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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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Introduction
In a land were kings still rule, I am a princess.
You must know me only as Sultana. I cannot reveal my true name for fear
harm will come to me and my family for what I am about to tell you. I am a
Saudi princess, a member of the Royal Family of the House of Al Sa’ud,
the current rulers of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
As a woman in a land ruled by men, I cannot speak directly to you. I have
requested an American friend and writer, Jean Sasson, to listen to me and
then to tell my story.
I was born free, yet today I am in chains. Invisible, they were loosely
draped and passed unnoticed until the age of understanding reduced my life
to a narrow segment of fear.
No memories are left to me of my first four years. I suppose I laughed and
played as all young children do, blissfully unaware that my value, due to
the absence of a male organ, was of no significance in the land of my
birth. To understand my life, you must know those who came before me.
We present-day Al Sa’uds date back six generations to the days of the
early emirs of the Nadj, the Bedouin lands now part of the Kingdom of
Saudi Arabia. These first Al Sa’uds were men whose dreams carried them
no farther than the conquest of nearby desert lands and the adventures of
night raids on neighboring tribes. In 1891, disaster struck when the Al Sa’ud
clan was defeated in battle and forced to flee the Nadj. Abdul Aziz, who
would one day be my grandfather, was a child at this time. He barely
survived the hardships of that desert flight. Later, he would recall how
he burned with shame as his father ordered him to crawl into a large bag
that was then slung over the saddle home of his camel. His sister, Nura,
was cramped into another bag hanging from the other side of their father’s
camel. Bitter that his youth prevented him from fighting to save his home,
the angry young man peered from the bag as he swayed with the gait of the
camel. It was a turning point in his young life, he would later recall, as
he, humiliated by his family’s defeat, watched the haunting beauty of
his homeland disappear from view. After two years of nomadic desert
travel, the family of Al Sa’uds found refuge in the country of Kuwait.
The life of a refugee was so distasteful to Abdul Aziz that he vowed from
an early age to recapture the desert sands he had once called home. So it
was that in September 1901, twenty-five-year old Abdul Aziz returned to
our land. On January 16, 1902, after months of hardship, he and his men
soundly defeated his enemies, the Rasheeds. In the years to follow, to
ensure the loyalty of the desert tribes, Abdul Aziz married more than
three hundred women, who in time produced more than fifty sons and eighty
daughters.
The sons of his favorite wives held the honor of favored status; these
sons, now grown, are at the very center of power in our land. No wife of
Abdul Aziz was more loved than Hassa Sudairi. The sons of Hassa now head
the combined forces of Al Sa’uds to rule the kingdom forged by their
father. Fahd, one of these sons, is now our king. Many sons and daughters
married cousins of the prominent sections of our family such as the Al
Turkis, Jiluwis, and Al Kabirs. The present-day princes from these unions
are among influential Al Sa’uds.
Today, in 1991, our extended family consists of nearly twenty-one thousand
members. Of this number, approximately one thousand are princes or
princesses who are direct descendants of the great leader, King Abdul
Aziz. I, Sultana, am one of these direct descendants.
My first vivid memory is one of violence. When I was four years old, I was
slapped across the face by my usually gentle mother. Why? I had imitated
my father in his prayers. Instead of praying to Makkah, I prayed to my
six-year-old brother, Ali. I thought he was a god. How was I to know he
was not? Thirty-two years later, I remember the sting of that slap and the
beginning of questions in my mind: If my brother was not a god, why was he
treated like one? In a family of ten daughters and one son, fear ruled our
home: fear that cruel death would claim the one living male child; fear
that no other sons would follow; fear that God had cursed our home with
daughters. My mother feared each pregnancy, praying for a son, dreading a
daughter. She bore one daughter after another until there were ten in all.
My mother’s worst fear came true when my father took another, younger
wife for the purpose of giving him more precious sons. The new wife of
promise presented him with three sons, all stillborn, before he divorced
her. Finally, though, with the fourth wife, my father became wealthy with
sons. But my elder brother would always be the firstborn, and, as such, he
ruled supreme. Like my sisters, I pretended to revere my brother, but I
hated him as only the oppressed can hate. When my mother was twelve years
old, she was married to my father. He was twenty. It was 1946, the year
after the great world war that interrupted oil production had ended. Oil,
the vital force of Saudi Arabia today, had not yet brought great wealth to
my father’s family, the Al Sa’uds, but its impact on the family was
felt in small ways.
