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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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Foreign Women
After the sudden departure of Randa, the mariage of Wafa, and the death of
Nadia, I sank to the lowest possible level of existence. I can recall
thinking that my body no longer required the fresh breath of life. I
fancied myself in hibernation and wanted to feel the shallow breathing and
lowered heartbeat experienced by creatures of the wild that will
themselves away for months at a time. I would lie in my bed, hold my nose
with my fingers, and pinch my mouth closed with my teeth. Only when my
lungs forced the expulsion of air would I regretfully recognize that I had
little control over my vital functions.
The house servants felt my pain keenly, for I was known as the sensitive
member of our family and had always shown concern for their situations.
The meager amounts of cash doled out each month by Omar seemed a high
price to pay for being so far removed from those they loved.
In an effort to rouse my interest in life, my Filipino maid, Marci, began
to revive my thoughts by telling me stories of people from her country.
Our long talks served to thaw the impersonal relationship that exists
between master and servant.
One day she timidly revealed her life’s ambition. She wanted to save
enough money, working as a housemaid for our family, to return to the
Philippines to study nursing. Filipino nurses are in great demand
worldwide, and it is considered a lucrative career for women in the
Philippines.
Marci said that after she graduated, she would return to Saudi Arabia to
work in one of our modern hospitals. She smiled as she reported that
Filipino nurses made a salary of SR 3,800 each month! (Approximately
$1,000 a month, compared to the $200 a month she earned as our maid.) With
such a large salary, she said she could support her entire family in the
Philippines.
When Marci was only three her father was killed in a mining accident. Her
mother was seven months’ pregnant with a second child. Their life was
bleak, but Marci’s grandmother tended to the two children while her
mother worked two shifts as a maid in local hotels. Marci’s mother
repeated many times that knowledge was the only solution to poverty, and
she frugally saved for her children’s education.
Two years before Marci was to enroll in nursing school, her younger
brother, Tony, was run over by an automobile and suffered extensive
injuries. His legs were so crushed that they had to be amputated. His
medical treatments ate away at Marci’s school fund until the small tin
can was bare.
Upon hearing Marci’s life story, I wept bitter tears. I asked her how
she could maintain her happy smile day after day, week after week. Marci
smiled broadly. It was easy for her, she said, since she had a dream and a
way to realize her dream.
Her experiences growing up in a wretchedly poor area in the Philippines
left Marci feeling extremely fortunate to have a job and to fill her plate
three times daily. People from her area did not actually die of hunger,
she emphasized, but of malnutrition that left them vulnerable to diseases
that would not have flourished in a healthy community.
Marei shared the stories of her people so vividly that I felt myself a
part of her history, her land, her rich culture. I knew I had
underestimated Marci and other Filipinos, for, until then, I had given
them little thought other than to consider them simple folk lacking in
ambition. How wrong I was!
Several weeks later Marci expanded her courage to talk about her friend
Madeline. By telling me about Madeline, she opened up the question of the
moral values of my land. Through Marci, I first teamed that women from
Third World countries were held as sex slaves in my own country, Saudi
Arabia.
Marci and Madeline had been childhood friends. As poor as Marci’s family
was, Madeline’s was poorer. Madeline and her seven siblings used to beg
on the highway that connected their province to Manila. Occasionally, a
big car transporting foreigners would stop and huge white hands would drop
a few coins into their outstretched palms. While Marci attended school,
Madeline foraged for food.
At an early age, Madeline had a dream and a plan to bring that dream to
reality. When she was eighteen, she sewed a dress from Marci’s old
school coat and traveled to Manila. There she located an agency that
employed Filipinos to work abroad; Madeline applied for a maid’s
position. She was so petite and pretty that the Lebanese owner slyly
hinted that he could get her a job in a Manila brothel; there she could
earn a substantial amount beyond the imagination of a maid! Madeline,
although raised in poor circumstances, was a devout Catholic; her negative
reaction convinced the Lebanese that she would not sell her body. Sighing
with regret, the man told her to fill out the application and wait.
The Lebanese told her that he had just received a contract to supply more
than three thousand Filipino workers to the Persian Gulf area, and that
Madeline would be given priority in the maid positions since the rich
Arabs always requested pretty maids. He winked and patted her on the
buttocks as she left his office.
Madeline was both excited and frightened when she received confirmation of
a maid’s position in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. About the same time, Marci’s
plans of attending nursing school fell through, and she decided to follow
in Madeline’s footsteps and search for a job outside the Philippines.
When Madeline left for Saudi Arabia, Marci had joked that she would not be
far behind. The good friends hugged their farewells and promised to write.
