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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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Journey’s End
Our one certainty in life is death. As a staunch believer in the words of
the Prophet Mohammed, my mother felt no apprehension at the end of her
life’s journey. She had followed the pure fife of a good Muslim and knew
her just reward awaited her. Her sorrow was intertwined with her fears for
her unmarried daughters. She was our strength, our only support, and she
knew that we would be tossed in the wind at her passing.
Mother confessed that she had felt her life ebbing even as we departed on
our travels. She had no basis for her knowledge, other than three very
extraordinary visions that came to her as dreams.
Mother’s parents had died of fever when she was eight years of age. As
the only female child, Mother had nursed her parents during their brief
illness. They both seemed to be recovering when, in the middle of a
swirling fury of a blinding sandstorm, her father had risen on his elbows,
smiled at the heavens, uttered four words "I see the garden,"
and died. Her mother died shortly afterward without revealing a hint of
what she witnessed awaiting her. My mother, left in the care of her four
older brothers, was married at an early age to my father.
Mother’s father had been a compassionate and kind man. He had loved his
daughter as he did his sons. When other men of the tribe sulked at the
birth of their daughters, Grandfather laughed and told them to praise God
for the blessing of a tender touch in their home. Mother said she would
never have been married at such an early age had her father lived. He
would have given her some years of the freedom of childhood for herself,
she believed.
Sara and I were sitting by her bedside as Mother haltingly confided her
disturbing dreams. The first of her visions came four nights before we
received word of Sara’s attempted suicide.
"I was in a bedouin tent. It was the same as our family tent of my
childhood. I was surprised to see my father and mother, young and healthy,
sitting beside the coffee fire. I heard my brothers in the distance,
bringing in the sheep from a day of grazing. I made a rush for my parents,
but they could not see me, nor could they hear me as I cried out their
names.
"Two of my brothers, the ones now deceased, came into the tent and
sat with my parents. My brothers sipped wartm milk from the she-camel, in
small cups, while my father pounded the beans for the coffee. The dream
ended as Father quoted a verse he had made up about the Paradise awaiting
all good Muslims. The verse was simple, yet reassuring to my mind. It
went:
Pleasant rivers flow, Trees shade the yellow of the sun. Fruit gathers
around the feet, Milk and honey knows no end. Loved ones are waiting, for
those trapped on earth."
The dream ended. Mother said she thought little of it, other than that it
might be a message of joy from God to assure her that her parents and
family were in Paradise.
About a week after Sara came home, Mother experienced a second vision.
This time, all the members of her deceased family were sitting under the
shade of a palm tree. They were eating wonderful food from silver dishes.
But this time they saw her, and Mother’s father got to his feet and came
to greet her. He took her by the hand and tried to get her to sit, and to
eat.
Mother said she became frightened in the dream and tried to run away, but
her father’s hand tightened. Mother remembered that she had young to
care for and begged her father to release her, told him that she had no
time to sit and eat. She said her mother stood and touched her shoulder
and told her: "Fadeela, God will care for your daughters. The moment
is coming for you to leave them in his care."
Mother awoke from her dream. She said she knew at that instant that her
time on earth was passing and that she would soon go to those who went
before her.
Two weeks after we left on our trip, Mother began to experience back and
neck pains. She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach. The pain was her
message; she knew her time was short. She went to the doctor and told him
of her dreams and the new pain. He dismissed the dreams with a wave of his
hand, but became serious at the description of the pain. Special tests
soon revealed that Mother had an inoperable tumor on her spine.
Mother’s most recent dream came the night the doctor confirmed her
terminal illness. In the dream, she was sitting with her heavenly family,
eating and drinking with great gaiety and abandon. She was in the company
of her parents, grandparents, brothers, and cousins-relatives who had died
many years before. Mother smiled as she saw little ones crawling along the
ground and chasing butterflies in a meadow. Her mother smiled at her and
said, "Fadeela, why do you not pay attention to your babies? Do you
not recognize those of your very blood?"
Mother suddenly realized that the children were indeed hers-they were the
ones lost to her in their infancy. They gathered in her lap, those
heavenly five babies, and she began to sway and swing and hold them close.
Mother was going to the ones lost and losing the ones she had known. She
was leaving us.
Mercifully, Mother suffered little at her death. I like to think that God
saw she had passed the harsh trials of life as a person of godliness and
felt no need to wound her further with the pain of passing.
