by Jean Sasson
Kareem had discovered my plan when Marci divulged the secret to another maid in the house. This maid had gone directly to Noorah, and my mother-in-law had frantically located Kareem in the office of a client and hysterically reported that I was going to kill her unborn grandchild.
Our child was saved by mere moments. I would have to reward Marci.
Kareem herded me into the house with curses. In our room he covered me with kisses and we wept and made our peace. It had taken a series of mishaps to lead us to our peak of happiness. Miraculously, all had ended well.
Chapter Fourteen: Birth
The most complete and powerful expression of life is birth. The acts of conceiving and birthing are more profound and beautiful than any miracle of art. This I learned as I waited for our first child with such great joy and happiness.
Kareem and I had meticulously planned the birth. No detail was too small to take into account. We made reservations to travel to Europe four months before the expected date of arrival. I would give birth at Guy’s Hospital in London.
As with so many carefully laid plans, minor occurrences prevented our departure. Kareem’s mother, blinded by a new veil made of thicker fabric than usual, sprained her ankle when she stumbled over an old bedouin woman sitting in the souq; a close cousin on the verge of signing an important contract requested that Kareem postpone his departure; and my sister Nura frightened the family with what the doctor thought was an appendicitis attack. Once we were past these crises, false labor pains began. My physician forbade me to travel. Kareem and I accepted the inevitable and set about making arrangements for our child to be born in Riyadh.
Unfortunately, the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Centre that would offer us royals the latest medical care had yet to open. I would give birth at a smaller institution in the city, best known for harboring germs and for its lackadaisical staff.
Since we were of the Royal Family, we had options not available to other Saudis. Kareem arranged for three rooms in the maternity ward to be converted into a royal suite. He hired local carpenters and painters. Interior decorators from London were flown in, tape measures and fabric samples in hand.
My sisters and I were guided through the unit by the proud hospital administrator. The suite glowed a heavenly blue with silk bed covers and drapes. An elaborate baby bed with matching silk coverlets was fastened with heavy bolts to the floor, in the event that a member of the negligent staff might carelessly tip the bed and toss our precious child to the floor! Nura bent double with laughter when told of the precaution and warned me that Kareem would drive the family insane with his schemes to protect our child.
I sat speechless when Kareem advised me that a staff of six would soon arrive from London to assist me in the birth. A well-known London obstetrician, along with five highly skilled nurses, had been paid an enormous fee to travel to Riyadh three weeks prior to the estimated delivery date.
Since I was a motherless child, Sara moved into the palace toward the end of my pregnancy. She watched me as I watched her. I observed her carefully, absorbing the sad changes in my dear sister. I told Kareem I feared she would never recover from her abhorrent marriage; her quiet moods were now a permanent component of what had once been a thoroughly cheerful and joyous character.
How unfair life could be! I, by my very aggressiveness, could have better dealt with an abusive husband, for bullies tend to be less forceful in the face of someone who will stand up to them. Sara, with her peaceful soul and gentle spirit, had been an easy target for the arrogance of her untamed husband.
But I was thankful for her smooth presence. As my body swelled, I became jittery and unpredictable. Kareem, in his excitement over fatherhood, had lost all his good sense.
Due to the presence of Kareem’s brother Asad and various cousins who came and went at will, Sara had been careful to veil when she left our apartments on the second floor. The single men of the family were housed in another wing, but they roamed the palace at all hours. After Sara’s third day in our home, Noorah sent word through Kareem that there was no need for her to veil when she entered the main living areas of the villa or the gardens. I was pleased for any loosening of the tight restraints on women that so encumbered our lives. Sara was apprehensive in the beginning, but soon shed the excess covering of black with ease.
One late evening Sara and I were reclining in wicker lounges, enjoying the cool night air of the common garden. (There are women’s gardens and common, or family, gardens on most Saudi palace grounds.) Unexpectedly, Asad and four acquaintances returned from a late-night appointment.
