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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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ALI
A few months after Sara’s return, my oldest sister, Nura, convinced
Father that Sara and I needed to see the world outside Saudi Arabia. None
of us had been able to rouse Sara from her chronic depression, and Nura
thought a trip would be just the right medicine. As to the extent of my
travels, I had visited Spain twice, but I had been so young, my
recollections did not count.
Nura, married to one of our first king’s grandsons, pleased Father with
her marriage and her calm, placid outlook on life. She did as she was
told, no questions asked. Father actually grew fond of her as the years
passed, for few of his daughters had Nura’s complaisant qualities. Since
Sara’s divorce, Father held Nura up as a constant reminder to the rest
of his daughters. She had married a stranger and her marriage had proven
to be satisfactory. Of course, the real reason was that her husband was
considerate and attentive.
In Father’s mind, Sara had obviously provoked her husband into criminal
behavior. It is never the fault of the man in the Middle East. Even if he
murders his wife, the man will state "valid" reasons for his
action, which will be accepted by other men without question. In my
country, I have seen newspapers print articles that honor a man for
executing his wife or daughter for the crime of "indecent
behavior." The mere suspicion of sexual misconduct, such as kissing,
can bring death to a young girl. In addition, public congratulations are
given from the men of religion for the father’s "notable" act
of upholding the commands of the Prophet!
Nura and Ahmed were in the midst of constructing a palace and Nura wanted
to travel to Europe to purchase Italian furnishings. On the way, we were
to stop off in Egypt so that Nura’s young children could view the
pyramids.
Father, with twenty-two daughters from four wives, was often overheard
muttering, "Women are a man’s curse." It did not help his
attitude that his younger daughters were in a kind of rebellion against
the absolute rule of men. Our talk and actions were unprecedented and
unappreciated. Knowing full well we would never reach the heights we
desired, our ml alone was a victory of sorts, for no Saudi women had ever
approached the topics we discussed with such great abandon.
Nura wanted Mother to go abroad with us, but Mother had been strangely
quiet since Sara’s return. It was as if her one great rebellion against
Father’s rule had drained her life’s blood. But she encouraged the
trip, for she wanted Sara to see Italy. She thought I was too young and
should stay home, but, as usual, a temper tantrum accomplished the result
I wanted. Sara showed little interest, even in the possibility of seeing
the artistic wonders of Italy, but I was out of control with happiness.
My joy was shattered by Ali’s smug announcement that he was going with
us. Father thought I needed a chaperon. In an instant, I lost my mind at
the thought of Ali’s treacherous presence ruining my vacation, and I was
determined to insult him in the worst way. I grabbed his new ghutra
(headdress) and igaal (black cord that rests on the top of the ghutra) and
raced through the house to my bathroom. I had no notion of what I was
going to do with them, but a Saudi man is highly offended if anyone even
touches his headdress. I felt an urge to hurt Ali as quickly as possible.
When Ali followed, shouting that he would tell Father, I slammed the
bathroom door on him. Since he was wearing sandals, Ali’s big toe was
broken, and his hand was bruised. By his shouts and moans, the servants
thought I was killing him. No one came to Ali’s rescue though.
I don’t know what came over me, perhaps the sound of the big
bully groaning and begging for sympathy, but I flushed his headdress down
the toilet. The igaal would not flush, even as I frantically pushed it
with the plunger. The sodden cord became stuck in the toilet! When Ali saw
what I had done, he lunged for me. We were struggling on the floor when I
got the best of him by pulling and twisting his broken toe. Mother,
hearing Ali’s screams of agony, intervened and saved him from my years
of pent-up wrath.
I knew I was in big trouble. I rationalized that my situation could not be
any worse, so when Mother and Omar took Ali to the clinic to get his
broken toe wrapped, I crept into his room and gathered up his secret hoard
of "treasures" that were forbidden by both our religion and our
country.
These "treasures" were the usual objects that all young boys
collect the world over, but their possession is a serious offense under
the law of religion in Arabia. Long before, I had located Ali’s
collection of Playboy and other similar magazines. Recently, I had
discovered a new collection of photo slides. Curious, I had taken them to
my bedroom; perplexed, I viewed them on the slide projector. Naked men and
women were doing all kinds of strange things; one group of pictures even
showed animals with women. Ali had obviously lent them to other boys on
occasion, for he had clearly printed his name on every forbidden article.