The leaders of great nations had begun to pay homage to our king. The
British prime minister, Winston Churchill, had presented King Abdul Aziz
with a luxurious Rolls-Royce. Bright green, with a throne like back seat,
the automobile sparkled like a jewel in the sun. Something about the
automobile, as grand as it was, obviously disappointed the king, for upon
inspection, he gave it to one of his favorite brothers, Abdullah.
Abdullah, who was my father’s uncle and close friend, offered him this
automobile for his honeymoon trip to Jeddah. He accepted, much to the
delight of my mother, who had never ridden in an automobile. In 1946-and
dating back untold centuries-the camel was the usual mode of
transportation in the Middle East. Three decades would pass before the
average Saudi rode with comfort in an automobile, rather than astride a
camel. Now, on their honeymoon, for seven days and nights, my parents
happily crossed the desert trail to Jeddah. Unfortunately, in my father’s
haste to depart Riyadh, he had forgotten his tent; because of this
oversight and the presence of several slaves, their marriage remained
unconsummated until they arrived in Jeddah.
That dusty, exhausting trip was one of my mother’s happiest memories.
Forever after, she divided her life into "the time before the
trip" and "the time after the trip." Once she told me that
the trip had been the end of her youth, for she was too young to
understand what lay ahead of her at the end of the long journey. Her
parents had died in a fever epidemic, leaving her orphaned at the age of
eight. She had been married at the age of twelve to an intense man filled
with dark cruelties. She was ill-equipped to do little more in life than
his bidding. After a brief stay in Jeddah, my parents returned to Riyadh,
for it was there that the patriarchal family of the Al Sa’uds continued
their dynasty. My father was a merciless man; as a predictable result, my
mother was a melancholy woman. Their tragic union eventually produced
sixteen children, of whom eleven survived perilous childhood. Today, their
ten female offspring live their lives controlled by the men to whom they
are married. ‘Their only surviving son, a prominent Saudi prince and
businessman with four wives and numerous mistresses, leads a life of great
promise and pleasure. From my reading, I know that most civilized
successors of early cultures smile at the primitive ignorance of their
ancestors. As civilization advances, the fear of freedom for the
individual is overcome through enlightenment. Human society eagerly rushes
to embrace knowledge and change.
Astonishingly, the land of my ancestors is little changed from that of a
thousand years ago. Yes, modern buildings spring up, the latest health
care is available to all, but consideration for women and for the quality
of their lives still receives a shrug of indifference. It is wrong,
however, to blame our Muslim faith for the lowly position of women in our
society. Although the Koran does state that women are secondary to men,
much in the same way the Bible authorizes men to rule over women, our
Prophet Mohammed taught only kindness and fairness toward those of my sex.
The men who came behind Prophet Mohammed have chosen to follow the customs
and traditions of the Dark Ages rather than to follow Mohammed’s words
and example. Our Prophet scorned the practice of infanticide, a common
custom in his day of ridding the family of unwanted females. Prophet
Mohammed’s very words ring with his concern at the possibility of abuse
and indifference toward females: "Whoever hath a daughter, and hoth
not bury her alive, or scold her, or prefer his male children to her, may
God bring him into Paradise."
Yet there is nothing men will not do, there is nothing they have not done,
in this land to ensure the birth of male, not female, offspring. The worth
of a child born in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is still measured by the
absence or the presence of a male organ. The men of my country feel they
are what they have had to become. In Saudi Arabia, the pride of a man’s
honor evolves from his women, so he must enforce his authority and
supervision over the sexuality of his women or face public disgrace.
Convinced that women have no control over their own sexual desires, it
then becomes essential that the dominant male carefully guard the
sexuality of the female. This absolute control over the female has nothing
to do with love, only with fear of the male’s tarnished honor. The
authority of a Saudi male is unlimited; his wife and children survive only
if he desires. In our homes, he is the state. This complex situation
begins with the rearing of our young boys. From an early age, the male
child is taught that women are of little value: They exist only for his
comfort and convenience. The child witnesses the disdain shown his mother
and sisters by his father; this open contempt leads to his scorn -of all
females, and makes it impossible for him to enjoy friendship with anyone
of the opposite sex. Taught only the role of master to slave, it is little
wonder that by the time he is old enough to take a mate, he considers her
his chattel, not his partner. And so it comes to be that women in my land
are ignored by their fathers, scorned by their brothers, and abused by
their husbands.
This cycle is difficult to break, for the men who impose this life upon
their women ensure their own marital unhappiness. For what man can be
truly content surrounded by such misery? It is evident that the men of my
land are searching for gratification by taking and wife after the other,
followed by mistress after mistress. Little do these men know that their
happiness can be found in their own home, with one woman of equality. By
treating women as slaves, as property, men have made themselves as unhappy
as the women they rule, and have made love and true companionship
unattainable to both sexes. The history of our women is buried behind the
black veil of secrecy. Neither our births nor our deaths are made official
in any public record. Although births of male children are documented in
family or tribal records, none are maintained anywhere for females.
