by Jean Sasson
The tent was already overflowing with guests. Women from the Royal Family, literally weighed down by diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, were sharing a social event with commoners, a rare occasion. Lower classes of Saudi women are allowed to view our weddings so long as they remain veiled and do not socialize with the royals. One of my friends told me that sometimes men veil and join these women so that they can view our forbidden faces. Supposedly, all the male guests were being entertained at a major hotel in the city, enjoying the same socializing as these women guests: talking, dancing, and eating.
At weddings in Saudi Arabia, men celebrate at one location and women at another. The only men allowed at the women’s celebration are the groom, his father, the father of the bride, and a religious man to perform the short ceremony. In this case, the groom’s father was deceased, so only our father would accompany the groom when the time arrived for him to claim his bride.
Suddenly the slaves and servants began to uncover the food. There was a rush toward the feast. The veiled ones were the first to assault the food; these poor women were cramming food under their veils and into their mouths. Other guests began to sample smoked salmon from Norway, Russian caviar, quail eggs, and other gourmet delicacies. Four large tables swayed with the weight of the food: appetizers were on the left, main courses in the middle, desserts to the right, and off to the side were the liquid refreshments. No alcohol was visible, of course. But many of the royal women carried small jeweled flasks in their purses. Now and then, giggling, they would retire to the washrooms for a small sip.
Belly dancers from Egypt moved to the center of the tent. The crowd of women of all ages quieted and watched the dancers’ movements with mixed interest. This was my favorite part of the wedding, but most of the women seemed uncomfortable with the erotic display. We Saudis take ourselves too seriously and look at fun and laughter with suspicion. But I was startled when one of my older aunties leaped into the crowd and joined in the swaying of the belly dancers. She was amazingly skilled, but I heard the mumble of disapproval from several of my relatives.
Once again, the sound of drums filled the air, and I knew it was time for Sara to appear. All the guests looked to the villa entrance in expectation. It was not long before the doors opened wide and Sara, accompanied by our mother on one side and an aunt on the other, was escorted to the dais.
Since I last saw my sister, a cloudlike pink veil had been draped over her face, held in place by a pink pearl tiara. The sheer veil served only to enhance her remarkable beauty. There was a low hum as the guests whispered their approval of her appropriately tortured demeanor. After all, a young virgin bride should look the part: frightened to the core of her being.
Dozens of female relatives followed behind, filling the air with the desert sounds of excitement and celebration: the high-pitched trill that the women produced by flicking their tongues on the roofs of their mouths. Other women joined in with shrill cries. Sara stumbled but was kept upright by our mother. Soon, my father and the groom made their appearance. I knew the groom was older than my father, but I was decidedly revolted by my first sight of him. He looked ancient to my young eyes, and I thought he most resembled a weasel. I cringed at the thought of him physically touching my shy and sensitive sister.
The groom wore a leering smirk as he lifted my sister’s veil. She was too drugged to react, and stood motionless, facing her new master. The real marriage ceremony had been performed weeks prior to the wedding; no women had been present. Only men had participated in that ceremony, for it was the signing of dowry agreements and exchange of legal papers. Today, the few words would be spoken that would complete the marriage rite. The religious man looked at Father as he spoke the token words that Sara was now married to the groom in exchange for the agreed-upon dowry. Then he glanced at the groom who, in response, replied that he accepted Sara as his wife and that she, from this time forward, would be under his care and protection. None of the men looked at Sara at any time during the ceremony. Reading passages from the Koran, the man of religion then blessed my sister’s marriage. All at once, the women began to shriek and make the sound of ululating with their tongues. Sara was married. The men looked on, pleased and smiling. As Sara stood motionless, the groom removed a small pouch from the pocket of his thobe (full-length, shirt-like garment worn by Saudi men) and tossed gold coins to the guests. I shivered as I watched him smugly accept their congratulations at his marriage to such a beautiful woman. He took my sister by the arm and hurriedly began to lead her away.
