by Jean Sasson
Hearing the commotion from the hallway, Abdullah ran in at that moment and aided his father, yanking Amani away to a safe distance from Maha, whose flashing dark eyes and angry facial expression conveyed absolute fury.
I heaved a sigh of relief that Amani appeared to have escaped physical harm. I glanced at Kareem. My husband’s expression was unreadable although he appeared physically spent and very weary. I yearned to speak, to console my daughters, but I startled myself when I impulsively burst into tears. I am not a woman who easily weeps. My usual response to such family spats is to separate and protect my children, but for some reason I felt a great loss, tremendous sadness, and an undefined grief that overpowered me.
While Kareem and Abdullah sympathized with me with kindly looks and soothing words, Maha was too angry to notice my despair. Amani remained silent.
I further surprised myself when my weeping intensified into loud cries. I lost control. I fell into a chair. I held my head in my hands and wailed. I really do not know what came over me, but the family squabble ended as quickly as it had begun when Maha tore away from her father and came to me. “Mother. Please stop crying. Please.”
Amani found her voice, shouting, “Father, help Mother. She is losing her mind!”
Kareem came close, touching my head and stroking my shoulder. “Sultana. All is well. Please, darling, do not cry. Control yourself, please.”
Still holding Amani in his grip to protect her should Maha’s calm behavior turn out to be a clever ploy whereby he would lose his focus and give Maha the opportunity to renew her attack upon her sister, Abdullah moved near to me, whispering, “Mother, please. You are frightening the servants.”
I did not know until later that more than thirty-five people who worked for us in our palace and on our grounds had gathered in a large group near to us, believing that a great tragedy had occurred. This, because my screams reminded all of hysterical women who have unexpectedly lost all those whom they love. Such cries typically imply death.
I have been through many serious and even terrifying moments in my life, but never have I lost command of my thoughts or my actions. I was in the beginning stages of a minor breakdown, although I did not know it at the time.
Maha was becoming more frightened. She assured us all. “Mother. Father. Abdullah. Do not worry. I will do no damage to hurt my sister.” She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was suddenly stern again. “Although Amani deserves a proper thrashing.”
Amani whimpered like a baby, a state to which she sometimes reverts when events she has created have taken a disagreeable turn.
I regained my ability to speak, shouting through my sobs, “I am ashamed of my family. For the first time in my life, I am ashamed of you, Maha, and of you, Amani, and of you, Kareem.” As usual, Abdullah had done nothing to merit a reprimand.
“Me?” Kareem said in loud disbelief.
“Yes, YOU, my husband.”
Once again, my tears flowed and my cries sounded loudly. A few days later, my son laughingly told me that the bizarre noises I was making reminded him of our palace alarm system, which everyone claims is eerie.
By this time, Kareem was openly alarmed, for he has known me since I was sixteen years old and we have lived through many emotional moments, yet he had never seen me lose control of my senses—unless I include the time he stupidly announced that he was going to take a second wife. My reaction at his declaration was so fiercely tempestuous that he never again approached that taboo topic. And that is why our roof continued to cover a palace holding one man and one wife and their children.
Pushing the chair away, I stood up and glared at Kareem. Without thinking, I spoke my mind, saying, “Husband, you created this fight by forcibly removing Maha from her charity work. You could have handled this situation in an astute manner, with words rather than actions. Think of our grandfather! What would he have done in such a situation?”
Kareem was silent, encouraging me to further make my point. “Kareem, you and I both know that he would have used wise reasoning to gain what was needed. Please, my husband, gain from the astuteness our grandfather demonstrated!”
Kareem blanched. From the time we were toddlers, as grandchildren of Saudi Arabia’s first king we had been told endless stories of the wisdom Abdul Aziz, our grandfather, displayed in every crisis, whether personal, tribal, or national.
