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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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My Sister Sara
I felt wretched, for my sister, Sara, was crying in Mother’s arms. She
is the ninth living daughter of my parents, three years older than 1. Only
Ali’s birth separates us. It was Sara’s sixteenth birthday, and she
should have been rejoicing, but Mother had just relayed distressing news
from Father.
Sara had been veiling since her menses, two years earlier. The veil
stamped her as a non person, and she soon ceased to speak of her childhood
dreams of great accomplishment. She became distant from me, her younger
sister who was as yet unconcerned with the institution of veiling. The
sharpening of Sara’s distance left me longing for the remembered
happiness of our shared childhood. It suddenly became apparent to me that
happiness is realized only in the face of unhappiness, for I never knew we
were so happy until Sara’s unhappiness stared me in the face.
Sara was lovely, much more beautiful than I or my 27 sisters. Her great
beauty had become a curse, for many men had heard of Sara’s beauty
through their mothers and sisters and now wished to marry her. Sara was
tall and slim and her skin creamy and white. Her huge brown eyes sparkled
with the knowledge that all who saw her admired her beauty. Her long black
hair was the envy of all her sisters.
In spite of her natural beauty, Sara was genuinely sweet and loved by all
who knew her. Unfortunately, not only did Sara acquire the curse that
comes with great beauty, she was also exceptionally bright. In our land,
brilliance in a woman assures her future misery, for there is nowhere to
focus her genius.
Sara wanted to study art in Italy and be the first to open an art gallery
in Jeddah. She had been working toward that goal since she was twelve
years old. Her room stayed cluttered with books of all the great masters.
Sara made my head swim with descriptions of the magnificent art in Europe.
Just before the wedding announcement, when I was secretly plundering
through her room, I saw a list of the places she planned to visit in
Florence, Venice, and Milan.
Sadly, I knew that Sara’s dreams would not come true. While it is true
that most marriages in my land are guided by the hands of the older
females of the families, in our family, Father was the decision maker in
all matters. Long ago, he had decided that his most beautiful daughter
would marry a man of great prominence and wealth.
Now, the particular man he had chosen to marry his most desirable daughter
was a member of a leading merchant family in Jeddah that had decided
financial influence with our family. The groom was chosen solely because
of past and future business deals. He was sixty two years old; Sara would
be his third wife. Although she had never met the old man, he had heard of
her great beauty from his female relatives and was eager for the wedding
date to be set. Mother had tried to intervene on Sara’s behalf, but
Father, as was his way, responded without emotion to his daughter’s
tears.
And now Sara had heard she was to wed. Mother ordered me to leave the
room, but her back was turned; I tricked her by making noises with my feet
and slamming the door. I slid inside the open closet door and wept silent
tears as my sister cursed our father, our land, our culture. She cried so
hard that I lost many of her words, but I heard her cry out that she was
sure to be sacrificed like a lamb.
My mother wept too, but she had no words of comfort for Sara, for she knew
her husband had the full fight to dispose of their daughters in any
marriage he liked. Six of their ten daughters were already married to men
not of their choosing. Mother understood that the four remaining daughters
would follow that darkness; there was no power on earth that could stop
it.
Mother heard my squirming in the closet. She narrowed her eyes and shook
her head when she saw me, but made no effort to make me move. She told me
to bring cold towels, and then she turned her attention back to Sara. When
I returned, she placed the towels on Sara’s head and soothed her to
sleep. She sat and watched her young daughter for many minutes, and
finally, she rose wearily to her feet. With a long, sad sigh, she took me
by the hand and led me to the kitchen. Although it was not mealtime, and
the cook was napping, Mother prepared for me a plate of cake and a glass
of cold milk. I was thirteen, but small for my age; she cuddled me in her
lap for a long time.
Unfortunately, Sara’s tears served only to harden Father’s heart. I
overheard her entreaties to him. She became so unbalanced in her grief
that she accused our father of hating women. She spat out a verse of
Buddha: "Victory breeds hatred, for the conquered are unhappy. . .
." Father, his back rigid with anger, turned and walked away. Sara
wailed at his back that she would have been better off unborn, since her
pain so overweighed her happiness. With an ugly voice, Father responded by
saying that her wedding date would be moved up to avoid stretching out her
pain of anticipation.