The common emotion expressed at the birth of a female is either sorrow or
shame. Although hospital births and government record keeping are
increasing, the majority of rural births take place at home. No country
census is maintained by the government of Saudi Arabia. I have often asked
myself, does this mean that we women of the desert do not exist, if our
coming and our passing goes unrecorded? If no one knows of my existence,
does that mean I do not exist? This fact, more than the injustices of my
life, have prompted me to take this very real risk in order to tell my
story. The women of my country may be hidden by the veil and firmly
controlled by our stem patriarchal society, but change will have to come,
for we are a sex that is weary of the restraints of customs. We yearn for
our personal freedom. From my earliest memories, aided by the secret diary
I began to keep at the age of eleven, I will try to give you some
portrayal of the life of a princess in the House of Al Sa’ud. I will
attempt to uncover the buried lives of other Saudi women, the millions of
ordinary women not born of the Royal Family. My passion for the truth is
simple, for I am one of those women who were ignored by their fathers,
scorned by their brothers, and abused by their husbands. I am not alone in
this. There are many more, just like me, who have no opportunity to tell
their stories. It is rare that truth escapes from a Saudi palace, for
there is great secrecy in our society, but what I have spoken here and
what the author has written here are true. |
CHILDHOOD
Ali slapped me on the ground, but I declined to hand over the shiny red
apple just given me by the Pakistani cook. Ali's face began to swell with
anger as I hovered over the apple and quickly began to take huge bites and
swallow them whole.
Refusing to give in to his male prerogative of superiority, I had
committed a grave act and knew that I would soon suffer the consequences.
Ali gave me two swift kicks and went running for our father's driver,
Omar, an Egyptian. My sisters feared Omar almost as much as they did Ali
or my father. They disappeared into the villa, leaving me alone to face
the combined wrath of the men of the house.
Moments later, Omar, followed by Ali, rushed through the side gate. I knew
they would be the victors, for my young life was already rich with
precedent. I had learned at an early age that Ali's every wish would be
fulfilled. Nevertheless, I swallowed the last bite of the apple and looked
in triumph at my brother. Struggling vainly in the grasp of Omar's huge
hands, I was lifted into the air and transported to my father's study.
Reluctantly, my father looked up from his black ledger and glanced with
irritation at his seemingly ever present, unwanted daughter while holding
out his arms in invitation to that treasured jewel, his eldest son. Ali
was allowed to speak, while I was forbidden to respond. Overwhelmed with
desire for my father's love and approval, my courage was suddenly reborn.
I shouted out the truth of the incident.
My father and brother were stunned into silence at my outburst, for
females in my world are reconciled to a stem society that frowns upon the
voicing of our opinions. All women learn at an early age to manipulate
rather than to confront. The fires in the hearts of the once proud and
fierce bedouin women have been extinguished; soft women who bear little
resemblance to them remain in their stead. The fear curled in my belly
when I heard the shouting of my voice. My legs trembled under my body when
my father arose from his chair, and I saw the movement of his arm but
never felt the blow to my face. As punishment, Ali was given all my toys.
To teach me that men were my masters, my father decreed that Ali would
have the exclusive right to fill my plate at mealtimes. The triumphant Ali
gave me the tiniest of portions and the worst cuts of meat. Each night, I
went to sleep hungry, for Ali placed a guard at my door and ordered him to
forbid me to receive food from my mother or my sisters. My brother taunted
me by entering my room at midnight laden with plates steaming with the
delicious smells of cooked chicken and hot rice. Finally Ali wearied of
his torture, but from that time on, when he was only nine years old, he
was my devoted enemy.
Although I was only seven years old, as a result of "the apple
incident," I first became aware that I was a female who was shackled
by males unburdened with consciences. I saw the broken spirits of my
mother and sisters, but I remained faithful to optimism and never doubted
that I would one day triumph and my pain would be compensated by true
justice. With this determination, from an early age, I was the family
troublemaker. There were pleasant times in my young life too. My happiest
hours were spent at the home of my mother's aunt. Widowed, too old for
further notice and thus complications from men, she was now merry and
filled with wonderful stories from her youth of the days of the tribal
battles. She had witnessed the birth of our nation and mesmerized us with
the tales of the valor of King Abdul Aziz and his followers. Sitting
cross-legged on priceless Oriental carpets, my sisters and I nibbled on
date pastries and almond cakes while immersed in the drama of the great
victories of our kinsmen.
