Princess, More Tears to Cry, page 3
Within months of graduating from college, Amani pressed for us to arrange a marriage with a suitable royal cousin. She did not name someone specific, asking only that he be a man from a known good royal family, of good character and a believer. She steadfastly rejected the opportunity to view a photograph of her groom-to-be, so charitably provided by his sister. Amani became incensed when her brother Abdullah taunted her with hints that her cousin was pleading to see his future bride’s face, and that he, Abdullah, might relieve the young man’s anxiety by displaying a photograph of Amani. She became so distraught that she tearfully entreated her father to intervene, and he did, forbidding our son from disturbing his sister any further on the matter.
Abdullah is a joyful soul who relentlessly teases his sisters, but only Maha shows the occasional sign of humor at his antics. If only my two daughters shared the pleasing and outgoing character of my son, I would be a mother filled with joy. Kareem, too, acknowledges that our son is trouble-free and has often said to me, “Sultana, God chose to reward us with an agreeable son and to challenge our endurance with Amani and Maha.”
During the times he was personally frustrated with me for one thing or another, he delighted in adding an insult and laying blame on my head by saying: “My daughters have inherited their mother’s propensity for generating bedlam.” Certainly both daughters arrived on this earth preprogrammed with the most exhausting dispositions.
But as an opposite character to her mother and sister, Amani holds dear everything to do with being a woman ruled by men. She is also a poster girl for strict obedience of everything religious. From her teen years, she wore the full black veil with enormous satisfaction, believing it immoral for any woman to expose her face in public. She still covers her delicate hands with black gloves, and her feet and legs with thick black stockings, regardless of the sweltering heat in the kingdom—in fact, even when we visit Jeddah, the port city known for its drenching humidity.
I have always said that such a costume is extremely dangerous in the heat of Saudi Arabia, and my concerns were substantiated when a heavily pregnant Amani was visiting us at our Jeddah home. As she was not familiar with some of our newly employed male staff, she tended to wear her heavy veil from the moment she woke until she slept. My poor daughter feared that one of them might catch a glimpse of her uncovered face, although these men are trusted and accustomed to being around the females in our homes.
One morning she walked down the stairs fully veiled, annoying me and even surprising her Auntie Sara, who generally accepted the contrasting behavior of my two daughters with a smile. I started to voice my thoughts, saying I found it ridiculous for Amani to fully cover when at home. Besides, I enjoy having a conversation with someone I can see, and most particularly get pleasure from looking upon the faces of my children. At that moment Sara gave me a warning look and I bit my lip, asking instead, “Would you like some cold juice, my precious?”
Amani brushed past, saying, “No, Mummy. I feel like a stroll in the garden.” One of our Indonesian maids opened the heavy wooden and glass door so that Amani could enter the special women’s garden Kareem had so carefully designed for the females in our family. The garden is unusually large and studded with numerous enormous plants and lots of ferns; the effect was meant to be reminiscent of a rain forest. Overly protective of my pregnant daughter, I called out, “Don’t get lost in all that greenery, sweet Amani.” My daughter did not respond.
Soon Sara and I became distracted with a game of komkom; this is a fun game we often play when at Jeddah because the game requires seashells that the children can sometimes find on the Red Sea shoreline. Two of Sara’s eight grandchildren played with us. The gaiety of watching the children toss the seashells on the floor was fun and I momentarily forgot the time. When Abdullah came into the sitting area and inquired about Amani, I suddenly realized that she had been in the garden for nearly an hour.
I jumped to my feet and dashed out of the door and into the garden, calling for my child. I gave a terrified scream when I saw her sprawled on the ground, the black cloth of her abaya draped over a small fern and fluttering in the sea breeze.
“Amani!” I shouted out.
Abdullah quickly followed, as well as several of our drivers, who had heard my cry and came running into the garden, normally forbidden to them.
For a moment, I thought my precious child was dead, finally smothered to death by all that heavy black fabric, her black stockings and gloves. Amani’s costume probably weighed more than she did herself, as she had always been delicate in size. Even though she was pregnant, she weighed only forty kilograms, less than ninety pounds.
Abdullah and one of the drivers lifted Amani and carried her into our air-conditioned home. While they struggled to hold her carefully, for she was noticeably pregnant, her veil was accidentally pulled from her face and her long black skirt was hoisted above her waist.
At that moment I did not care, although Amani’s black stockings only stretched to her knees, leaving her white thighs visible for all to see.
My daughter was placed upon the largest of the five sofas in the sitting area and I began to remove her heavy black cover. When I pulled back her veil, I caught my breath at the sight of her face, which was dark red, almost bruised in appearance, her eyes rolling back, exposing the whites of her eyes, a most alarming sight.
By this time one of the servants had located Kareem in his office and my husband was by my side, calling out for cold wet cloths to be placed on her face. On Kareem’s instructions, Abdullah drove at speed to the home of our family physician, a very experienced Palestinian doctor who lived only a short distance from us. Abdullah was told to bring him to us to tend to our daughter.