When she heard the men approaching, Sara turned her face to the wall, for she had no desire to bring disgrace on the family by showing herself to strangers. I felt no inclination to emulate her movement, so I loudly proclaimed our presence by shouting to Asad that there were unveiled women in the garden. The men with Asad hurriedly passed our way without a glance and entered one of the side doors to the men’s sitting room. As a courtesy, Asad casually walked our way to speak and inquire of Kareem’s whereabouts when his eyes happened to rest on Sara’s face.
His physical reaction was so sudden that I feared he had been stricken with a heart attack. His body jerked so grotesquely that I moved as rapidly as my belly allowed and shook his arm to get his attention. I was genuinely concerned. Was he ill? Asad’s face was flushed and he seemed unable to move without direction; I led him to a chair and called out loudly for one of the servants to bring water.
When no one responded, Sara jumped to her feet and rushed inside to get the water herself. Asad, embarrassed, tried to leave, but I was convinced that he was about to faint. I insisted he stay. He said he felt no pain, yet he could not explain his sudden loss of movement.
Sara returned with a glass and a bottle of cold mineral water. Without looking at him, she poured a drink and raised the glass to his lips. Asad’s hand brushed Sara’s fingers. Their eyes locked. The glass slipped from her grasp and crashed to the ground. Sara swept past me as she ran into the villa.
I left Asad to his friends, who had become impatient and begun to empty into the garden. They were more flustered upon viewing my face than my huge, protruding belly. I defiantly waddled by them, and made a point of greeting them full in the face. They responded with embarrassed mumbles.
Kareem awoke me at midnight. When he arrived at the palace, he had been intercepted by Asad. Kareem wanted to know from me what had happened in the garden. I sleepily related the evening’s occurrence and inquired about Asad’s health.
I sat up with a start when Kareem replied that Asad was insisting on marrying Sara. He had announced to Kareem that he would never know happiness if Sara were not his wife. This, from the playboy of all playboys! A man who had, only a few short weeks earlier, saddened his mother when he vehemently swore never to marry.
I was astonished. I told Kareem that it was easy to surmise Asad’s attraction to Sara by his behavior in the garden, but that this insistence on marriage was unbelievable! After a few moments of visual pleasure? I dismissed it as nonsense and turned back on my side.
While Kareem was showering, I rethought the event and left our bed. I knocked on Sara’s door. Since there was no answer, I slowly pushed the door open. My sister was sitting on the balcony staring at a star-filled sky.
With great difficulty, I maneuvered myself into a corner of the balcony and sat in a silent stupor at this turn of events. Without looking in my direction, Sara spoke with certainty.
“He wishes to marry me.”
“Yes,” I agreed in a small voice.
With a burning look in her eye Sara continued. “Sultana, I saw my life ahead of me when I looked into his soul. This is the man Huda saw when she said I would know love. She also said that as a result of this love, I would bring six little ones into the world.”
I closed my eyes in an attempt to bring to mind the comments made by Huda on that day long ago in our parents’ home. I remembered talk of Sara’s unrealized amb
itions and the mention of marriage, but little else of the conversation remained fresh in my mind. I shivered when I realized that much of what Huda had predicted had come true.
I felt compelled to dismiss the idea of love at first sight. But I suddenly recalled my charged emotions the day I first met Kareem. I bit my tongue and made no sound.
Sara patted my belly. “Go to bed, Sultana. Your child needs rest. My destiny will come to me.” She turned her gaze back to the stars. “Tell Kareem that Asad should go and speak with Father of this matter.”
When I returned to the bed, Kareem was awake. I repeated Sara’s words, and he shook his head in wonder and muttered that life was indeed strange, then wrapped his arms around my belly. Sleep came easily to us, for our lives were fixed on a carefully charted course, and neither of us expected unknowns. The following morning I left Kareem to his shaving and moved heavily down the staircase. I heard Noorah before I saw her. She, as was her favorite pastime, was quoting a proverb. I cursed under my breath but listened quietly at the doorway.