My auntie inspired me to new pride in my family as she told of the Al
Sa'uds' bravery in battle. In 1891, my mother's family had accompanied the
Al Sa'ud clan in their flight from Riyadh when they were defeated by the
Rasheed clan. Ten years later, male members of her family returned with
Abdul Aziz to recapture the land; my auntie's brother fought alongside
Abdul Aziz. This show of loyalty ensured their entry into the Royal Family
by the marriages of their daughters. The stage was set for my destiny as a
princess.
In my youth, my family was privileged, though not yet wealthy. The income
from oil production ensured that food was plentiful and medical care
available, which at that time in our history seemed the greatest of
luxuries. We lived in a large villa, made of concrete blocks painted snowy
white. Each year, the sandstorms turned the white to cream, but father's
slaves would dutifully repaint the sand-colored stones white. The
thirty-feet high block walls surrounding our grounds were maintained in
the same fashion. 'Me childhood home I took for granted was a mansion by
Western standards, yet, in looking back, it was a simple dwelling by
today's Saudi royal expectations.
As a child, I felt our family home was too large for warm comfort. The
long hallways were dark and forbidding. Rooms of various shapes and sizes
branched off, concealing the secrets of our lives. Father and Ali lived in
the men's quarters on the second floor. I used to peer into their quarters
with the curiosity of the child I was. Dark red velvet curtains closed out
the sunlight. A smell of Turkish tobacco and whiskey embraced the heavy
atmosphere. One timid look and then with a rush I would return to the
women's quarters on the ground floor, where my sisters and I occupied a
large wing. The room I shared with Sara faced the women's private garden.
Mother had the room painted a bright yellow; as a result, it had the glow
of life that was so glaringly absent in the rest of the villa. The family
servants and slaves lived in tiny, airless rooms in a separate dwelling
set apart at the back of the garden. While our villa was air-conditioned,
the servants' quarters were ill-equipped for enduring the hot desert
climate.
I remember the foreign maids and drivers speaking of their dread of
bedtime. Their only relief from the heat was the breeze generated by small
electric fans. Father said that if he provided their quarters with
air-conditioning, they would sleep the whole day through. Only Omar slept
in a small room in the main house. A long golden cord hung in the main
entrance of our villa. This cord was connected to a cowbell in Omar's
room. When Omar was needed, he would be summoned by the ringing of this
bell; the sound of the bell, day or night, would bring him to his feet and
to Father's door. Many times, I must admit, I rang the bell during Omar's
naps, or in the middle of the night. Then, lungs bursting, 1 would rush to
my bed and lay quiet, an innocent child sleeping soundly.
One night my mother was waiting for me as I raced for the bed. With
disappointment etched on her face at the misdeeds of her youngest child,
she twisted my ear and threatened to tell Father. But she never did. Since
my grandfather's day, we owned a family of Sudanese slaves. Oar slave
population increased each year when Father returned from Haj, the annual
pilgrimage to Makkah made by Muslims, with new slave children. Pilgrims
from Sudan and Nigeria, attending Haj, would sell their children to
wealthy Saudis so that they could afford the return journey to their
homeland. Once in my father's care, the slaves were not bought and sold in
the manner of the American slaves; they participated in our home life and
in my father's businesses as if they were their own. The children were our
playmates and felt no compulsion to servitude.
In 1962, when our government abolished the slaves, our Sudanese family
actually cried and begged my father to keep them. They live in my father's
home to this day. My father kept alive the memory of our beloved king,
Abdul Aziz. He spoke about the great man as if he saw him each day. I was
shocked, at the age of eight, to be told the old king had died in 1953,
three years before I was born! After the death of our first king, our
kingdom was in grave danger, for the old king's hand-picked successor, his
son Sa'ud, was sadly lacking in qualities of leadership. He extravagantly
squandered most of the country's oil wealth on palaces, cars, and trinkets
for his wives. As a result, our new country was sliding toward political
and economic chaos. I recall one occasion in 1963, when the men of the
ruling family gathered in our home.
I was a very curious seven-year-old at the time. Omar, my father's driver,
burst into the garden with a matter of great importance and shouted for
the women to go upstairs. He waved his hands at us as if he were
exorcising the house of beasts and literally herded us up the stairwell
and into a small sitting room. Sam, my older sister, pleaded with my
mother for permission to hide behind the arabesque balcony for a rare
glimpse of our rulers at work. While we frequently saw our powerful male
uncles and cousins at casual family gatherings, never were we present in
the midst of important matters of state. Of course, at the time of each
female's menses and subsequent veiling, the cutoff from any males other
than father and brothers was sudden and complete. Our lives were so
cloistered and boring that even our mother took pity on us.
