by Jean Sasson
My husband locked the door to his private quarters and refused to hear my plea to enter. Thus, he blocked my plan of disclosing Maha’s letter, and my strategy to encourage him into accepting the fact that his daughter has the right and the wisdom to make her own decisions. I also believed that my husband should be aware of the precise security safeguards Maha had already taken. She was not living alone. She had found a safe apartment. She had hired twenty-four-hour security. She had arranged to have drivers and a vehicle at her disposal. Maha had taken every precaution she could and I desperately wanted Kareem to know these things so that they might allay his fears a little.
I, too, of course, was desperately worried about Maha’s safety, but Kareem’s overreaction had somehow changed my own mind about wanting her to leave Turkey. Initially, I longed for nothing more than to command my daughter either back home to Saudi Arabia or to her other home in Europe. My only concern was that she was out of any kind of danger as soon as possible. But my husband nudged my sense of right and wrong, reminding me that Maha was a well-traveled, strong-minded, and independent woman who has seen much of the world. She is a woman who has been making her own decisions for many years now. If any woman on earth can take care of herself, Maha bint Kareem al-Saud is that woman.
***
Early the following morning I received unwelcome news from Abdullah. He telephoned to tell me that his father and his uncle Assad were airborne, flying to Turkey even as we spoke. Abdullah had tried to contact Maha to warn her, but he told me, “She is not answering her cell phone.”
I glanced at the clock. “She will be in the camp by now,” I said. “For certain, she cuts off her phone. Knowing Maha, she will avoid any interruptions that might distract her from her work with the children.”
“Should I fly there, too?” Abdullah asked.
After a moment’s hesitation, I said, “No, Son. Maha can handle this. However, we must both attempt to reach her so that she is not shocked to see her father storm through the camp.”
I hesitated, then added, “And she should know that neither you, nor I, leaked her secret.”
“Yes. You are right, Mother. Maha will be unhappy with us until she knows the source for Father’s discovery of her secret. As far as Father is concerned, I doubt they will let him in the camp. He has no credentials. From Maha’s letter, they run a tight and very secure camp. The Turkish government is handling all these things in a very professional manner.”
I gave a resigned laugh. “Son, you know that your father will do what he must do to see Maha. He will be impatient, unwilling to wait until she leaves the camp later today.” I repeated my words: “You know what your father will do.”
I heard my son exhale loudly. “I wish he would not give bribes, Mother. That is the sort of behavior that creates true loathing of Saudi royals. Until the rule of law is accepted and this kind of behavior stops, we will never receive proper respect in the world community.”
My son was correct. Yet I’ve never known a Saudi royal who saw the harm in offering money to get what he or she wanted. Although bribing has been perfected in the Middle East, I know that it happens all the time, and in most corners of the world, anywhere two entities meet, those who desire a specific thing that cannot be had without a financial disbursement, and those who desire wealth and are eager to acquire money by exchanging something of significance for cash.
Since I was a young woman, there have been a number of highly publicized bribery scandals regarding Saudi military equipment contracts with Western nations. While the media in the West chases a story like this and publishes scathing reports of those who benefit, Saudi officials shrug. Bribery is a way of life in Saudi Arabia. It has many faces. Nearly every Saudi feels they are entitled to use their own money to obtain whatever it is they want. Nearly every Saudi sees nothing wrong if a person is enriched when taking a percentage of a business deal.
“I agree, Son, but when it comes to his three children, Kareem is not a man who listens—not to anyone. He has most likely already spoken to someone high in authority and has offered a large sum of money. I have yet to know of a person who has said no to the sums Kareem is willing to give to get his way, and most particularly when it comes to his family. Once in Turkey, he will be like a powerful sandstorm, covering the entire area until he finds Maha.”
“Father is making a grave mistake,” Abdullah said in a disappointed tone. “I know my sister, and when I read her letter I knew in my own heart that she has found a great passion in this cause. I only hope that Father’s actions do not create a permanent schism between himself and his daughter.”
