdullab Muhammad Al Rashid,
urged all students and staff of the school under the directorate to
refrain from using cosmetics, dyestuffs, ornaments,
and other makeups inside the school compounds.
The director added that some staff and students were noticed of late to
have been using transparent garments and cosmetics as well as high-heeled
shoes, hence, such adornments are prohibited,
While the students must keep uniformity in dress, the teachers should set
good examples to the students. The authorities would not hesitate to take
punitive measures against violators of school
regulations, Al Rashid added.
I remember well what I said to my sisters at the time. I waved the
clipping angrily under their noses, raging, "See! See for yourself!
The men of this country want to regulate the wearing of our shoes, the
ribbons in our hair, the color of our lips!"
My sisters, while their anger did not equal mine, sullenly complained that
our men were obsessed with controlling every aspect of our lives, even
that part of our daily living that was supposedly private.
In my opinion, the control fanatics who govern our traditional lives had
driven my daughter into the arms of a woman! While I was greatly
distressed and did not condone my daughter's relationship with another
woman, I understood, in view of the harsh restrictions she had inherited
by the mere fact of being born female, how she had come to seek solace
with one of her own kind.
Knowing the problem, I now felt more capable of seeking solutions.
Kareem feared that Maha's character was now marred by her experiences. As
a mother, I could not agree. I told Kareem that Maha's wanting to share
her darkest secret with those who love her best pointed to her recovery.
I was right in my assessment of the situation.
After months of professional treatment, Maha was ready for maternal
guidance. For the first time in her young life, she drew close to her
mother, wanting to communicate, tearfully acknowledging that from her
earliest memory she had hated all men but her father. She had no ready
explanation for it.
I felt a twinge of guilt, wondering if my own prejudices against the male
sex had seeped into the embryo I had given life. It was as if my daughter
had been forewarned of the wicked nature of men while lying
cradled in my womb.
Maha confessed that the early trauma she had endured on the occasion of
her parents' long separation had further eroded her trust in men.
"What was so wrong with Father that we had to flee from his
presence?" she asked.
I knew that Maha was speaking of the time Kareem had tried to take a
second wife. Not wishing to share my wifely status with another woman, I
had fled the kingdom, fetching my children from summer camp in the
Emirates and taking them with me to the French countryside. France, with
its humane people who shelter those in distress, had seemed the perfect
spot to protect my young while I negotiated for those long months with my
husband over his scheme to wed another woman. How I had tried to shield my
children from the trauma of my own failing marriage and our separation
from Kareem!
What folly! As a parent, I know now that it is preposterous to believe
that even minor parental conflict does not interfere with the emotional
well-being of a child. Hearing Maha say that my actions had increased her
mental pain, allowing abnormal thoughts to creep into her consciousness,
caused me more anguish than any previous agony I have known. I had a
moment of renewed anger at my husband, remembering the distress he had
brought upon our three children.
Maha confessed that even after Kareem and I had patched over our
differences and brought our family together again, our con tinuing strife
had pierced the safety of the co coon in which my children dwelled.
When I prodded my daughter about her relationship with Aisha, Maha
confided that she had not known women could love women and men could love
men, such a possibility had never entered her mind, until the day Aisha
showed her some magazines she had taken from her father's study. The
magazines had displayed photograph after photograph of beautiful women in
acts of female love. At first the photographs were a novelty, but later
Maha came to see them as beautiful, sensing that the love between women
was more tender and caring than the aggressive, possessive love of man for
woman.
There were other disturbing revelations.
Aisha, a girl who had experimented with many social taboos before knowing
my daughter, thought nothing of spying on her father's sexual misdeeds.
The girl had made a small peephole in the study adjoining
her father's bedroom. There, she and my daughter had watched as Aisha's
father deflowered one young virgin after another. Maha claimed that the
cries of those young girls had closed her mind to wanting a relationship
with a man.
She told me an unbelievable tale that I would brush aside as fabrication
had my own daughter not witnessed the event.
Maha said that on one particular Thursday evening Aisha had telephoned
her, urging her to come over quickly. Maha said that Kareem and I were
out, so she'd had one of our drivers deliver her to Aisha's home.
Aisha's father had gathered together seven young girls. Maha did not know
if he had wed the girls or if they were concubines.
My daughter watched as those young girls were made to prance naked around
the room, each with a large peacock feather stuck up her backside. With
these feathers, the girls were forced to fan and tickle the face of
Aisha's father. Over the course of a long night, the father had performed
sex with five of the seven girls.
Afterward, Maha and Aisha had stolen a feather and played together on
Aisha's bed, giggling and tickling each other's bodies. It was then that
Aisha showed Maha the pleasure women could have with one
another.
Ashamed of her love for Aisha, Maha cried in my arms, sobbing that she
wanted to be a happy, well-adjusted girl with a productive life. She cried
out, "Why am I different from Amani? We came from the same seed, but
we have blossomed into different plants!" She screamed, "Amani
is a beautiful rose! I am a prickly cactus."
Ignorant of the ways of God, I could not answer my child. I held her in my
arms and comforted her with the thought that the remainder of her life
would be that of a beautiful flower.
Then my troubled daughter asked me the most difficult question of my life.
"Mother, how can I ever love a man, knowing all that I know of their
nature?"
I had no ready answer, yet it was with profound happiness that I
understood that Kareem and I had another chance with our daughter.
It was time to go home to Riyadh.
We did not leave before Kareem offered Maha's British physician a position
in Riyadh as our family's personal doctor.
Much to our amazement, the physician refused. "Thank you," he
said. "I am honored. Fortunately, or unfortunately, whichever is the
case, my aesthetic sensibilities are too keen for Saudi Arabia."
Undaunted, Kareem insisted upon rewarding the doctor with a large sum of
cash. He even went so far as to try to put the money into the man's hand.
Maha's physician firmly waved aside the offer, uttering words that would
have been a keen insult had they not been spoken softly. "My dear
man, please, do not. The shallowness of wealth and power holds no appeal
for me.
While staring in awe at one of the least pre possessing figures I have
ever beheld, I suddenly had the answer to Maha's earlier, unanswerable
question! Later, I told Maha that she would one day meet a man deserving
of her faithful love, for such men existed. She and I had met one in
London.
Once we were back in Riyadh, the source of Maha's knowledge of black magic
was revealed. It was as I had thought. Noorah was the culprit.
Maha told her father, in my presence, that it was her grandmother who had
introduced her to the dark world of the occult. Confronted with Abdullah's
clothing wrapped around a charm, Maha denied wanting to cast a spell on
her brother. Hoping that she had learned a great lesson, we did not press
the issue.
I desired nothing more than to confront my mother-in-law, spit in her
face, and yank out her hair. Kareem, wisely recognizing the dangers of
pent up anger, refused to let me accompany him when he went to
confront her about her misdeeds. Nevertheless, I did coax my
unenthusiastic sister Sara into paying a visit to our mutual
mother-in-law's palace at the time of Kareem's visit.
Sara arrived at Noorah's villa shortly after my husband. She waited in the
garden for Kareem to leave. Sara said that she overheard Kareem's shouts
and Noorah's pleas for mercy. Kareem forbade his mother to visit his
children without supervision.
Long after my husband had left, Sara said, Noorah's moans of despair could
be heard in the garden. "Kareem, most beloved, you came from my womb!
Come back to your mother, who cannot live without your precious
love."
Sara accused me of being as wicked as Noorah, for I radiated much
happiness when, she told me of my treacherous mother-in-law well deserved
wretchedness. |
|