Four months later, when Marci learned that she too was to work in Saudi
Arabia, she still had not heard from Madeline. Once there, she did not
know where to find her friend, other than in the city of Riyadh. Since
Marci was going to work for a family in the same city, she was determined
to locate her friend.
I recall the night Marci arrived in our home. Mother was responsible for
the running of the household and the placement of the servants. I
remembered that Marci seemed a frightened little thing, immediately
clinging to the eldest of our Filipino maids.
Since we had more than twenty servants in the villa, Marci was given
little notice. As an inexperienced servant, only nineteen years old, she
was assigned to clean the rooms of the two youngest daughters of the
house, Sara and me. I had given her scant attention during the sixteen
months she had patiently and quietly followed me through the villa, asking
if I required anything.
Marci surprised me by confessing that other Filipino servants thought her
blessed in her job since neither Sara nor I ever struck her or raised our
voices in disapproval. My eyes flashed, and I asked Marci if people were
struck in our home. I breathed a sigh of relief when she told me no, not
in our villa. She did say that Ali was known to be difficult, always
speaking in a loud and insulting tone. But his only violent action had
been to kick Omar in the shin several times. I laughed, feeling little
sympathy for Omar.
Marci whispered as she told me the gossip of the servants. She said that
Father’s second wife, a woman from one of the neighboring Gulf states,
pinched and beat her female servants daily. One poor girl from Pakistan
had a brain injury from being knocked down the stairs. Told that she did
not work fast enough, she rushed down to the washroom with a basket of
dirty sheets and towels. When she accidentally bumped into Father’s
wife, the woman became so enraged that she punched the maid in the
stomach, sending her tumbling down the stairs. As the girl lay moaning,
the older woman ran down the stairs to kick and scream at the girl to
finish her chores. When the girl did not move, she was accused of
pretense. Eventually, the girl had to be taken to a doctor; she was still
not normal, constantly holding her head in her hands and giggling.
Under orders from Father’s wife, the palace doctor filled out a form
stating that the girl had fallen and suffered a concussion. As soon as she
could travel, she was to be sent back to Pakistan. She was denied her past
two months’ salary and sent to her parents with only SR 50 ($15.00).
Why did I act so surprised, Marci wanted to know. Most maids were
mistreated in my country; our villa was a rare exception. I reminded her
that I had been in many of my friends’ homes, and while I had to admit
that little consideration was given to servants, I had never witnessed an
actual beating. I had seen some of my friends verbally abuse their maids,
but I had paid it little heed since no one had ever been physically
assaulted.
Marci sighed wearily, and said that physical and sexual abuse were
generally hidden. She reminded me that I live only yards from a palace
that hid the sufferings of many young girls, and yet I had no knowledge of
them. She softly told me to keep my eyes open, to observe how women from
other lands were treated in my country. I nodded sadly in agreement.
Through this conversation, Marci became more aware of my empathetic
nature. She decided to take me into her confidence and tell me the full
story of her friend Madeline. I remember our conversation as well as if it
were yesterday. Our exchanges are clear in my mind. I can see her earnest
face before me now.
"Ma’am, I want you to know about my closest friend, Madeline. You
are a princess. Perhaps the day will come that you can help us poor
Filipino women."
I was alone on that morning and felt boredom creeping into my day, so I
nodded, eager for a morning of revealing gossip, even from a Filipino. I
settled myself on my bed; Marci dutifully stuffed pillows behind my head,
just the way she knew I liked them.
I told her, "Before you begin your tale, go and get me a bowl of
fresh fruit and a glass of laban." (Laban is a buttermilk like drink
common in the Middle East.) After she returned with a tray of fruit and my
cold beverage, I stuck my feet out from under the covers and told Marci to
rub them while she told me about this Madeline friend of hers.
Looking back, I bum with shame as I recall my selfish, childish manner. I
was intrigued by the thought of a tragic story, yet not content to sit
still and listen until all my desires were met! Older and wiser, now I can
only look back with regret at the habits I picked up from my Saudi
culture. No Saudi I know has ever shown the slightest interest in a
servant’s life: the number of family members; their dreams and
aspirations. People from the Third World were there to serve us wealthy
Saudis, nothing more. Even my mother, who was kind and loving, rarely
expressed an interest in servants’ personal problems; though I do
attribute that to Mother’s overwhelming responsibilities of running a
huge household, and also satisfying my demanding father. I had no such
excuse. I cringe as I now acknowledge that Marci and the other servants
were little more than robots to me, there to do my bidding. And to think
that Marci and the
household servants thought me kind, for I alone questioned them about
their lives. It is a hard remembrance for one who considers herself
sensitive.
Pensive, her face without expression, Marci began to rub my feet and
started her story.