I was too innocent at the time to know exactly what it all meant, but I
knew these "treasures" were bad because he had always kept his
secret cache stacked in the same old tattered box labeled "school
notes." I was very familiar with his belongings, having sorted
through his stuff for years. I carefully removed every magazine along with
the photo slides. I also found seven miniature bottles of alcohol that Ali
had brought home after a weekend trip to Bahrain. I smiled at my plan as I
shoved everything in a paper bag.
In Saudi Arabia, mosques are built in every neighborhood, for the
government has placed top priority on providing a mosque within walking
distance of every Muslim male. With prayers to be offered five times a
day, it is more convenient to complete all the prayers if a man is a short
distance from the mosque. Even though prayers can be given at any location
so long as the person faces Makkah, it is thought that access to a mosque
is preferable.
Living in one of the wealthiest districts, we were served by a huge
mosque, made of white opalescent marble. Since it was about two o’clock
in the afternoon, I knew the noon prayers were over; it would be safe to
carry out my plan without being seen. Even the men of religion nap in the
hot climate of Arabia.
1 opened the mosque door with dread, and peeked in carefully before
entering. Not yet veiled, I thought perhaps my presence would invite
little curiosity. I already had my story ready in the event I was caught.
If questioned, I would say I was hunting my new kitten that had wandered
onto the mosque grounds.
Surprisingly, the mosque was cool and inviting. I had never been inside
the huge building, but I had followed my father and Ali to prayer many
times. From the age of six, Ali had been encouraged to perform the five
daily prayers. I felt my breath sharpen as I recalled the hurt I had felt
as I watched my father hold Ali’s hand and lead him proudly through the
grand entrance of the mosque always leaving me, a lowly female, at the
side of the road to stare after them in sorrow and anger.
Women are forbidden entry into mosques in my country. Even though Prophet
Mohammed did not forbid women to pray publicly in the mosques, he did
state that it was best for them to pray in the privacy of their homes. As
a result, no female in Saudi Arabia has ever been allowed inside a mosque.
No one was around. I hurriedly walked across the marble floor; the
clicking of my sandals sounded loud and strange. I placed the bag
containing Ali’s forbidden articles on the stairwell leading to the
balcony that contains the loudspeakers that broadcast Prophet Mohammed’s
words throughout our cities five times a day. Just thinking of the
intensity of the appeals of the muezzin, the criers who call the faithful
to pray, I began to feel guilty about my misadventure. Then I remembered
Ali’s superior smirk as he told me that Father would have me flogged,
and that he, Ali, would request the pleasure of beating me. I walked back
home with a satisfied grin. Let Ali get out of this one, for once.
That night, before Father came home from the office, three mutawas
(religious men) arrived at our gate. I and three of our Filipino servants
peered through one of the upstairs windows as we watched them shout at
Omar and gesture wildly at the heavens and then toward some books and
magazines that they obviously held in distaste. I wanted to laugh, but
kept my face straight and serious.
All foreigners and most Saudis are frightened of the mutawas, for they
have much power, and they watch everyone for signs of weakness. Even
members of the Royal Family try to avoid their attention.
Two weeks before, one of our Filipino maids had inflamed some mutawas by
wearing a knee-length skirt in the souq. A group of religious men struck
her with a stick and sprayed her uncovered legs with red paint. While the
government of Saudi Arabia does not allow tourists to enter our country,
there are many women who work as nurses, secretaries, or domestic help in
our major cities. Many of these women feel the wrath of those who speak
God’s word yet despise those of our sex. If a woman is so bold as to
defy our traditions by exposing uncovered arms or legs, she runs the risk
of being struck and sprayed with paint.
This maid had soaked her legs in paint remover, but they were still red
and raw-looking. She was convinced that somehow the religious police had
traced her to her residence, and now they had come to take her to jail.
She ran to hide under my bed. I wanted to tell her the nature of their
visit, but my secret had to be guarded, even from the Filipino servants.
Omar was absolutely pallid when he came into the villa screaming for Ali.
