by Jean Sasson
“I know that you tried, and from what you are telling me your efforts nearly cost you a good husband, something rare in this world. All we can do is pray for Raif Badawi, and the other “worthy men” in our land. While we can do nothing political, we can pray for them all.”
“Yes, we will pray,” I said, my voice breaking with the emotion of it all. “Every day, I will pray.”
“And we can also pray for the outsiders who are protesting. I hear that our royal family, at least the men at the top, are stunned and horrified that the world is turning out in such numbers to support Raif Badawi.” She thought for a moment, before telling me, “Are you aware that eighteen Nobel Laureates have written a letter to our ruler, a letter that makes it clear that so long as Badawi is imprisoned the entire world of academics will consider the marginalization of Saudi Arabia? We all know that our government wishes to market Saudi Arabia as a research hub. These Nobel Laureates will stop that advance. Such protests have more power than if half the population in Saudi Arabia were to march.”
Dr. Meena’s words gave me hope. Although sad that outsiders might make a more powerful impact than the citizens of our land, I would take anything at this point that would free the young men whose names were now forever engraved in my mind.
Dr. Meena left my home but not before I advised her that she would soon receive two additional roomy automobiles and a group of drivers, all to be at her disposal. I would be responsible for full expenses, with the cars to be used as needed without concern for any costs. The drivers would live at my palace but report to her, their supervisor. This one small effort on my part meant that many more carless and driverless Saudi ladies could freely travel throughout the city. These are the small gifts I can provide that give me much joy.
Her grateful, happy smile soothed me, at least a little.
But I had little time to enjoy the moment because within ten minutes of Dr. Meena’s departure, a somber Sara telephoned, whispering that our father had returned from Europe the previous day and had taken an unexpected turn for the worse overnight. In fact, Sara said, “Sultana, I believe that he is dying. Come at once, if you wish to see him alive.”
I was startled because I did not even know that my father was in the kingdom. I was aware that the month before he had traveled to Europe for specialized health care for the terminal illness that was slowly taking his life, but Sara had told me that the physicians had informed him that they believed he had at least another six months to a year of life. I had not fretted because I know that doctors these days tell sick patients the truth and do not give them false hopes or impossibly lengthy promises of life when they are dying. I had spoken with Kareem the previous week about taking our entire family to Europe to visit with Father. Now that would not come to pass, I realized, with a stabbing sadness. I had envisioned a lengthy visit with all my children so that my father might derive some satisfaction from my impressive children and fetching grandchildren.
Just then I remembered a verse in the Koran: “Nor does anyone know what it is that he will earn tomorrow: nor does anyone know in what land he is to die. Verily with Allah is full knowledge and Allah is acquainted with all things.” (Koran: 31:34.)
We are warned by these words that we shall not know when and where we will die. So perhaps my father had become introspective in his aging years and knew that even doctors cannot say where or when one will die. The important time of our passing from this life is something that only God knows.
***
Kareem agreed to meet me an hour later at my father’s palace. I rushed to call Abdullah and Amani, and both promised to leave their palaces quickly. Maha could not be immediately located, as she was visiting a royal cousin, but I left two assistants in charge of finding my eldest daughter and to alert her regarding my father’s ill health. I knew that Maha would come the moment she heard the news, despite the fact that she, as I, had a rocky relationship with my father.
I was sitting in the backseat of my car, being driven to my father’s palace, within fifteen minutes. The drive took an agonizingly slow thirty minutes in Riyadh’s notoriously busy traffic, but finally we arrived just as I was fighting the urge to scream.
The huge gates did not swing open immediately for me—I have so rarely visited my father over the years that I was not recognized. The guards took long moments telephoning security inside the palace to receive clearance that I was, indeed, the daughter of my father. My father has too many sons and daughters by a number of wives, although he is not aligned closely to any of his children but those born to his first wife, my mother. He has always been especially fond of Ali, for what reason none can imagine, because Ali has been obnoxious since he was born. Nura, the first child of my mother, always connected nicely with Father. Now that Nura had left his earth more than seven years before, Father had concentrated his affections on Sara, who was now his favorite daughter.
For far too many reasons to list, I was never my father’s preferred child. In fact, I was never a favored child at any point in my life. Only on the occasion, several years ago, when he had presented Mother’s picture to me did we reach out to the other for a memorable evening of affable conversation and kindly feelings.
Just when I was about to telephone Sara to complain, we were finally allowed entrance. I looked stoically at the stern-faced guards as we passed through the opulent gates. I noticed real gold glimmering on the exterior of the metal gates. Real gold is unmistakable. Of all the royal princes, my father’s palaces and grounds are some of the most lavish, although he had been cautious not to arouse envy by spending more money than his half-brothers, the men who ruled as kings or the kings-in-waiting.