"Ma’am, before I left my country, I begged that Lebanese man for
the address of Madeline’s employer. He said no, he was not allowed. I
told a lie, Ma’am. I said that I had items to take to my friend from her
mother. After I begged, he finally agreed, and gave me a phone number and
the area of Riyadh that Madeline worked."
"Is her employer a prince?"
"No, Ma’am. He lives in the district called Al Malaz, about thirty
minutes by car from here."
Our palace was in the Al Nasiriyah area, a prestigious location inhabited
by many royals, the most wealthy residential district of Riyadh. I had
been in the area of Al Malaz once a long time ago and recalled many nice
palaces of the upper business society of Saudis.
I knew Marci was forbidden to leave the palace grounds, other than special
monthly shopping trips organized by Omar for the female servants. Since
our servants, like most domestics in Saudi Arabia, worked a brutal
seven-day week, fifty-two weeks a year, I wondered how she could slip away
to visit her friend.
I voiced my interest. "How did you manage a trip to Al Malaz?"
Marci hesitated for a short moment. "Well, Ma’am, you know the
Filipino driver Antoine?"
We had four drivers, two Filipinos and two Egyptians. I was generally
driven by Omar or the other Egyptian. The Filipinos were used for grocery
shopping and the running of errands. "Antoine? The young one who
always is smiling?"
"Yes, Ma’am, that one. He and I like to see each other and he
agreed to take me to find my friend." "Marci! You have a
sweetheart!" I burst out laughing. "And Omar. How did you avoid
getting into a problem with Omar?"
"We waited until Omar went with the family to Taif and we took our
opportunity." Marci smiled at my look of pleasure. She knew nothing
gave me more joy than a successful trick pulled on the men of the
household. "First, I called the telephone number given to me in the
Philippines. No one would give me permission to speak with Madeline. I
said I had a message from Madeline’s mother. After a lot of hard work of
convincing, I was told the location and description of the villa. Antoine
drove to the area and located the place to deliver a letter to Madeline. A
Yemeni took the letter from Antoine. Two weeks later I received a call
from my friend. I could barely hear Madeline, for she whispered, afraid
she would be discovered using the telephone. She told me she was in a very
bad situation, to please come and help her. Over the telephone, we made a
plan.
I put aside my food and gave Marci my full attention. I told her to
stopped rubbing my feet. I felt the danger of their meeting and my
interest in this brave Filipino whom I did not know grew.
"Two months passed. We knew the hot summer months would give us an
opportunity to meet. We were afraid Madeline would be taken to Europe with
her employer, but she was told to remain in Riyadh. When you and the
family, along with Omar, left the city, I hid in the backseat of the black
Mercedes and Antoine took me to Madeline."
Marci, her voice cracking with her first show of emotion, described
Madeline’s dilemma: "I sat in the car while Antoine rang the bell
of the villa. While I was waiting, I could not help but notice the
condition of the villa wall. The paint was peeling, the gate was rusty,
the few bits of greenery hanging over the villa wall were dying from lack
of water. I could tell it was a bad place. I knew my friend was in a
dangerous situation if she worked in such a home.
"I felt depressed even before I was allowed inside. Antoine had to
ring the bell four or five times before we heard activity as someone came
to answer our call. Everything happened just as Madeline had said. It was
creepy! An old Yemeni man dressed in a plaid wraparound skirt opened the
gate. He looked as though he had been sleeping; his ugly face told us he
was none too happy at being awakened from a nap.
"Antoine and I both became frightened and I heard the shaking of
Antoine’s voice when he asked, please, to speak to Miss Madeline from
the Philippines. The Yemeni could hardly speak English, but Antoine has a
little knowledge of Arabic. Together they managed to understand each other
enough for the Yemeni to refuse us entry. He waved us away with his hand
and began to close the door when I leaped from the back seat and began to
cry.
Through my tears, I told him that Madeline was my sister. I had just
arrived in Riyadh and was working at the palace of one of the royal
princes. I thought that might frighten him, but his expression remained
the same. I waved an envelope at him that had just arrived from the
Philippines. Our mother was gravely ill. I had to speak with Madeline for
a few moments to deliver a last message from our dying mother.
"I prayed to God not to punish me for such lies! I think God heard
me, for the Yemeni seemed to change his mind when he heard the Arab word
for mother. I saw that he was thinking. He looked first at Antoine and
then at me, and finally told us to wait a moment. He closed the gate and
we heard the flip-flop of his sandals as he made his way back toward the
villa.
"We knew the Yemeni was going inside to question Madeline and ask her
to describe her sister. I looked at Antoine with a weak smile. It seemed
our plan might work."
Marci paused, remembering that day.
"Ma’am, that was a frightening Yemeni. He had a mean look and
carried a curved knife at his waist. Antoine and I almost got in the car
and drove back to the palace. But the thought of my poor friend gave me a
feeling of power.