Sara’s eyes locked onto mine as she passed my way; I knew someone should help her, but I felt certain no one would. Quite suddenly, I remembered Sara’s words to Father: “Victory breeds hatred, for the conquered are unhappy.” In my grieving mind, I found no consolation in the knowledge that the groom would never know happiness in such a bitterly unjust union. There could not be punishment enough for him.
Chapter Four: Divorce
Father forbade us from visiting Sara for the first three months of her marriage. She needed time to adjust to her new life and responsibilities, he said, and the sight of her family would serve only to inflame her desire to return to a useless life of dreams. Our vocal distress over her bondage drew nothing more than passionless nods. Sara, in Father’s view, was doing what women are born to do: serve and pleasure the male and produce his children.
Sara had taken nothing from her room. Perhaps she understood that the presence of her books and other objects of delight would only make her present actuality more bleak. To me, it was as if Sara were dead; her absence left a black, gaping hole in my life. I mourned her passing by spending long hours in her room with her possessions. I began to take an interest in Sara’s hobbies and felt myself assuming parts of her personality. I read her diary, and her dreams felt as if they were my own; I wept with the fury of one who questions the wisdom of a God who allows evil to conquer the innocent.
My mother instructed that Sara’s door be locked after she found me in Sara’s bed, in her nightdress, reading her art books. We did not have to suffer through Father’s imposed three-month waiting period to see Sara. Five weeks after her wedding, she attempted suicide.
I was in the garden, talking with some of the animals in our newly constructed private zoo, when suddenly Omar tripped completely out of his sandals in his haste to enter the front gate. His skin, which was usually deep bronze, looked pasty white. He brushed off his thobe and beat the sand out of his sandals on the side of the wall. He told me to run and find my mother. Mother had a certain sense about her children, and when she saw Omar, she asked him what was wrong with Sara.
No Arab will tell a relative the truth when a family member is sick, dying, or dead. We are people who simply cannot handle being the bearer of bad tidings. If a child dies, the unlucky person who receives the task of notifying the family will begin by saying the child is not feeling well. After questioning, the person will acknowledge that a trip to the doctor is necessary and then later admit that the child is in the hospital. After intense pleas from the family members for additional information, the messenger will finally say the illness is serious and the family had best prepare for a journey to the bedside of the loved one. Later, the person will painfully admit that the loved one’s life is in grave danger. It might take a period of several hours to discover the exact degree of seriousness. But no one will ever admit to the death of a loved one. The furthest an Arab will go in delivering bad news is to prepare the family for worse news from the doctor.
Omar told my mother that Sara had eaten some rotten meat and was now hospitalized in a private clinic in Jeddah. Father was sending Mother on a private plane within the hour. Mother tightened her lips and turned in a rush to gather her abaaya (cloak) and veil.
I screamed and clung to Mother so that she relented and allowed me to go—with the promise that I would not make a scene in the clinic if Sara was desperately ill. I promised and ran to Sara’s room, pounding and kicking at the locked door until one of the serv
ants found the key. I wanted to take Sara’s favorite art book to her.
Omar drove us by Father’s office since he had forgotten to collect our travel papers. In Saudi Arabia, a man must write a letter granting permission for the females in his family to travel. Without the papers, we might be stopped at the customs office and prevented from boarding the plane. Father also sent our passports since, as he told Mother, it might be necessary for us to take Sara to London for treatment. Rotten meat? London? I knew what was rotten, and it was Father’s story. I thought my sister must surely be dead.
We flew to Jeddah in a small private plane. The ride was smooth, but the atmosphere inside the cabin was clouded with tension. My mother said little and kept her eyes shut for most of the flight. Only a few years before, she had taken her first automobile ride. Now I saw her lips moving and I knew that double prayers were being spirited to God: Mother was praying first for Sara to be alive, and second for the plane to take us safely to Sara.
