by Jean Sasson
3 - Female Power in Yemen
One week after my meeting with Italia I heard heavy footsteps running through the house and toward the area of our private quarters. I was instantly on high alert, and for a moment I felt certain that insurgents had seized our palace and that soon I would find myself a hostage. I’ve always been quick on my feet and particularly when I sense danger. Before my bedroom door was flung open, I was safely sequestered in the panic room connected to my private bedroom, one of three in our palace made of bullet-resistant fiberglass, with thick steel doors. I was in the process of entering the special code to lock the door when I heard my husband’s voice. Thankfully, the safe rooms had been built so that the occupants of the safe room could hear what was being said on the outside.
“Sultana!”
Worried that he might be a hostage already, I remained silent. We had devised and practiced a reaction to such a situation several times and I had been warned by our security team that should I ever be suspicious of anything that hinted of danger, I was to stifle all sounds so as to keep my location secret until I heard Kareem, Abdullah, or one of our security specialists provide me with a special password that we had agreed upon.
“Sultana! Where are you?”
I did not speak. I did not shift my position.
My husband repeated his cries: “Sultana! Where are you?”
Kareem was undeniably agitated, causing me to feel certain that he was being threatened with a gun or a knife. I was safe inside, so I very quietly removed the receiver from the secure telephone line that was linked only to our safe rooms and quickly dialed Sara’s private number. When she answered, I paused before communicating, remembering being told that I should suppress or disguise my voice or I might alert any hostage-takers to my presence. But when I went to speak I was too afraid to utter a sound.
“Hallo, hallo,” Sara said several times. Raising her voice, she asked, “Who is this?” When there was still no answer, she hung up.
I heard my husband calling my name again as he exited my bedroom. I supposed he was going to look for me in other areas of our palace. But only a few minutes passed before he returned with my personal maid, Babette, who was anxious because she had left me in my quarters seconds before Kareem had burst in the door.
Babette sounded hysterical. “Madam? Are you here? Madam? Sir, she was here. Madam was here, deciding upon her dress for the day, when I left to go to the galley to bring her tea. That is when I saw you running down the hallway.”
I heard furniture being moved. “She is not here, sir.” Babette’s shaky voice indicated that she was ready to weep. “Madam has disappeared!’
By this time I understood that I had no worries about terrorists looking to harm us. But now there was a second complication. Our safe rooms were top secret. The only employees who were privy to our security arrangements were our security team. Kareem had warned me never to trust anyone, even favorite maids who had been with our family for many years. I remember that he had touched my lips and ordered, “No matter how much you want to make your presence known, never expose your hiding place to any employees. If so, these panic rooms will be useless, Sultana, for we could not expect anyone to undergo torture to protect us.”
Kareem was correct. Should any insurgents think to torture our servants, I am certain they would find it impossible to keep our security secrets. And there would be a chance that I would cry out for their pain and all would be lost, for everyone. We all know that if ever taken hostage by rebels, there would be no mercy shown to al-Saud royals, or to the people who work for us.
Kareem is so cautious about secrecy that when the panic rooms were installed we sent our house servants to Jidda for the week to ensure that our security would not be compromised. Since they did not know of the safe rooms, threats against them to disclose our whereabouts would hopefully bring no harm to them, or to us—for they truly did not know anything about our main security strategies.
I was in a predicament, for I knew that something important was happening or Kareem would not be in such an emotional state. My husband is normally a very calm man. Yet if I made my presence known, then our safe room would be exposed. Babette, although nearly perfect in every way, had been known to speak freely when she should not have. She was certain to share the secret with her friends in the palace at some point.
Not knowing what I should do, I sat down and waited for events to unfold. It was then, for the first time, that I fully appreciated the plans made by Kareem to ensure our safety should murderous rebels break into our home. I studied my surroundings carefully. There were many cartons of water and other packaged food items we might need if we were trapped in our safe room for several days.
I was suddenly distracted when I heard Kareem shout to Babette as he left my quarters, telling her to wait in the room. “When the princess returns, tell her that I am waiting in my study,” he instructed her.
“Oh no,” I whispered, wondering how long I might be confined. Babette would do as my husband commanded, so I knew she would not leave; yet I could hear that she was distressed from her muffled crying.
Moments seemed like hours. I gathered several large pillows and moved to the furthermost corner of the room, holding the pillows over my head so as to muffle the sound of Babette’s sobs, then I dialed Sara’s number once again. When she answered, I whispered my dilemma. Sara was initially confused, but soon understood, as she and Assad had also had safe rooms installed in their palace. Through her low laughter, she said she would have her husband call Kareem and explain the situation. I started to feel a little foolish.
Moments later, I heard Kareem reenter the room and tell Babette to wait outside. “I will call you later, once I find the princess,” he said.
Poor Babette made no reply, but I heard the door to my quarters close.
Kareem walked to the entrance of the safe room. His voice was soft, as he told me the password, although it was not necessary at that point. I was so flustered, though, that I failed to remember the key code to release the locks on the thick steel door. Kareem whispered it to me. Finally, my husband was in, taking charge by pulling me outside and closing the heavy door, hiding evidence of a secret entrance.