With those fear-provoking words ringing in my ears, Abdullah said his good-byes, but not before saying that he was going to bed for a much needed nap. He had barely slept the night before, worrying about Kareem and Maha.
I felt deep concern, for I had never known Abdullah to take a nap since the days he was a toddler and was forced to do so by his mother. I gritted my teeth in anguish, knowing that Kareem had made a poor decision, which threatened to adversely affect all our lives.
I heard nothing from my husband that day. I was unable to reach Maha, who was not answering her telephone. That night, I was so disheartened I could barely sleep. My rest was interrupted by nightmarish dreams filled with visions of an angry Maha evading her father by fleeing from the camp and falling into the hands of dangerous men, never again to be found by those who love her so much.
The following morning, I once again attempted to phone Maha but without success. Abdullah was also trying to reach her but similarly with no luck. We could do little more than fret about Kareem’s strategy and feel anxious about Maha’s reaction.
The morning’s endeavors and frustrations had put me in a foul mood even before Amani visited later in the day to resume our discussion about her cousin Princess Sabrina, and the project to help Pakistani women who had been savaged by acid by their fathers, brothers, husbands, or potential suitors.
Amani was smiling broadly, happy to see me, she claimed.
I vowed not to raise my voice, and spoke lowly but without dithering. “Daughter, we must discuss your sneakiness,” I declared.
“Sneakiness?” Amani giggled. “Is there such a word, Mother, or have you invented a new word that I will soon see recognized in the dictionary.”
“You are not amusing me, Daughter.’
“All right, Mother. Tell me, what sneakiness?”
“Sit,” I commanded, gesturing with my hand to the chair beside me.
Amani sat, but still showed no sign of concern. She even smiled and struggled to clasp my hand as I spoke, though I refused it.
“Amani, I am truly upset. Daughter, you searched my private quarters. You discovered a confidential letter your sister had written to me and you chose to reveal the secret Maha asked that I keep from everyone.”
Amani retained her friendly expression, boldly exclaiming, “Yes, Mother. I do not deny what you are saying.”
Pleased that my daughter was not trying to cover her deeds with a lie, I still would not retreat from my anger. “Why, Daughter? Why did you do it? Why did you do exactly what your sister requested me not to do?”
Amani squeezed my arm in affection and said, “Mother, when I saw your tears, I understood that something very bad was upsetting you. When you refused to share your troubles, my love for you compelled me to try to discover what this serious problem was. I was afraid that you or Father had been diagnosed with a serious illness. I had to know your secret, or I would have gone crazy with worry.”
Amani smiled sweetly. “I did not really do a search, Mother. Maha’s letter was lying openly on your makeup table. It was there like an invitation for me to read. I was not so bad to do that. It is not the same as a thief who breaks into a locked safe, a closed door, or a drawer. The letter was there. I had to know what was disturbing the mother I love with all my heart.”
While my anger slightly dissipated following this declaration of love and devotion, it had
not completely evaporated and I pressed on. Amani needed to be aware of the consequences of her actions.
“But, Amani, your father traveled to Turkey to Maha to give up her work at the refugee camp. Maha will be furious with me, wrongly believing that I did not keep the secret she shared and that I disapprove of her work, which I do not!”
“But, Mother, I agree with Father. Maha should not be there. I am certain that danger lurks for anyone so close to the Syrian border. The men and women of the Islamic State are capable of luring the innocent across that meandering border. Anyone who looks upon Maha will know that she is a woman of means. She carries herself with such confidence and authority. Someone will try to discover the identity of the tall, beautiful Arab woman who has the funds to hire drivers and security. She will be set up. I am convinced of this. They might send someone to entice Maha away with stories of suffering children. Maha, you know, would investigate. Mother, she may be a world traveler, but this is an unsafe region and Maha is not familiar with the area. She might be lured into an automobile, or across the border. Once caught, she would be helpless.”
My throat tightened in fear and tears came to my daughter’s eyes. “Anything could happen to her; these are brutal men who are desperate to murder those who do not support them, Mother.”
