by Jean Sasson
As a woman with olive skin, married to a man with the same, together creating two beautiful daughters and a handsome son, all with olive complexions, I am baffled by the Yemeni idea that lighter is better. Although many people in our world prize very white skin, I can truthfully say that some of the most beautiful women, and handsomest men, that I have personally seen have exquisite olive skin.
I have traveled to many countries and have known human beings of every shade, and I know that there is beauty in every color.
Italia continued, “Here is the issue. While I am truthful when I say that I am a Yemeni, I am pretending to be someone I am not. Honestly, Princess, for many years now I have been imitating a wealthy woman I once met. I assumed her personality, which is several sizes too large for me, for she was real and I am not. Since I was a young woman, there have been important reasons for me to convince others that I am of a wealthy family. I do not have to say that I am wealthy, and those words do not form on my tongue. I act it. I act wealthy. I had very little education as a child, but as an adult I have self-educated by reading newspapers, magazines, and books belonging to others. To give my character authenticity, I have accumulated lovely clothes and a few good jewels from previous marriages. It is easy enough to convince people who do not know my background that I am an influential woman with great wealth. So, when people assume this persona is true, I go along and never deny. No one ever questions me as to my wealth, but I intentionally make them feel my wealth.”
Italia’s head bent low, nearly to her chest, and her voice lowered. “Princess, I cannot look into your eyes when I tell you my truth.” Her previously strong voice had become a light whisper. “Princess, I was born a deprived child of an impoverished Yemeni farming family.”
She hesitated, raising her eyes to peek at my face, obviously assuming that I would shout for Mahmoud to come inside and escort such an unimportant woman of modest means from my palace.
Italia did not know me well or she would have known that I do not judge anyone by the size of their bank account or the circumstances of their birth.
I smiled.
She gasped in surprise at my reaction.
“Italia, you are right about one thing. I assumed by your wardrobe and by your manner that you came from wealth.” I nodded knowingly, speaking from my heart. “Dear Italia, here is a good lesson for you. Every human being who has ever lived, and who will ever be born, is born in circumstances determined by God. No human being has ever had the opportunity to select a family, country, or culture.”
I chuckled. “God’s decision to place me in my mother’s womb so that I might be born a wealthy Saudi princess was out of my control. I could have easily been born destitute, weak, and ugly in a small village in a poor land.” I gestured with my hand at our opulent surroundings. “All of this was given to me. Did I create the oil that finances the lavish palaces, luxurious buildings, and infrastructure of Saudi Arabia? No. I have contributed nothing to make Saudi Arabia what it is today. My wealth is unearned, so I cannot take credit for a single Saudi riyal issued or spent in this country. But I do help many young girls by spending my wealth to guarantee their education and the possibilities for a good life.” I stroked the back of her hand. “Just as God gave you great physical beauty, he gave me great wealth. We are to thank God, and to accept everyone we meet as an equal in life.”
For a few moments, Italia did not speak, although she appeared to be absorbing my words. Then, unexpectedly, a burst of words broke through. Emotional declarations suddenly flowed from Italia, a woman finally free from fear of condemnation for the circumstances of her birth.
I was soon to realize that her journey had been far more fascinating, and challenging, than that of the wife, daughter, or sister of an influential man. A number of people whom I admire greatly have taught me that being born poor often takes a person on a stimulating journey of discovery, for destitution frequently creates great energy—the kind of energy required to pull oneself out of the deep dark sea of poverty.
“Let me tell you everything, Princess,” Italia said.
“Yes, I have all afternoon to visit with you and to hear your story,” I replied. Then I suggested, “Let’s move from the table and sit in an easy chair.”
Italia followed me to relax in a more comfortable seating arrangement, smiling easily for the first time. I believed that she felt relief to be hurling aside a burden she had carried for so long. As soon as we settled comfortably, she began her story.