Her daughters surrounded every inch of the deathbed-she lay cloaked with
the love of her own flesh and blood. Her eyes lingered on each of us, no
words were spoken, but we felt her farewells. When her gaze rested upon my
face, I saw her worries gather as a storm, for she knew that 1, unbending
to the wind, would find life harder than most.
Mother’s body was washed and prepared for her return to earth by the
older aunties of our family. I saw her as they wrapped the white linen
shroud around her thin body, wom down by childbearing and disease. Her
face was peaceful, now free of earthly worries. I thought Mother appeared
younger in death than in life. It was difficult for me to believe that she
had given birth to sixteen children, of whom eleven had survived.
Our immediate family, along with all of Father’s wives and their
children, gathered in our home; a verse from the Koran was read to offer
comfort. Mother’s shroud wrapped body was then placed in the backseat of
a black limousine and driven away by Omar.
Our custom forbids females at the burial site, but my sisters and I showed
an unyielding front to our father; he relented on the promise that we
would not wail or pull out our hair. And so it was that our entire family
followed the car of death, a sad but silent caravan, into the desert.
In Islam, to show grief at a loved one’s passing indicates displeasure
with the will of God. Besides, our family comes from the Najd region of
Saudi Arabia, and our people do not publicly moum the passing of loved
ones.
A freshly dug grave in the endless desert of our land had already been
prepared by the Sudanese servants. The body of our mother was tenderly
lowered, and the white cloth covering her face was removed by Ali, her
only earthly son. My sisters huddled far from Mother’s final resting
place, but my eyes could not leave the gravesite. I was the last child
born of her body; I would stay with her earthly cloak until the final
moment. I flinched as I watched the slaves push the red sands of the Empty
Quarter over her face and body.
As I watched the sands cover the body of one I so adored, I suddenly
remembered a beautiful verse by the great Lebanese philosopher Kahlil
Gibran: "Mayhap a funeral among men is a wedding feast among the
angels." I imagined my mother at the side of her mother and father,
with her own little ones gathered in her arms. Certain at that moment that
I would, another day, feel the loving touch of Mother, I ceased weeping
and walked toward my sisters, shocking them with my smile of joy and
serenity. I quoted the powerful verse God had sent to erase my pain, and
my sisters nodded in perfect understanding at the wise Kahlil Gibran’s
words.
We were leaving Mother behind in the empty vastness of the desert, yet I
knew it no longer mattered that there was no stone placed to mark her
presence there, or that no religious services were held to speak of the
simple woman who had been a flame of love during her time on earth. Her
reward was that she was now with her other loved ones, waiting there for
us.
Ali seemed at a loss, for once, and I knew his pain was keen also. Father
had little to say and avoided our villa from the day of Mother’s death.
He sent us messages through his second wife, who had now replaced Mother
as the head of his wives.
Within the month, we learned through Ali that ]rather was preparing to wed
again, for four wives are common with the very wealthy and the very poor
bedouin in my land. The Koran says that each wife must be treated as the
others. The affluent of Saudi Arabia have no difficulty in providing
equality for their wives. The poorest bedouin have only to erect four
tents and provide simple fare. For these reasons, you find many of the
richest and the poorest Muslims with four wives. It is only the
middle-class Saudi who has to find contentment with one woman, for it is
impossible for him to find the funds to provide middle-class standards for
four separate families.
Father was planning to marry one of the royal cousins, Randa, a girl with
whom I had played childhood games in what seemed like another lifetime.
Father’s new bride was fifteen, only one year older than 1, his youngest
child of my mother.
Four months after the burial of my mother, I attended the wedding of my
father. I was surly, and refused to join in the festivities-I was awash
with pent-up emotions of animosity. After the birth of sixteen children
and many years of obedient servitude, I knew that the memory of my mother
had been effortlessly disregarded by my father.
Not only was I furious at my father, I felt overwhelming hatred toward my
former playmate Randa, who was now going to be the fourth wife, filling
the void created by my mother’s death.
The wedding was grand, the bride was young and beautiful. My
anger toward Randa collapsed as my father led her from the huge ballroom
to the marriage bed. My eyes widened as they saw her worried face. Her
lips trembled with fear! As a roaring flame is instantaneously
extinguished, the sight of Randa’s obvious despair quieted and
transformed my passion from black hate to tender commiseration. I felt
ashamed of my hostility, for I saw that she was as the rest of us,
helpless in the face of towering, dominating Saudi manhood.