"Madeline had told me that two Yemenis guarded the villa. They
watched the females of the house. None of the female servants were ever
allowed to leave their place of work. Madeline had told me over the
telephone that the young Yemeni was without a good heart and would not
allow anyone in the gate, even a dying mother herself. Madeline thought we
might succeed with the old Yemeni.
"Since the entire family was on a holiday in Europe, the young Yemeni
had been given a two-week leave, and had returned to Yemen to marry. At
this time, the only men on the villa grounds were the old Yemeni and a
gardener from Pakistan.
"I looked at my watch and Antoine looked at his watch. Finally, we
heard the shuffling of feet as the old man returned. The gate creaked with
a slow swing. I shivered for I had a feeling I was entering the gates of
hell. The old Yemeni grunted and made a motion with his hands that Antoine
was to stay outside with the car. Only I would be allowed inside."
I tensed up as I imagined the fear Marci must have felt. "How did you
dare? I would have called the police!"
Marci shook her head. "The police do not help Filipinos in this
country. We would be reported to our employer and then jailed or deported,
according to the wishes of your father. The police in this country are for
the strong, not for the weak."
I knew what she said was true. Filipinos were a notch below us women. Even
I, a princess, would never receive aid if it meant the police had to go
against the wishes of the men of my family. But I did not want to think of
my problems at that moment; I was wrapped up in Marci’s adventure.
"Go on, tell me, what did you discover inside?" I imagined the
inner workings of a Saudi Frankenstein’s monster!
Having the full interest of her mistress, Marci became enlivened and began
to make facial expressions and describe her experiences with relish.
"Following his slow steps, I was able to look all around. The
concrete blocks had never been painted. A small block building nearby had
no door, just an open space with -a stringy old rag pulled across the top.
Judging from the clutter of dirty mats, open cans, and garbage smells, I
knew the old Yemeni must live there. We walked by the family pool, but it
was empty of water except for a black, foul residue at the deepest end.
Three tiny skeletons-which looked like the remains of baby kittens-were
lying at the short end of the pool."
"Kittens? Oh, my goodness!" Marci knew how I loved all baby
animals. "What a terrible death!"
"It looked like kittens. I guessed they were bom in the empty pool
and the mother cat was unable to get them out."
I shuddered with despair.
Marci continued. "The villa was large but had the same coarse look as
the wall. Paint had been splashed on the blocks at some time in the past,
but sandstorms had left it ugly. There was a garden, but the plants had
all died from the lack of water. I saw four or five birds in a cage
hanging under a large tree. They looked sad and skinny, without a song in
their hearts to sing.
"Through the front door, the Yemeni yelled something in Arabic to an
unseen person; he nodded his head at me and motioned for me to enter. I
hesitated at the doorway as the bad-smelling air rushed over me. With
great fear and trembling, I called out Madeline’s name. The Yemeni
turned and walked back to his interrupted sleep.
"Madeline came down a long dark hallway. The light was very dim, and
after the bright sunshine outside, I could barely see her walking toward
me. She began to run when she saw it was really her old friend Marci. We
rushed to embrace and I was amazed to see that she was clean and smelled
good. She was skinnier than when I last saw her, but alive!"
A feeling of relief flooded my body, for I had expected Marci to tell me
she had found her friend half-dead, lying on a dirty mat, struggling to
give her final instructions to take her body back to Manila.
"What happened then?" I was in a rush to discover the
end to Marci’s story.
Marci’s voice took on the tone of a whisper, as though her memories were
too painful to recall. "After we completed our cries of greetings and
our hugs, Madeline pushed me toward the long hallway. She held my hand and
guided me to a small room off to the right. Directing me to a sofa, she
sat on the floor facing me.
"She immediately burst into tears now that we were alone. As she
buried her face in my lap, I stroked her hair and whispered for her to
tell me what had happened to her. After she stopped her tears, she told me
of her life since she had left Manila one year before.
"Madeline was met at the airport by two Yemeni servants. They were
holding a card with her name spelled out in English. She accompanied the
two men, for she did not know what else to do. She was alarmed at their
wild appearance, and said she feared for her life as they careened through
the city. It was late at night when she arrived at the villa; there was no
light, so she did not notice the unkempt grounds.
"At that time, the family was away at Makkah for the Haj pilgrimage.
She was shown to her room by an old Arab woman who could not speak
English. She was given cookies and dates to eat and hot tea to drink. As
the old woman left the room she handed Madeline a note that said she would
be informed of her duties the following day."
"The old woman must have been the grandmother," I said.