By this time I felt myself going mad. Amani lay like a corpse. Kareem was pointing out that our daughter was breathing steadily, so there was no need for me to yank at my hair, something I did not even know I was doing. (Though when I pulled my hands away from my head, I saw that dozens of long black hairs were dangling from my clenched fingers.)
I looked around to see that every housemaid, driver, and gardener was packed tightly into our large sitting area, but before I had time to order them all to leave, our doctor arrived. I’ve never been so happy to see his big ruddy face and short chubby body, although in the past he had sometimes irritated me with his habit of folding his hands behind his back and pacing in circles, muttering incoherently while deep in thought.
I have always wanted to know instantly every aspect of a medical problem concerning my children. As the doctor hurried to hover over our daughter, asking that everyone step back to give her space to breathe, he seemed very concerned. I clung to Kareem’s arm, staring at my child at the exact moment Amani opened her eyes. She unexpectedly saw the big face of the Palestinian doctor studying her face, then gasped loudly and fainted.
Amani was eventually returned to good health. The doctor announced that the heat was the problem and spoke in a low but firm voice to Amani, telling her that she should not wear such heavy black clothing in the heat and humidity of Jeddah. I knew from her expression that she would never follow doctor’s orders and that I must remember to cease traveling to Jeddah during the hottest of the summer months. Our family would remain in Riyadh, where the air is dry, making life more tolerable for veiled women, or perhaps stay in Taif, our mountain retreat known for its cool breezes.
Amani’s painful psychological ordeal was far from over. She was most scandalized when she later discovered that many employed in our Jeddah home had caught sight of her uncovered face, and that three of the drivers had even glimpsed the flesh on her legs. My child became so overexcited that her father and I had to promise that we would rotate all the employees from Jeddah to Riyadh when we were visiting our Jeddah palace. When we returned to Riyadh, those same employees would be sent back to Jeddah. It was going to be a merry-go-round of employees, only because Amani was too embarrassed to be in the company of those who had seen her face and legs.
Everything required for Amani’s peace of mind seemed ridiculous to me, but there was nothing I would not do to ease the stress of one of my children, and most especially my pregnant daughter. And now time had passed and Amani was the mother of a son.
My two daughters had not seen each other in more than a year, yet fireworks had quickly erupted between them. In fact, Maha had arrived back in the kingdom only three days earlier, but already my two girls were fighting endlessly.
Kareem left to refresh himself for the night’s company, advising Maha, “Daughter, please retire to your room and prepare yourself for this evening. The time will soon come for our guests to arrive.”
I smiled, happy that Kareem reminded Maha of the entertaining evening ahead. After all, a large number of guests were expected to see Maha. Since the day we received notice that she was coming for a rare visit, a welcoming party had been planned. Nearly all the family had arranged their busy schedules so that they might be part of the celebration.
Sara and I had spent many hours planning the evening. We had decided to serve Maha’s favorite Arabic foods, including al-kabsa, tahini, and tomato chicken. Kareem had arranged for separate food to be served in the men’s gardens so that our vegan daughter Amani would not catch a view of the whole stuffed camel with lamb, chicken, eggs, and rice. We were afraid that our animal-loving Amani might destroy such a dish if it was spotted. Once in the past, Amani had discovered a cooked baby camel and had conducted a funeral and buried it in our garden before our guests even arrived. Therefore great secrecy surrounded the camel dish, a specialty our guests could savor and enjoy.
There would be plenty of French delicacies as well. Sara’s French chef had been busy for the past few days, making his delicious bisque, salmon terrine, and pot-au-feu. A private airplane sent to France had returned with all the special French cheeses and baguettes.
I looked to see if Maha might obey her father. She nodded but didn’t move a muscle away from her perch on the sofa.
From the moment Kareem exited the room, Amani resumed her disagreement with her sister. Attempting to bring Sara into the discussion, she asked, “Auntie Sara, what are your thoughts on women driving?” Then before Sara could consider a response, Amani’s words continued to bubble from her lips: “Do you agree that if Saudi women drive, their veils will create visibility problems, causing accidents? Once an accident occurs, she would be forced into an illicit conversation with the other driver. What if he was a male driver, a stranger to her?”
Sara was caught in an awkward place, so I entered the conversation, saying, “Sweet girl, please do your mummy a favor and leave such controversial topics for another more appropriate time.”
Before Amani could react, Maha made an angry grunt, but left the room in a hurry. I hoped she had taken her father’s advice to use the time to repair her hair and makeup.
Before the tension could evaporate from the room, however, Maha returned. I saw that she had retrieved her international driving license and was flashing it at Amani in an aggressive manner, saying, “My little sister is one of those fools who has a college degree but is uneducated!”
Nothing could stop Amani: “The driving of automobiles by women is a source of undeniable vices. Women driving leads to that, and this is self-evident.”
Amani often quoted fatwas issued by various Saudi clerics, and I recognized her words as having come from Sheikh Abdul Aziz bin Baz, a Saudi cleric who was the Grand Mufti of Saudi Arabia from 1993 until his death, at age eighty-eight, in 1999.