“Princess, my unusual story begins with my name. Italia was suggested by Mother’s favorite brother. That brother had had the pleasure of traveling to Europe with an English capitalist who had spent time in Yemen, where he had become affiliated with a prominent Yemeni entrepreneur. The Englishman became rich after connecting a local Yemeni manufacturer with vital English business connections.
“My uncle began his employment as a tea boy, but his clever nature was soon evident and he rose in rank, assuming a middle-tiered position in the Yemeni company managed by the Englishman. This gentleman grew to depend upon his Yemeni sidekick, and when he, the Englishman, chose to return to Europe, specifically to purchase a home in Liguria, Italy, my uncle was surprised with an invitation to visit Europe as well.”
I knew something about Liguria, for Kareem and I had traveled to that area with Sara and Assad a few years previously. We had stayed in the famous resort town of Portofino and had explored the entire region. That area of Italy is famous for its beauty—even in one of Europe’s most beautiful countries. Incomparable Tuscany is part of the vicinity, as well as Genoa, the hometown of the famous seagoing explorer Christopher Columbus.
“As you know,” Italia continued, “in those long-ago days, obtaining a tourist visa to Europe or to America was not so difficult a task as it is in today’s fearful world.”
“That is true,” I replied.
“Anyhow, my uncle became so besotted with the area, and with Italy, that he made use of his resourceful disposition to acquire an Italian sponsor so that he might remain in the Tuscany region. He was a man who could get along with anyone, and so he lived and prospered in Italy for more than twenty years. After his father died of old age, he returned to Yemen. He cared for his mother, as he was the only remaining son alive, and took charge of the family.
“His return coincided with my birth. My mother, who had been a baby when her older brother left for Italy, was astonished that my uncle took such a keen interest in her first child, particularly since I was a girl. There was another reason, as well.
“Prior to my birth, her brother could speak of little other than the great beauty he had encountered in Italy, the astonishing landscape of rolling hills; he talked, too, of the native people, who seemed to be so happy in this sunny land. Indeed, he praised Italy and Italians so much that many villagers began to avoid him; they grew tired of hearing about a paradise on Earth that they knew they would never see or experience for themselves.
“But after I was born, my uncle became obsessed with the name to be given to my mother’s first child. Now that I think of it, my uncle was a man who was easily obsessed, first with Italy, and then with me.
“Finally, he persuaded his brother-in-law, my father, to name his newborn daughter Italia, after the country of Italy. My uncle assured my parents that if they bestowed the name Italia on their daughter, I would personally benefit from the splendor that was Italy. With such a name, he claimed, the girl was certain to be a great beauty who might attract the attention of a wealthy land-owning Yemeni, who would take me as a wife.
“My parents assumed that my uncle knew everything. They were believers in his power only because he had knowledge from years of travel and a nice amount of money he had saved from his years working abroad. After arriving in Yemen, he had built his mother a new home and had taken her to Saudi Arabia to be treated for cancer at a large hospital. She was cured, in fact. There was a lot of respect for such a generous man, with enough money in his pocket to help out his fami
ly and friends. My parents were not particularly keen on the odd name Italia, but they were superstitious and very afraid that if they did not listen to my uncle’s advice I might well be born ugly.”
Italia laughed loudly. “Despite the name, the great irony is that I was born ugly!”
“You were what?”
“Ugly. I was born ugly.”
“Do not tell me that lie!” I exclaimed.
“It is true. I was an ugly baby and an ugly child. But because they respected my uncle, I was crowned with the name Italia. My poor uneducated parents anticipated that I would change from a red-faced, unattractive baby into an astounding beauty.” Italia raised her dramatic brows high. “That did not happen. I was ugly at birth and remained ugly for many years.”
“I really do not believe that you could ever be called ugly, Italia!” I said with a chuckle.