There appeared to be hundreds of vehicles arrayed around the huge entrance to the palace. I wondered if all the people transported in those cars were royals who had come to see my father die. From what I know, my father has never been a particularly popular son of our grandfather. He was never interested in government, but instead enjoyed accumulating enormous wealth, which he has done. He had an interest in new technology, and Kareem had told me several years ago that Father had invested in some of the soundest of the technology companies, so his wealth had increased mightily over the years.
For certain, his many palaces displayed his wealth. At last count, Sara told me that our father had more than twenty palaces around the world, with seven located in Saudi Arabia and the rest in Europe and Asia. I heard that he had visited some of his palaces only once but kept them fully staffed in case he had a sudden desire to visit.
When I hear such stories, I fear for our future, for how long will our citizens continue to accept such extravagance when many Saudis are poor. Perhaps because most of the al-Saud are quiet about their passion for spending, most Saudis do not know the extent of the money spent on impractical items, such as a luxurious palace one never visits.
These are well-kept secrets known only to members of the royal family.
***
I was escorted through various wings of the palace, each more elaborate than the next. I wondered what my father did with all those endless rooms. He lived alone only with his servants, while his three living wives each had their separate palaces, all located in a semicircle around his palace.
Finally, we arrived at the specially constructed medical unit where my father was fitfully resting. No one noticed that I had arrived. After glancing at the occupants of the medical area, I saw that neither Kareem nor my children were in attendance. I stood quietly, familiarizing myself with the room, which was much larger than I could have imagined, until I realized it was similar to an intensive-care unit in a large hospital, with enough beds for twenty people. Was my father expecting a catastrophe when he approved the building of the medical unit?
Father was in one of those beds, located in the right-hand corner of the room. Surprisingly, he was not connected to any machinery, or even to any tubes. For that I was glad, as I have heard that the most peaceful deaths come naturally.
I saw Sara
and Ali standing closely by his side. Doctors in white coats were hovering. Several half-brothers and half-sisters whom I do not know well were standing in line to walk past father to say their good-byes.
I looked intently at my father’s face. He was pale. But he was not grimacing in pain, to my relief. I watched as he opened and closed his eyes several times.
My idea of sharing a quiet good-bye with my father was not going to happen. I continued to stand alone, my eyes focused on his face, wondering the thoughts that were going through his mind.
We are told in the Koran that every soul will have the taste of death, and now my father was tasting his death. I felt terribly sad for him. Muslims are taught that death involves agony and hardship. There is an authentic Hadith that says, “When the Prophet Muhammad was dying, he put his hands in a large cup of water near to him and wiped his face with it, saying, ‘Oh, Allah, help me over the hardship and agony of death.’ ”
Although my father and I had never been close, I did not want to see him in agony or enduring hardship during the last moments of his life.
Perhaps the hardship was knowing that he was living his last few hours on Earth, and that soon he would be taken to be washed and wrapped in a white shroud, then placed into a simple dirt grave, a frightening idea for most human beings.
I saw Sara and Ali speaking to Father, and so I moved closer so that I might know what was being said.
“There is no God but Allah,” Sara was saying in a very kind manner. She asked Father to repeat the words, because Muslims are taught that they should encourage the dying to repeat these words more than once. Father’s lips moved in response to Sara’s plea, but I could not hear his voice, faint from the weakness that signifies death.
Father’s family was doing exactly what Muslims are taught to do when a loved one is at the point of death, which is to never leave the dying person alone. We are also told to ask them to repent their sins, but also to remember their good deeds. And that is when I overheard Ali, in a very quiet voice, urge Father to repent of any bad deeds he might have committed. He quickly followed this up by reminding Father of his good deeds, which was to give generously at Ramadan to the poor and needy.
I was close enough to see Father close his eyes in acknowledgment of what his firstborn son was saying before slightly nodding his head. Father was still aware: He had not yet gone to that middle place where he could not hear or see the living yet had not crossed over to Paradise.
At this point, Sara saw me and gestured with her hand for me to come, to stand beside her. I hesitated, because I knew that my half-brothers and half-sisters had been waiting when I arrived, waiting to say their good-byes, but Sara is so revered in all the family that they, too, nodded in agreement and signaled for me to do as Sara said.
And so the day came that I never imagined, the day I would bid my dying father a final farewell.
Taking a step back, Sara pushed me closer to Father. “Father,” she said, “here is your baby daughter, Sultana, the daughter Mother most loved in this world.”
I looked at Sara, wondering if she really believed that I was the most loved. I did not agree, although I know as the baby of the family I was greatly loved and protected by my mother and older sisters.
My father made no response, not at first.
“Father? I am here. I am your daughter Sultana.”
In a rare generous moment, my brother Ali squeezed Father’s hand, saying, “It is the little one, Father. Sultana is here. Look at her.” Then he spoiled the moment by saying too enthusiastically, “Sultana is no longer young. The baby girl is a grandmother.”
I glanced up to glare at my brother, but he was smiling, thinking his words amusing, so I let it pass and did not say what I was thinking, that the young son was an obese grandfather who looked twice my age, or at least that is what people tell me.