That day, she actually joined her daughters on the floor of the hallway to
peek through the balcony and listen to the men in the large sitting room
below us. I, as the youngest, was held in my mother's lap. As a
precaution, she lightly placed her fingers on my lips. If we were caught,
my father would be furious. My sisters and I were captivated by the grand
parade of the brothers, sons, grandsons, and nephews of the deceased king.
Large men in flowing robes, they gathered quietly with great dignity and
seriousness.
The stoic face of Crown Prince Faisal drew our attention. Even to my young
eyes, he appeared sad and terribly burdened. By 1963, all Saudis were
aware that Prince Faisal competently managed the country while King Sa'ud
ruled incompetently. It was whispered that Sa'ud's reign was only a symbol
of the family unity so fiercely protected.
The feeling was that it was an odd arrangement, unfair to the country and
to Prince Faisal, and unlikely to last. Prince Faisal stood apart from the
group. His usual quiet voice rose above the din as he asked that he be
allowed to speak on matters that were of grave importance to the family
and the country. Prince Faisal feared that the throne so difficult to
attain would soon be lost. He said that the common people were tiring of
the excesses of the Royal Family, and that there was talk not only of
ousting their brother Sa'ud for his decadence but of turning away from the
entire Al Sa'ud clan and choosing instead a man of God for leadership.
Prince Faisal looked hard at the younger princes when he stated in a
clear, sure voice that their disregard for the traditional life-style of
bedouin believers would topple the throne.
He said his heart was heavy from sadness that so few of the younger royals
were willing to work, content to live on their monthly stipend from the
oil wealth. A long pause ensued as he waited for comments from his
brothers and relatives. As none seemed to be forthcoming, he added that if
he, Faisal, were at the controls of the oil wealth, the flow of money to
the princes would be cut and honorable work would be sought. He nodded his
head at his brother Mohammed and sat down with a sigh. From the balcony, I
noticed the nervous squirming of several youthful cousins.
Even though the largest monthly stipend was no more than ten thousand
dollars, the men of the Al Sa'ud clan grew increasingly wealthy from the
land. Saudi Arabia is a huge country, and most of the property belongs to
our family. In addition, no building contracts are signed without benefit
to one of our own.
Prince Mohammed, the third eldest living brother, began to speak, and from
what we could gather, King Sa'ud had now insisted on the return of
absolute power that had been taken from him in 1958. He was rumored to be
in the countryside, speaking out against his brother Faisal. It was a
devastating moment for the family of Al Sa'ud, for its members had always
shown a unified front to the citizens of Saudi Arabia.
I remember when my father had told the story of why the eldest living son
after Faisal, Mohammed, was passed over as successor to the. throne. The
old king had declared that if Mohammed's disposition were backed by the
power of the Crown, many men would die, for Mohammed's violent temper was
wen known. My attention returned to the meeting and I heard Prince
Mohammed say that the monarchy itself was endangered; he approached the
possibility of physically overthrowing the king and installing Prince
Faisal in his stead. Prince Faisal gasped so loudly that the sound stifled
Mohammed. Faisal seemed to be weeping as he spoke quietly.
He told his kin that he had given his beloved father a deathbed promise
that he would never oppose the rule of his brother. In no event would he
consider g the promise, not even if Sa'ud bankrupted the country. If talk
of ousting his brother was going to be the heart of the meeting, then he,
Faisal, would have to depart.
There was a hum of voices as the men of our family agreed that Mohammed,
the eldest brother next to Faisal, should attempt to reason with our king.
We watched as the men toyed with their coffee cups and made vows of
loyalty to their father's wish that all the sons of Abdul Aziz would
confront the world as a united force. As the traditional exchange of
farewells began, we watched as the men filed as silently from the room as
they had entered. Little did I know that this meeting was the beginning of
the end of the rule of my uncle, King Sa'ud.
As history unfolded, and our family and countrymen watched in sadness, the
sons of Abdul Aziz were forced to evict one of their own from his land.
Uncle Sa'ud had become so desperate that in the end, he had sent a
threatening note to his brother Prince Faisal. This one act sealed his
fate, for it was unthinkable for one brother to insult or threaten
another. In the unwritten rule of the bedouin, one brother never turns
against the other. A fevered crisis erupted within the family, and the
country. But we learned later that a revolution, sought by Uncle Sa'ud,
had been averted by the soft approach of Crown Prince Faisal. He stepped
aside and left it to his brothers and the men of religion to decide the
best course of action for our young country. In doing so, he took away the
personal drama of the movement so that it became a less volatile matter,
with statesmen making appropriate decisions.