Italia’s voice was suddenly a falsetto. “Yes, I was. Ugly.” She grimaced and began gesturing with her hand, pointing to her face. “In my early years, I was small and bony, with outsize teeth, a nose too large for my skinny face, and feet so big that even my uncle said that they looked exactly like the miniature skis he had seen in Italy—the Italians would secure pieces of wood to their feet before rocketing down the snow-covered mountains.
“Princess, to this day, when I look at my feet, I see skis!”
We both laughed loudly because it is easy to laugh at one’s feet when they are perfect, as were Italia’s.
“My poor mother. My poor father. They were devastated by the catastrophe of my ugliness. They knew that I would never fetch even a small dowry. In fact, they reconciled themselves to the possibility that I would die a spinster, supported by my parents until they died of old age.
“Poor darlings. Their dreams of future wealth faded into the crush of daily anxieties over money. The story went around the village that my uncle had promised my parents that I would be a great beauty. Of course, with my ugliness in plain sight, people were merciless. Even the children in the village cruelly labeled me a little monkey. Most appallingly for me, one of the old men in the village verified their taunts, saying that indeed I was nearly indistinguishable from some small brown monkeys he had seen swinging in a forested area of Yemen. In fact, he said with certainty, he had found the monkeys to be much cuter than the skinny girl with the big nose.”
I felt my heart plunge in grief for the childhood Italia had known. “Did your parents not protect you from this cruelty, Italia?”
“No. They had four other children. My four growing brothers were always hungry, and it took all my parents’ hard work and energy to feed the family. They told me to hide in the house to escape the children’s insults.” Italia’s memory drew tears. “Believe me, my parents cared about their only daughter, but I was not developing into the beauty who would beguile a moneyed husband. My uncle had planted that seed in their minds as surely as my father planted the terraced crops.”
With a catch in her voice, Italia continued, “For most of my childhood, I was so very miserable. But there were a few times that I felt greatly loved. Our family was so poor that meat was served rarely, those times being two specific occasions, the festivals of Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha. Those were happy festivals, as we remembered God and showed our gratitude to Him. The only time I felt special was during the festivals. This was linked to my father. Although after the first few years of my life, my father paid little heed to me, during feast times he always singled out his only daughter. He made a big show of slipping me the fatty tail of the slaughtered sheep, although my four eager brothers desired that tail. The joy of that one moment fed my sagging confidence for the entire year, until the occasion of the next festival, when once again my brothers would stare at me in puzzlement—my parents had many times claimed that I was a great disappointment to the family, as I was far from the great beauty they had expected.
“For sure, the old dreams popped into their minds on occasion, for I did have a few good qualities. When I became an adult, my mother brought up an old memory, telling me that even when I had had that ugly look, my almond-shaped eyes flashed like liquid chocolate and my skin was so smooth that some of the older women in the village wanted to stroke their palms against my skin.”
Poor Italia sighed. “Princess, if anyone else spoke of small signs of potential beauty, the vision of a smitten suitor glimmered like gold for my parents. But for years, nothing came of the fantasies they so eagerly pictured in their minds.
“As their dreams faded, my parents lost their glorification of me, frequently expressing their opinion that I was the biggest disappointment of their marriage. I was the unattractive child who was supposed to have been such a beauty that I could have changed all their lives, my promised beauty whisking them from a life of backbreaking work on those steep terraced gardens so common in Yemen to wealth so great they would sleep on silk sheets and eat at tables laden with delicacies.
“I was so miserable. I cried so loudly that neighbors sometimes complained, shouting at my mother that she should have buried me in the sand when I was born.”
“Oh, Italia. I am so sorry. And I can imagine how disagreeable it must have been to lose the coveted position of the child christened with hope.”
At this point, I asked myself: How many bones of unwanted baby girls are buried in the sand of Arabia? I shuddered with the knowledge that it would be impossible to put a number on the crime.
Italia brought me out of my contemplations. “Yes, and you know how it is in Yemen, Princess, more than in most countries, where the birth of a girl is considered a stroke of bad luck.”
