by Jean Sasson
Ameera’s words spiked my curiosity, but I did not push my cousin to break her brother’s confidences. As I was saying my farewell, Ameera did reveal something of what I had already guessed. “But I will tell you that Italia is from Yemen.”
“That I assumed from her speech,” I acknowledged.
Not least, Italia’s name intrigued me. Traditionally, Arabic names are mostly given to offspring, with Muhammad and Ali being very popular for male children, yet Yemeni parents sometimes name their children after an event, a country, a dream, or even a memory. Never have I heard more peculiar names than those bestowed on Yemeni children. I was keen to discover where Italia’s unusual name originated, guessing that the story was bound to be fascinating. But just as I was posing my question, Ameera was interrupted by two of her three daughters, who had finished their school studies and wished to speak with their mother. The young princesses were obviously not privy to Italia’s personal story, for uneasiness streaked Ameera’s face. She hastily redirected our conversation, inquiring about the health of my father, for he had been unwell for the past few weeks.
My father was not yet an elderly man at that time, but he had suffered what was feared to be a stroke. Strokes are common with the men in our al-Saud family, so there was reason for worry.
“He has not left his bed for many days, and I admit I am nervous,” I acknowledged with a resigned shrug, for my father’s physicians would never confer with me, the daughter from whom he had been estranged for so many years.
However, Sara and several of my other sisters were at his palace for a visit at that very hour. Suddenly recalling that I had asked Sara to stop by my palace on her way home so we might discuss my father’s deteriorating condition, I quickly gathered my abaya, veil, and handbag, but not before reminding Ameera that I would be expecting her and Italia at my palace the following day.
I departed Ameera’s home with a giddy sense of anticipation, feeling a very strong magnet pulling me into Italia’s life. I did not fight the urge to better know this appealing Yemeni woman. How could I know that many lives in my family would be altered by our meeting?
***
When I arrived at my Riyadh palace, I was frustrated to learn that Sara had come and gone. I would have to wait until the following morning to learn of my father’s health. I had cheerfully anticipated Sara’s visit, as she is the closest of my sisters, and has been my most trusted confidante since childhood. Kareem was unavailable for a late-night visit, as he was in the company of several high-ranking prince cousins. My children were not yet married, but they were all in Europe on a skiing holiday with one of my older sisters and her family.
Our huge home was bustling with the activities of our palace staff, as there is someone in attendance twenty-four hours a day, but I was the only member of my family present. I remember feeling quite lonely, as I wished to see my family, but that was not to be. I asked for a cup of tea and a basket of sweets from one of the nicest and most bashful of our Indonesian servants.
After my tea and sweets arrived, I sat alone in the sitting room, my thoughts drifting to the one person I have missed for my entire adult life. That person is my mother. I was only a young girl when Mother died, and I have missed her every day since the moment she breathed her last. I closed my eyes, daydreaming, visualizing how the evening would be so special if only Mother could be sitting with me, sipping tea, laughing lowly, discussing my children, giving advice about my marriage, and guiding me through my young adulthood.
However blessed I am, my life would have been much sweeter with my mother by my side.
Although she would have been considered elderly in my Arab society, at that time, in fact, she would have only been sixty-two years old. Though lost in a reverie, thinking of Mother and how much I needed her, and how she would have loved my children, I forced my thoughts to return to the present, to consider my father’s health crisis and wonder if he might die long before expected.
I did not want my father to die.
I had not acknowledged my feelings to anyone, but I had become amenable to an improved relationship with a man I had once feared and disliked. The years had passed and, despite the fact he was not yet old, I had noticed a surprising shuffle when I had last seen him, a reminder that he was many years my senior, for my father was in his fortieth year when I was born. Sara had recently confided that his hearing had diminished. His aging touched my heart, increasing my affection for the man who had given me life.
I sighed as I recalled the unpleasant stages of our relationship.
I hated my father when I was a child, for I truly felt that he disliked me. My independent character does not allow me to love someone who does not love me. As an adult, I became accustomed to his disregard and convinced myself that I was indifferent. But as he aged, I matured, and I wished for a better relationship, despite the fact my father did not appear particularly keen to become the father for whom I had always longed, a father whose eyes would light with pleasure at the sight of his youngest child by my mother. With news of a possible stroke, however minor, I knew that the time was passing and the chance of a better relationship was slipping from my grasp.
It is impossible to befriend a corpse, Sultana, I reminded myself.
Little did I know that my father was experiencing similar feelings at that time. How could I know that one day our relationship would rekindle when he bequeathed a picture of my mother as a gift to his youngest child by his first wife. But that memorable occasion was some years away, so I retired to bed feeling lonely, unloved, and quite miserable.
I was awakened late the following morning by the persistent ringing of my private telephone, which is easily reached from my bed. I was not quite awake, but I was pleased to hear Sara’s voice and listened carefully when she told me that our father had not suffered a stroke but instead had been ill with food poisoning from a fish dinner. The food poisoning had created pains in the top of his head that alarmed father’s physician, who chose to explore all serious possibilities.