"Maybe-Madeline did not say. Anyhow, I do not know. Poor Madeline’s
heart sank when sunlight revealed her new home. She jumped at the sight of
the bed in which she had slept, for the bed sheets were filthy; last night’s
glass and plate were swarming with roaches.
"With a sinking heart, Madeline located a bathroom only to discover
the shower was not functioning. She tried to cleanse herself in the sink
with a remnant of dirty soap and tepid water. She wished in vain for God
to calm her beating heart. Then the old woman knocked on the door.
"Having no choice, she followed the woman into the kitchen, where she
was handed a list of responsibilities. Madeline read the hastily scribbled
note and saw that she was to assist the cook, be the housekeeper, and care
for the children. The old woman motioned for Madeline to prepare herself
some food. After eating break-fast, she began to scrub filth off the pots
and pans.
"Along with Madeline, there were three other female employees: an old
cook from India, an attractive maid from Sri Lanka, and a homely maid from
Bangladesh. The cook was at least sixty years old; the other two were in
their mid-twenties. "The cook refused conversation with anyone; she
was returning to India within the next two months and her dreams were of
freedom and home. The homely maid was silent in her unhappiness, for her
work contract had over a year until completion. The pretty maid from Sri
Lanka did little work and spent most of her time in front of a mirror. She
wished out loud for the return of the family. She hinted strongly to
Madeline that she was much loved by the master of the house. She was
expecting him to buy her a gold necklace upon his return from Makkah.
"Madeline said she was surprised when the pretty maid ordered her to
turn around so she could see her figure. The maid then put her hands on
her hips and declared with a grin that the master would find Madeline too
skinny for his taste, but perhaps one of the sons would find her
favorable. Madeline did not understand the implication and went on with
her endless cleaning. "Four days later, the family returned from
Makkah. Madeline saw at once that her employers were of a lowclass family;
they were crude and ill-mannered and their behavior soon proved her
assessment correct. They were accidentally wealthy without any effort on
their part, and their only education was from the Koran, which in their
ignorance they twisted to suit their needs.
"To the head of the household, the secondary status of women
indicated in the Koran was understood to be slavery. Any woman who was not
a Muslim was considered a prostitute. Matters were not helped by the fact
that the father and two sons traveled to Thailand four times a year to
visit the brothels in Bangkok and buy the sexual services of young,
beautiful Thai women. Knowing that some of the women of the Orient were
for sale convinced the family that all women outside of the Muslim faith
were for purchase. When a maid was hired, it was assumed she was to be
used like an animal, at the whim of the men of the house.
"Through the mother, Madeline immediately teamed that she had been
employed to serve as a sexual release for the two teenage sons. She
informed Madeline that she was to serve Basel and Faris on an
every-other-day basis. This information was given without emotion to
Madeline’s utter despair.
"To the surprise of the sexy maid, the father decided that Madeline
was to his taste. He told his sons they could sleep with the new maid as
soon as he had his pleasure."
I gasped and then held my breath; I knew what Marci was going to tell me.
I did not want to hear it.
"Ma’am Sultana, that first night the family returned, the father
raped Madeline!" She sobbed. "That was only the beginning, for
he decided that he liked her so much, he continued to rape her on a daily
basis!"
"Why did she not run away? Get someone to help her?"
"Ma’am, she did try. She begged the other servants to assist her!
The old cook and the ugly maid did not wish to become involved, and
perhaps lose their salaries. The pretty maid hated Madeline, and said she
was the reason she did not get her gold necklace. The wife and old woman
were not treated well themselves by the master; they ignored her and said
she was hired to please the men of the house!"
"I would have jumped out of a window and run away!"
"She tried to run away, many times. She was caught and everyone in
the house was ordered to guard her. Once, while everyone was sleeping, she
went to the roof and dropped notes on the sidewalk begging for help. The
notes were given to the Yemenis by some Saudi neighbors and she was
beaten!"
"What happened after you found her?"
Marci’s face was sad and resigned as she continued. "I tried many
things. I called our embassy in Jeddah. I was told by the man that
answered that they received many such complaints but there was little they
could do. Our country relies on the monies sent from workers abroad; our
government did not want to antagonize the Saudi government by lodging
formal complaints. Where would the poor Filipino people be without money
from abroad?
"Antoine checked with some of the drivers about going to the police,
but he was told the police would believe any story told by the Saudi
employer and Madeline might get into a worse situation."
I cried out, "Marci! What could be worse?"
"Nothing, Ma’am. Nothing. I did not know what to do. Antoine became
frightened and said we could do nothing else. I finally wrote Madeline’s
mother and told her of the situation and she went to the employment agency
in Manila and was told to go away. She went to our mayor in our town and
he said he was helpless. No one wanted to get involved."