One particular story showed his wisdom and restraint because it focused on the primal instincts of all tribal men to protect and control their women. When our grandfather was in exile with his father in Kuwait after suffering defeat and loss in the Nejd, in central Arabia, by the al-Rashid clan, most cousins joined the al-Saud, showing their loyalty, except for one set of unfaithful, rebellious cousins. When our grandfather returned to the Nejd to renew the battle with the al-Rashids, the same cousins joined him in battle. Once again the unfaithful cousins remained noticeably remote. But our grandfather healed the family friction when he welcomed those fickle cousins with open arms, even marrying three of his own sisters to the most wayward of the cousins. Grandfather knew that intermarriage had the power to heal ruptures in tribal families.
One of the three brides given in marriage to the most defiant cousin was our grandfather’s closest and dearest sister, Nura, whom he held in the highest esteem.
Sometime later, the rebellious cousin became disgruntled; he began asking for favors that our grandfather refused, and so once again the cousin revolted and began raiding parties against his brother-in-law.
But there was one major problem for the defiant cousin—he was very much in love with his wife. He could not bear to be away from Nura and could not resist her charms. While on a raid, he lost his willpower and came to his beloved wife, sneaking in to see her, and then slipping away in the middle of the night like a thief.
When Nura became pregnant, Abdul Aziz was in a quandary, thinking that his sister had broken the most stringent of religious and desert codes. It was only when our grandfather learned of the deception—that his disloyal brother-in-law was the father of Nura’s child—that his heart softened. He tucked his anger away into a pocket and welcomed his brother-in-law back into the family.
This goodwill gesture meant that there was no danger of war within the family and, as a result, many lives were saved. Although our grandfather was a fierce warrior, he had the wisdom to recognize that there are times when a man must accept circumstances he cannot alter, and should not try to change.
None of Abdul Aziz’s sons or grandsons can compare to the great man; but nevertheless, all male offspring desire nothing more than to be likened to King Abdul Aziz. All the male cousins I have known, Kareem included, imagine themselves as wise men who at the very least meet the high expectations laid down by their grandfather.
As I was reflecting on the great man, I could not help but remain focused on Maha’s sense of outrage and anger, and I turned to her. “Daughter,” I said, “I know you are upset. You have the right. Although Abdullah and I kept your confidence, I was careless with your letter, and I am sorry. But, Maha, you are old enough now to know that violence, even when you are at your most angry, is never an acceptable way to handle a problem.” I trembled. “You are very strong, Maha. You could have seriously injured Amani. You were twisting her neck and head with tremendous force. What if your sister, the mother of your nephew and niece, ended up with serious injuries that left her disabled for life? What if your sister had never again spoken, or moved, or even had the ability to think? What then, Maha?”
Maha’s head dropped. She slowly nodded, thinking for the first time of how the evening might have ended.
Amani, obviously shaken by the image I had described, pulled away when I moved to touch her arm. “Amani, your sneaky ways must end. How can you reconcile your life as a devout Muslim and yet behave in a way that causes so much damage to others by uncovering secrets that are not yours to know, Daughter. This kind of treachery must stop, and it must stop now!”
I made no effort t
o wipe away the tears that were streaming down my cheeks.
“There is one other thing. All of us speak grand words; we profess caring for those less fortunate than ourselves and say that we must help others. But just think of the energy and time we waste on such squabbles—time and energy that could be put to good use elsewhere.” My voice rose in tone with my emotion. “As you, my girls, are fighting over a revealed secret, women in Pakistan and across this region are facing a lifetime of pain and agony. As you, my husband, are squandering large sums of money removing our adult daughter away from the important work she loves, young girls are being captured and raped by treacherous soldiers. Who will help them if not Maha and other brave souls who cannot endure the injustice of the situation?” I shook my fist as if I were an actor onstage inspiring an audience, but I was speaking of life and death, matters that meant so much to me. “We cannot fight with against one another! We must help these helpless people!”
I had stunned my husband and children. They stared at me with mouths open.