“When did the little ugly monkey turn into a beautiful girl, Italia?” I asked, knowing that this had happened because I had the proof sitting before my eyes.
“Oh, there was a big miracle, Princess. It happened when I was about to enter the eleventh year of my life.”
The breath left my body, for I had always been enthralled by surprising stories that could only be explained as miracles. “Oh? A miracle? Tell me everything.”
“I don’t remember the exact details because there were no mirrors in our home. The only time I had ever seen my ugly face was when Mother took me to the small stream to fill the water jugs and once I looked in the small pool and saw something fearful looking up at me! I thought there was an evil jinni in the water. I started to scream and shake, hiding my face in my mother’s dress. Then I really cried when my mother told me not to worry, that the ugly jinni I thought I had seen was not a jinni at all but was me! I was really ugly, much uglier than I had ever imagined, even when people were telling me I looked like a monkey!”
“Oh, Italia.”
“Do not worry, Princess. My mother soon returned to that same pool to show me a beautiful image.”
“Tell me. Joyful endings make me the happiest,” I quipped.
“The miracle was rather rapid, or that is what I was told. Yet neither my parents nor I noticed anything different, at least not at first. I supposed that my parents looked ‘through me’ rather than ‘at me.’ As far as my brothers, well, they never noticed anything about me, whether good or bad. Then one week, my uncle invited us for a meal, saying that he had bought some plump chickens at the market and we would have delicious meat for our meal. We were all very excited about eating a plump chicken because the only chickens we had knowledge of were the village chickens. Every one of those chickens was pitifully skinny. They had little to eat, living off a few weeds and dirt; in fact, our village chickens tasted like mud,” she giggled.
Again I thanked God that I had been blessed with wealth; I was never concerned with the quantity or quality of the food put on my table because it was always the best and I could eat to my content. Kareem has always said that money has no importance unless there is none.
“Also, I wanted to look as nice as an ugly girl could look for my uncle, who had so kindheartedly predicted that I would be beautiful. So I worked for hours to comb out the tangles in my thick and curly hair,
which by this time was so long it reached my knees. I had a full bath for the first time in my young life, scrubbing my face until it glowed. I asked my mother if she might put some kohl on my eyelids, which she did. I then pleaded to wear her only real gold earrings, which were large gold circles. She indulged me, letting me wear the earrings from the Riyadh gold souk, which had been purchased by my uncle when he had traveled to Riyadh with his mother.
“So with the kohl-colored eyelids, and with my long curly hair and dangling earrings swinging as I walked, I felt confident for the first time in my young life. I was also thrilled by the thought of eating a juicy, fat chicken. I was so happy that I laughed as I followed behind my parents, skipping gaily all the way to my uncle’s home. Still my parents detected nothing physically different about me, possibly because they were so distracted by the prospect of the delicious chicken feast that awaited them!
“But my uncle noticed me, and when he greeted the family he gulped and said, “Italia? Is that you, Italia?”
“I stood in silence as my mother teased her brother, something unusual for her to do, but I supposed that she was in a good mood, thinking about that delicious chicken waiting to be placed on her plate. “Who would it be if not Italia, Brother? A good little jinni who came to take Italia’s place? Or perhaps a beautiful jinni, my brother?” Both my parents laughed, poking a little fun at my uncle’s long-ago prediction.”
I smiled, imagining Italia’s mother at that instant, enjoying a moment of jest. Impoverished women in Yemen rarely have reason to joke about anything. Yet I knew that Italia’s mother was on firm ground with her words, according to the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad. Jinn are mentioned fairly often in the Koran. While these creatures are most often described as being made of smoke or fire, jinn can assume physical bodies and communicate with people. They can be good, or bad, but are usually bad. Most Arab parents characterize jinn as frightening beings to terrify their children into good conduct, much in the same manner I have overheard parents in other cultures trying to frighten their children with warnings of bogeymen.
