by Jean Sasson
But none of these travel inconveniences halted Italia’s plans to bring Fiery to Saudi Arabia for a meeting with Sara. Dipping into her millions, Italia rented a secure and cozy sailing yacht from a Yemeni politician and bribed the same man to provide her with the necessary permits to leave the port of Aden and sail the eastern Red Sea to Jidda. Italia had no problems entering Saudi Arabia, as Kareem’s father had given her a long-term visa, along with a letter of permission to visit the kingdom whenever she liked.
One day, a month or so after our initial telephone call with Italia, Sara called me to tell me something I never expected to hear. “Sultana!” she said, in an excited tone of voice. “We must get to Jidda. Italia is waiting on us there with that fearless woman.”
“What?”
‘“Believe my words or not, Italia has arrived in Jidda. She sailed up the Red Sea! She is waiting for us there with the woman called Fiery.”’
I caught Sara’s excitement. “Let us go. Now!”
Sara and I both had palaces on the Red Sea at Jidda, so we kept plenty of clothes and other necessities there. Within a few hours, we had boarded Assad and Sara’s private jet and were on our way. My daughter, Amani, chose to accompany us, for she had been one of the few Saudi royals who had been against the bombing of Yemen and now she wished to interview two women who were surviving under the bombs that Saudi Arabia and other countries in the region were dropping.
“Do not get into a political discussion or argument with these ladies,” I warned my daughter. “Let us see what they have to say. Then you can argue with your father when we return to Riyadh.” Amani was wearing her stubborn face, so I pinched her arm. “Do you hear me, Daughter?”
“Ouch! Stop it, Mother,” she replied. “I will not argue with them. I will listen, absorb their words, and write an op-ed piece for a newspaper when I return to Riyadh.”
“You will not do such a thing,” I advised her, although I knew that no Saudi newspapers would permit her writings to be published. None, I knew, would take a formal stance against our new royal leader, King Salman, to criticize his actions against the Houthis in Yemen. In fact, other than my daughter, all the royals I knew personally, as well as the vast majority of ordinary citizens, believed that King Salman was reacting correctly to the rebels on our border. Saudi newspapers reflected the positive sentiments and full support for King Salman expressed by most Saudis.
Amani then opened a book to read, one that recommended how to best raise Islamic children.
Sara had closed her eyes and was resting, for she had told me that she was up very late the previous evening, when she and Assad had taken care of one of their grandchildren, who had colic.
I sat and stared out of the airplane window. I felt a sense of anticipation growing, for I was enthralled to meet this woman named Fiery, knowing that she must be very brave, if the spirited Italia was awestruck by her courage.
Later that afternoon, Italia and Fiery were welcomed into Sara’s palace on the Red Sea.
It was good to see Italia again. She looked no older than a young woman of thirty years, despite her true age, which I knew was much older. Truly, I found her more beautiful because she was even more self-assured and obviously fulfilled by her crucial work on behalf of women, giving her smoky eyes extra sparkle.
Fiery was more than I had imagined. A more confident woman I have never met. Her passion was so strong that within moments I could see that she was not a woman who merely talked, she yelled. She was not a woman who ever walked, she ran. Everything about her was set at a high speed.
Yes, she was physically homely, but only for a moment. Her personality and character contradicted everything expected of conservative Muslim women, at least when applied to matters of politics and business. Fiery was one of those women whose colorful personalities increased her attractiveness. Within an hour of our meeting, I could tell that Fiery had easily achieved a certain female splendor.
The four of us shared a common bond that was immediately evident. Very quickly, Italia, Fiery, Sara, and I were talking like we were sisters. Perhaps it was because all four of us had spent enormous amounts of time working against the discrimination of women.
For once, Amani was sitting quietly, thank goodness.
Sara posed an important question. “Fiery, tell us what is happening to women under the Houthi rebels?”
Fiery spoke without editing words or emotions. “Those dogs are like most of the men who rule over women. Their doctrines are even more conservative than what our society demands. They are now imposing their own interpretation of the Koran on how women should conduct themselves and go about daily life.”
“I was praying for the opposite,” Sara murmured.
“Yes. As were we. But these men are eroding what limited freedoms we have gained. Although women in my country have never enjoyed trouble-free lives, the street harassments and threats against us are ballooning to a dangerous level. It is now impossible for any woman to go about her business without being followed and verbally abused.”
Fiery exhaled noisily. “My students tell me that men linger outside the university gates to insult them, ordering them to wear black gloves and black socks, demanding that their hands and feet be covered. A few of the girls said that a gang of five men is there each morning and every afternoon when classes end. These five men are intimidating criminals, trying to grope the young girls when they pass to get through the gates.”
“Don’t the guards intervene?” I asked.
Fiery’s laugh sounded like a short bark. “The guards are men. Most are against education for women. They think the girls are getting what they deserve for coming out of their homes.”
Italia spoke for the first time. “Fiery has even gone to see Abdul-Malik.” She chuckled. “He believed he could ignore her, because she is a woman, but after Fiery sat on the walkway leading to his home for a full day, refusing to leave, he agreed.”