“ ‘The man who marries a woman for her beauty will be deceived; he who marries a woman for good sense can truly say he is married.’ ”
I had no feeling left to fight so I thought to cough to announce my presence. When Noorah began to speak again I changed my mind. I held my breath and strained my ears to hear her words.
“Asad, the girl has been married before. She was quickly divorced. Who knows the reason? Reconsider, my son, you can wed whom you wish. You will be wise to start with a woman that is fresh, not one that is wilted from use! Besides, my son, you see the ball of fire that is Sultana. Can her sister be of a different substance?”
I followed my stomach into the room, my heart aflutter. She was cautioning Asad against Sara. Not only that, the leopard had not changed its spots; in secret Noorah still hated me. I was a bitter potion for her to swallow.
Aware of Asad’s carefree character, I had not been in favor of his and Sara’s love. Now I would be a resolute supporter of their wishes. Relieved, I could easily see by Asad’s expression that nothing would alter his plans. He was a man possessed.
The conversation folded when they saw my face, for I have difficulty in clothing anger; I was furious that Noorah assumed that grief would arise from her son’s union with my sister. Surely, I could not argue against my own rebellious nature. I had assumed the role at an early age and had no inclination to alter. But for Sara to be labeled with my reputation was maddening!
In my youth, I had heard many old women say: “If you stand near a blacksmith, you will get covered in soot, but if you stand near a perfume seller, you will carry an aroma of scent with you.” I realized that as far as Noorah was concerned, Sara was carrying the soot of her younger sister. My feeling was now bottomless rage at my mother-in-law.
Sara’s beauty had sparked jealousy in many of our sex. I knew that her appearance closed the possibility of any consideration given to her gentle character and blazing intellect. Poor Sara! Asad stood up and nodded slightly in my direction. He excused himself from our company. Noorah looked like someone suffering from a dagger wound when he turned back to her and said, “The decision is made. If I am acceptable to her and her family, no one can delay me.”
Noorah yelled at his back about the insolence of youth and tried to layer him with guilt when she exclaimed that she was not long for the world; her heart was weakening by the day. When Asad ignored her obvious ploy, she shook her head in sorrow. Brows knitted, she thoughtfully sipped at a cup of coffee. No doubt she was plotting against Sara as she had against the Lebanese woman.
In a state of high emotion, I rang the bell for the cook and ordered yogurt and fruit for breakfast. Marci came into the room and relieved the pain of my swollen feet with her skilled fingers. Noorah attempted conversation, but I was too angry to respond. As I began to nibble fresh strawberries—flown in daily from Europe—a labor pain took me to the floor. I was frightened and screamed in agony, for this crushing pain was too soon, and far too severe. I knew the pain should begin as a twinge, as the false labor that had nudged me in the past.
Chaos erupted as Noorah called out in one breath for Kareem, for Sara, for the special nurses, and for the servants. In moments, Kareem lifted me in his arms and bundled me into the back of an extra-long limousine, which had been especially converted for this event. The seats had been ripped out and a bed built in on one side. Three small seats had been made ready to accommodate Kareem, Sara, and a nurse. The physician from London and the other four nurses had been alerted and were following in a separate limousine.
I clutched my back while the nurse tried in vain to monitor my heartbeat. Kareem yelled at the driver to go faster; then he reversed his orders and screamed for him to go slower, declaring in a loud voice that his reckless driving would kill us all. He thumped the poor man on the back of the head when he allowed another driver to cut in front of our car.
Kareem began to curse himself for not arranging a police escort. Sara did her best to calm Kareem, but he was like an unleashed storm. Finally, the British nurse spoke loudly in his face; she advised him that his conduct was harmful to his wife and child. She threatened to remove him from the vehicle if he did not quiet himself.