Father traveled with his virginal bride on an extended honeymoon to Paris
and Monte Carlo. In my propitious change of emotion, I waited for Randa’s
return, and as I lingered, I vowed to awaken Father’s new wife to a path
of purpose: freedom for women in our land. Not only would I provide Randa
with new challenges and dreams of power, I knew I would wound Father in
the political and spiritual awakening of his young wife. I could not
forgive him for so easily forgetting the wonderful woman who was my
mother. |
Girlfriends
Upon their return from their honeymoon, Father and Randa moved into our
villa. Even though Mother was no longer with the living, her younger
children continued to reside in Father’s villa and his new wife was
expected to assume the duties of a mother. Since I was the youngest child,
only one year .behind Randa, the custom seemed ludicrous in our situation.
However, there is no room for maneuvering or change to fit the individual
conditions in Saudi Arabia, so Randa was installed in our home, a child
masquerading as a woman and mistress of our large household.
Randa returned from her honeymoon quiet, almost broken. She rarely talked,
never smiled, and moved slowly through the villa, as though she might
cause some injury or harm. Father seemed pleased with his new possession,
for he spent many hours cloistered in his living quarters with his
youthful bride.
After the third week of Father’s undivided attention to Randa, Ali
cracked a joke about Father’s sexual prowess. I asked my brother what he
thought of Randa’s feelings in the matter be wed to one so much older,
one she did not know or love. Ali’s vacant expression told me all too
clearly not only that the thought had never entered his head but that such
a consideration would not find fertile ground in his narrow realm of
understanding. He well reminded me that nothing would ever penetrate that
dark sea of egotistic matter that constitutes the mind of a Saudi man.
Randa and I held different philosophies. She believed: "What is
written on your forehead, your eyes will see." I think: "The
picture in your mind will be photographed by your life." In addition,
Randa was painfully shy and timid, whereas I greet life with a certain
fierceness.
I noticed Randa’s eyes as they followed the hands of the clock; she
began to fidget a few hours prior to Father’s usual arrival times for
lunch and for the evening meal. She had orders from my father to eat her
meals before his arrival and then to shower and prepare herself for him.
At noon each day Randa would order the cook to serve her lunch. She would
eat sparingly and then retire to her quarters. My father generally arrived
at the villa around one o’clock, had his lunch, and then went to his new
wife. He would leave the villa around five o’clock and return to his
offices. (In Saudi Arabia, the workdays are divided into two shifts: from
nine A. M. until one P.M. and, after a four-hour afternoon break, from
five P.M. until eight P.M.) Observing Randa’s pinched look, I thought of
asking Father about the teachings of the Koran-the instructions from God
that each Muslim was supposed to divide his days and evenings among four
wives. Since the day he had wed Randa, his three older wives had been
virtually ignored. After consideration, I thought better of my boldness.
And so the evenings were a repeat of the lunch break. Randa would call for
her dinner around eight o’clock, eat, and go to her rooms for her bath
and preparation for her husband. I generally would not see her again until
after my father left for work the next morning. She had orders to wait in
the bedroom until he had left.
The anxiety of watching Randa’s bleak life unfold spurred me on to
mischief. I had two girlfriends who frightened even me with their
boldness; their liveliness might encourage Randa to become more assertive.
Little did I know what forces I would unleash by forming a girl’s club,
with Randa, my two indomitable friends, and myself as the sole members.
We called our club "Lively Lips," for we had as our goal to talk
ourselves into bravery to battle the silent acceptance of the role of
women in our society. We solemnly vowed to uphold the following goals: 1.
At every opportunity, let the spirit of women’s rights move our lips and
guide our tongues. 2. Each member should strive to bring in one new member
per month. 3. Our first goal would be to stop marriages of young women to
old men.
We young women of Arabia recognized that the men of our land would never
pursue social change for our sex, that we would have to force change. As
long as Saudi women accepted their authority, men would rule. We surmised
that it was the responsibility of each individual woman to ferment desire
for control of her life and other female lives within her small circle.
Our women are so beaten down by centuries of mistreatment that our
movement had to begin with an awakening of the spirit.
My two friends, Nadia and Wafa, were not of the Royal Family, but were
children of prominent families in the city of Riyadh.