I saw Ali scuffling down the hallway, gingerly walking with the top of his
right foot high in the air while balancing on his heel. I followed and
gathered with Mother and Ali in the sitting room, where Omar was on the
phone, dialing Father in his office. The mutawas had left, entrusting Omar
with samples of the incriminating contraband: one magazine, several photo
slides, and one miniature bottle of liquor. The rest they kept as evidence
of Ali’s guilt. I glanced at Ali and saw his face drain of blood when he
saw his "secret treasures" spread out in disarray on Omar’s
lap.
Catching sight of me, Omar asked me to leave the room, but I clung to my
mother’s skirts and she patted me on the head. Mother must have hated
the way Omar bossed her children and she looked defiantly into his eyes.
He decided to ignore me. He told Ali to sit down, that Father was on his
way home and the mutawas had gone to get the police. Ali was going to be
arrested, he announced with booming certainty.
The silence in the room was like the calm before a tempest. For a short
moment, I was terrified, and then Ali regained his composure and
practically spat at Omar, declaring, "They cannot arrest me, I am a
prince. Those religious fanatics are nothing more than pesky mosquitoes at
my ankles." The sudden thought came to me that jail might not do Ali
harm.
The squealing of Father’s brakes signaled his arrival. Rushing into the
room barely controlling his anger, he picked up the forbidden articles,
one by one. When he saw the magazine, he looked hard at Ali. He threw the
whiskey aside with contempt, for all the princes have liquor in their
homes. But when Father held the slide up to the lamp light, he screamed
for Mother and me to leave the room. We could hear him striking Ali with
his hands.
All in all, it had been a bad day for Ali.
The mutawas must have thought better of calling the police to arrest one
of the royal sons, for they returned in a few hours with little besides
pious fury leading their way. But even Father had a difficult time with
the mutawas in excusing the slides of women copulating with animals.
The year was 1968, and King Faisal was not as tolerant of the misdeeds of
the young princes as had been his elder brother, Sa’ud. The mutawas felt
they were in a position of power, for both they and Father knew that his
uncle, the king, would be outraged if the contents of the slides became
common knowledge. The fears of the mutawas were well known regarding the
present course of modernization of our land. King Faisal constantly
cautioned his brothers and cousins to control their children to avoid the
wrath of the religious men upon the heads of the royal men who ruled. The
king assured the religious elders that he was leading our country into
needed modernization, not degenerate Westernization (the best, not the
worst, of the West). The mutawas saw proof of the decadent West in the
behavior of the royals. Ali’s slide collection did nothing to put their
minds at ease about the whispered decadence of the Royal
Family.
We heard the mutawas argue long into the night over an appropriate
punishment for the son of a prince. Ali was lucky to be a member of the
family of Al Sa’uds. The mutawas knew that unless the king gave his
approval, no royal prince would be charged in the country’s court
system. Rarely, if ever, did such an event occur. But if Ali were a member
of a common Saudi family or a member of the foreign community, he would
have been ordered to serve a long prison sentence.
Our family was all too familiar with the sad story of the brother of one
of our Filipino drivers. Four years ago, the brother, who worked for an
Italian construction firm in Riyadh, had been arrested for possessing a
pornographic film. The poor man was now serving a seven-year prison
sentence. Not only was he languishing in prison but he was ordered to
endure ten lashes every Friday. Our driver, who visited his brother every
Saturday, wept as he told Ali that every time he saw his poor brother, the
man was black from his neck to his toes from the lashings of the previous
day. He feared his brother would not live out the coming year.
Unfortunately for Ali, his guilt was established without a doubt-his name
was boldly printed on every forbidden item. In the end, a compromise of
sorts was made: Father gave a huge sum of money to the mosque, and Ali had
to be present for prayers five times each day to appease the men of God,
along with God himself. The mutawas knew that few of the younger royal
princes bothered to go to prayer at all, and that such a punishment would
be especially irksome to Ali. He was told he would have to show his face
to the head mutawa in our mosque at every prayer for the next twelve
months. His only excuse would be if he were out of the city. Since Ali
generally slept until nine o’clock, he frowned at the mere thought of
the sun-up prayer. In addition, he had to write one thousand times on a
legal pad: "God is great, and I have displeased him by running after
the corrupt and immoral ways of the Godless West." As a final
condition, Ali was told he would have to reveal the name of the person who
had supplied him with the slides and magazines. As it was, Ali had slipped
in the magazines from trips abroad since a prince is ushered through
customs with only a courtesy glance. But a Westerner he had befriended at
a party had sold him the slides, and Ali, eager for a foreign villain to
take the pressure off him, happily supplied the mutawas with the Westerner’s
name and work address. We would later learn that the man had been
arrested, flogged, and deported.