My expressed relief surprised Sara, but she did not inquire further when I changed the focus to tell her about the beautiful Yemeni woman named Italia. I hoped that Sara might join us for lunch, but my sister declined, saying she had some pressing work to do with a committee of royal women who were working in private to write a convincing presentation to offer to several of our younger male cousins who were in line for powerful positions in government. These modern-thinking male cousins were in agreement with their female cousins, who wanted to make it illegal for any Saudi Arabian girl under the age of eighteen to marry.
I believe it is inexcusable that there is no legal age limit set for girls to marry in Saudi Arabia. Although most families do not push their girls to marry before they become sixteen, should a father decide to accept a proposal for his eight-year-old daughter, no one in the government, or in our society, will attempt to block the marriage. Such decisions, regardless of how detrimental they might be to a child, are considered private matters and are under the full control of the child’s father or legal guardian.
Such marriages have caused unending anguish and life-threatening health emergencies. Many young girls who know nothing of adult life and the sexual relationships between men and women are terrified and brutalized when forced to have sex with adult men. Tragically, many give birth long before their young bodies are properly matured, creating lifelong health complications.
Sara had a special reason for waging war against child marriages. Prior to becoming Assad’s wife, the teenage Sara had been compelled by our father to marry a much older man; as a consequence of sexual assaults upon her youthful body, she had experienced grave mental and physical problems. Due to her personal experience, Sara and her husband, Assad, had made it their life’s work to push for a law to protect young girls from early marriage.
Theirs is a daunting task since there are many powerful men in Saudi Arabia working against such a law, saying it is the right of a Muslim man to marry a child.
There is
no more important work being done in my country.
I wished Sara success before ending our call and preparing for my guests. Several minutes prior to the time I expected Ameera and Italia, I received a second telephone call, this time from my cousin Ameera, who called to say she’d had a change of plan, as her seventeen-year-old daughter was hysterical after being told by her father that she was too young to attend school in Paris the following year. I could hear the young princess screeching in the background, along with crashing and banging that I assumed was the result of a full-blown teenage tantrum. Ameera lowered her voice and confided, “You know how we have spoiled these girls. All three of my daughters are accustomed to having all wishes granted.”
I replied with true empathy, “Yes, I understand.”
Most Saudi royal children are shamefully overindulged, either from the love of wealthy parents who want their children to have everything they desire, or from parental laziness. I have discovered that it is much easier to be a lax parent than a vigilant one, to give in to my children’s requests rather than explain the reasons they cannot and will not be allowed certain privileges. I suffered a fleeting image of a similar noisy performance thrown by my own two daughters. At such times, only their father could put an end to their childish commotions. Thankfully, my son, Abdullah, had never once given his parents heartache with such childlike feats.
I felt disappointment mounting that the luncheon I had planned was not to be, but then Ameera added some good news: “If you are fine with Italia coming alone, she is free and quite pleased to accept your invitation.”
Since meeting and talking with Italia was the purpose of the luncheon, I felt cheered. “Yes, please send Italia over. I will be waiting.”
“She is extremely shy, though, Sultana,” Ameera confided.
From Italia’s reticent demeanor the previous day, I believed my cousin’s words. But Italia’s reserved appearance had been misleading, as I was soon to discover.
When Italia disclosed her true motive for traveling to Saudi Arabia to meet with Saudi royals, I realized that the way she presented herself was very clever and she was destined to achieve her objective.
***
Italia’s arrival was announced by our doorman, an Egyptian man named Mahmoud whom Kareem had recently met, liked and promptly lured away from one of the finest hotels in Cairo. We had never before had a doorman, but Kareem believed that in addition to our staff of guards we needed a physically strong man whose only task was to watch our doorway and be accessible to protect our family. I was unconvinced at first but was soon pleased with the situation, for Mahmoud was a jolly man who could also be bold and very tough when necessary. I walked briskly from the sitting room to the entrance to our palace, and thought little of it when the unceasingly cheery Mahmoud turned to me with eyes twinkling with amusement when opening wide the heavy metal door so that Italia might make her entrance into our home.
I quickly understood the reason for Mahmoud’s merriment. I inhaled sharply when Italia stepped into the vast entrance hall; smiling broadly and dressed in a designer gown that was more suitable for the most exclusive royal wedding than a lunchtime visit. For sure, she looked elegant and poised. Her long hair was twisted into an intricate braid, with what appeared to be diamonds looped delicately through her dark tresses. She appeared even more beautiful than the day before, even though her elaborate attire was shockingly inappropriate. She failed to notice that I was wearing a simply designed yellow silk dress suitable for an ordinary luncheon.
The previous day, the young woman had looked every inch the educated daughter of a powerful Yemeni family. But her present ensemble put my previous opinion in doubt. She was garbed in the most costly and luxurious clothing available, in a manner most people routinely associate with the Saudi royals—though this is not the case.
Her guileless appearance brought my curiosity to the surface.
I realized that Italia’s former timid conduct had vanished, along with her serene and elegant manner, the moment she gushed a joyful greeting and pulled me eagerly to her bosom to deliver several enthusiastic kisses on my cheeks.