Nadia’s father owned a huge contracting company. Because of his
willingness to give large kickbacks to various princes, his company was
awarded large government building contracts. He employed thousands of
foreign workers from Sri Lanka, the Philippines, and Yemen. Nadia’s
father was almost as wealthy as the royals; he easily supported three
wives and fourteen children. Nadia was seventeen, the middle of seven
daughters. She had watched with dismay as her three older sisters were
married off for the purposes of family connections and convenience.
Surprisingly, all three marriages had suited her sisters and they were
happy, with good husbands. Nadia said that kind of luck would never
continue. She felt with increasing pessimism that she would end up with an
old, ugly, and cruel husband.
Nadia was indeed more fortunate than most Saudi women; her father had
determined that she could continue her education. He had told her she did
not have to man-y until she was twenty-one. This imposed deadline stiffed
Nadia into action. She declared that since she had only four more years of
freedom left, she was going to taste every aspect of life during that time
to provide dreams for the remainder of a dull life married to an old man.
Wafa’s father was a leading mutawa and his extremism had driven his
daughter to extremes of her own. Her father had only one wife, Wafa’s
mother, but he was a cruel and vicious man. Wafa swore she wanted nothing
to do with a religion that appointed such men as her father as a leader.
Wafa believed in God and thought Mohammed had been his messenger, but she
thought that somehow Mohammed’s messages had been conveyed incorrectly
by his followers, for no God would wish such grief on women, half of the
world’s people.
Wafa needed to look no farther than her own home. Her mother was never
allowed out of the house; she was a virtual prisoner, enslaved by a man of
God. There were six children, five of whom were adult sons. Wafa had been
a late surprise to her parents, and her father was so disappointed that he
had a girl-child, he had virtually ignored her except to give her orders.
She was ordered to stay in the home and learn to sew and cook. From the
age of seven, Wafa was forced to wear an abaaya and to cover her hair.
Each morning from the time she was nine, her father would ask her if she
had seen her first blood. He was alartned that his daughter would venture
out, face uncovered, after she was classified by God as a woman.
Wafa was allowed few friends. What rare friends she had soon
drifted away since Wafa’s father made a habit of boldly inquiring in her
ftiends’ presence about their first blood.
Wafa’s mother, weary and exhausted from the rigid rules of her
husband, had made a decision late in life to silently defy his demands.
She assisted her daughter in sneaking out of the home and told her husband
the child was sleeping or studying the Koran when inquiries of Wafa’s
whereabouts were voiced.
I imagined myself bold and rebellious, but Wafa and Nadia made my stance
for women seem puny and powerless. They said that all I did was to provide
intelligent stimulation-that my answer to a problem was to talk it to
death-but that in reality my efforts to help women were useless. After
all, my life had not changed. I realized they were right. I will never
forget one incident that occurred in a downtown parking building, close to
the souq area, not far from the spot that foreigners call "chop, chop
square," since that is where our criminals lose their heads or their
hands on Fridays, our day of religion.
I had hidden the passing of my first blood from my father, since I was in
no rush to swathe myself in the black garb of our women. Unfortunately,
Nura and Ahmed decided that I had postponed the inevitable long enough.
Nura told me that if I did not tell my father immediately, she would. So I
gathered my friends around me, including Randa, and we made the mission to
purchase my new "life’s uniform," black scarf on black veil on
black abaaya.
Omar drove us to the entrance of the souq area, and we four young women
disembarked, agreeing to meet him in two hours at the same spot. Omar
always accompanied us into the souqs to keep special watch on the women of
the family, but that day he had an important en-and to run and took the o
ty while we were shopPing. Besides, Father’s new wife was accompanying
his daughter, and Omar was reassured by Randa’s acquiescent presence. He
had seen no indication that Randa was slowly awakening after the long,
dull sleep of submission.
We milled about the stores, hands examining the various scarfs, veils, and
abaayas. I wanted something @ial, a way of being an original in the ocean
of black-garbed women. I cursed myself for not having an abaaya made in
Italy, from the finest Italian silk, with an artist’s intricate designs,
so that when I breezed past, people would know there was an individual
under the black covering, a woman with style and class.
Everyone was veiled except me, and as we made our way to the heart of the
souqs to continue our search, I noticed that Wafa and Nadia, heads
together, were whispering and giggling. Randa and I stepped up our pace
and I asked them what was so amusing. Nadia looked toward me and spoke
through her veil. She said they were remembering a man they had met on
their last trip to the souqs. A man? I looked back at Randa. We were both
confused at their meaning.