With a big smile on my face, I said, “Husband! Thank goodness Sara reached you.”
Kareem was not amused. In fact, he was so incensed that his face was red and his eyes were inflamed. He made no mention of the safe-room fiasco, instead yelling, “Sultana, my mother is going to kill you this time.”
I was so confused that I stammered, “What . . . what did you say?”
What was my husband speaking about? Although his mother, Noorah, and I would never be a devoted “mother-in-law and daughter-in-law” unit, we had overcome our difficulties years ago. We were both unfailingly courteous to each other on every family or social occasion.
Just then Babette came into the room, looking as though she had seen a ghost. Evidently, she had not left her place at the door from the moment she had walked outside. Now she was entirely bewildered as to where I had been, as she and Kareem had thoroughly searched my quarters.
“Madam,” she cried out, “where were you?”
Kareem’s harsh expression hardened. “Babette, are you deaf? I told you that I would call you.” He gestured toward the same door she had entered. “Leave now, please.”
Poor Babette burst into tears and fled the room.
Kareem turned his attention back to me.
“I cannot believe what you have done,” he roared.
“What are you talking about, Husband?” I shouted back, for I was weary of the mystery. “What have I done?”
“That woman! Italia! Did you send her to seduce my father?”
“Italia?” While I had thought of the Yemeni woman several times since she had left our palace, I had not contacted her. I had telephoned Sara the day after Italia left my home to ask if she might meet with the woman to hear her story. But Sara had not yet returned my call to advise me of her de
cision on the matter, as she was very busy with a variety of other important things. “I do not know what you are talking about, Kareem. Please tell me what has happened. I know nothing of your father, or of his dealings with Italia.”
“Sit down.”
I sat. Dread was forming in my mind and in my heart, as I strongly sensed that I was about to be told something I would not like to hear.
“Mother called. She was distraught. She asked that I pay her a visit without telling me the problem, so I rushed over, fearful that someone was dying. When I arrived, she was wailing. She had heard that Father was set to marry a beautiful Yemeni woman named Italia. Mother told me that her husband has lost his mind over the woman. He has already divorced Amina, his third wife, and has ordered the servants to pack her things to make ready for Italia to live in her villa.”
Italia? Marriage? Amina divorced? Too shocked to think calmly, I could only utter one word: “Really?”
I felt a heat wave spread throughout my body. Although I recalled that Kareem’s father had reacted favorably to Italia’s great beauty, as had Kareem, who would have thought that he would pursue the Yemeni beauty and propose marriage? Wealthy royals travel the world and routinely see beautiful women of every nationality. The most exquisite women in the world are usually available for marriage when a Saudi prince makes a proposal. When it comes to choosing wives, al-Saud men can be arrogant and can afford to be very selective.
Kareem’s father had briefly married many women during his adult life, and had divorced most of those women, keeping only his first and second wives since marriage.
Yet it was not a huge surprise that he was taking another wife. The jolt came from knowing that he was going to marry Italia. How had he found her, to court her and to make a proposal? I had told no one that she was staying at Ameera’s palace. No one but Sara.
“When Mother learned that Father had met Italia at home, she became incensed; she believed that you were scheming to bring trouble into her life. You know how she likes Amina. You also know that Amina is the only wife my father has taken who met my mother’s approval. They have become good friends, and now Amina is being sent back to Syria.”
“Really? Kareem, I am astonished! Such a thing never once came to my mind. I met with Italia only because of the mystery that surrounded her, and because the story behind her change in circumstances intrigued me. Once I discovered her history, and the fact she was an abused child bride, I thought that Sara might like to meet her, too.”
I suddenly remembered something important: “Listen, Husband, I believed that she was going to marry Ameera’s brother. That is what I was told.” Caressing Kareem’s shoulder, I added, “Please, Husband, please revisit to your mother and tell her that I did not meet with Italia for the purpose of setting up a marriage to anyone. After your father came into our home and saw Italia, he did not contact me for any reason. I have no knowledge of how he located her after she left my side.”
“Are you telling me the truth, Sultana?”
“On the lives of all those whom I love, I am telling you the truth, Kareem.”
With my strong words, my husband knew that I was not lying.
Kareem stood quietly, thinking. “Did you reveal Italia’s connection to Ameera to anyone else?”
“Only to Sara.”
Kareem’s eyes met my own. At the same moment, we both said, “Assad!”
Kareem promptly called his brother to ask if their father had requested information on the Yemeni woman he had met in our home. Assad admitted that he had visited with his father on the same evening Kareem brought their father into our home, and only a few hours after he had accidentally seen Italia. Assad had been surprised when his father spoke so passionately of the woman’s great beauty. He had even asked Assad if he knew of the woman. Assad had said no, other than that Sara had talked about learning about the poor woman from Sultana, and how Sara might meet with her later in the week. He admitted relating to his father that the Yemeni woman was going to be in the kingdom for another month as the guest of our cousin Ameera.
