Princess: Secrets to Share

by Jean Sasson

  So it was a happy time when our family retreated to the desert to reminisce how our ancestors had lived so simply long before the oil was discovered. Having said this, I will admit that our holiday in the desert was a luxurious occasion, for as much as we like hearing the tales of our ancestors, we have no desire to do without the indulgences of royal life while reveling in the memories.

  The event began most joyously, but soon became sour after various upsetting episodes concerning some of the more difficult men in our family.

  First of all, my brother Ali was bitten by a snake. At the first telling, it was believed that the snake was a poisonous desert cobra, and that Ali was doomed. Later the snake was captured and it was found to be a much less poisonous snake. Although Ali suffered pain from the bite, he did not die; during his suffering, he stunned and irritated me with his request that I apologize for all the wrongs I had committed against him over the years. I was so dumbfounded I could barely speak, for I had gone to what I thought was my brother’s deathbed to hear his apology and confession for his sins against me. The episode left a bitter taste; my family was very relieved that Ali did not die but no one seemed to notice his continued arrogance and bad behavior toward me.

  The second, and most serious, situation occurred when the screams of a woman brought me from my bed to my feet. My sisters Nura and Sara joined me in investigating the screams. We discovered a horrifying crime. Three of our nephews were raping a young Pakistani woman, who we later came to know as Veena, whom we thought worked in our sister Dunia’s home.

  The poor victim was from Pakistan, but she did not work for Dunia. Rather, Dunia’s son had traveled to Pakistan to purchase a young woman to serve as his sex slave. The young woman had been sold to our nephew for a pittance, but it was a good sum of money for the parents of the girl involved. Before the evening was over, we had saved Veena from a terrible fate.

  Tragically, my nephews were never charged with the crime, since other members of our family protected them; however, there were a few restrictions put on them by the eldest male in the family. In my country, the plight of a young female worker is virtually ignored by society and by the government. Rarely, have I known of punishment given for a Saudi assault upon a foreign worker.

  But due to the actions of the females in our family, Veena’s life changed dramatically, and for the good. The girl lived and worked for Sara for years before she requested to return to Pakistan. That is when Sara and I financed a business for Veena, a small sewing factory, so that she might help her family.

  Following that experience, my son, Abdullah, has traveled to Pakistan at least once a year and has made good on his promise to help other women achieve economic independence.

  However, Pakistan is the business of my son, not Amani. I had never heard Amani and Abdullah discuss his good deeds in that land.

  While I know that Pakistan is like so many countries that practice extreme gender discrimination nationwide, I had never heard Amani express an interest in helping women from Pakistan. As for me, while I have read many tragic stories, my charity work is mainly limited to girls and women who live in Arab lands.

  “What woman do you know from Pakistan?” I asked.

  “I have no friends from that country, but I have recently discovered the most troubling tales of abuse, Mummy. I want you to do something about it.”

  I stared at my daughter’s face, in which was reflected a special kind of pain that I recognized; it is the pain of knowing another’s agony but bring helpless to bring an end to it.

  Amani then placed one particular photograph beside my hand.

  I clutched at my throat as I shrieked—only to be silenced at that very moment by the arrival of Kareem, accompanied by our son Abdullah and his small daughter, Little Sultana. With arms outstretched, the darling little girl ran straight to me.

  When I came to my senses and realized that Little Sultana was examining the picture in my hand, I flipped the photograph on its face.

  “Jaddatee (Grandmother) was that a picture of the bad jinni that comes in the night?” Little Sultana quizzed.

  I turned to see my son and my husband standing side-by-side. Abdullah looked at me with curiosity on his face, while Kareem appeared confused, never having seen a photograph of a woman so grievously wounded she resembled a monster, or at least that is what Little Sultana had mistaken the poor woman for.

  I quickly regained my composure to make light of the photograph. “No, darling. That was a cartoon picture, a surprise for someone special.”

  Little Sultana’s voice rose in pitch, anticipating something very nice. “A surprise for me, Jaddatee?”

  By this time both Kareem and Abdullah knew that they had interrupted an important meeting. Abdullah wisely shifted Little Sultana’s interest. “Sultana, you came to see Jaddatee’s new aquarium with the beautiful blue and pink fish. Come with me now, and Jaddatee will join us later.”

  He increased Little Sultana’s desire to examine our new aquarium that Kareem had recently filled with exotic tropical fish by suggesting, “We will ask for some peach ice cream, too.”

  “Ice cream!” Little Sultana ran to her father, holding his hand and walking with him out of the room.

  My darling granddaughter could be very mature at times, but still, she was only a child at heart and ice cream was a certain magnet; she had loved ice cream since she was old enough to taste it, and peach was her favorite.

  Kareem asked, “Is everything all right?”

  I sighed in relief, while Amani raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

  “I will return later,” Kareem said finally, as he gave a little wave, then followed his son and Little Sultana.