I held up my hand, “Please, Daughter, please do not remind me.”
Although most Muslims believe in punishment by death for certain heinous crimes, most believe in executions that are quick and merciful, praying to Allah for a “merciful dagger” or a “merciful sword” or a “merciful knife.” In recent times, very sadly, some of the more merciful acts relating to punishment have been ignored and abandoned by those who favor more sensational and brutal treatment.
“Mother, we must think of these things. We must think of what we might do to stop this most violent movement. In this region, we are all in danger.” Amani paused momentarily. “Maha should not be so near to them. Those men despise the Arab regimes in power and their families. As a Saudi princess, Maha would be made a special example.”
“STOP, AMANI! STOP!” I shrieked, the unbearable image of my daughter being executed imprinted on my mind. “I will not hear this kind of talk.”
“Mother, you should thank me for alerting Father. I am very glad that he has flown to Turkey to bring her home.”
After enduring the images Amani put into my mind, I felt a twinge of relief that Maha might soon return home. Though I reminded Amani, “This is your sister’s passion. Would you be so glad if your Father stopped you from ever again helping an animal in need, Daughter?”
Amani turned her eyes away from my own, unwilling to put herself in a similar situation, for she was passionate about her animal-rights work.
“No, Daughter, do not turn away. Think of what I am saying. What would you do if your father ordered you to never again work for the relief of animal sufferings? Would you stop?”
“I would not put myself in extreme danger to save an animal. I am just not brave enough, or foolish enough, Mother.”
“But, Daughter, we are skipping over the important matter. You revealed your sister’s secret. That was wrong, Amani. Wrong!”
“I disagree, Mother, and I do not regret what I have done.”
It was a stalemate. Amani would always believe she was correct to expose Maha’s secret, whereas I defend the right of anyone to conceal secrets of a personal nature, so long as no one else was harmed.
I sighed and turned away. I was thinking about ordering a cup of tea when the shrill ring of our home telephone shattered the silence. A grim-voiced Abdullah advised me that he had heard from Maha, who was, as we feared, enraged that her father had been informed of her whereabouts and of her mission.
“Where is she?” I asked, suddenly struck with the strongest desire for my daughter to be with her father and on her way home to Saudi Arabia.
“She is with Father on the plane. I believe she has been officially relieved of her volunteer post at the refugee camp.”
I slumped forward, happiness and sadness mingling in my mind. My daughter was physically safe. On the other hand, I knew that she would surely be miserable to be leaving her mission of compassion.
“Do you know when they will arrive?”
“It is around thirteen hundred nautical miles from Istanbul to Riyadh, Mother. I estimate that it will take Father’s airplane between six and seven hours of flight time. They are only an hour into the flight.”
I was astounded that my son knew the exact distance but, knowing Abdullah, he would have done proper research the moment he knew his father was in the air.
“Thank you, my son. Please do come and be with me when Kareem and Maha arrive. Maha needs to understand that it was Amani’s concern for her well-being that created your father’s plan to bring her out of Turkey and the refugee camp. Maha will be so angry she will not absorb the words I speak, but she will hear you.”
“I will come within the next four hours, Mother. Tell Amani to remain there, too. All the family needs to be in attendance.”
After ending the call, I spoke to Amani. “Your brother insists that you stay. We will all face Maha together, so that she is aware of our true concern for her safety.”
Amani appeared displeased and uneasy. “Oh, Mother, I do not agree. You know how Maha will be.” She twisted her fingers nervously. “She might strike me.”
While my daughters have been known to be violent to each other, such a thing was rare since they had become adults. “Your father and Abdullah will be with us. Neither will allow violence.”
Amani squirmed. My youngest child has always had a tendency to create chaos and then disappear for a time, giving anger room to deflate. For once, she would “face the consequences of her action.”
I insisted that Amani walk with me to my quarters, so we might freshen up.
Amani wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible. “What about Princess Sabrina, and the poor wounded women in Pakistan?” she asked. “When will we decide what action to take on their behalf?”