Kareem, a prominent royal prince who had known no criticism in his life from a woman, entered a state of shock and was speechless. We all breathed a sigh of relief.
The hospital administrator and a large staff that had been alerted by the household were waiting at the side door. The administrator was delighted that our child would be born in his institution, for in those days many of the young royals traveled abroad for the event of birth.
My labor was long and difficult, for I was young and small in size and my baby was stubborn and large. I recall little of the birth itself; my mind was seduced with drugs and my memory is hazy. The nervous tension of the staff inflated the mood of the room, and I heard the physician insult his staff time and again. Without doubt, they were, as were my husband and family, praying for the birth of a son. Their reward would be great if a male child appeared; if a female child was born, there would be great disappointment. As far I was concerned, a female child was my desire. My land was bound to change, and I felt myself smile with anticipation of the agreeable life my baby daughter would know.
The cheering of the physician and his staff awoke me from a shadowy hollow. A son was born! I was sure I had heard the physician whisper to his head nurse, “The rag-head in the dress will fill my pockets for this prize!” My mind protested at this insult to my husband, but a deep slumber took me from the room and the remark was not recalled for many weeks. By that time, Kareem had awarded the physician a Jaguar and fifty thousand English pounds. His nurses were presented with gold jewelry from the souqs along with five thousand English pounds each. The jubilant hospital administrator from Egypt received a substantial contribution to be used for the maternity wing. He was overjoyed with a bonus of three months’ salary.
All thoughts of a daughter vanished when my yawning son was placed in my arms. A daughter would come later. This male child would be taught different and better ways than the generation before him. I felt the power of my intentions creating his future. He would not be backward in his thinking, his sisters would be given a place of honor and respect, and he would know and love his partner before he wed. The vast possibilities of his accomplishments glowed and glittered as a new star. I told myself that many times in history, one man has created change that influenced millions. I swelled with pride as I considered the good to mankind that would flow from the tiny body in my arms. Without doubt, the new beginning of women in Arabia could start with my own blood.
Kareem gave little thought to the future of his son. He was enamored of fatherhood and quite rash with foolish statements regarding the number of sons we would produce together. We were mindless with joy!
Chapter Fifteen: Dark Secrets
The completion of our birth ends in death. Life begins with only one passageway;
however, there are unlimited means of exit. The usual and hoped-for method of departure follows the wondrous fulfillment of life’s promise. When death claims one blooming with life and cause for hope, it is the saddest of all events. When blossoming youth ends as the result of another man’s hand, it is the worst of life.
At the rapturous occasion of the birth of my son, I was confronted with the mindless death of a young and innocent girl. Kareem and the medical staff attempted to cloister me from the other Saudi women who were short steps away from my suite. While my son slept beside me, with an entourage for protection, other sons and daughters were kept in the nursery. Curiosity about their life stories lured me from my rooms. As with most of the royals, I had led a life sheltered from ordinary citizens, and now my inquisitive nature led me to conversation with these women.
If my childhood had been bleak, the lives of most Saudi women had been more bleak, I soon learned. My life was ruled by men, but there was protection of sorts because of my family name. The majority of women gathered around the nursery window had no voice in their destiny.
I was eighteen years old at the time of my first child’s birth. I met girls as young as thirteen nursing their young. Other young women no more than my own age were delivering their fourth or fifth infant.
One young girl intrigued me. Her black eyes were dulled with pain as she gazed at the mass of screaming infants. She stood so quiet for such a lengthy time that I knew her eyes did not see what was before her; instead she was immersed in a drama far from the spot on which we were standing.
I learned that she was from a small village, not distant from the city. Normally, women in her tribe gave birth in their homes, but she had been in labor five long days and nights, and her husband had driven her to the city for medical assistance. I befriended her over a period of several mornings and discovered that she had been married at the age of twelve to a man of fifty-three. She was the third wife, but much favored by her husband.