The pilot and co-pilot were American and I was immediately attracted to their open, friendly manner. They asked me if I wanted to sit in the cockpit. Mother nodded a reluctant permission to my frenzied foot stamping and arm flapping. I had never sat in the cockpit before. Ali always sat in the cockpit.
At first I was frightened at the sight of the open sky, and the plane felt like a toy between us and the hard earth. I gave a small cry of alarm and backed up. John, the larger of the two Americans, gave me a reassuring smile, and patiently explained the functions of the various buttons and gadgets. To my surprise, I found myself leaning over his shoulder, completely at ease. For one of the few occasions in my young life, I felt calm and comfortable in the presence of men. Sadly, I was fearful of my father, and I detested Ali and my half-brothers. It was a strange feeling, yet I felt intoxicated with the knowledge that men, whom I had been brought up to think of as gods, could be so ordinary and non-threatening. This was something new to think about. When I looked out the window of the airplane, I understood what grips the heart of the eagle as it soars overhead, and I experienced a wonderful sense of freedom. My thoughts drifted to Sara and the shocking realization that birds and beasts were freer than my sister. I made a vow to myself that I would be the master of my life, no matter what actions I would have to take or pain I would have to endure.
I joined my mother for the landing of the plane; she gathered me into her loving arms and held me tenderly as the plane taxied to the terminal. She was veiled, but I knew her every expression, and I heard her breathe a long, tortured sigh. I said good-bye to the kindly Americans. I hoped they would fly us back to Riyadh, for I felt a camaraderie with the two men who had lent such importance to a child’s foolish and feverish questions.
Arriving at the clinic, we heard wails and crying as we walked through the long corridor. Mother stepped up her pace and gripped my hand so tightly I wanted to complain. Sara was alive, but barely. We were distraught to discover that she had tried to take her life by placing her head in the gas oven. She was very quiet, deathly pale. Her husband was not there, but he had sent over his mother. Now, in a loud voice, the old woman began to scold Sara harshly for embarrassing her son and his family. She was a mean old hag. I wanted to scratch her face and see her run, but I remembered my promise to Mother. Instead I stood, barely breathing from anger, patting Sara’s smooth, still hands.
Mother threw her veil over her head and faced the old woman. She had fretted over many possibilities, but the discovery that her daughter had attempted suicide was unexpected and devastating. When she turned in a cold fury to the husband’s mother, I wanted to stamp and cheer. She stopped the woman cold when she asked what her son had done to make a young girl want to take her life. She ordered her to leave Sara’s bedside, for this was no place for the ungodly. The old woman left without replacing her veil. We could hear her voice rise in anger as she cried out to God for sympathy.
Mother turned to me and saw my admiring smile. I was awed by her anger, and for a brief, shining moment, I felt God would not desert us. Sara would be saved. But I knew Mother’s life would be one of misery when Father heard of her words. Knowing Father, he would be angry, not sympathetic, toward Sara for her desperate act, and he was sure to be furious with Mother for defending her daughter. In Saudi Arabia, the elderly are truly revered. No matter what they do or say, or how they behave, no one dares confront someone of age. When she faced the old woman, my mother had been a tigress, protecting her young. My heart felt as though it would burst from pride at her courage.
After three days, without calling once, Sara’s husband came to the clinic to claim his property. By the time he arrived, Mother had discovered the source of Sara’s agony. She confronted her son-in-law with contempt. Sara’s new husband was sadistic. He had subjected my sister to sickening sexual brutality until she felt her only escape was death. But after Father traveled to Jeddah, even he was repelled when he heard of his daughter’s sufferings. But Father agreed with his son-in-law that a wife belonged with her husband. Sara’s husband promised Father that his relations with her would conform to a life of normalcy.
Mother’s hand trembled and her mouth stretched in a howl when Father told her of his decision. Sara began to weep and tried to leave the bed, saying she did not wish to live. She threatened to slit her wrists if forced to return to her husband. Mother stood over her daughter like a mountain and, for the first time in her life, defied her husband. She told him that Sara would never return to the house of a monster, and that she, Mother, would go to the king and the Council of Religious Men with the story, and neither would allow such a matter to continue. Father threatened Mother with divorce. She stood fast and told him to do whatever he had to do, but her daughter would not return to swim in such evil.