Father normally came to our villa once every fourth night. Men of the
Muslim faith, with four wives, rotate their evenings so that each wife and
family is given an equal amount of time. It is a serious situation when a
man refuses to go to his wife and children, a form of punishment. Our
villa was in such an uproar with Sara’s suffering that Father instructed
Mother, who was his first and therefore his head wife, to inform his other
three wives that he would rotate among their villas, but not ours. Before
he left the villa, Father curtly told Mother to cure her daughter of her
feverish resentments and to guide her peacefully to her destiny, which in
his words was that of a "dutiful wife and good mother."
I barely recall the weddings of my other sisters. I vaguely remember
tears, but I was so young and the emotional trauma of marriage to a
stranger had not yet penetrated my thoughts. But I can close my eyes today
and bring to mind every detail of the events that occurred the months
before Sara’s wedding, the wedding itself, and the sad events that
unfolded in the weeks afterward.
I held the fancily reputation of the difficult child, the daughter who
most tried my parents’ patience. Willful and reckless, I created havoc
in our household. I was the one who poured sand into the motor of Ali’s
new Mercedes; I pinched money out of my father’s wallet; I buried Ali’s
gold coin collection in the backyard; I released green snakes and ugly
lizards from jars into the family pool as Ali lay sleeping on his float.
Sara was the perfect daughter, with her quiet obedience, and had earned
perfect scores on her schoolwork. Even though I loved her madly, I thought
Sara weak. But she surprised us all during the weeks prior to her wedding.
Apparently she carried a hidden strength for bravery, for she called our
father’s office on a daily basis and left messages for him that she was
not going to marry. She even called the office of the man she was
scheduled to marry and left a hard message with his Indian secretary that
she thought he was an old, disgusting man, and that he should marry women,
not girls. The Indian secretary obviously thought better of giving such a
message to his employer, for seas did not part and mountains failed to
erupt. Determined, Sara called back and asked to speak to the man himself!
He was not in his office. Sara was informed that he would be in Paris for
a few weeks..Father, wearying of Sara’s behavior, had our telephones
disconnected. Sara was confined to her room.
My sister’s reality loomed ahead. The day of the wedding arrived. The
weeks of fretful mouming had done nothing to diminish Sara’s beauty. If
anything, she appeared more beautiful, almost translucent, a heavenly
creature not made for this world. Because of weight loss, her dark eyes
dominated her face, and her features seemed chiseled. There was no end to
Sara’s eyes, and I could see into her soul through her enormous black
pupils. I saw fear there.
Our older sisters, various female cousins, and aunties arrived early on
the morning of the wedding to prepare the bride for the groom. My unwanted
presence escaped the attention of the women, for I sat like a stone in the
comer of the large dressing room that had been converted into a
preparation room for the bride.
No less than fifteen women were attending to the various wedding details.
The first ceremony, the halawa, was performed by our mother and her oldest
auntie. All of Sara’s body hair had to be removed, except her eyebrows
and head hair. A special mixture of sugar, rosewater, and lemon juice that
would be spread over her body was now boiling over a low fire in the
kitchen. When the sweet paste dried on her body, it would be removed, and
Sara’s body hair would be ripped off with the sticky mixture. The aroma
was sweet-smelling, but Sara’s yelps of pain made me shudder in fear.
The henna was prepared for the final rinse through Sara’s luxuriant
curls; her hair would now shine with beautiful highlights. Her nails were
painted bright red, the color of blood, I reflected, gloomily. The pale
pink, lacy wedding gown hung from the doorway. The requisite diamond
necklace with matching bracelet and earrings were gathered in a pile on
the dressing table. Although sent over weeks ago as a gift from the groom,
the jewels remained unnoticed and untouched by Sara.
When a Saudi bride is happy, the preparation room is filled with the
sounds of laughter and eager anticipation. For Sara’s wedding, the mood
was somber; her attendants might as well have been preparing her body for
the grave. Everyone spoke in whispers. There was no response from Sara. I
found her oddly subdued in view of her spirited reactions during the past
few weeks. Later, I understood her trance like state.