"Where is your friend now?" "I received a letter from her
only a month ago. I am thankful she was sent back to the Philippines at
the end of her two-year contract. Two new Filipinos, younger than
Madeline, had replaced her. Can you believe, Ma’am, Madeline was angry
at me? She thought I had left her without trying to help.
"Please believe that I did all that I could. I wrote her a letter and
explained all that happened. I have not received a reply."
I could not say a word in defense of my countrymen. I stared into Marci’s
face, at a loss.
She finally broke the silence. "And that, Ma’am, is what happened
to my friend in this country."
I could tell Marci was heartbroken for her friend. I myself was stricken
with sorrow. How does a person respond to such a tale of horror? I could
not. In shame at the men of my country, I no longer felt superior to the
young girl who only moments before was my servant, my inferior. Engulfed
with remorse, I buried my head in my pillow and dismissed Marci with a
flick of my hand. For many days, I was quiet and withdrawn; I thought of
the myriad accounts of abuse that torture the minds of the people, both
Saudis and foreigners, living in this land I call my home.
How many more Madelines are there, reaching out to uncaring souls and
discovering the nothingness that is dressed in the official uniform of
those paid to care? And the men of the Philippines, Marci’s land, were
little better than the men of my country, for they fled from the face of
personal involvement.
When I awoke from my unsettling sleep of mortification, I began to
interrogate my friends and ferret out their passivity regarding the fate
of their female servants. Through my tenacity, I was inundated with
firsthand accounts of unspeakable and vile acts committed by men of my
culture against women from all nations.
1 heard of Shakuntale from India, who at age thirteen was sold by her
family for a sum of SR 600 ($170). She was worked by day and abused by
night in much the same manner as the unsuspecting Madeline. But Shakuntale
had been bought. She was property that would not be returned-Shakuntale
could never go home again. She was the property of her tormentors.
I listened in horror as a mother laughingly dismissed the plight of her
Thai maid who was raped at will by the son of the house. She said that her
son needed sex, and that the sanctity of Saudi women forced the family to
provide him with his own woman. Oriental women do not care whom they go to
bed with, she stated with assurance. Boys are kings in the eyes of their
mothers.
Suddenly aware of pervasive evil, I asked Ali why he and Father traveled
to Thailand and the Philippmes three times a year. He scowled and told me
it was none of my business. But I knew the answer, for many of the
brothers and fathers of my friends made the same trek to the beautiful
lands that sold their young girls and women to any beast with money.
I discovered that I had known little about men and their sexual appetites.
The surface of life is nothing more than a facade; with little effort I
uncovered the evil that lurks under the thin crust of civility between the
sexes.
1, for the first time in my young life, comprehended the impenetrable task
facing those of our sex. I knew my goal of female equality was hopeless,
for I finally recognized that the world of men harbors a morbid condition
of over fondness for themselves. We women are vassals, and the walls of
our prisons are inescapable, for this grotesque disease of preeminence
lives in the sperm of all men and is passed along, generation to
generations deadly, incurable disease whose host is male and victim is
female.
Ownership of my body and soul would soon pass from my father to a stranger
I would call my husband, for Father had informed me I would be wed three
months after my sixteenth birthday. I felt the chains of tradition - wrap
tightly around me; I had only six short months of freedom left to savor. I
waited for my destiny to unfold, a child as helpless as an insect trapped
in a wicked web not of its making. |
Huda
It was ten o’clock at night on January 12, 1972, and all nine of my
sisters and I were spellbound with the telling of Sara’s future by our
old Sudanese slave, Huda. Since Sara’s traumatic marriage and divorce,
she had taken to studying astrology and was convinced that the moon and
stars had played a de g role in her Ufe’s path. Huda, who had filled our
ears from an early age with stories of black magic, was pleased to be the
center of attention and to provide distractions from the sameness of fife
in dull Riyadh.
We all knew that Huda, in 1899, at age eight, after straying from her
mother who was busy digging yams for the family supper, had been captured
by Arab slave traders. In our youth she had entertained the children of
the house for countless hours with the saga of her capture and
confinement.
Much to our merriment, Huda always reenacted her capture with great flair,
no matter how many times she retold the story. She would crouch by the
sofa and sing softly, pretending to scratch in the sand. With a wild
screech, she would yank a pillow cover from behind her back and pull it
over her head, gasping and kicking against her imagined tormentors. She
would moan and fling herself to the floor and kick and scream for her
mother. Finally, she would leap onto the coffee table and peer out the
sitting-room windows, describing the blue waters of the Red Sea from the
ship that transported her from Sudan to the deserts of Arabia.