“This has been a trying morning, Amani. I cannot think clearly. Let us freshen up, take a little nap, and then discuss the issue before Abdullah arrives.” I looked at Amani, touching her lips with my fingertips. “The agony those poor women are enduring will make us forget our minor problems, Daughter.”
Amani startled me by bursting into tears, sobbing loudly while grasping at me. “Thank you, Mother,” she gasped. “I cannot stop thinking of those poor women.”
Enfolding my daughter’s small body in my arms, I stumbled into my quarters, leaving several alarmed servants standing open-mouthed in the long hallway.
***
While expecting Abdullah to join us in waiting to submit to Maha’s wrath, I spent a tense hour with Amani watching a documentary she had brought to the palace for me to see. For certain, the searing documentary took our feelings away from personal family problems. The film was entitled Saving Face and featured the humane works of a British plastic surgeon named Dr. Mohammad Ali Jawad. After learning of the horrific nature of the suffering endured by acid-attack victims, Dr. Jawad began frequent travels from England to his ancestral country of Pakistan to perform plastic surgery on the women and girls who were casualties.
While I had known something of male-on-female acid attacks prior to Amani’s interest in the violation, I had not realized how common acid attacks had become in various countries. It is a distressingly easy method of destroying a woman’s life because acid is readily available in Pakistan, and in many other countries. Indeed, battery acid is a favorite liquid for many, since the acid is used by nearly all households for one thing or another.
The women are left in great pain, their looks are destroyed, and they become isolated and alone as they are too ashamed to appear in public. It’s a particularly vicious kind of an attack that cannot be overcome.
The documentary film was like no other I had ever seen. While poignant and disturbing, it was so perfectly
filmed that I was drawn into the lives of the women. There were moments when I felt as if I was sitting in the examination rooms with the victims who were marked with horrifically scarred faces, arms and bodies. As Dr. Jawad explained the procedures he might have to do to save their sight, or to spare them from the ridicule of thoughtless people who so cruelly mocked them for their disfigured appearance, I really felt myself a victim, too, with my emotions igniting in anguish, fear, and anger.
Even prior to Amani’s revelations, I knew that violence against women in Pakistan was on the increase; statistically, only Yemen has more incidences of this terrible crime. Thousands of women in the country are kidnapped, raped, and murdered on an annual basis, according to the Aurat Foundation, an organization that monitors news reports regarding violence against women. Surprisingly, there is not a law in Pakistan that criminalizes domestic violence. No man in Pakistan fears arrest and imprisonment for violence against a woman, although a few men have been arrested and charged as examples when specific outrage garners the attention of the Western media.
One such case was the shooting of the bold and fearless teenager Malala Yousafzai, the young woman who was supported by her intelligent and brave father to obtain an education. After Malala wrote a blog on the BBC about her life in the Swat Valley under the ruthless Taliban, and spoke to the media about the importance of education for girls, she was ambushed and shot while riding a school bus. Malala survived, and after recovering spoke out even more strongly for education for girls. Her book, I Am Malala, brought worldwide attention to her story, and she was one of two winners of the 2014 Nobel Peace Prize.
How pleased I am that one young woman has made a huge difference and has increased attention on the plight of females in her country.
British newspapers, for some reason, are the best at following the stories of abuse against women in Pakistan. For this, I offer my respect to them on behalf of women worldwide who desperately need such media attention.
Pakistani women are mostly in dire need of honest public officials who can bring about laws that will support women in their attempt to access the legal system. Yet this has not happened. This puzzling negligence continues, despite the fact that there have been powerful women in Pakistan. Benazir Bhutto was elected prime minister of Pakistan, serving from 1988 to 1990, and then again from 1993 to 1996. She was always formidable in the political arena, first as the eldest daughter of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, who was a prime minister, too, and then as a prime minister herself. After her first victory to win the office of prime minister, she spoke to a large crowd and the words I best remember are: “We gather together to celebrate freedom, to celebrate democracy, to celebrate the three most beautiful words in the English language: ‘We the People!’ ”