It took us only an hour to find a suitable abaaya, veil, and scarf; the
selection seemed rather limited.
Life changed quickly. I had entered the souq area as an individual
bursting with life, my face expressing my emotions to the world. I left
the shopping area covered from head to toe, a faceless creature in black.
I must admit that the first few moments of veiling were exciting. I found
the veil a novelty and looked back with interest as Saudi teenage boys
stared at me, now a mysterious figure in black. I knew they were wishing
for a bit of breeze to blow the veil away from my face so that they might
catch a glimpse of my forbidden skin. For a moment, I felt myself a thing
of beauty, a work so lovely that I must be covered to protect men from
their uncontrollable desires.
The novelty of wearing the veil and abaaya was fleeting, though. When we
walked out of the cool souq area into the blazing hot sun, I gasped for
breath and sucked furiously through the sheer black fabric. The air tasted
stale and dry as it filtered through the thin gauzy cloth. I had purchased
the sheerest veil available, yet I felt I was seeing life through a thick
screen. How could women see through veils made of a thicker fabric? The
sky was no longer blue, the glow of the sun had dimmed; my heart plunged
to my stomach when I realized that from that moment, outside my own home I
would not experience life as it really is in all its color. The world
suddenly seemed a dull place. And dangerous, too! I groped and stumbled
along the pined, cracked sidewalk, fearful of breaking an ankle or leg.
My friends burst out laughing at the awkwardness Of my moves and
my futile efforts to adjust my veil.
I stumbled over several children of a bedouin woman, and looked in envy at
the freedom of her veil. Bedouin women wear veils that fit across their
noses, leaving their eyes free to examine their surroundings. Oh, how I
wished to be a bedouin! I would cover my face gladly if I could only leave
my eyes fiee to see the infinite changes of life around me.
We arrived early at the meeting place designated by Omar. Randa glanced at
her watch; we had nearly an hour before he was due. She suggested that we
go back into the souq area since it was too hot in the boiling sun. Nadia
and Wafa asked us if we wanted to have some fun. I said sure, without
hesitation. Randa balanced from foot to foot, looking for Omar, I could
tell she was uncomfortable with the very word fun. 1, with my marvelous
powers of persuasion, convinced Randa to go along with Nadia and Wafa. I
was curious, never having broken any of the rules laid down for females.
Poor Randa was simply accommodating to a stronger will.
The two girls exchanged smiles and told us to follow them. ‘Mey made
their way to a parking lot beneath a new office building not far from the
souq area. Men who worked in the building and nearby shops parked there.
We four young women inched our way across the busy intersection. Randa
squealed and slapped my hand when I raised my veil so that I could see the
traffic. Too late, I realized that I had exposed my face to every man on
the street. The men appeared stunned by their luck, for they had seen a
woman’s face in a public place! I instantly realized it was far better
for me to be run down by a speeding automobile than to commit such an act
of revealment.
When we reached the parking-lot elevators, I staggered with shock at my
friends’ action. Wafa and Nadia approached a foreign man, a strikingly
handsome Syrian.
They asked him if he wanted to have some fun. For a moment, he
seemed ready to bolt and run; he looked to his left and right and punched
the elevator button. Finally, he thought better of departing, considering
the rare opportunity to meet available and possibly beautiful women in
Saudi Arabia.-He asked what kind of fun. Wafa asked the Syrian if he had
an automobile and a private apartment. He said yes, he had an apartment
and a roommate, a Lebanese. Nadia asked if his friend was looking for a
girlfriend, and the Syrian grinned and said, Yes, indeed, both of them
were.
Randa and I had recovered enough to move our feet. We gathered up our
abaayas and ran out of the parking lot in fear for our lives. In the
process I lost my scarf, when I turned to pick it up, Randa ran straight
into me. She fell backward and lay sprawled in the sand, her forbidden
legs exposed.
When Wafa and Nadia found us, we were breathing hard and leaning against a
shop window. They were hanging on to each other, laughing. They had
watched us earlier as I struggled to help Randa to her feet.
We whispered our angry words. How could they do such a stupid thing? Pick
up foreign men! What kind of fun were they planning, anyway? Didn’t they
know that Randa would be stoned and the three of us imprisoned, or worse?
Fun was fun, but what they were doing was suicide!
Wafa and Nadia simply laughed and shrugged their shoulders at our
outburst. They knew that if they were caught, they would be punished, but
they didn’t care. To them, their impending futures were so bleak, it was
worth a risk. Besides, they might meet a nice foreign man and marry him.