Father stood, unblinking. He probably realized that in all likelihood, Sara would be forced by the men of religion to return to her husband. If the past were any precedent, they would advise the husband to deal with his wife in the manner spelled out by the Koran, and then they would turn their backs to such a disagreeable situation. Father stood, staring, analyzing Mother’s resolve. Askance at her apparent resoluteness, and wanting to avoid public interference in a family matter, for once in their married life, he gave in. Since we were of the Royal Family and he did not wish to sever his ties with my father, the husband reluctantly agreed to divorce Sara.
Islam gives the right of divorce to men, without any question of motive. Yet it is very difficult for a woman to divorce her husband. Had Sara been forced to file for the separation, many difficulties would have arisen, for the religious authorities might have ruled, “You might dislike a thing for which Allah has meant for your own good”, and forced Sara to remain with her husband. But Sara’s husband relented and uttered the words “I divorce you” three times in the presence of two male witnesses. The divorce was final in a matter of moments.
Sara was free! She returned to our home. Every upheaval is a transition. My young world was transformed by Sara’s wedding, attempted suicide, and divorce. Fresh thoughts and ideas began to grow in my mind; I was never to think as a child again.
For hours I pondered the primitive traditions surrounding marriage in my land. Numerous factors determine the marriageability of a girl in Saudi Arabia: her family name, her family fortune, her lack of deformities, and her beauty. Social dating is taboo, so a man must depend on his eagle-eyed mother and sisters to constantly seek out proper matches for him. Even after the promise to marry is made and the date is set, rarely does a girl meet her future husband prior to the wedding, though there are times when individual families allow the exchange of pictures.
If a girl is of a good family and without deformity, she will enjoy a number of marriage proposals. If she is a beauty, many men will send their mothers or fathers to beg for marriage, for beauty is a great commodity for women in Saudi Arabia. Of course, no scandal can mar the reputation of the beauty, or her desirability will fade; such a girl will find herself married as the third or fourth w
ife to an old man in a faraway village.
Many Saudi men leave the final decision of the marriage of their daughters to their wives, knowing they will make the best match possible for the family. Still, often the mother too will insist upon an unwanted marriage, even as her daughter protests. After all, she herself had married a man she feared, and her life had progressed without the anticipated horror or pain. Love and affection do not last, the mother will caution her daughter; it is best to marry into a family that they know. And then there are men, such as my father, who base their decision of their daughters’ marriages upon possible personal or economic gain through the union, and there is no higher authority to question the verdict. Sara, for all her beauty, intelligence, and childhood dreams, in the end was no more than a pawn in my father’s schemes for wealth.
This intimate view of my beloved sister’s predicament filled me with a new resolve: It was my thought that we women should have a voice in the final decision on issues that would alter our lives forever. From this time, I began to live, breathe, and plot for the rights of women in my country so that we could live with the dignity and personal fulfillment that are the birthright of men.
Chapter Five: Ali
A few months after Sara’s return, my oldest sister, Nura, convinced Father that Sara and I needed to see the world outside Saudi Arabia. None of us had been able to rouse Sara from her chronic depression, and Nura thought a trip would be just the right medicine. As to the extent of my travels, I had visited Spain twice, but I had been so young, my recollections did not count.
Nura, married to one of our first king’s grandsons, pleased Father with her marriage and her calm, placid outlook on life. She did as she was told, no questions asked. Father actually grew fond of her as the years passed, for few of his daughters had Nura’s complaisant qualities. Since Sara’s divorce, Father held Nura up as a constant reminder to the rest of his daughters. She had married a stranger and her marriage had proven to be satisfactory. Of course, the real reason was that her husband was considerate and attentive.