  ***

  As soon as I was alone with Amani, I gestured for the photographs, looking carefully at each sheet. Each sheet had two images, photographs that were obviously before and after pictures. One photograph showed healthy, beautiful women. The second photograph was evidently of the same woman, dreadfully disfigured after a horrendous assault.

  I saw a lovely young Pakistani woman with unblemished skin appearing jovial and untroubled, for she was smiling broadly. The second photograph was of the same young woman, but her jaws and chin were now fused to her neck. Her lips were gone, and her mouth was fixed permanently in a large circle, fully exposing her teeth. I groaned, realizing that most likely this was the woman’s expression as she was attacked and that she would probably be permanently scarred in this manner. The agony she was enduring was clear from the helpless look expressed in her dark eyes.

  I saw a young girl who could have been no older than thirteen or fourteen, with bright eyes filled with gaiety and fun. In the second photograph, those eyes were gone, replaced by two blackened holes. The skin on her face was hideously scarred.

  I saw a young mother with two precious daughters, all three smiling with anticipation, most likely eager to see the resulting photograph. I saw the same young mother with one of her daughters, both showing grievous wounds. The mother’s chin no longer existed. There was a gaping wound, as though her chin bone had been eaten away. The child’s nose had disappeared, replaced by two small holes. Her ears had been eaten away. One eye was gone and the other appeared sightless.

  There were more than ten photographs of attractive girls and women before a great tragedy struck, and a second photograph showing the effects of the catastrophe.

  Although I believed I knew what had happened to these women, I asked my daughter. “Amani, darling, what has happened to these poor girls and unfortunate women?”

  Amani was visibly upset, as though she had heard of these poor women for the first time. “Mother, these women are all victims of acid attacks. Almost all the attacks were made by their husbands, or by a rejected suitor, although a few of the women were falsely accused of blasphemy, and villagers attacked them. Some of the children were victims because they were standing near their mothers when their father threw acid at the mother. One of the young girls was attacked because her p
arents rejected a suitor, a man old enough to be her father. He hired some young thugs to follow her when she left the house with her grandmother. They threw acid on them both. The grandmother died, and the young girl was left with the traumatic injuries you saw.”

  “Oh, Amani. I was afraid this was the story.”

  Distraught by the images I had seen, powerful images that conveyed joy, followed by images that shrieked of tremendous agony, grief, and loss, I buried my head in my hands. I knew something of the history of acid attacks throughout the world, but I have always found the subject so painful that I had intentionally avoided becoming involved. Besides, one person can only do so much, for there are only so many hours in a person’s life. I had devoted my adult life to the education of girls because I believe that only when all women are economically independent can they rule their own lives, and teach their daughters the value of education and the ability to fend for themselves, if necessary. While crucial to success the world over, I have discovered in life that education is most important for women who live in the developing world. When an impoverished family realizes that a woman has the means to work and make a contribution to the family’s income, that is when she gains respect. Often, the “respect” is purely a cynical attempt to use the woman as a method of working for the good of the family; in such circumstances, the money a woman is able to earn brings her some form of protection from attack.

  Although Saudi Arabia has known some cases of acid attacks upon women by their husbands or family members, this was a crime that seemed to be more common in Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Cambodia, Yemen, and Afghanistan, although it does occur around the world, even in the United Kingdom. I also knew that the hideously scarred girls and women rarely received support from the government or their communities. Like most crimes against women, the victim is generally blamed. If a woman is divorcing an abusive husband, the community feels great sympathy for him and makes excuses for his criminal behavior, saying that the woman should not have left her husband.

  “Tell me from the beginning. How did you learn of these stories?” I hesitated, but only for a moment, adding, “What is it that you would like to do to help these women, Amani?”

  For certain, if my daughter wished to become involved and create a charity for victims of acid attacks, I would help her as much as possible, although I know my personal limits. I am not ashamed to say that I do not possess the emotional stamina necessary to meet with the women of acid attacks and do the “on the ground” work that is essential to help and protect them. While I could provide funds and individual support to Amani, I do have a point where I break. Should I find myself around a child or young woman who had instantly been taken from a lighthearted and cheerful life, becoming a shell of a human who has no physical ability to turn her head, or chew her food, or see, or hear, I know that I would make the victim’s situation worse with my cries of agony and tears.

  So over the next hour, I heard from Amani exactly how she had become drawn in to the lives of acid victims from Pakistan.

  Amani’s cousin Princess Sabrina had recently approached Amani about the plight of Pakistani women who were the victims of acid attacks.

  Sabrina is a princess several years younger than Amani. The two became close friends after meeting at a cousin’s wedding. Sabrina has three brothers and two sisters, and all the children have good reputations. Sabrina had lived a sheltered life, as she was the youngest child of her father and mother. While her parents are very wealthy, the father is not in line to the throne, so they are considered to be one of the more minor royal families and do not become involved in decision-making in the kingdom.

  Still, the family is well respected because it has never been involved in a scandal, something unusual in a country where there are many royals who have more money than they can spend. The combination of too much money and plenty of free time brings out the worst in many people.