Father, concerned that Sara would humiliate the family name by voicing her
objections, or even insulting the groom, had instructed one of the
Pakistani palace doctors to inject her with powerful tranquilizers
throughout the day. Later we discovered that the same doctor had given the
groom the tranquilizers in the form of pills for Sara. The groom was told
that Sara was highly nervous with excitement over the wedding, and the
medicine was prescribed for a queasy stomach. Since the groom had never
met Sara, in the coming days he must have assumed that she was an
unusually quiet and docile young woman. But, then again, many old men in
my country marry young girls; I am sure they are accustomed to the terror
of their young brides.
The beating of drums signaled the arrival of guests. At last, the women
were finished with Sara. The delicate dress was slipped over her head, the
zipper was raised, and the pink slippers were placed on her feet. My
mother fastened the diamond necklace around her neck. I loudly announced
that the necklace might as well be a noose. One of my aunties thumped me
on my head and another twisted my ear, but there was no sound from Sara.
We all gazed at her in awed silence. We knew no bride could be more
beautiful.
A huge tent had been erected in the backyard for the ceremony. The garden
was inundated in flowers sent from Holland. With thousands of overhanging
colored lights, the grounds were spectacular. Taking in the splendor, I
forgot for a few moments the grimness of the situation.
The tent was already overflowing with guests. Women from the Royal Family,
literally weighed down by diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, were sharing a
social event with commoners, a rare occasion. Lower classes of Saudi women
are allowed to view our weddings so long as they remain veiled and do not
soci@ with the royals. One of my friends told me that sometimes men veil
and join these women so that they can view our forbidden faces.
Supposedly, all the male guests were being entertained at a major hotel in
the city, enjoying the same socializing as these women guests: talking,
dancing, and eating-
At weddings in Saudi Arabia, men celebrate at one location and women at
another. The only men allowed at the women’s celebration are the groom,
his father, the father of the bride, and a religious man to perform the
short ceremony. In this case, the groom’s father was deceased, so only
our father would accompany the groom when the time arrived for him to
claim his bride.
Suddenly the slaves and servants began to uncover the food. There was a
rush toward the feast. The veiled ones were the first to assault the food;
these poor women were cramming food under their veils and into their
mouths. Other guests began to sample smoked salmon from Norway, Russian
caviar, quail eggs, and other gourmet delicacies. Four large tables swayed
with the weight of the food: appetizers were on the left, main courses in
the middle, desserts to the right, and off to the side were the liquid
refreshments. No alcohol was visible, of course. But many of the royal
women carried small jeweled flasks in their purses. Now and then,
giggling, they would retire to the washrooms for a small sip.
Belly dancers from Egypt moved to the center of the tent. ‘Me crowd of
women of all ages quieted and watched the dancers’ movements with mixed
interest. This was my favorite part of the wedding, but most of the women
seemed uncomfortable with the erotic display. We Saudis take ourselves too
seriously and look at fun and laughter with suspicion. But I was startled
when one of my older aunties leaped into the crowd and joined in the
swaying of the belly dancers. She was amazingly skilled, but I heard the
mumble of disapproval from several of my relatives.
Once again, the sound of drums filled the air, and I knew it was time for
Sara to appear. All the guests looked to the villa entrance in
expectation. It was not long before the doors opened wide and Sara,
accompanied by our mother on one side and an aunt on the other, was
escorted to the dais.
Since I last saw my sister, a cloud like pink veil had been
draped over her face, held in place by a pink pearl tiara. The sheer veil
served only to enhance her remarkable beauty. There was a low hum as the
guests whispered their approval of her appropriately tortured demeanor.
After all, a young virgin bride should look the part: frightened to the
core of her being.
Dozens of female relatives followed behind, filling the air with the
desert sounds of excitement and celebration: the high-pitched trill that
the women produced by flicking their tongues on the roofs of their mouths.
Other women joined in with shrill cries. Sara stumbled but was kept
upright by our mother.
Soon, my father and the groom made their appearance. I knew the groom was
older than my father, but I was decidedly revolted by my first sight of
him. He looked ancient to my young eyes, and I thought he most resembled a
weasel. I cringed at the thought of him physically touching my shy and
sensitive sister.