Her eyes would grow wild as she fought imaginary thieves for her small
portion of food. She would snatch a peach or a pear from the fruit bowl
and hungrily gobble all but the pit. Then she would march solemnly around
the room, hands behind her back, chanting to Allah for deliverance as she
was led to the slave market.
Sold for a rifle to a member of the Rasheed clan of Riyadh, she stumbled
as she was led from the streets of Jeddah through blinding sandstorms to
the Mismaak fortress, the garrison for the Rasheed clan in the capital
city.
Now, in her reenactment, Huda lurched from one piece of furniture to
another. We would squeal with laughter as Huda leaped around the room
dodging bullets from our kin, the young Abdul Aziz and his sixty men, as
they attacked the garrison and defeated the Rasheeds, reclaiming the
country for the Al Sa’ud clan. She would throw her fat body over a chair
and scramble for cover as the desert warriors slew their enemies. She told
of her rescue by my father’s father and would end her playacting by
wrestling the nearest one to the floor and kissing her repeatedly as she
swore she kissed our grandfather upon her rescue. This is how Huda came to
be in our family.
As we grew older, she diverted us from our various dramas by frightening
us with supernatural claims of sorcery. Mother used to dismiss Huda’s
proclamations with a smile, but after I woke up screaming about witches
and potions, she forbade Huda to divulge her beliefs to the younger
children. Now that Mother was no longer with us, Huda returned to her
former habit with gusto.
We watched with fascination as Huda peered at the lines running
across Sara’s palm and squinted her beady black eyes as though she saw
her Sara’s life unfolding before her like a vision.
Sara seemed scarcely affected, as though she expected those very words, as
Huda solemnly told her she would fail to realize her life’s ambitions. I
groaned and leaned back on my heels; I so wanted Sara to find the
happiness she deserved that I found myself irritated with Huda and loudly
dismissed her prophecies as the mumbo jumbo I wanted them to be. No one
paid me any heed as Huda continued to scrutinize Sara’s lifelines. The
old woman rubbed her bony chin with her hand and muttered, "Hmm,
little Sara. I see here that you will marry soon."
Sara gasped and jerked her hand from Huda’s grasp. The nightmare of
another marriage was not what she wanted to hear.
Huda laughed softly and told Sara not to run from her future. She added
that Sara would know a marriage of love and would grace the land with six
small ones who would give her great joy.
Sara gathered her brow in a worried knot. Then she shrugged her shoulders
and dismissed what she could not control. She looked my way and gave a
rare smile. She asked Huda to read my palm, saying that if Huda could
foretell what actions her unpredictable baby sister would take, then she,
Sara, would be a believer in Huda’s powers until the end of time. My
other sisters rocked with laughter as they agreed with Sara, but I could
tell by their looks that they loved me with a fierce tenderness, their
little sister who so tried their patience.
I lifted my head with a haughtiness I did not feel as I plopped myself
down in front of Huda. I turned my palms up and demanded, in a loud and
bossy manner, to know what I would be doing one year from that date.
Huda ignored my youthful rudeness and studied my upturned palm for what
seemed like hours before announcing my fate. She surprised us all with her
posturings; she shook her head, muttered to herself, and groaned aloud as
she pondered my future. Finally, she fixed her eyes on my face and uttered
her soothsaying with such confidence that I feared her forecast and felt
the sinister hot wind of magic in the words she spoke.
In a freakish deep-throated voice, Huda pronounced that Father would soon
inform me of my upcoming marriage. I would find misery and happiness in
one man. I would rain destruction on those around me. My future actions
would bring good along with bad to the family I loved. I would be the
beneficiary of great love and dark hate. I was a force of good and evil. I
was an enigma to all who loved me.
With a piercing cry, Huda threw her hands in the air and asked Allah to
intervene in my life and protect me from myself. She unseated me as she
lunged toward me and wrapped her arms around my neck and began to lament
in a wild, high-pitched howl.
Nura jumped to her feet and rescued me from Huda’s smothering grasp. My
sisters comforted me as Nura led Huda from the room, mumbling under her
breath for Allah to protect the youngest daughter of her beloved Fadeela.
I was shivering from the impact of Huda’s prediction. I began
to sob and blurted out that Huda had bragged to me once about being a
witch, that her mother had been a witch before her and the power had
flowed from her in mother’s milk into the suckling infant that was Huda.
Indeed, I moaned, only a witch could recognize such a one as evil as I!
Tahani, one of my older sisters, told me to hush, a silly game had gone
awry and there was no need for dramatics. Sara, in an attempt to lighten
the mood, brushed my tears away and said my sorrows were based on the
worry that I could never live up to Huda’s wild predictions. Joining in
Sara’s efforts, my other sisters began to joke and recalled with great
peals of laughter some of the capers I had successfully pulled on Ali over
the years. They reminded me of one of their favorites, which in our
camaraderie we began to retell again.
