by Jean Sasson
Kareem fleetingly gazed at me in disbelief before raising his voice to shout, so as to be heard over the sputtering protest of Amani and the wrathful squawk produced by Maha. “This will cease! Now!” Kareem commanded.
Although my daughters have often ignored their mother’s demands, they rarely fail to respond suitably to their father’s orders. I felt myself the spectator to a miracle as their cries and insults silenced instantly.
At that moment my sister Sara walked soundlessly into the room. She had arrived early for the planned family party to celebrate Maha’s visit. Sara’s expression was as usual appealingly composed, but her big black eyes grew significantly bigger when she observed our outlandish scene.
Sara’s lips curved into a smile. “My dear nieces, does fighting still hold such charm for you, even after two broken bones and a chipped tooth?”
Sara was recalling the most violent of my daughters’ battles, after nine-year-old Amani had foolishly strung a thin trip wire across the back hallway that led to a special room holding newly born kittens. Amani believed her kittens to be such treasures that she endlessly obsessed that someone might attempt to steal the animals and sell them in the animal souk.
As fate would have it, Maha had been the unintended victim after rushing unsuspecting along the hallway. After tripping over the wire, Maha’s violent fall had resulted in two broken wrists. When Amani heard the noise, she had raced to discover the identity of the kitty thief, only to find her sister writhing in pain. Amani angrily accused her sister of planning to steal all the kittens.
When Amani was a teenager, our family traveled to Mecca for the pilgrimage. During the religious event, Amani’s religious faith was transformed; once a child whose faith was dormant, she emerged a determined young woman who wished to embrace all aspects of our Islamic faith with unnerving intensity. Since that life-changing religious experience, Amani had had the unfortunate habit of throwing a shadow of doubt on everyone’s behavior, often accusing those around her of moral or criminal deeds.
When Amani tried to peer underneath Maha’s body to make sure there were no kittens flattened there, an enraged Maha elbowed her sister in the face, breaking a tooth.
While the event was not amusing at the time—as Kareem and I had had to explain to our family physician the embarrassing nature of our daughters’ injuries—Sara’s comment and her cool nature were the perfect anger antidote. Kareem and I exchanged a look and laughed loudly at the memory of that time long ago when our daughters’ behavior too often resembled that of wild beasts set loose in our home.
A humorless Amani did not approve of our laughter. She eased herself away from her father, brushing her dress’s bodice with her hand as though nothing more worrying than a spill had occurred. She then greeted her Auntie Sara with a routine exchange of kisses, changing the subject by inquiring about Sara’s sick grandchild, whose little life had recently been threatened by a serious bout of whooping cough. Maha, as triumphant as a conquering warrior, touched her favorite auntie’s shoulder in a gesture of affection before retreating to pour a cold drink made of freshly squeezed lemons.
She and Amani then chose to occupy opposite sides of the room, portraying the perfect role of strangers to one another.
I love my two daughters as much as any mother can love their children, but even as adults they continue to test my patience. Years ago I had clung to the hope that adulthood would bring maturity, but I was sadly mistaken. Staring at my daughters, I saw that both wore an expression of haughty satisfaction. I fought the strongest desire to smack those faces.
Even as I made small talk with Sara and Kareem, I was questioning our life, wondering why two daughters of the same parents could not find one thing to agree upon. From their teenage years, our daughters have clashed on everything.
Maha was born a strong, free-spirited girl who took vigilant notice at a young age of the cultural and social constraints placed on Saudi females. Over the years, her rage festered at the unfairness of our country’s social customs regarding gender; she grew to detest every restriction and often voiced her resolve to test each one. Amani embraced the most conservative, traditional beliefs of our land so long as they were directed at females. There were times when it seemed to me that Amani believed the shackles confining females were not harsh enough.
After years of traumatic episodes and incident, tranquility came to our home only once Maha had persuaded us, her parents, that she would never know true happiness while forced to live in Saudi Arabia. Kareem and I felt real concern that she would indeed purposely test every stringent social and tribal law regarding women if compelled to reside in the kingdom. Our Maha is fearless and unflinching when it comes to authority. Perhaps she would commit an act considered so culturally serious that there would be a chorus of communal disapproval followed by a clamor for our uncle, the king, to make an example of our daughter.
After many extended conversations, Kareem and I arranged for Maha to attend university in Europe. Happily, our daughter’s aggressive personality lightened considerably after moving away. She was so content in Europe that we later accepted that she would always make her home far from our desert kingdom. From that time on, Maha made only rare trips to Saudi Arabia, although we often visited her.
Unlike her sister, Amani cherishes female life in Saudi Arabia, often stating that there is no country so good for women as our land. She believes herself to be lovingly protected from the vices of the world, rather than being inhibited from making personal choices without the input of her father, who was, and still remains, her male guardian. Prior to arranging Amani’s marriage, Kareem insisted upon the legal stipulation that he, her father, remained her guardian. My husband could not abide the thought of any man holding such power over his child. According to these legal documents, at Kareem’s death, Amani’s eldest son will be her guardian, regardless of what age he might be at the time of his grandfather’s demise. So it may come to pass that a child might be named Amani’s guardian. For me, this is a ridiculous concept, one I believe women should fight with all their might, but my daughter claims she will bear no grudge should the day come when she will be an adult woman ruled by a guardian who is her male child!