Sara and I looked at each other. We both knew that Abdul-Malik Badreddin al-Houthi was the head of the movement, while two of his brothers were also leaders. Their older brother, Hussein, now dead, had originally organized the Houthis into what they are today. One family had been responsible for the success of the movement that had overthrown the Yemeni government and was now causing conflict between Saudi Arabia and Yemen. For sure, Fiery was brave to make herself known. The way to survive rebellions is to keep one’s head down low, but this was not Fiery’s policy!
“What did he say to you, Fiery?” Sara asked.
“Oh, he was like most men. When in a certain situation, they talk without really saying anything. He told me that he was going to ensure that women have a prominent role in the new government under the Houthis, and that women are respected from a religious point of view.”
Fiery chuckled. “He even promised me a position in the government, but I told him no, that it was best that I remain on the outside, looking over the government. I would be his insurance policy by never letting him forget that girls and women are not to be deprived by this government, too. I held my Koran to my heart and pledged that I would never stop pressing for the rights of women. I would be his human aide-memoire, I promised. And I was not exaggerating. I will never give in until the day I am put in the ground.”
I grimaced, knowing that life in Yemen was not going to go well for Fiery. Men who rule in our region of the world only accept small doses of criticism from men, and none from women.
“I left, and when I returned to the university the following day I was told that I was on probation; if I did not cease my activities against the Houthi government, I would be sacked.”
“She will not be sacked,” Italia told us. “I will bribe a university official and they will do something to save her job.”
“No, no bribes,” Fiery said. “No bribes, Italia. We must be different, be better, from the dogs who are ruling us.”
Italia laughed in such a way that we knew she would do what she had to do to protect Fiery.
“She did not stop, though,” Italia explained. “Fiery has organized ten nonviolent protests, calling for the end of guardianship laws, child marriages, and discrimination in the workplace.”
“Of all the crimes committed against girls, none is more important than that which relates to the marriage of children to men,” Sara said in a grim tone, probably remembering her own youthful marriage and the sexual abuse she endured.
“Yes, Princess. Italia has told me of your work. I know this problem persists in Saudi Arabia just as in Yemen. But I believe it is more prevalent in Yemen. Fewer people are educated there. Most Saudis who are educated are turning their backs on this primitive practice, or so I have been told,” Fiery said.
“Child marriage still lurks here,” Sara said, “but not so much as before. Of course, we do not know exact numbers because the shameful practice is often kept hidden in a dark corner.”
“For sure it is out in the open in Yemen,” Italia said. “It is accepted by most Yemenis. They think little of an eight-year-old girl marrying a man of forty years or more. More than one girl has died after her wedding night. Then the family tries to conceal the death because they want to avoid the attention given from outside media.”
I had heard about the eight-year-old child to whom Italia was referring. The girl, called Rawan, had lived in the northeastern province of Hajja. Her story was fairly common: a child from an impoverished background, living in a village in Yemen. Most families in such villages live on just a few dollars a day and so money speaks to their needs; many families agree to sell their young daughters for financial gain.
This was the case with Rawan. After a fee was paid to her father, the poor child was pulled from school to be married to a forty-year-old man. Although the old grooms routinely promise not to have sex with the child until she reaches puberty, few of these promises are kept.
On the night of her marriage, the terrified Rawan was raped to death.
When the media was alerted to the story, the family and the groom lied, saying that Rawan was alive and well. But everyone knew that she was dead. There were witnesses to her burial.
I felt that Fiery was reading my mind when she said, “We once had a law that set the minimum age at fifteen for marriage for boys and girls. But clerics and other conservatives pushed the lawmakers until the law was repealed. So now there is no minimum age. The only protection offered is an article of the law that says the groom is prohibited to have sex with the child bride until puberty, but such a prohibition will not stop a man from having sex with a young girl. Unless the girl dies, there is no way to know what has happened behind closed doors. Young girls are raised to be too frightened to speak out, no matter what bestial acts men might perform on their young bodies.”
We ended the afternoon in tears. With the Houthis now in power in Yemen, the situation for girls and women had become even harder.
“We were at the bottom before, no higher than the dirt under our feet,” Fiery said. “Now we are under the earth, scrambling to push up. We are back to the lowly position we once held.”
I gave a start. Fiery was right. Yemen had been named as the worst place in the world for women. With the few rights, they’d previously had being reduced, what could be lower than the worst? My broken heart ached, for I have been fighting to end discrimination against women for my entire life. In too many countries, such as Yemen, Iraq, and Syria, the plight of women had plummeted to a new low, deteriorating into an intolerable crisis.
Before Italia and Fiery left Sara’s home, we offered financial support to help lead the women’s movement in Yemen. Italia smiled and claimed that she would be responsible for the financial needs of women in Yemen, but Sara told her, “When you are fighting such a cause, Italia, money vanishes quickly. Be sure and keep enough money so that you are not destitute in your old age.”