Any man was better than a Saudi man!
I thought Randa was going to swoon. She ran into the street, looking up
and down for Omar. She knew there would be no mercy from Father if she
were caught in such a situation. She was terrorized.
Omar, wary and perceptive, asked us what had happened. Randa fidgeted and
started to speak, but I interrupted and told Omar a story about seeing a
youth steal a necklace from the gold souq. He had been beaten by the
shopkeeper and roughly hauled off to jail by a policeman. My voice had a
tremor as I told Omar we were upset because he was so young and we knew he
would lose his hand for his act. I was relieved that Omar believed my
story. Randa inched her hand under my black cloak and gave me a squeeze of
gratitude.
Later, I found out from Nadia and Wafa what they called "fun."
They met foreign men, usually from neighboring Arab countries,
occasionally a Brit or an American, in parking-lot elevators. They
selected handsome men; men they felt they could love. Sometimes the men
became frightened and jumped into the elevators, zooming to another floor.
At other times they would be interested. If the man they approached was
intrigued, Wafa and Nadia would agree to a meeting time, at the same
elevator. They would ask him to try and find a van, instead of a car, to
pick them up. Later, on the agreed date and time, the girls would pretend
to go shopping. Their driver would drop them at the souqs; they would
purchase a few items, and then go to the meeting place. Sometimes the men
would become wary and not show up; other times they would be nervously
waiting. If the men had obtained a van, the girls would make sure no one
was around and then jump quickly into the back. The men would cautiously
drive to their apartment and the same degree of caution would be used to
secrete the girls inside. If they were caught, the sentence would be
severe, quite possibly death for everyone involved.
The explanation for the van was clear. In Saudi Arabia, men and women are
not allowed in the same car unless they are close relatives. If the
mutawas become suspicious, they will stop the vehicle and check
identifications. Also, single men are not allowed to entertain women in
their apartments or homes. At the slightest suspicion of impropriety, it
is not uncommon for mutawas to surround the home of a foreigner and take
everyone there, both male and female, to jail.
I was fearful for my friends. I warned them again and again of the
consequences. They were young and reckless and bored with their lives.
They laughingly told me of other activities they did for diversion. They
dialed random phone numbers until a foreign man would answer. Any man
would do, so long as he was not Saudi or Yemeni. They would ask him if he
was alone and lonely for female companionship. Generally, the reply was
yes since there are so few women allowed into Saudi Arabia and most
foreign men work there on single-status visas. Once a man’s eligibility
was established, the girls would ask him to describe his body. Flattered,
usually the man would graphically describe his body and then ask them to
do the same. Then Wafa and Nadia would portray themselves from head to
toe, in lewd detail. It was great amusement, they said, and they sometimes
met the man later, in the same fashion as the
parking-lot lovers.
I wondered how intimate my friends became with these pick-up lovers. I was
astonished to hear that they did everything except penetration. They could
not risk losing their virginity, for they realized the consequences they
would face on their wedding night. Their husbands would return them to
their homes, and their fathers would turn them away as well. The mutawas
would investigate. They might lose their lives; if not, they would still
have nowhere to live.
Wafa said that in their encounters with these men, she and Nadia never
removed their veils. They would take off all their clothes but keep their
veils intact. The men would tease and beg and even try to force them to
remove their veils, but the girls said they felt safe so long as no man
saw their faces. They said if any of the men had become serious, they
might have considered exposing their faces. But, of course, none of them
did. They too were only having fun. My friends were desperately trying to
find an "out" from their future, which loomed before them like a
dark and endless night.
Randa and I wept when we discussed our friends’ behavior. I felt a hate
for the customs of my land creep into my throat like a foul taste. The
absolute lack of control, of freedom for our sex, drove young girls like
Wafa and Nadia to desperate acts. These were deeds that were sure to cost
them their lives if they were discovered.
Before the year was over, Nadia and Wafa were arrested. Unfortunately for
them, members of a self proclaimed Public Morality Committee who roamed
the streets of Riyadh in an effort to apprehend people in acts prohibited
by the Koran had learned of their forbidden activities. Just as Nadia and
Wafa entered the back of a van, a carload of young Saudi zealots wheeled
in and blocked the vehicle. They had been watching the area for weeks
after one of the committee members, while at work, overheard a Palestinian
tell of two veiled women who propositioned him at the ground floor
elevator. The lives of Wafa and Nadia were spared by the fact that their
hymens were intact. Neither the Morals Committee nor the Religious
Council,
and especially not their fathers, believed their unlikely fabrication that
they had simply asked the men for a ride when their driver was late. I
guess it was the best story they could concoct, considering the
circumstances.