The groom wore a leering smirk as he lifted my sister’s veil. She was
too drugged to react, and stood motionless, facing her new master. The
real marriage ceremony had been performed weeks prior to the wedding; no
women had been present. Only men had participated in that ceremony, for it
was the signing of dowry agreements and exchange of legal papers. Today,
the few words would be spoken that would complete the marriage rite.
The religious man looked at Father as he spoke the token words that Sara
was now married to the groom in exchange for the agreed-upon dowry. Then
he glanced at the groom who, in response, replied that he accepted Sara as
his wife and that she, from this time forward, would be under his care and
protection. None of the men looked at Sara at any time during the
ceremony.
Reading passages from the Koran, the man of religion then blessed my
sister’s marriage. All at once, the women began to shriek and make the
sound of ululating with their tongues. Sara was married. The men looked
on. pleased and smiling.
As Sara stood motionless, the groom removed a small pouch from the pocket
of his thobe (full-length, shirtlike garment worn by Saudi men) and tossed
gold coins to the guests. I shivered as I watched him smugly accept their
congratulations at his marriage to such a beautiful woman. He took my
sister by the arm and hurriedly began to lead her away.
Sara’s eyes locked onto mine as she passed my way; I knew
someone should help her, but I felt certain no one would. Quite suddenly,
I remembered Sara’s words to Father: "Victory breeds hatred, for
the conquered are unhappy." In my grieving mind, I found no
consolation in the knowledge that the groom would never know happiness in
such a bitterly unjust union. There could not be punishment enough for
him. |
Divorce
Father forbade us from visiting Sara for the first three months of her
marriage. She needed time to adjust to her new life and responsibilities,
he said, and the sight of her family would serve only to inflame her
desire to return to a useless life of dreams. Our vocal distress over her
bondage drew nothing more than passionless nods. Sara, in Father’s view,
was doing what women are born to do: serve and pleasure the male and
produce his children.
Sara had taken nothing from her room. Perhaps she understood that the
presence of her books and other objects of delight would only make her
present actuality more bleak, To me, it was as if Sara were dead; her
absence left a black, gaping hole in my life. I mourned her passing by
spending long hours in her room with her possessions. I began to take an
interest in Sara’s hobbies and felt myself assuming parts of her
personality. I read her diary, and her dreams felt as if they were my own;
I wept with the fury of one who questions the wisdom of a God who allows
evil to conquer the innocent.
My mother instructed that Sara’s door be locked after she found me in
Sara’s bed, in her nightdress, reading her art books.
We did not have to suffer through Father’s imposed three-month waiting
period to see Sara. Five weeks after her wedding, she attempted suicide.
I was in the garden, talking with some of the animals in our newly
constructed private zoo, when suddenly Omar tripped completely out of his
sandals in his haste to enter the front gate. His skin, which was usually
deep bronze, looked pasty white. He brushed off his thobe and beat the
sand out of his sandals on the side of the wall. He told me to run and
find my mother.
Mother had a certain sense about her children, and when she saw Omar, she
asked him what was wrong with Sara.
No Arab will tell a relative the truth when a family member is sick,
dying, or dead. We are people who simply cannot handle being the bearer of
bad tidings. If a child dies, the unlucky person who receives the task of
notifying the family will begin by saying the child is not feeling well.
After questioning, the person will acknowledge that a trip to the doctor
is necessary and then later admit that the child is in the hospital. After
intense pleas from the family members for additional infon-nation, the
messenger will finally say the illness is serious and the family had best
prepare for a journey to the bedside of the loved one. Later, the person
will painfully admit that the loved one’s life is in grave danger. It
might take a period of several hours to discover the exact degree of
seriousness. But no one will ever admit to the death of a loved one. The
furthest an Arab will go in delivering bad news is to prepare the family
for worse news from the doctor.
Omar told my mother that Sara had eaten some rotten meat and was now
hospitalized in a private clinic in Jeddah. Father was sending Mother on a
private plane within the hour. Mother tightened her lips and turned in a
rush to gather her abaaya (cloak) and veil.
I screamed and clung to Mother so that she relented and allowed me to
go-with the promise that I would not make a scene in the clinic if Sara
was desperately ill. I promised and ran to Sara’s room, pounding and
kicking at the locked door until one of the servants found the key. I
wanted to take Sara’s favorite art book to her.