I felt terrible. My stupid prank had disgraced my entire family with a
stinging humiliation. I did not think the lesson would harm Ali, but I
knew my parents had been affected and other innocent people would be
injured. Also, I am ashamed to admit, I was petrified that my guilt would
be discovered. I prayed to God that if he would let me escape capture this
once, from that day forward I would be a perfect child.
Omar led the mutawas out of our grounds. Mother and I waited for Father
and Ali to return to the family sitting room. Father was breathing loudly
and gripped Ali by his upper arm, pushing him toward the stairway. Ali
looked my way and our eyes met. A moment, a flash of realization, and I
understood that he had concluded I was the guilty party. Sadly, I saw that
he looked more hurt than angry.
I began to sob, for I felt the weight of the terrible deed I had
committed. Father looked at me in pity. ‘Men he shoved Ali and screamed
that he had upset the entire family, including the innocent children. For
the first time in my life, my father came and held me in his arms and told
me not to worry.
I was now truly miserable. The touch that I had been longing for all my
life now felt barren, and the joy I had so often imagined was destroyed in
the elusive prize so wrongly taken.
My misdeed had accomplished my target, however. No mention was ever made
of Ali’s broken toe, or the toilet clogged with Ali’s headdress. One
sin had so outweighed the other that they ended up canceling each other
out. |
The Trip
Despite the recent family turmoil, the trip to Italy and Egypt was still
planned, but my heart was no longer joyful. I organized my suitcase and
made my lists as I watched Ali warily trudge by my bedroom door. In the
past, Ali had given me little thought. I was scorned as a girl, someone to
antagonize or push about occasionally-a person of little worth. He looked
at me differently now, for he had made the surprising discovery that 1, a
lowly female and the youngest member of the family, was a dangerous and
worthy opponent.
On the day of our departure, six limousines were needed to transport us to
the airport. Eleven of us were traveling for four weeks: Nura and Ahmed,
with three of their five children; two of their Filipino maids; Sara and
myself; and Ali and his friend Hadi.
Two years older than Ali, Hadi was a student at the Religious Institute, a
boys’ school in Riyadh for those young men who aspired to become mutawas.
Hadi impressed adults by quoting the Koran and acting very pious in their
presence. My father felt confident that Hadi would have a good influence
on his children. To those who would listen, Hadi loudly expressed his
viewpoint that all women should be confined to the home; he told Ali that
women were the cause of all evil on earth.
I could tell it was going to be a pleasant and enjoyable trip with both
Ali and Hadi around.
Mother did not accompany us to the airport. For the past few days, she had
been listless and sad; I assumed Ali’s antics had worried her. She said
her farewells in the garden and waved us off from the front gate. She was
veiled, but I knew tears were falling on her face. Something was amiss
with Mother, I felt, but I had no time to dwell on the possibilities as
the prospect of
this exciting trip lay ahead of us.
Ahmed had recently purchased a new plane, so our flight was strictly a
family affair. I looked to see if the two Americans who had flown Mother
and me to Jeddah were piloting; disappointed, I saw they were not. Two
British pilots were in the cockpit and they looked friendly enough. The
Royal Family hired a large number of American and British citizens as
private pilots. Ahmed conferred with the two men while Nura and the maids
settled in with her three little ones.
Sara, her veil now removed, was already bundled in a blanket, clutching
her precious books. Hadi looked with distaste at her uncovered face and
whispered angrily to Ali, who in turn ordered Sara to replace her veil
until we left Saudi Arabia. Sara told Ali she could not see to read
through the thick fabric, and if he were smart he would shut his ugly
mouth.
Even before we had left the ground there was already a family squabble. I
tried to stamp on Ali’s sore toe but missed, and Ali took a swipe at my
head; I ducked and he missed. Ahmed, as the oldest male authority figure,
shouted at everybody to sit down and be quiet. He and Nura exchanged a
look that let me know they were already rethinking the wisdom of their
generous
invitation.