I patted her shoulder with my hand, pulling away and inviting her to follow me into the small sitting and dining area that provides a lovely view to our glorious Olympic-size pool, decorated with five large cascading fountains. Kareem had built this for our son, Abdullah, who is an accomplished swimmer.
While sampling on our lunch of fresh fruit and small tea sandwiches, I focused my attention on my guest. “Italia, please tell me about yourself.”
“No, Princess, please do tell me about yourself,” Italia said with a blinding smile, for her teeth were perfectly aligned and brilliantly white, causing me to wonder if she had undergone the kind of dental treatments common to Hollywood actresses who intentionally whiten their teeth.
I’m discomfited to admit that I sat speechless for a long moment, openly staring at Italia, for rarely does one see a perfect physical human specimen. Italia’s thick black hair glowed with shine and framed her flawlessly formed oval-shaped face. Sparkling amber eyes were set far apart, fringed by generous, dramatic brows. Her enviable nose could have been sculpted by Michelangelo, the incomparable Italian sculptor and painter who lived during the Renaissance, and who changed the world for all time with his immense genius for creating beauty. Italia’s lips were full, and her chin was feminine but strong. The tawny skin on her face and neck was soft and smooth like cream.
Now that I had the opportunity to scrutinize her features more closely, I reluctantly conceded that Italia was even more beautiful than Sara.
Filling the silence, Italia smiled once again. “I am very fascinated by your life, Princess.” She glanced at our pool and gestured toward some expensive furnishings in her sight, revealing that her interest was most likely related to our wealth and what our abundance provided.
“There is little to tell, Italia,” I answered, for I had no desire to go into detail about my life. “I will tell you my story in brief. I was born into the royal family and have many sisters and one brother. I married a royal cousin. I have three children. I am involved in pushing for reform for women and girls. This,” I said with a light shrug, “is my life.”
“What a marvelous life,” Italia said flippantly. “You must be envied by everyone you meet.”
“I hope not,“ I declared, with a sense of dismay that my visitor might be feeling envious of my lavish home.
Most Arabs do not seek envy out of fear that it will trigger the evil eye, bringing misfortune on one’s head. Few people in the Western world realize that a large number of Arab women believe in the evil eye. Remember, from the time we are young children we are fed the theory that such a force exists.
Wishing to change the subject, and thinking to calm her excited nature, I took Italia’s hand in my own and was not surprised to feel smooth skin and see long willowy fingers. Was it possible that this woman did not have one physical flaw? Even Sara has an imperfection. My sister’s big toes are inconsistent, with one toe large and unattractive and the other strangely small and misshapen. Our mother once told Sara that one of father’s prize horses had tramped on the smaller toe when Sara was a child. Whatever the reason for the disfigurement, Sara rarely wore sandals due to the conspicuous unsightliness of her disproportionate toe.
Unless there were hidden physical flaws under Italia’s clothing, everything of her physical self would spark admiration.
“Italia, you have prompted a great curiosity in me. Please do tell me everything about your life.”
Italia’s expression darkened, but only for a moment. “Everything, Mistress? Are you sure?” she asked.
“I want you to tell me all that does not make you feel uncomfortable, Italia.” I slowly smiled. “Let me tell you this. I am a woman with a passion to seek the truth of women’s lives, whether the truth reveals sorrows or joys. It is my life’s work to explore, then study, and finally to analyze the lives of women from wherever I find them. I ac
cumulate information so that I can speak knowingly of every country and culture, and to know precisely how much these countries value their women. Only then can I work with accurate knowledge to help achieve equality for every woman. While I am familiar with Yemen, and with the Yemeni people, I have lost touch since adulthood. But now I am striving to discover the changes that have come to your country, in particular the changes that affect its women.”
My words obviously struck an emotional cord, for Italia eyes brightened, threatening to tear. I soothed her, “But, Italia, tell me nothing that will create an unpleasant feeling in your heart.”
Italia stifled her tears and began to talk, choking with emotion, telling me, “I feel very badly, Princess. I can see that you are a genuine person, unlike many in your Saudi royal family.”
She stared at me for a long time, until I nodded my head and said, “Go on,” choosing not to take offense at her disagreeable view regarding other members of the al-Saud family, for even I have critical opinions concerning certain relatives.
“Princess Ameera has been so kind to me. Now you are generous to invite me to your home and to have such an interest in me, for Princess Ameera told me that you might ask many questions. I must tell you the truth.” Her tawny skin blushed a deep red, then she confessed, “I am a pretender, Mistress.”
Never had I expected her words and it took me a moment to respond. “How are you a pretender, Italia? Are you not Yemeni, as you claim?”
“Oh yes, yes! I am pure Yemeni,” Italia said with a touch of pride. “I am not a muwallad. There is no foreign blood in our family.”
The term muwallad means “an Arab who is not purely an Arab.” The expression is often used in Yemen to humiliate someone, to remind that person that he or she is not an authentic Yemeni, something shameful in that culture.
Although the people of Yemen are very welcoming to visitors, there is a noticeable discrimination whenever Yemeni men marry women from other cultures, and specifically if the bride is from Africa. Yemenis tend to express admiration for light-skinned Yemenis.