I was relieved to hear this verification, which would relieve me of the guilt my mother-in-law had so quickly hung on my shoulders. “Go to your mother now, Kareem. It is important that she knows the innocence of all. She needs to feel confident that no one was conspiring to introduce your father to a beautiful woman. Even Assad’s information was accidental, for he had no idea that his father was looking for Italia, or had plans to so quickly propose marriage.”
I knew that Noorah would never become angry with Assad or Sara, but the thin veneer of our affability could be easily pierced. Our friendly greetings and farewells at family socials went no further than the surface. I had no desire to battle with Kareem’s mother over anything, and certainly not my father-in-law’s appetite for beautiful women. Such in-law conflicts were too consuming. As the years have passed, I have grown wiser about such matters.
***
The next time I saw Italia was at a gathering of Kareem’s female family members. If possible, Italia appeared even more magnificent than she had done the previous month when she was a guest in my home. She was more self-assured, too, for she had her prince, despite the fact he was old with a wrinkled face, hunched back, and weak knees. Kareem learned from Assad that his father had sought out the most renowned physicians in the kingdom to prescribe the most potent sex pills, without concern for the age or health of the man. Kareem’s father had very high blood pressure and was on powerful medication. Kareem and I read about the pills on the Internet, and we were alarmed. When my husband read the warnings—for a man with his father’s health condition and history, there was a slight danger of blindness—he shot into action and approached his father with a fervent warning.
Kareem’s father was uncommonly rude, telling his son to shut his mouth and mind his own business. Kareem could do nothing more, for our culture does not look agreeably upon a son who argues with his father.
Kareem blamed me once again for creating the problem, but after I criticized my husband for bursting into the room without announcing himself, he quieted, for he knew that if he had only heeded the social restrictions of our society, his aging father would never have seen the beautiful Italia.
I was sad to hear the story of the sex pills for a second, very important reason. Tragically, nothing had changed for Italia from her first marriage to her eighth. She had been used as a sex toy by every husband.
That’s when I acknowledged that Italia’s beauty was a curse. Her appearance was so blinding that men could think of nothing but physically conquering her. No man she had ever known had respected the mind beneath her stunning face and body, for I had no doubt that Italia was a smart woman hindered by her external appearance.
I glanced at the various women at the party to see if Kareem’s mother was in attendance, but she was not. Noorah had gone into near isolation since her husband had wed Italia, refusing to meet with me. Inexplicably, she still adored Sara, despite the fact that Sara clearly supported me and had assured my mother-in-law that I was innocent. Sara had told her that it had been Assad who had unintentionally led his father to the beauty from Yemen. I was sad and sorry because Noorah’s ill feelings were based on something that had not happened, but I knew Noorah had spent years feigning friendship, when in her heart she had always disliked me. Now, in her eyes, there was no need for such pretense.
For certain, Italia had disrupted the dynamics of our family, but when a person wishes to be angry, as Noorah was demonstrating, there is little one can do.
Before walking over to speak to Italia, I stood silently to consider her performance. After a few minutes, I grasped that I was not watching an act. Italia was indisputably happy. Her laughter was sincere. Her smile was wide and her eyes were lit with joy. Perhaps her happiness had to do with marrying a prince and having unlimited wealth to purchase the best of everything. Italia’s designer gown was a shining shade of gold, and the wide diamond-and-gold necklace draped around her nec
k matched the fabric nearly perfectly. Her clothes, hair, and jewels heralded great wealth.
Kareem had also confided that his mother had not exaggerated: His father had indeed lost his mind over Italia’s beauty. He catered to her every wish.
I sighed, feeling bad for what I knew was in Italia’s future, for I understood from my father-in-law’s history that his affection and favor for Italia would fade. To Kareem’s father, all Italia had to offer was great beauty—like the works of art displayed in the finest European museums, to be admired and praised. Certainly, when a woman is a beautiful as Italia, men can often see nothing else.
I thought of Sara. Thankfully, my gorgeous sister had miraculously escaped Italia’s fate, but only because she had met and married a man who fully appreciated all her characteristics and qualities, including her brilliant mind.
For the first time in my life, I thanked God that I was not born a celebrated beauty. Although I am pleased that those who know me find me attractive, with some saying I am very pretty, my looks, whether good or bad, have not determined my place in life. As I have grown older, I have grown wiser and now know that physical beauty should not be the standard by which we appraise women. Nothing is more important than intelligence, wisdom, and kindness, characteristics that remain with a woman while beauty fades. I am one who believes that all societies delude our young when we focus attention only on physical appeal. May the day come when such flawed thinking is erased from our minds.
The greatest pleasures in my life have had nothing to do with the way I look, the clothes I wear, the jewels I possess, or the palaces I own. Other than the joys I have derived from being a wife and mother, my greatest satisfactions in life emanate from the ideas I have in my mind and the assistance I have given to help girls and women escape abusive relationships and achieve their life goals.
I sauntered to Italia’s side. When she saw me, she shouted in delight, pulling me close so as to kiss my cheeks and whisper in my ear. “I told you, Princess. I told you that I would get a prince.”