Omar drove us by Father’s office since he had forgotten to collect our
travel papers. In Saudi Arabia, a man must write a letter granting
permission for the females in his family to travel. Without the papers, we
might be stopped at the customs office and prevented from boarding the
plane. Father also sent our passports since, as he told Mother, it might
be necessary for us to take Sara to London for treatment. Rotten meat?
London? I knew what was rotten, and it was Father’s story. I thought my
sister must surely be dead.
We flew to Jeddah in a small private plane. The ride was smooth, but the
atmosphere inside the cabin was clouded with tension. My mother said
little and kept her eyes shut for most of the flight. Only a few years
before, she had taken her first automobile ride. Now I saw her lips moving
and I knew that double prayers were being spirited to God: Mother was
praying first for Sara to be alive, and second for the plane to take us
safely to Sara.
The pilot and co-pilot were American and I was immediately attracted to
their open, friendly manner. They asked me if I wanted to sit in the
cockpit. Mother nodded a reluctant permission to my frenzied foot stamping
and arm flapping. I had never sat in the cockpit before. All always sat in
the cockpit.
At first I was frightened at the sight of the open sky, and the plane felt
like a toy between us and the hard earth. I gave a small cry of alarm and
backed up. John, the larger of the two Americans, gave me a reassuring
smile, and patiently explained the functions of the various buttons and
gadgets. To my surprise, I found myself leaning over his shoulder,
completely at ease. For one of the few occasions in my young life, I felt
calm and comfortable in the presence of men. Sadly, I was fearful of my
father, and I detested Ali and my half-brothers. It was a strange feeling,
yet I felt intoxicated with the knowledge that men, whom I had been
brought up to think of as gods, could be so ordinary and non threatening.
T7his was something new to think about.
When I looked out the window of the airplane, I understood what grips the
heart of the eagle as it soars overhead, and I experienced a wonderful
sense of freedom. My thoughts drifted to Sara and the shocking realization
that birds and beasts were freer than my sister. I made a vow to myself
that I would be the master of my life, no matter what actions I would have
to take or pain I would have to endure.
I joined my mother for the landing of the plane; she gathered me into her
loving arms and held me tenderly as the plane taxied to the terminal. She
was veiled, but I knew her every expression, and I heard her breathe a
long, tortured sigh.
I said good-bye to the kindly Americans. I hoped they would fly us back to
Riyadh, for I felt a camaraderie with the two men who had lent such
importance to a child’s foolish and feverish questions.
Arriving at the clinic, we heard wails and crying as we walked through the
long corridor. Mother stepped up her pace and gripped my hand so tightly I
wanted to complain.
Sara was alive, but barely. We were distraught to discover that she had
tried to take her life by placing her head in the gas oven. She was very
quiet, deathly pale. Her husband was not there, but he had sent over his
mother. Now, in a loud voice, the old woman began to scold Sara harshly
for embarrassing her son and his family. She was a mean old hag. I wanted
to scratch her face and see her run, but I remembered my promise to
Mother. Instead I stood, barely breathing from anger, patting Sara’s
smooth, still hands.
Mother threw her veil over her head and faced the old woman. She had
fretted over many possibilities, but the discovery that her daughter had
attempted suicide was unexpect6d and devastating. When she turned in a
cold fury to the husband’s mother, I wanted to stamp and cheer. She
stopped the woman cold when she asked what her son had done to make a
young girl want to take her life. She ordered her to leave Sara’s
bedside, for this was no place for the ungodly. The old woman left without
replacing her veil. We could hear her voice rise in anger as she cried out
to God for sympathy.
Mother turned to me and saw my admiring smile. I was awed by her anger,
and for a brief, shining moment, I felt God would not desert us. Sara
would be saved. But I knew Mother’s life would be one of misery when
Father heard of her words. Knowing Father, he would be angry, not
sympathetic, toward Sara for her desperate act, and he was sure to be
furious with Mother for defending her daughter. In Saudi Arabia, the
elderly are truly revered. No matter what they do or say, or how they
behave, no one dares confront someone of age. When she faced the old
woman, my mother had been a tigress, protecting her young. My heart felt
as though it would burst from pride at her courage.