Father lay so quietly that I was afraid he had taken his last breath, but then I saw shallow breathing, with his chest slowly rising and falling.
I stared at his face, this man once so young who had now grown so old, with deep furrows on the flesh of his face and multiple lines around his eyes. Foamy spittle was dripping from the sides of his thin lips. His mustache was still dark black, as was his hair, but that was because my father, like most men in the al-Saud family, dyed his hair. I saw gray hairs peaking from his ears and wondered why his barber did not dye those hairs, too.
My memory took me back to the stories I had heard of his youth. He was one of the younger sons of our grandfather, and he had been spoiled by his parents because he was the only son born to his mother, although she had several daughters, much in the same way Ali was surrounded by sisters. Father was a young boy when Grandfather, King Abdul Aziz, was fighting to form a kingdom for his family to rule, and so he did not fight in the battles fought by his older brothers, Muhammad, Faisal, and Saud. He was, however, taught to be a skilled horseman and his great love was to collect Arabian horses.
Now I was upset with myself, for I had failed to question my father closely about his youth, not that he would have answered but perhaps he might. Sadly, I only remember him as a father to be feared. When I was a child, he was a handsome young man filled with confidence but he was quick to anger, particularly with me, the daughter who created scenes and caused him to break his word to my mother not to physically strike any of the children. But in my stubbornness and determination to get my way, I tried his patience many times, and there were times when he struck me hard with an open hand as a result.
That young man’s life, filled with excitement, the love of horses, numerous wives, and many children, was gone in a flash, and here he was, physically helpless while waiting for death, with his adult children looking on with sympathy and care.
Finally, just as I had despaired of his acknowledging my presence, Father opened his eyes and looked into my own. There were no words spoken, but I saw a light of affection and when I pulled his hand into my own I felt a gentle squeeze. I felt with a great certainty that it was my father’s way of telling me that despite all the ire in our past he did love me.
That’s when I felt tears fall from my eyes, and watched as they fell on my father’s face.
The tears were felt because he appeared startled, fully looking at me. I will always believe that my tears told him that he was loved by the daughter who had once hated him.
My father tried to smile, but his lips could only quiver.
I knew then that his time was brief, so I took one last, long look and pulled away, giving his other children a chance for their own good-byes.
Sara gave me a hug and then began to pull in the other children of my father.
As I was walking away, I heard my full-sister Dunia screech so loudly that all in the room took heed, knowing instantly that Father had stopped breathing and that he had left his life on Earth.
I turned back to see my brother, Ali, use his fingertips to gently close Father’s eyes.
That’s when I saw Kareem and my three children in the crowd, standing quietly with sad expressions, watching as I had said good-bye to a man I once hated. That hate had now evaporated and I felt the greatest sorrow that I had not enjoyed a loving relationship with the man who gave me life.
I was truly an orphan, for neither of my parents was with the living.
Surrounded by my loving children and my husband, I wept for what never was.
***
The Prophet Muhammad said, “You should hasten with the burial.” And so the time came for my father to be buried in the sands of Arabia.
There was much to be done, for our Islamic faith teaches us to quickly ready the body of the deceased for burial. Islam is very precise as to the burial procedures.
My father’s sons would be in charge to ensure that all was accomplished as it should be for a Muslim.
I knew that these things would happen to my father’s body.
They would bind his lower jaw to his head.
They would cover his body with a cle
an white sheet.
They would ask Allah to forgive him for all sins.
They would prepare the body for washing.
It was the responsibility of Father’s family to wash him. Only males can wash the body of a male, other than the wives, who are allowed. I was told that Father’s sons selected three among his sons to wash him. There can be no comment made about the body by the ones washing him.
After the washing, Father would be shrouded in white. Shrouding requires three white sheets made from an inexpensive material, which can be perfumed. This is because it was related that “when the Prophet Muhammad died, he was shrouded in three white sheets from Yemen.”
After the shrouding, prayers would be recited over the body in a prayer or study room at the mosque or in the mosque’s courtyard. Then the body would be transported to the cemetery and buried as soon as possible.
A box, or coffin, is not allowed unless the body is damaged, or if the grave is wet.
In Father’s case, he was buried in his shroud, without a box.
In Islam, women are not allowed at funerals. Thus, my father’s funeral was strictly a male affair.
He was buried in Riyadh’s Al Oud Cemetery, which is a public cemetery in the capital, near to the famous Al Batha Street. In Arabic, the word oud means “elder,” as in an old person.
The cemetery is famous in Saudi Arabia. All the men who have ruled as king of Saudi Arabia are buried there. This includes my grandfather Abdul Aziz and all his sons who became king: Saud, Faisal, Khalid, Fahd, and Abdullah. Many other sons of my grandfather are buried there as well, and my father is one of those sons. The cemetery is public, with commoners and royals alike buried in its grounds. In the eyes of God, no man is above another.