The three holiest spots in Islam are Makkah, Madinah, and Jerusalem.
Makkah is the city that captures the hearts of more than a billion Muslims
scattered over the globe, for it was there that God revealed his will to
his Prophet, Mohammed. The foundations of our religious life are five
ritual obligations, called the pillars of religion. One of these
obligations requires that every Muslim with the financial ability must
attend Haj. No good Muslim feels complete without making the pilgrimage to
Makkah at least once in his lifetime.
Our second holiest city, Madinah, considered "the city of the
Prophet," is the place of Mohammed’s burial.
And Jerusalem is our third holiest city. It was in Jerusalem that Mohammed
was taken up by God to heaven on the Dome of the Rock. Muslims weep bitter
tears at the mention of Jerusalem, for it is a city now occupied and no
longer free and open to our people.
If Makkah, Madinah, and Jerusalem are a Muslim’s spiritual
fountainheads, then Cairo is the crowning glory of a Muslim’s
self-esteem. Cairo represents fifty centuries of titanic duration, and
presents Arabs with the marvel of one of the greatest civilizations to
appear on the earth. Egypt is a source of great pride for all Arabs. The
might, wealth, and accomplishments of the ancient Egyptians makes the oil
wealth of the modem Gulf Arabs seem puny and inconsequential.
It was in Cairo, that city bursting with life from the beginning of time,
that I became a woman. In the Arab culture, with so much importance
attached to the change from girlhood to womanhood, every young girl awaits
with a combination of dread and deep satisfaction the sight of her first
blood. When my Western women friends tell me that they did not know what
was happening to them when their first blood appeared, and that they were
convinced they were dying, I am struck dumb with surprise. The coming of
women’s menses is a source of easy conversation in the Muslim world.
Suddenly, at that moment, a child is transformed into an adult. There is
no going back to that warm cocoon of childhood innocence.
In Saudi Arabia, the appearance of the first menses means that it is time
to select the first veil and abaaya with the greatest of care. Even the
shopkeepers, Muslim men from India or Pakistan, inquire with ease and
respect as to the time the girl-child became a woman. In all seriousness,
the shopkeeper will smile indulgently, and proceed to select the abaava
and veil that will show the child to her greatest advantage.
Even though the only color for a veil is black, there are many
possibilities for fabric selection and weight of material. The veil can be
of thin material, giving the world a shadowy glimpse of the forbidden
face. A medium-weight fabric is more practical, for one can see through
the gauzy cloth without the rude glances or sharp remarks from the keepers
of the faith. If a woman chooses the traditional thick black fabric, no
man can imagine her features under a facial mask that refuses to move with
the strongest of breezes. Of course, this selection makes it impossible to
examine jewelry in the gold souq or to see speeding cars after dusk. In
addition to this traditional heavy veil, some of the conservative women
choose to wear black gloves and thick black stockings so that no hint of
flesh is visible to the world.
For women with a need to express their individuality and fashion sense,
there are ways to avoid that endless sea of conformity in dress through
creative design. Many purchase scarves
with jeweled decorations, and the movement of trinkets turns the heads of
most men.
Expensive eye-catching decorations are often sewn to the sides and back of
the abaaya.
Younger women, in particular, strive to set themselves apart by their
unique selections. The male shopkeeper will model the latest designer
fashions in veils and abaaya and show the young girl the stylish way of
throwing the scarf cover over her head to project a look of smart fashion.
The method of tying the abaaya to show the exact amount of foot that is
allowed without being considered risqu6 is discussed in great detail.
Every young girl experiments to find her own method of wearing the abaaya
with flair.
A child enters the store, but a woman emerges, veiled and, on that day, of
a marriageable age. Her life changes in that split second. Arab men barely
glance at the child as she enters the store, but once she dons her veil
and abaaya, discreet glances come her way. Men now attempt to catch a
glimpse of a forbidden, suddenly erotic, ankle. With the veil, we Arab
women become overwhelmingly tantalizing and desirable to Arab men.