Baz was not very intelligent in my opinion and had proved his mental deficiencies by announcing many controversial rulings, one of which was that the earth was flat. He had said: “The earth is fixed and stable and has been spread out by God for mankind and made a bed and cradle for them, tied down by mountains lest it shake.” After his statement, he was ridiculed by many journalists. My father once told Kareem that his older (half) brother, King Faisal, had become so enraged that Baz had mortified all Saudis through his ignorance that he had ordered the destruction of any papers or books that reported Baz’s words. Later Baz declared that the sun rotates around the earth, though he retracted that statement after my cousin, Prince Sultan bin Salman, spent time aboard the space shuttle Discovery. When he returned to Saudi Arabia, it was said that he swore to the cleric that he had seen the earth from space, and that the earth was rotating and was not still.
Other rulings Baz made had to do with keeping all women in purdah, or isolation, and for this I always disliked the man. Others disagreed with me because he was loved by many. He was one of Amani’s favorite clerics, although he had died when Amani was still a child.
Amani knew Baz’s fatwa by heart, about women being forbidden from driving, and she proudly quoted, “Depravity leads to the innocent and pure women being accused of indecencies. Allah has laid down one of the harshest punishments for such an act to protect society from the spreading of the causes of depravity. Women driving cars, however, is one of the causes that lead to that.” Now Maha was dancing around the room, singing her words in a loud voice: “I am free, Amani, while you willingly wear chains!” She leapt into the air like a ballerina, holding her driving license like a trophy.
My daughter is really too dramatic.
Maha continued her rant. “I am free! My sister wears chains!”
“Everything you do is haram, Maha,” Amani announced self-importantly, with the greatest certainty.
“Listen, Amani. You are in the dark ages. You could be smart, but you seek ignorance and you appear to like portraying weakness and ignorance, to have men making all your decisions, when you are fully capable.” Maha was smothering. “I am free, Amani, to live. I am free to think for myself. I am free to drive. I am free to have thoughts about anything I please. I am a woman freed from this madness you embrace so lovingly!”
My head spun like the earth at Maha’s next statement, and even Sara gasped. “Today I tricked all those silly old men. I dressed as a man and took Abdullah’s new Mercedes for a drive around the city.”
“Maha!” I cried. “Maha, please tell me this is not so! You will humiliate your parents if you are caught dressing as a man and driving an automobile.”
“Oh, Mother,” Maha giggled, “I was never in danger. I wore no makeup. Abdullah painted a most realistic pencil mustache on my face. Abdullah did all the talking in the shops, so no one heard any feminine voice.”
My voice went high in pitch. “My son knew of this?”
Maha’s lips turned down in frustration. “Your son agrees with me, Mother. He is of the opinion that all these antiquated rules against women should disappear, just like this,” and she snapped her fingers. “I hope a good future is waiting when one of the young princes like Abdullah is selected to be king. If it is my brother, he will put an end to this nonsense. Then, and only then, will I return to live in my country.”
I was about to say a lot more, to tell Maha that I happened to know that Abdullah had no desire to be king of Saudi Arabia, as my son is not a man who has that spark of desire to rule others, but just then I heard the voices of various family members as they made their way down the long corridor to the sitting area. Our company was arriving. The hour of the long-anticipated family party had arrived.
“We will talk more later, Maha,” I promised with a stern voice, as I scurried from the room to greet our guests. On my way I turned to Sara: “Dear sister, please organize my daughters and bring them to the party.”
Sara nodded in agreement. “Do not worry, Sultana,” she said. “We will join you soon.”
I kept a confident look until I walked from the room to make my way up the long corridor. That’s when my shoulders slumped in despair and exhaustion; I had witnessed another very unpleasant scene between my two beautiful daughters.
In recent years I had often found myself engrossed in wonderful daydreams of how my family would finally come together in harmony. I had hoped that my dreams would come true that night.
Mainly, I wished to impress my father with my well-kept home and obedient children. Over the years I had sought an agreeable relationship with the man who had given me life, despite the years he had spent inflicting pain on me, his youngest daughter. Before the horrible scene between Amani and Maha, I was delighted that my father had finally accepted an invitation to my home. But now, with Amani and Maha in such uncompromising moods, I knew if disorder erupted in his presence I would never see my father again. In his old age he had unwaveringly avoided conflict, and I knew he would certainly not tolerate an unpleasant scene between these two young women. Indeed, it would reflect badly on both myself and my husband if such a scene took place.
The thought passed through my mind that I should forget the party and seal myself behind the impenetrable steel door Kareem had recently installed.
This precaution was taken after Kareem had met with one of his cousins, an important official in Saudi intelligence in the Ministry of the Interior. Kareem’s cousin revealed alarming information about the interrogation of a young Saudi man who had crossed over from being a law-abiding citizen to one who had caught the dangerous fever of radicalism. The young man had recently spent time in Syria while fighting in that civil war. During his interrogation, he had divulged troubling intelligence, reporting that Al Qaeda operatives were slipping across our border with Yemen to move into small villages in our own kingdom. From those villages they had plans to set up raids against the members of the Saudi government. One of their favorite schemes was the plot to bring death to members of the Saudi royal family, people like Kareem and me and our children.