After three days, without calling once, Sara’s husband came to the
clinic to claim his property. By the time he arrived, Mother had
discovered the source of Sara’s agony. She confronted her son-in-law
with contempt. Sara’s new husband was sadistic. He had subjected my
sister to sickening sexual brutality until she felt her only escape was
death. But after Father traveled to Jeddah, even he was repelled when he
heard of his daughter’s sufferings. But Father agreed with his
son-in-law that a wife belonged with her husband. Sara’s husband
promised Father that his relations with her would conform to a life of
normalcy.
Mother’s hand trembled and her mouth stretched in a howl when Father
told her of his decision. Sara began to weep and tried to leave the bed,
saying she did not wish to live. She threatened to slit her wrists if
forced to return to her husband. Mother stood over her daughter like a
mountain and, for the first time in her life, defied her husband. She told
him that Sara would never return to the house of a monster, and that she,
Mother, would go to the king and the Council of Religious Men with the
story, and neither would allow such a matter to continue. Father
threatened Mother with divorce. She stood fast and told him to do whatever
he had to do, but her daughter would not return to swim in such evil.
Father stood, unblinking. He probably realized that in all likelihood,
Sara would be forced by the men of religion to return to her husband. If
the past was any precedent, they would advise the husband to deal with his
wife in the manner spelled out by the Koran, and then they would turn
their backs to such a disagreeable situation. Father stood, staring,
analyzing Mother’s resolve. Askance at her apparent resoluteness, and
wanting to avoid public interference in a family matter, for once in their
married life, he gave in.
Since we were of the Royal Family and he did not wish to sever his ties
with my father, the husband reluctantly agreed to divorce Sara.
Islam gives the right of divorce to men, without any question of motive.
Yet it is very difficult for a woman to divorce her husband. Had Sara been
forced to file for the separation, many difficulties would have arisen,
for the religious authorities might have ruled, "You might dislike a
thing for which Allah has meant for your own good," and forced Sara
to remain with her husband. But Sara’s husband relented and uttered the
words "I divorce you" three times in the presence of two male
witnesses. The divorce was final in a matter of moments.
Sara was free! She returned to our home.
Every upheaval is a transition. My young world was transformed by Sara’s
wedding, attempted suicide, and divorce. Fresh thoughts and ideas began to
grow in my mind; I was never to think as a child again.
For hours I pondered the primitive traditions surrounding marriage in my
land. Numerous factors determine the marriageability of a girl in Saudi
Arabia: her family name, her family fortune, her lack of deformities, and
her beauty. Social dating is taboo, so a man must depend on his eagle-eyed
mother and sisters to constantly seek out proper matches for him. Even
after the promise to marry is made and the date is set, rarely does a girl
meet her future husband prior to the wedding, though there are times when
individual families allow the exchange of pictures.
If a girl is of a good family and without deformity, she will enjoy a
number of marriage proposals. If she is a beauty, many men will send their
mothers or fathers to beg for marriage, for beauty is a great commodity
for women in Saudi Arabia. Of course, no scandal can mar the reputation of
the beauty, or her desirability will fade; such a girl will find herself
married as the third or fourth wife to an old man in a faraway village.
Many Saudi men leave the final decision of the marriage of their daughters
to their wives, knowing they will make the best match possible for the
family. Still, often the mother too will insist upon an unwanted marriage,
even as her daughter protests. After all, she herself had married a man
she feared, and her life had progressed without the anticipated horror or
pain. Love and affection do not last, the mother will caution her
daughter, it is best to marry into a family that they know. And then there
are men, such as my father, who base their decision of their daughters’
marriages upon possible personal or economic gain through the union, and
there is no higher authority to question the verdict. Sara, for all her
beauty, intelligence, and childhood dreams, in the end was no more than a
pawn in my father’s schemes for wealth.
This intimate view of my beloved sister’s predicament filled me with a
new resolve: It was my thought that we women should have a voice in the
final decision on issues that would alter our lives forever. From this
time, I began to live, breathe, and plot for the rights of women in my
country so that we could live with the dignity and personal fulfillment
that are the birthright of men. |
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