But I was now in Cairo, not home in Saudi Arabia, so the full impact of my
first blood did little more than irritate me. Sara and Nura showed me all
the things a woman should do. They both warned me against telling Ali, as
if I would, for they knew he would try to make me veil immediately, even
in Cairo. Sara looked at me with great sadness and gave me a long hug. She
knew that from that day forward I would be considered a threat and danger
to all men until I was safely wed and cloistered behind walls.
In Cairo, Ahmed owned a luxurious apartment that spread over three floors
inside the city center. For privacy, Ahmed and Nura settled in the top
floor. The two Filipino maids, Nura’s three babies, Sara, and I occupied
the second floor. Ali, Hadi, and the Egyptian caretaker stayed on the
first floor. Sara and I hugged each other with delight when we realized
Ali and Hadi were separated from us by an entire floor.
On our first evening, plans were made for Ahmed, Nura, Hadi, and Ali to go
to a nightclub to watch belly dancing. Ahmed thought that Sara and I
should stay home with the babies and the Filipino servants. Sara made no
protest, but I pleaded our case so eloquently that Ahmed relented.
At fourteen, I came alive in the land of the pharaohs and joyfully
anointed Cairo as my favorite city of all time. That attachment to Cairo
has never wavered. The excitement of this city inflamed me with a passion
I had never known before, and which I cannot fully explain to this day.
Men and women of every color and dress roamed the streets, searching for
adventure and opportunity. I recognized that my life before had been dry,
without stimulation, for I saw that Cairo was the opposite of our Arabian
cities, which were, to my young eyes, sterile and lifeless.
I found the grinding poverty unsettling, yet it was not discouraging, for
I saw in it a profound force of life. Poverty can turn a person into a
flaming torch for change and revolution, without which mankind would come
to a standstill. I thought again of Saudi Arabia and knew that some degree
of poverty or need should seep into our lives and force us to renew our
spiritual life.
Yes, there are many classes of people in my land, from those
various levels of the wealthy Royal Family down to that of lowly salaried
workers. But no one, including foreign workers, is without the basic
necessities of life. Our government ensures the well-being of all Saudis.
Each male citizen is assured of a home, health care, education, a business
where he can earn a living, interest-free loans, and even money for food,
should the need arise. Our female citizens are provided for by the men of
their families, whether it be father, husband, brother, or cousin.
As a result of this satisfaction of basic needs, the spark of life
generated by material desire is hopelessly lacking in my land. Because of
this, I despaired that the pages of history would ever turn on my land. We
Saudis are too rich, too settled in our apathy for change. As we drove
through the bustling city of Cairo, I mentioned this idea to my family,
but I saw that only Sara listened and understood the essence of my
thoughts.
The sun was now setting and the sky turned to gold behind the sharp
outline of the pyramids. The generous, slow-moving Nile was breathing life
throughout the city and into the desert. Watching it, I felt life rush
through my veins.
Ali and Hadi were furious that Sara and I-two unmarried females-bad been
allowed to go into the nightclub. Hadi spoke long and seriously to Ali
about the deterioration of our family’s values. He declared with smug
satisfaction that his sisters had all been married by the age of fourteen,
and that they were guarded carefully by the men of his family. He said
that, as a man of religion, he had to protest to our father when we
returned from the trip. Sara and I, bold in our distance from Riyadh, made
faces and told him he had not yet become a religious man. We told him, in
slang we had learned from watching American movies, "to save
it."
Hadi devoured the dancers with his eyes, and made crude remarks about
their body parts, yet he swore to Ali that they were nothing but whores,
and that if he had his way, they would be stoned. Hadi was a pompous ass.
Even Ali tired of his holier-than-thou attitude and began to thump his
fingers on the table with impatience and to look around the room.
After Hadi’s continents and attitude, I was staggered by his actions the
following day.
Ahmed hired a limousine driver to take Nura, Sam, and me shopping. Ahmed
went to meet a businessman. The caretaker, who doubled as a driver, took
the two Filipinos and the three children to the pool at the Mena House
Hotel. When we left the apartment, Ali and Hadi were lounging about,
exhausted from the previous late night.
The sweltering heat of the city soon tired Sara, and I offered to go back
to the apartment and keep her company until Nura finished her shopping.
Nura agreed, and sent the driver to drop us off. He would return to
collect Nura afterward.