“Kareem, you ask why I am ashamed of you. Husband, it is a sin if any of us waste one moment of our lives doing anything but saving or at least helping those who are being tortured or raped or disfigured.”
I gestured my disgust by raising my hands into the air as I darted from the room. My family hurried behind me. Excited servants scattered when I burst through the crowded hallways. Kareem nearly caught up with me, but I succeeded in entering my quarters and bolting the door, refusing to acknowledge his frantic knocks and pleas.
Declarations of love and devotion from those I most love were encircling me as I fell into an uneasy and exhausted sleep.
***
After sleeping heavily, I mercifully awoke without immediately recalling the previous night’s family drama. As I lay quietly, wishing to prolong my rest, a telephone rang.
I am old-fashioned when it comes to communication. I only see social media when my children and grandchildren assist me. I do have several expensive cell phones, and use them when I am traveling, but I am most happy with a sturdy landline telephone in my hand when I am having lengthy conversations. Thus, I have three private telephone lines set up in my quarters. To keep organized and to know who is calling, the telephones are red, black, and beige. They are positioned side-by-side on a special table, with ample room for pens and writing paper. The red telephone is used only to speak with close family members, such as my husband, Kareem, my sister, Sara, my children, and grandchildren. I always answer that telephone quickly. The black telephone is limited to those with whom I work at various charities. The beige telephone is for good friends and associates.
I saw the light blinking on the beige telephone. I groaned, then rolled over to get out of bed, answering the phone on the fourth ring.
My special friend, a medical doctor named Dr. Meena, was calling. Never one to waste words, the serious-minded woman greeted me with a rapid good morning and I hope you and your family are well, without pausing for me to return the same polite and customary greetings.
“Princess, I am upset today. I would like to have a meeting with you. At your convenience, of course.”
I have known Dr. Meena for more than three years now and, although she has my private telephone number, I have never received a call from her that was not prompted by an important issue. Dr. Meena is one of the most diligent, hardworking women I have ever known; she spends nearly every waking moment caring for the lives of others. She does not have leisure time to chat socially with me, despite my princess status. This is one of the many reasons I so respect Dr. Meena. She is not a person who will seek insincere attention from anyone, even from those with a royal rank.
For those who have not read Princess: More Tears to Cry, one of the five books written about my life, Dr. Meena was introduced to the world in that work.
I first met Dr. Meena in 2012 at an educational seminar held at one of the royal hospitals in my country. Dr. Meena was a distinguished presenter. She is not a dramatic beauty but is attractive, and has the kind of distinct personality that ensures she will be someone never forgotten.
Dr. Meena was not ashamed to describe her brutish childhood. She was born in Saudi Arabia in a poor hamlet known as Al Kharj. She was the fourth child and fourth daughter. Her birth, in fact, brought about the divorce of her parents, for her father, like many Saudi men, was an ignorant man who was unacquainted with the scientific fact that it is the man, not the woman, who determines the sex of a child. Thus, he berated his innocent wife for bringing four daughters into his life as though it was a plan put in place to harm him because the most uninformed men in my country scorn daughters and adore sons! He divorced her as quickly as he could say the words “I divorce you” three times. He then forced her to return to her parental home, where she was not welcome. In fact, Dr. Meena’s maternal grandparents tried to lock their daughter and four granddaughters out of their home, but they did not succeed due to the quick thinking of the eldest daughter, who wrapped her little body around her grandmother’s legs and refused to release her grip.
As horrible as it was, it could have been much worse because Dr. Meena’s father had earlier snatched her from her mother’s arms and declared that he was going to bury her alive in the desert. This would have been Dr. Meena’s fate, and Saudi Arabia would have lost one of their better physicians, had not an uncle intervened. This uncle reminded her father that our Prophet Muhammad famously said, “If anyone has a female child and does not bury her alive, or slight her, or prefer his children [i.e., the males ones] to her, God will bring him to Paradise.”