Two days later, we learned about the abdication from one of Uncle Sa'ud's
wives, for our father had been away at the time with his brothers and
cousins. One of our favorite aunties, married to King Sa'ud, burst into
our home in great agitation. I was shocked to see her rip her veil from
her face in front of our male servants. She had arrived from the Nasriyah
Palace, Uncle Sa'ud's desert palace (an edifice that, to my mind, was a
wonder of what endless money can buy and a ruinous example of what was
wrong with our country).
My sisters and I gathered around our mother, for our auntie was now out of
control and screaming accusations about the family. She was particularly
incensed at Crown Prince Faisal and blamed him for her husband's dilemma.
She told us that the brothers of her husband had conspired to take the
throne that had been given by their father to the one of his choice, Sa'ud.
She cried out that the religious council, the Ulema, had arrived at the
palace that very morning and had informed her husband that he must step
aside as king. I was entranced by the scene before me, for rarely do we
view confrontation in our society. It is our nature to speak softly and
agree with those before us and then to handle difficulties in a secret
manner. When our auntie, who was a very beautiful woman with long black
curls, began to tear out her hair and rip her expensive pearls from her
neck, I knew this was a serious matter. Finally my mother had calmed her
enough to lead her to the sitting room for a cup of soothing tea.
My sisters gathered around the closed door and tried to hear their
whispering. I kicked around the large clumps of hair with my toe and
stooped to gather the large smooth pearls. I found myself with fistfuls of
pearls and placed them in an empty vase in the hallway for safekeeping.
Mother guided our weeping auntie to her waiting black Mercedes. We all
watched as the driver sped away with his inconsolable passenger. We never
saw our auntie again, for she accompanied Uncle Sa'ud and his entourage
into exile. But our mother did advise us against feeling harsh toward our
uncle Faisal. She said that our auntie had uttered such words because she
was in love with a kind and generous man, but such a man does not
necessarily make the best ruler. She told us that Uncle Faisal was leading
our country into a stable and prosperous era, and by doing so, he earned
the wrath of those less capable. Although by Western standards my mother
was uneducated, she was truly wise. |
FAMILY
My mother, encouraged by king Faisal’s wife Iffat, managed to educate
her daughters, despite my father’s resistance. For many years, my father
refused even to consider the possibility.
My five older sisters received no schooling other than to memorize the
Koran from a private tutor who came to our home. For two hours, six
afternoons a week, they would repeat words after the Egyptian teacher,
Fatima, a stem woman of about forty five years of age.
She once asked my parents’ permission to expand my sisters’ education
to include science, history, and math. Father responded with a firm no and
the recital of the Prophet’s words, and his words alone continued to
ring throughout our villa.
As the years passed, Father saw that many of the royal families were
allowing their daughters the benefit of an education. With the coming of
the great oil wealth, which relieved nearly all Saudi women, other than
the bedouin tribes people and rural villagers, from any type of work,
inactivity and boredom between a national problem.
Members of the Royal Family are much wealthier than most Saudis, yet the
oil wealth brought servants from the Far East and other poor regions into
every home.
All children need to be stimulated, but my sisters and I had little or
nothing to do other than to play in our rooms or lounge in the women’s
gardens. There was nowhere to go and little to do, for when I was a child,
there was not even a zoo or a park in the city. Mother, weary of five
energetic daughters, thought that school would relieve her while expanding
our minds.
Finally, Mother, with the assistance of Auntie Iffat, wore Father down to
weak acceptance. And so it came to be that the five youngest daughters of
our family, including Sara and myself, enjoyed the new age of reluctant
acceptance of education for females.
Our first classroom was in the home of a royal relative. Seven families of
the Al Sa’ud clan employed a young woman from Abu Dhabi, a neighboring
Arab city in the Emirates. Our small group of pupils, sixteen in all, was
known in those days as a Kutab, a group method then popular for teaching
girls. We gathered daily in the home of our royal cousin from nine o’clock
in the morning until two o’clock in the afternoon, Saturday through
Thursday.
It was there that my favorite sister, Sara, first displayed her
brilliance.
She was much quicker than girls twice her age. ‘Me teacher even asked
Sara if she was a primary graduate, and shook her head in wonder when she
learned that Sara was not.
Our instructor had been fortunate to have a modern thinking father who had
sent her to England for an education. Because of her deformity, a club
foot, she had found no one who would marry her, so she chose a path of
freedom and independence for herself. She smiled as she told us that her
deformed foot was a gift from God to ensure that her mind did not become
deformed too. Even though she lived in the home of our royal cousin (it
was and still is unthinkable for a single woman to live alone in Saudi
Arabia), she earned a salary and made her decisions about life without
outside influence. I liked her simply because she was kind and patient
when I forgot to do my lessons.