When we entered the apartment, we heard muffled screams. Sara and I
followed the noise to Hadi and Ali’s room. The door was unlocked and we
suddenly realized what was happening before our eyes. Hadi was raping a
young girl, no more than eight years old, and Ali was holding her. Blood
was everywhere. Our brother and Hadi were laughing.
At the sight of this traumatic scene, Sara became hysterical and began to
scream and run. Ali’s face became a mask of fury as he shoved me from
the room, knocking me to the floor. I ran after Sara. We huddled in our
room.
When I could no longer endure the sounds of terror that continued to
filter up to our floor, I crept back down the stairwell. I was desperately
trying to think of a course of action when the doorbell rang. I saw Ali
answer the door to an Egyptian woman, about forty years of age. He handed
the woman fifteen Egyptian pounds and asked her if she had more daughters.
She said that she did and that she would return tomorrow. Hadi ushered out
the weeping child. The mother, showing no emotion, took the child, who was
limping, tears streaming down her face, by the hand and closed the door
behind her.
Ahmed did not seem surprised when Nura, angry, told him the story. He
pursed his lips and said he would find out the details. Later, he told
Nura that the mother herself had sold her child, and that there was
nothing he could do.
Even though caught in this shameful act, Hadi and Ali acted as
though nothing had happened. When I sneered at Hadi and asked him how he
could be a religious man, he laughed full in my face. I turned to Ali and
told him that I was going to tell Father he was attacking young girls, and
he laughed even harder than Hadi. He leaned toward me and said, "Tell
him. I do not mind!" He said that Father had given him the name of a
man to contact for the same type of service. He smiled and said young
girls were more fun, and besides. Father always did the same sort of thing
when he came to Cairo.
I felt as though I had been electrocuted; my brain felt burned, my mouth
hung open, and I stared blankly at my brother. I had my first thoughts
that all-All-men are wicked. I wanted to destroy my memory of that day and
lapse once again into the innocence of the mists of my childhood. I walked
softly away. I came to dread what I might discover next in the cruel world
of men.
I still cherished Cairo as a city of enlightenment, but the decay brought
by poverty caused me to rethink my earlier notions. Later in the week, I
saw the Egyptian mother knocking on doors in the building, with another
young girl in tow. I wanted to question her, to discover how a mother
could sell her young. She saw my determined look of inquiry and hurried
away.
Sara and I talked with Nura for long hours about the phenomenon,
and Nura sighed and said that Ahmed told her it was a way of life in much
of the world. When I shouted indignantly that I would rather starve than
sell my young, Nura agreed, but said it was easy to say such things when
the pangs of hunger were not in your stomach.
We left Cairo and its woes behind us. Sara finally had the
opportunity to realize her visions of Italy. Was her radiant look worth
the travail that had freed her to come here? She dreamily proclaimed that
the reality soared above her fantasies.
We toured the cities of Venice, Florence, and Rome. The gaiety and the
laughter of the Italians still ring in my ears. I think their love of life
one of the earth’s great blessings, far overshadowing their
contributions to art and architecture. Bom in a land of gloom, I am
consoled by the idea of a nation that does not take itself too seriously.
In Milan, Nura spent more money in a matter of days than most people earn
in a lifetime. ft was as if she and Ahmed shopped in a frenzy, with a deep
desire to fill some lonely void in their lives.
Hadi and Ali spent their time buying women, for the streets of Italy were
filled, by day or by night, with beautiful young women available to those
who could pay. I saw Ali as I always had, a selfish young man, concerned
only with his pleasure. But Hadi, I knew, was far more evil, for he bought
the women yet condemned them for their role in the act. He desired them,
yet hated them and the system that left them free to do as they would. His
hypocrisy was to me the essence of the evil nature of men.
When our plane touched down in Riyadh, I prepared myself for more
unpleasantness. At fourteen, I knew that I would now be considered a
woman, and that a hard fate awaited me. As precarious as my childhood had
been, I had a sudden longing to cling to my youth and not let go. I had no
doubt that my life as a woman would be a perpetual struggle against the
social order of my land, which sacrifices those of my sex.
My fears regarding my future soon paled with the agony of the moment. I
arrived home to discover that my mother was dying. |
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