The Religious Council questioned every man who worked in the area and
found a total of fourteen who said they had been approached by two veiled
women.
None of the men confessed that they had participated in any
activities with them.
After three months of bleak imprisonment, due to the lack of hard evidence
of sexual activity, the committee released Wafa and Nadia to their
respective fathers for punishment.
Surprisingly, Wafa’s father, the unbending man of religion,
sat with his daughter and questioned her as to the reasons for her
misdeeds. When she cried and told him her feelings of rejection and
hopelessness, he expressed sorrow at her unhappiness. In spite of his
regret and sympathy, he informed Wafa that it was his decision that she
should be removed from all further temptations. She was advised to study
the Koran and to accept a simple life preordained for women, far removed
from the city. He arranged a hasty marriage with a bedouin mutawa from a
small village. The man was fifty-three, and Wafa, seventeen, would be his
third wife.
Ironically, it was Nadia’s father who was gripped with a fearsome rage.
He refused to speak with his daughter and ordered her confined to her room
until a decision was made as to her punishment.
A few days later, my father came home early from the office and called
Randa and me into his sitting room. We sat disbelieving when he told us
that Nadia was going to be drowned in her family’s swimming pool, by her
father, on the following morning, Friday, at ten o’clock. Father said
that Nadia’s entire family would witness her execution.
My heart fluttered with fear when Father asked Randa if she or I had ever
accompanied Wafa or Nadia on their shameful undertakings. I moved forward
and started to voice my denials when Father shouted and shoved me back
into the sofa. Randa burst into tears and told him the story of that day
so long ago when we had purchased my first abaaya and veil. Father sat
unmoving, eyes unblinking, until Randa had finished. He then asked us
about our women’s club, the one with the name of Lips. He said that we
might as well tell the truth, that Nadia had confessed all our activities
days ago. When Randa’s tongue froze, Father removed our club papers from
his briefcase. He had searched my room and found our records and
membership lists. For once in my life, my mouth was dry, my lips locked as
with a chain.
Father calmly put the papers back into a pile on the briefcase. He looked
clearly into Randa’s eyes and said, "On this day I have divorced
you. Your father will send a driver within the hour to take you to your
family. You are forbidden to contact my children."
To my horror, Father turned slowly to me. "You are my child. Your
mother was a good woman. Even so, had you participated in these activities
with Wafa and Nadia, I would uphold the teachings of the Koran and see you
lowered into your grave. You will avoid my attention and concentrate on
your schooling while I will work toward a suitable marriage." He
paused for a moment, coming close and looking hard into my eyes.
"Sultana, accept your future as one who obeys, for you have no
alternative."
Father stooped for the papers and his case and, without looking at Randa
or me again, left the room.
Humiliated, I followed Randa to her room and numbly watched as she
gathered her jewels, her clothes, and her books into an unruly pile on the
large bed. Her face was wiped clean of emotion. I could not form the words
that were loose in my head. The doorbell rang too quickly, and I found
myself helping the servants carry her things to the car. Without a word of
farewell, Randa left my home, but not my heart. At ten o’clock the next
morning, I sat alone, staring yet unseeing out my bedroom balcony. I
thought of Nadia and imagined her bound in heavy chains, dark hood
gathered around her head, hands lifting her from the ground and lowering
her into the blue-green waters of her family swimming pool. I closed my
eyes and felt her body thrashing, her mouth gasping for air, lungs
screaming for relief from the rushing water. I remembered her flashing
brown eyes and her special way of lifting her chin while filling the
room with laughter. I recalled the soft feel of her fair skin, and
considered with a grimace the quick work of the cruel earth on such
softness. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 10:10, and I felt my
chest tighten with the knowledge that Nadia would laugh no more.
It was the most dramatic hour in my young history, yet I knew that my
friends’ schemes for fun, as bad or sad as they were, should not have
caused Nadia’s death, or Wafa’s premature marriage. Such cruel actions
were the worst of all commentaries on the wisdom of the men who consume
and destroy the lives and dreams of their women with emotionless
indifference. |
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