Unlike Sara, I was not the scholarly type, and I was happy the teacher
expressed little disappointment at my shortcomings. I was much more
interested in drawing than in math, and in singing than in performing my
prayers. Sara sometimes pinched me when I misbehaved, but after I howled
in distress and disrupted the whole class, she left me to my mischievous
ways.
Certainly, the instructor truly lived up to the name given her
twenty-seven years before-Sakeena, which means "tranquillity" in
Arabic. Miss Sakeena told Mother that Sara was the brightest student she
had ever taught. After I jumped up and down and yelled, "What about
me?" she thought for a long moment before answering. With a smile,
she said, "And Sultana is certain to be famous."
That evening at dinner, Mother proudly passed on the remark about Sara to
Father. Father, who was visibly pleased, smiled at Sara. Mother beamed
with pleasure, but then Father cruelly asked how any daughter bom of her
belly could acquire learning. Nor did he credit Mother with any
contribution to the brilliance of Ali, who was at the top of his class at
a modem secondary school in the city.
Presumably, the intellectual achievements of her children were inherited
solely from their father. Even today I shudder with dismay while watching
my older sisters attempt to add or subtract. I say little prayers of
gratitude to Auntie Iffat, for she changed the lives of so many Saudi
women. In the summer of 1932, Uncle Faisal had traveled to Turkey, and
while there, he fell in love with a unique young woman named Iffat al
Thunayan.
Hearing that the young Saudi prince was visiting in Constantinople, the
young Iffat and her mother approached him about disputed property that had
belonged to her deceased father. (The Thunayans were originally Saudis but
had been taken to Turkey by the Ottomans during their lengthy rule of the
area.) Smitten by Iffat’s beauty, Faisal invited her and her mother to
Saudi Arabia to sort out the misunderstanding of the property matter. Not
only did he give her the property, he married her.
Later, he was to say it was the wisest decision of his life. My mother
said Uncle Faisal had gone from woman to woman, like a man possessed,
until he met Iffat. During the years of Uncle Faisal’s reign, Iffat
became the driving force behind education for young girls. Without her
efforts, the women in Arabia today would not be allowed in a classroom.
I was in awe of her forceful character and declared I would grow up to be
just like her. She even had the courage to hire an English nanny for her
children, who, of all the royal brood, turned out to be the most
unaffected by great wealth. Sadly, many of the royal cousins were swept
away by the sudden rush of riches. My mother used to say that the bedouin
had survived the stark emptiness of the desert, but we would never survive
the enormous wealth of the oil fields. The quiet achievements of the mind
and the pious religious beliefs of their fathers hold no appeal for the
vast majority of the younger Al Sa’uds.
I believe that the children of this generation have decayed with the ease
of their lives, and that their great fortune has deprived them of any
ambitions or real satisfactions.
Surely the weakness of our monarchy in Saudi Arabia is bound up in our
addiction to extravagance. I fear it will be our undoing. Most of my
childhood was spent traveling from one city to another in my land. The
nomadic bedouin blood flows in all Saudis, and as soon as we would return
from one trip, discussions would ensue as to the next journey.
We Saudis no longer have sheep to graze, but we cannot stop looking for
greener pastures. Riyadh was the base of the government, but none of the
Al Sa’ud family particularly enjoyed the city; their complaints never
ended about the dreariness of life in Riyadh. It was too hot and dry, the
men of religion took themselves too seriously, the nights were too cold.
Most of the family preferred Jeddah or Taif. Jeddah, with its ancient
ports, was more open to change and moderation. There, we all breathed
easier in the air of the sea. We generally spent the months from December
to February in Jeddah. We would return to Riyadh for March, April, and
May. The heat of the summer months would drive us to the mountains of Taif
from June to September. Then it was back to Riyadh for October and
November. Of course, we spent the month of Ramadan and two weeks of Haj in
Makkah, our holy city. By the time I was twelve years old, in 1968, my
father had become extremely wealthy. In spite of his wealth, he was one of
the least extravagant Al Sa’uds. But he did build each of his four
families four palaces, in Riyadh, Jeddah, Taif, and Spain. The palaces
were exactly the same in each city, even to the colors of carpets and
furniture selected. My father hated change, and he wanted to feel as if he
were in the same home even after a flight from city to city.