With the Prophet Muhammad’s wise words ringing in his ears, Dr. Meena’s father returned the infant to her mother, saving her from an early grave.
However, the maternal grandparents were so poor that Dr. Meena confessed to growing up without once feeling satisfied after eating a meal. Tragically, she was always hungry, which might have been the reason for her unusually petite size. Despite many family challenges, Dr. Meena was allowed to attend school, and she was so focused on education that she became a star student, winning her teachers’ help to access higher learning, ultimately succeeding in obtaining a medical degree. This is an incredible achievement for any Saudi woman, let alone one from a humble background.
Dr. Meena is a very remarkable woman and soon I was considering a possible friendship, for I not only admired this young woman but was struck by the thought that she was someone who was in a perfect position to help me to attain my own goals of helping as many Saudi girls as possible to achieve an education, just as she had.
We were instantly drawn into each other’s worlds. After meeting privately, I respected her even more and asked her to assist me in finding worthy girls and women who lacked the funds or family help to obtain a full education. There are many young girls with the same aspirations as Dr. Meena, but too often family members push them to marry young, to leave the family and join their husband’s family, so that the bride’s family might be the beneficiary of a huge dowry. When I learn of girls in such dire situations through Dr. Meena, I often relieve the family of financial worries so that their daughter can continue her education rather than marrying young to bring in extra funds to the family.
Dr. Meena had asked for a meeting, and I readily agreed, even though my family was still in turmoil over this latest incident between Maha and Amani. I plucked my work calendar from my desk and, after a quick look, suggested that we meet in three days.
When I questioned what the meeting was about, she paused, finally saying, “Worthy Saudi men, Princess, worthy Saudi men.”
I was taken so taken aback that I could find no words, although I wondered which Saudi men had won Dr. Meena’s “worthy” award. Many were the times I had heard her crown a Saudi female as “worthy” of world attention due to fearlessness, or for enthusiastically working to help free Saudi women from the gender bondage that has been their fate for thousands of years.
I was suddenly so eager for the meeting that I wa
s sorry that I had not scheduled it sooner.
***
I remained lethargic in bed until noon but then felt ready to face the day ahead. An hour later, I strolled leisurely from my quarters and up the long hallway to the front of our palace to visit with my sweet mother. Little has given me more pleasure in this life than looking upon her portrait at the beginning of each day. I had thought about moving my mother’s picture into my quarters so that I might gaze at her prior to sleeping each night, but such a move would be inconvenient for the rest of the family, including my sisters and their children, as they, too, enjoy seeing the image of Mother when they walk into my home.
I enjoy several visits daily with Mother, as I strongly believe that we keep those we love alive by looking upon them, speaking with them and remembering them in all things we do.
“Good morning, Mummy,” I said as I gazed into my mother’s beautiful eyes. “You have been gone too long. I was only a child when you died, and now I am a grown woman reaching the age you were when you left us. I want you to know, Mother, that your baby daughter Sultana has missed you every day since the day you left us.”
I took great pleasure in sitting with Mother and remembering some of our most memorable moments, such as the evenings when she would sit with her daughters and share stories of her own childhood. Although she was a girl at a time when daughters were mainly scorned, that was not Mother’s experience in her family home. She was one of three daughters and two sons. Although the sons were the more valued of the five children, my mother felt the love of her gentle mother, my grandmother. And, she told us that there were occasions when her father bestowed some attention on his daughters. Mother always believed that he loved her best of all his daughters because he would sometimes sing for her, and in those days singing was forbidden. She used to sing for us one of the tunes she remembered and how we loved hearing her low, very unique singing voice. Now I am devastated not to recall the words, the tune, or the tempo of that song. I made a mental note to speak with one of my older sisters to inquire whether the song was still in her mind and heart and, if so, I would memorize that song and sing it to my grandchildren. Little Sultana, I know, would love to hear a song with so much love attached to it.