  Sabrina’s father met his Lebanese wife when attending school in Lebanon. Their marriage was not arranged and was based on genuine affection, a love that has endured many years of living in restrictive Saudi Arabia. Since they live half the year in Beirut and the other half in Jidda, the wife’s life was less constrictive than most women who are married to a Saudi prince.

  After Sabrina graduated from college as an honor student, her proud parents asked what she might like as a special gift. To their astonishment, she asked that they give her the gift of travel. Sabrina wanted to experience the adventure that she believed might be found if she could only tour the world, to be away for a year or more, to explore on her own. She had taken a number of courses in photography and was told by her professors that she had a gift. Sabrina had a dream that one day her images, and possibility even articles written by her, would feature in National Geographic magazine.

  Although the family is enlightened, the parents would never allow a young, unmarried woman in her family to travel the world alone. Anything might happen, and their scandal-free reputation might end.

  Sabrina was told by her parents that the gift of travel was hers to claim, but that two of her brothers must accompany her for the entire trip. The world can be a dangerous place for the naive, they said, and their lives would be ruined should anything damaging happen to their youngest child.

  Sabrina reluctantly agreed, hoping that her brothers would learn to trust her judgment and allow her to wander off on her own to find the adventure that she knew was waiting. While Sabrina had no desire to meet any man, she was high on the idea of adventure or finding her passion in life.

  Sabrina’s first stop on her world tour was Egypt, a country she knew quite well, so there was nothing new to attract her interest, despite the wondrous history of the country. Her second stop was India, which was tantalizing for Sabrina, because it is a multifaceted country, colorful in every way. There’s something for everyone in India, and Sabrina came away with some amazing photographs to share with friends. Yet there was no exceptional story that created unique enthusiasm in the young princess.

  But then Sabrina arrived in Lahore, Pakistan.

  Lahore is a city of the arts and is considered the cultural heart of Pakistan. Much of the city is beautifully maintained because the citizens are proud of their flowers and green gardens. There are many art festivals, and music is celebrated. Filmmakers have made the city their home. The Pakistani intelligentsia thrives there.

  An artist at heart, Sabrina felt at home in Lahore and eagerly roamed the city, accompanied by her protective brothers, of course. Just when Sabrina felt that she had found her spiritual home, she saw a veiled lady stumbling on the sidewalk. A compassionate girl, Sabrina rushed to assist, but the veiled woman pushed Sabrina away. Sabrina was lugging several cameras in her hand, and while attempting to keep a grip on her cameras, she lost her footing. As she fell, Sabrina instinctively grabbed at the woman, whose veil came loose and flapped in the breeze.

  Sabrina saw the woman’s face, which was scarred from severe burns, but she curbed her horror and helped the woman refasten her veil. The woman scurried away, but Sabrina followed; she felt she had no choice but to discover what horrible tragedy had created the disfigured face she had seen and to offer assistance, if needed. Her parents had given her more money than she could spend, saying that she should have no economic pressure during her trip, and she knew that, if needed, there was plenty to share.

  At first, Sabrina believed that the woman must have been burned in a house fire, but she soon learned that the truth of her injuries was more perturbing than an accident.

  Sabrina, followed by her perplexed brothers, tracked the woman into an open courtyard after the woman accidentally left a metal gate ajar. There, Sabrina saw a sight she could never forget even if she lived for a thousand years. There were more than ten women sitting in the garden. Some women were wearing veils, others were wearing sunglasses, while others sat quietly with their mutilated faces exposed.

  Sabrina had stumbled upon a house of horrors.

  When
the women saw Sabrina with her cameras, no one moved. They believed that she had been sent to photograph their injuries for the courts, as most had court cases moving slowly through the Pakistani legal system. But when they noticed Sabrina’s brothers, men they did not know, all the women shouted in terror before scattering into the building adjacent to the garden.

  Sabrina used her language skills to persuade the administrators of the women’s home that she had not come to do harm to the women, or to the establishment. She convinced them of her truth, that she had the ability to help by making a substantial financial donation to the home. All she wanted in return was an opportunity to help the women, to make a record of the women’s injuries. She promised not to release any information to the public, unless the women specifically requested her to do so.

  Prior to traveling to Lahore, Sabrina had little knowledge of the country. Although at first sight she had loved Lahore, she was devastated to learn that such a beautiful country is not a safe place for women. She soon discovered that Pakistan is one of the worst countries in the world for women, and that the government, the police, and the legal system fight against women, rather than for women. She was not aware that acid-throwing attacks by men on women who are their wives, their children, or simply a woman they admire, is at epidemic level—and, sadly, one that is growing and becoming more common. She did not know that the Pakistani courts have only convicted one man out of many hundreds who have committed the crime.

  Once Sabrina learned the extent of the problem, discovering that many Pakistani men believe it their right to destroy women’s lives in the most harmful manner possible, causing the greatest physical agony, lifelong bodily disfigurement that brings severe psychological damage, she made the decision to make the “acid” women her lifelong project.

  Knowing that she would need help from others, she contacted Amani, telling her the stories and sharing the photographs that I had seen.