I remember him telling my mother to purchase four each of every item, down
to the children’s underwear. He did not want the family to bother with
packing suitcases. I found it eerie that when I entered my room in Jeddah
or Taif, it was the same as my room m Riyadh, with the identical clothes
hanging in identical closets.
My books and toys were purchased in fours, one of each item placed in each
palace. My mother rarely complained, but when my father purchased four
identical red Porsches for my brother, Ali, who was only fourteen at the
time, she cried out that it was a shame-such waste.—with so many poor in
the world. When it came to Ali, though, no expense was spared. When he was
ten years old, Ali received his first gold Rolex watch.
I was particularly distressed, for I had asked my father for a thick gold
bracelet from the souq (marketplace) and he had brusquely turned aside my
request. During the second week of Ali flaunting his Rolex, I saw that he
had laid it on the table beside the pool. Overcome with jealousy, I took a
rock and pounded the watch to pieces.
For once, my mischief was not discovered, and it was with great pleasure
that I saw my father reprimand Ali for being careless with his belongings.
But of course, within a week or so, Ali was given another gold Rolex watch
and my childish resentfulness returned with a vengeance. My mother spoke
to me often about my hatred for my brother. A wise woman, she saw the fire
in my eye even as I bowed to the inevitable. As the youngest child of the
family, I had been the most pampered of the daughters by my mother,
sisters, and other relatives.
Looking back, it is hard to deny that I was spoiled beyond belief. Because
I was small for my age, in contrast with the rest of my sisters, who were
tall with large frowns, I was treated as a baby throughout my childhood
years. All of my sisters were quiet and restrained, as befitting Saudi
princesses. I was loud and unruly, caring little for my royal image. How I
must have tried their patience! But even today, each of my sisters would
spring to my defense at the first sign of danger. In sad contrast, to my
father, I represented the last of many disappointments. As a consequence,
I spent my childhood trying to win his affection. Finally, I despaired of
attaining his love and clamored after any attention, even if it was in the
form of punishment for misdeeds. I calculated that if my father looked at
me enough times, he would recognize my special traits and come to love his
daughter, even as he loved Ali. As it turned out, my rowdy ways ensured
that he would go from indifference to open dislike.
My mother accepted the fact that the land in which we had been born was a
place that is destined for misunderstandings between the sexes. Still a
child, with the world stretching before me, I had yet to reach that
conclusion. L4Doking back, I suppose Ali must have had good character
traits along with the bad, but it was difficult for me to see past his one
great defect: Ali was cruel. I watched him as he taunted the handicapped
son of our gardener. The poor child had long arms and strangely shaped
legs. Often, when Ali’s boyhood friends came over for a visit, he would
summon poor Sami and tell him to do his ,’monkey walk." Ali never
noticed the pathetic look on Sami’s face or the tears that trickled down
his cheeks. When Ali found baby kittens, he would lock them away from
their mother and howl with glee as the mother cat tried in vain to reach
them.
No one in the household dared to chastise Ali, for our father saw no harrn
in Ali’s cruel ways. After a particularly moving talk from my mother, I
prayed about my feelings for Ali and decided to attempt the
"Saudi" way of manipulation instead of confrontation with my
brother. Besides, my mother used God’s wishes as her platform, and using
God is always an admirable formula for convincing children to change their
actions. Through my mother’s eyes, I finally saw that my present course
would lead me down a thorny path.
My good intentions were squashed within the week by Ali’s dastardly
behavior. My sisters and I found a tiny puppy that had evidently become
lost from its mother. The puppy was whimpering from hunger. Overcome with
excitement at our find, we rushed about collecting doll bottles and
wanting goat’s milk. My sisters and I took turns with feedings. Within
days, the puppy was bouncing and fat. We dressed him in rags and even
trained him to sit in our baby carriage. While it is true that most
Muslims do not favor dogs, it is a rare person who can harrn a baby animal
of any species. Even our mother, a devout Muslim, smiled at the antics of
the puppy. One afternoon we were pushing Basem, which means "smiling
face" in Arabic, in a carriage. Ali happened to walk by with his
friends. Sensing his friends’ excitement over our puppy, Ali decided the
puppy should be his.
My sisters and I screamed and fought when he tried to take Basem from our
arms. Our father heard the commotion and came from his study. When Ali
told him that he wanted the puppy, our father instructed us to hand him
over. Nothing we said or did would change our father’s mind. Ali wanted
the puppy; Ali got the puppy. Tears streamed down our faces as Ali
jauntily walked away with Basem tucked under his arm. The possibility for
love of my brother was forever lost, and my hate solidified when I was
told Ali had soon tired of Basem’s whimpers and, on the way to visit
friends, had tossed the puppy out the window of the moving car. |
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