Ever positive, Italia laughed. “I would just marry another prince, Sara,” she smiled.
I said nothing to dispute Italia’s plans, but, even though she was still beautiful, I knew that over time wrinkles would appear and her shoulders would stoop. No one can slow old age forever. And royal princes do not seek marriage with old women.
Sara and I pushed until Fiery agreed for us to put a large sum of money into her bag. “There is more when you need it, Fiery,” Sara promised. “And, dear lady, our promises will not be broken.”
“Yes, Princess. I thank God every day that I am a woman and that there are women who share my passion, women like me who will never give in.”
“Never,” I said loudly. “Never will we give in until every woman in the world has the right to freedom and dignity.”
Tears formed in the eyes of Sara and Italia, but Fiery and I were defiant, prepared to continue the battle that was coming, in Yemen and in Saudi Arabia.
4 - Maha’s Secret
My eldest daughter, Maha, is a young woman with strong opinions and a brave heart. She does not allow anyone to alter her life’s path, which is living as a female with full independence. Maha is out of favor with some family members who have witnessed her aggression in advancing her agenda. This, I believe, is because my culture reacts negatively to powerful women.
Despite Maha’s distinguished trait of being honest with all, there are times when she feels that secret-keeping is best. For example, while many know of Maha’s unbending character, no one outside our immediate family has knowledge of her unwavering endeavors to aid those in need. I have verbalized little of this aspect of my daughter’s personality in the books written about my life. Instead, I have divulged many of her teenage dilemmas, some more serious than others, which I have done with Maha’s permission. My daughter smiled with nonchalance regarding the stories I disclosed of her youthful indiscretions. This is because she has confidence that all young people become stronger by challenging society, as she did when a teenager.
My daughter is different from most people in other ways, too. She has never sought any accolades for anything she has done to better the lives of others, cautioning all who know her to maintain her anonymity when it comes to her good deeds.
But the recent rise of radical Muslims roused my daughter to a fury so great that I stood in dazed silence. Kareem told me later that he believed our daughter had been stricken by several penetrating emotions at once. After a few moments of silent thinking, I replied with certainty: “Yes, rage and embarrassment.”
Maha’s rage was layered with embarrassment when forced to face the unwanted reality that it is Muslims who are spreading violence and death across Arab lands. There is no one else to condemn at this point in history, though we both concur that European interference and occupation in Arab lands fractured from the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire during and after World War I propelled Arabs down a volatile path nearly impossible to avoid.
Nearly one hundred years have passed since the European treaties were made that linked hostile tribes to one another to form nations, and after all this time the Middle East remains unstable.
Despite the meddling of foreign nations in the past, Maha and I both agree that the time has come for Arabs to pull together to solve the enormous problems that are devastating our entire region. We must look no further than our own shores to find solutions.
After her anger subsided slightly, Maha resolved to find a way to reduce the suffering of her Arab sisters and brothers. And so her anger-fueled resolve led her on a secret adventure that she wished to keep hidden from her mother. But, in the end, she could not.
While Kareem will let a few weeks pass without close contact with Maha, I telephone each of my children several times a day, whether they are in Saudi Arabia, Europe, Asia, or the United States.
Maha understood that she would never be able to keep a secret from her mother, although an assortment of deceptions on her part led to six days without communication. Just as I was set to fly to Europe to search for my daughter, who was supposedly touring Pompeii in Italy, I received a letter that revealed her secret travel.
&nbs
p; Once Maha’s clandestine travel was known to me, I was impelled to keep her whereabouts from my husband. Her secret was later exposed by her sister, Amani, who claimed to be frightened for her sister’s physical safety.
And this is how Maha’s secret mission came to enrage my husband, sending him into a mindless fury. Such rage I have not witnessed since the earliest days of our marriage, when he discovered me in the office of the doctor who had agreed to terminate my first pregnancy.
Thanks be to God that Kareem unearthed my harmful scheme in time to save the life of our most precious son, Abdullah. But that is another narrative from many years ago, and I must not stray from a most important story.
My daughter’s secret mission was so unexpected, and incredibly complicated, I feel it best that Maha tells you about her mission in her own words, from her personal correspondence to me, now to be revealed for the first time.
A Letter from Maha
Dearest Mother,
My mind is seeing your face as I write this letter. I know you well, Mother, as you know me. You will be so bewildered to receive an unexpected courier packet from London that your face will turn white, your lips will pucker, and your forehead will crease. As you read the words I have written, you will moan, clasp your hands over your lips, and collapse into the nearest chair. Before you have finished reading my communication, you will shed tears and possibly rend at your clothes.
This I know as surely as if I am in Riyadh, positioned beside you.
But whatever you do, you must not tell Father about what I am to confide. My letter contains a secret that only you and Abdullah can know. I know exactly what Father would do, which is to follow me to force me to leave my current location, and to forget what it is I must do. With Father’s enormous power and prestige, he would succeed in convincing the authorities of this land to expel me.