Few people outside the kingdom understand that every Saudi female is born into the most rigid, male-dominated system, where a male will be her guardian. This is the case even in the year 2014 (AH 1435 in the Islamic calendar). This appointed male guardian has complete control over the female, from her first moment of birth to the last second of her death. Although the obligations of a guardian are not written in Saudi law, the guardian’s rights to rule might as well be carved in stone. Saudi courts recognize obedience to the guardian as law, even if the female is a full adult. A woman needs authorization from her guardian before she can attend school, marry, divorce, open a bank account, seek employment, or even have many medical treatments including surgery. I have known personally of four occasions when a Saudi woman has died because her guardian has been traveling and was unavailable to provide permission for emergency surgery.
No woman in Saudi Arabia can escape the guardian’s mantle, wrapped tightly around her body, keeping her a permanent prisoner of her guardian’s every wish. The male guardian is her personal king, there to decide every aspect of her life. Such a guardian can rule that a woman has sullied the family honor and should be put to death, should he so choose. There is no one in the land to intervene, not even the police or members of government security. I am speaking the truth. I will admit that it is unusual these days for a guardian to rule that his wife or daughter should be put to death, but should he decide to do so, death will come to that woman. Such is the life of a Saudi female existing under the rule of a guardian. In fact, several cases have appeared in the international news recently, though others go unreported. Horrifying crimes of murder will be revealed in a later chapter.
Even I, a woman capable of caring for myself, have never lived a day without a guardian. My father was my guardian until I m
arried Kareem. For me, my father was a very unkind guardian, although I am alive today because he never considered murdering me when I brought shame and disappointment to him. At the time of our marriage, Kareem accepted the mantle of guardianship over my father’s youngest daughter. Should my husband pass from this earth before me, my son Abdullah will be my guardian.
Admittedly, my situation is safer than that of most Saudi women because my husband and I truly love each other. Many have been the times that my husband claims he would not wish to live if I were dead, so I have always reasoned that he would never kill me. Kareem’s loving feelings for me give me a formidable power and a sense of security. So, since I left my family home, guardianship has posed only a negligible personal dilemma for me.
Actually, my husband lovingly spoke about guardianship early on in our marriage. I remember that day as if it were only a few weeks ago. My handsome husband swore upon our most holy book, the Koran, saying, “Sultana, we are guardians in trust. I am your guardian. You are my guardian. We will look to the other for help in every problem of life.”
Only once did Kareem break his vow, and that was when he foolishly attempted to force me to accept a second wife. That plan did not go well for my husband. Those who know me personally, or who have read my story, know that I was the victor in that marital struggle. This, I believe, is because I am willing to die if I feel strongly enough about a situation, while my husband carefully guards his own life, as well as my own.
But now I had more problems than guardianship to contend with, for I heard Maha continue to speak under her breath, insulting Amani’s Saudi education.
I was happy that Amani was college educated. In fact, during her high school years Amani had expressed little desire to attend university, asserting that a good Muslim woman needed nothing more than a husband and children. I was shattered by my child’s resolve to avoid a full education. Kareem handled the situation wisely when he pointed out that there were important steps she had not taken, namely a university education. The subject of a husband could only be raised once Amani had earned her university degree, he told her.
After speaking with religious authorities, Amani became satisfied that education was not at odds with our Islamic faith. Once placated thus, she enrolled in the Arabic language and literature department of the Art and Humanities College at the Riyadh University for Women, later renamed the Princess Nora bint Abdul Rahman University after the most beloved sister of our grandfather, the first king, Abdul Aziz Al Sa’ud. To our surprise and parental glee, Amani slipped easily into continuing education, admitting that she relished her classes in the Arabic language and literature department. She earned high marks in all classes and graduated after four years of study.
I dreamt that Amani might be a teacher of literature to other girls, for she was very passionate in her learning, but soon found myself sighing with sadness when Amani announced that she would never work. There were too many possibilities of meeting men not of her family to chance entering the world of the working woman. She would never talk with, or work with, any man other than her husband, father, brother, son, or other close male relative. Amani claimed that her learning was undertaken so that she might better represent her religion, faith, and Islamic values, and also, most important, to be a better mother to her children.
Kareem told me not to protest: “Sultana, do not forget that 58 percent of college students in Saudi Arabia are female, yet only 14 percent of those girls can find jobs. It is just as well that Amani does not fill a position truly needed by another Saudi girl.”
I grimaced at his words, yet I could not deny that Kareem spoke a woeful truth. While Amani would never need a salary from a job to provide life’s necessities, our country is filled with educated girls who are anxious for much-needed employment. Certainly I am delighted that so many Saudi girls are being allowed to attend school, which was not always the case in my country.