The caper began when I asked one of my girlfriends to call Ali and pretend
to be smitten with his charms. For hours we had listened in as he babbled
nonsense on the telephone and made elaborate plans to be met by the girl’s
driver behind a nearby villa under construction.
The girl convinced Ali he must be holding a baby goat on a lead so that
her driver could identify him. She told him that her parents were out of
town; it was safe for Ali to follow the driver to her home for a secret
meeting.
The construction was across the street from my girlfriend’s home, and my
sisters and I had joined her on her bedroom balcony. We made ourselves
sick with laughter as we watched poor Ali stand for hours, holding on to
the baby goat and stretching his neck for signs of the driver. Much to our
amusement, the girl managed to talk Ali into the same situation not once,
not twice, but on three occasions! In Ali’s eagerness to meet a girl, he
had lost his sanity. I remember thinking that this silly veiling business
works both ways!
Encouraged by my sisters’ laughter and confidence, I managed to put Huda’s
rumblings out of my mind. After all, she was over eighty years of age, and
was more than likely senile.
My consternation returned with a rush when Father visited us that evening
and announced that he had found a suitable husband for me. With a sinking
heart I could only think that the first of Huda’s predictions had come
true. In my terror, I failed to ask Father the name of my husband-to-be
and fled the room with darkness in my eyes and bile in my throat. I lay
awake most of the night and thought of Huda’s words. For the first time
in my young life, I feared my future.
Nura returned to our villa the following morning to advise me that I was
to wed Kareem, one of the royal cousins. As a young child, I had played
with this cousin’s sister, but recalled little she had said about him
other than that he was a bossy brother. He was now twenty-eight years of
age and I was to be his first wife. Nura told me that she had seen a photo
of him; he was exceptionally handsome. Not only that, he had been educated
in London as a lawyer. Even more unusual, he had distinguished himself
from most of the royal cousins in that he held a real position in the
business world. Recently, he had opened his own large law firm in Riyadh.
Nura added that I was a very lucky girl, for Kareem had already told
Father that he wanted me to complete my schooling before starting a
family. He did not want a woman with whom he could not share mental
exchanges.
In no mood to be patronized, I made an ugly face at my sister and pulled
the bed covers over my head. Nura drew a long breath when I shouted out
that I was not the lucky one; instead my cousin Kareem was the one with
luck!
After Nura left, I called Kareem’s sister, whom I knew slightly, and
told her to advise her brother that he had best reconsider marrying me. I
threatened that if we married he could not take other wives or I would
poison them all at my first opportunity. Besides, I told her, Father had a
difficult time finding a husband for me since I had an accident in the
school lab. When Kareem’s sister asked me what had happened, I pretended
to be shy but finally admitted that I had stupidly dropped a flask of
acid; as a result my face was hideously scarred. I had a good laugh when
she hung up the phone in a rush to tell her brother.
Later that evening, Father stamped furiously into the villa with two of
Kareem’s aunties in tow. I was forced to stand at attention while they
looked me over for any signs of facial scars or misshapen limbs. I became
so angry at the examination that I opened my mouth and told them to check
my teeth, if they dared. I leaned toward them and made loud, chomping
sounds. Looking back over their shoulders in dismay, they ran out of the
room when I neighed like a horse and raised the bottoms of my feet to
their faces, which is a terrible insult in the Arab world.
Father stood and looked at me for a long moment. He seemed to be battling
his emotions, and then, to my complete astonishment, he shook his head and
began to laugh. I had fully expected a slap or a lecture-never in my
wildest imagination did I expect him to laugh. I felt a trembling smile
form on my face, and then I too began to convulse with laughter. Curious,
Sara and Ali came into the room and stood, with questioning smiles on
their faces.
Father collapsed on the sofa, wiping tears off his face with the hem of
his thobe. He looked at me and said, "Sultana, did you see their
faces when you tried to bite them? One looked like a horse herself! Child,
you are a wonder. I do not know whether to pity or envy your cousin Kareem."
Father blew his nose. "For sure, life with you will be a tempestuous
affair."
Feeling heady with my father’s approval, I sat on the floor and leaned
across his lap. I wanted to hold the moment forever when he squeezed my
shoulders and smiled down at his amusing daughter. Taking. advantage of
the intimate scene, I became brave and asked Father if I could meet Kareem
before the wedding.
Father turned and looked at Sara; something in her expression touched his
heart. He patted the sofa beside him and asked her to sit. There were no
spoken words among the three of us, but we communicated through the bond
of generations.
Ali, stunned at the attention given to the females in the family, leaned
against the door frame with his mouth in a perfect circle; he was struck
dumb. |
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