Yet, for women in Saudi Arabia, as soon as they overcome one obstacle, another appears. While education of females is becoming accepted by most men, many fathers balk at the idea of their daughters’ working; they want to ensure that men who are not members of the family do not have physical access to their daughters. Additionally, many husbands refuse permission for their wives to work, although most promise otherwise during the engagement period. Furthermore, many businesses do not like females’ working in their establishments, dreading that the mix of men and women will create problems with the religious establishment. Angry-hearted clerics often assert that females and the devil walk hand in hand when women mingle with men who are strangers to them. Pity the poor Saudi woman who wants to use her intellect and her education to work in her chosen profession, for there are many barriers placed in her path.
Within months of graduating from college, Amani pressed for us to arrange a marriage with a suitable royal cousin. She did not name someone specific, asking only that he be a man from a known good royal family, of good character and a believer. She steadfastly rejected the opportunity to view a photograph of her groom-to-be, so charitably provided by his sister. Amani became incensed when her brother Abdullah taunted her with hints that her cousin was pleading to see his future bride’s face, and that he, Abdullah, might relieve the young man’s anxiety by displaying a photograph of Amani. She became so distraught that she tearfully entreated her father to intervene, and he did, forbidding our son from disturbing his sister any further on the matter.
Abdullah is a joyful soul who relentlessly teases his sisters, but only Maha shows the occasional sign of humor at his antics. If only my two daughters shared the pleasing and outgoing character of my son, I would be a mother filled with joy. Kareem, too, acknowledges that our son is trouble-free and has often said to me, “Sultana, God chose to reward us with an agreeable son and to challenge our endurance with Amani and Maha.”
During the times he was personally frustrated with me for one thing or another, he delighted in adding an insult and laying blame on my head by saying: “My daughters have inherited their mother’s propensity for generating bedlam.” Certainly both daughters arrived on this earth preprogrammed with the most exhausting dispositions.
But as an opposite character to her mother and sister, Amani holds dear everything to do with being a woman ruled by men. She is also a poster girl for strict obedience of everything religious. From her teen years, she wore the full black veil with enormous satisfaction, believing it immoral for any woman to expose her face in public. She still covers her delicate hands with black gloves, and her feet and legs with thick black stockings, regardless of the sweltering heat in the kingdom—in fact, even when we visit Jeddah, the port city known for its drenching humidity.
I have always said that such a costume is extremely dangerous in the heat of Saudi Arabia, and my concerns were substantiated when a heavily pregnant Amani was visiting us at our Jeddah home. As she was not familiar with some of our newly employed male staff, she tended to wear her heavy veil from the moment she woke until she slept. My poor daughter feared that one of them might catch a glimpse of her uncovered face, although these men are trusted and accustomed to being around the females in our homes.
One morning she walked down the stairs fully veiled, annoying me and even surprising her Auntie Sara, who generally accepted the contrasting behavior of my two daughters with a smile. I started to voice my thoughts, saying I found it ridiculous for Amani to fully cover when at home. Besides, I enjoy having a conversation with someone I can see, and most particularly get pleasure from looking upon the faces of my children. At that moment Sara gave me a warning look and I bit my lip, asking instead, “Would you like some cold juice, my precious?”
Amani brushed past, saying, “No, Mummy. I feel like a stroll in the garden.” One of our Indonesian maids opened the heavy wooden and glass door so that Amani could enter the special women’s garden Kareem had so carefully designed for the females in our family. The garden is unusually large and studded with numerous enormous plants and lo
ts of ferns; the effect was meant to be reminiscent of a rain forest. Overly protective of my pregnant daughter, I called out, “Don’t get lost in all that greenery, sweet Amani.” My daughter did not respond.
Soon Sara and I became distracted with a game of komkom; this is a fun game we often play when at Jeddah because the game requires seashells that the children can sometimes find on the Red Sea shoreline. Two of Sara’s eight grandchildren played with us. The gaiety of watching the children toss the seashells on the floor was fun and I momentarily forgot the time. When Abdullah came into the sitting area and inquired about Amani, I suddenly realized that she had been in the garden for nearly an hour.
I jumped to my feet and dashed out of the door and into the garden, calling for my child. I gave a terrified scream when I saw her sprawled on the ground, the black cloth of her abaya draped over a small fern and fluttering in the sea breeze.
“Amani!” I shouted out.
Abdullah quickly followed, as well as several of our drivers, who had heard my cry and came running into the garden, normally forbidden to them.
For a moment, I thought my precious child was dead, finally smothered to death by all that heavy black fabric, her black stockings and gloves. Amani’s costume probably weighed more than she did herself, as she had always been delicate in size. Even though she was pregnant, she weighed only forty kilograms, less than ninety pounds.
Abdullah and one of the drivers lifted Amani and carried her into our air-conditioned home. While they struggled to hold her carefully, for she was noticeably pregnant, her veil was accidentally pulled from her face and her long black skirt was hoisted above her waist.
