Princess Sultana's Daughters

by Jean Sasson

  Abdullah and Maha were excited to be postponing our return to Riyadh and their normal routines for a few more days. Our two eldest children began to plead with us to take a small holiday while in Jeddah. I looked at my husband and smiled. But the smile faded from my face when I noticed that Amani was sitting off to herself in the corner of the room, her nose in the pages of the Koran. Amani was quickly becoming a gloomy recluse and seemed unconcerned as to where she might be. It appeared to me that my youngest child had raised barriers against her normal desire for harmless fun, for in the past nothing thrilled Amani more than to swim in the lapping, warm waters of the Red Sea.

  Determined to avoid becoming even further depressed by Amani’s activities, I nodded my head, yes, in response to Kareem’s questioning eyes. So, in spite of the humidity and the heat waves that were dancing in the air, Kareem and I decided to remain in Jeddah an additional two weeks, for we could see that our two eldest children were sorely tempted by the blue mirror of the Red Sea waters, which we could view from our palace walls.

  I was not displeased at the idea, for I, like many members of the royal family, prefer the lively port city of Jeddah to the staid atmosphere of Riyadh. Thinking that I would take my daughters shopping in the modern shopping malls of Jeddah and entertain family friends who lived in the city, the holiday loomed pleasantly in my mind. Had not Amani chosen this time to expand the growing gap between herself and her family, it would have been a perfect time in an otherwise imperfect life.

  *

  I was down on my knees in the long corridor that connected the various wings of the palace when Maha made the discovery that her mother was attempting to overhear the voice of her sister, Amani, through a crack in the doorway leading into the Turkish baths and indoor garden area.

  “Mummy! What are you doing?” Maha called out in a loud, laughing voice, even as I tried to wave her away with my hand.

  Inside the room, Amani stopped speaking, and I heard my daughter’s determined footsteps as she made her way toward me. I made a desperate attempt to spring to my feet so that I could move away from the door, but my pointed shoe heel caught in the hem of my long dress. I was struggling to free myself when Amani flung the door open and stood staring down at her obviously guilty mother.

  I was unnerved by my daughter’s accusing face, for her piercing eyes and tight lips made it plain that she clearly understood the situation.

  Unable to acknowledge my despicable deed, I began to rub my fingers against some red threads that were worked into the hall carpet, and with what I hoped was a lilt to my voice, I began to lie with the intensity of one who knows her listeners see through her lie.

  “Amani! I thought you were in your room!” I exclaimed. I returned my gaze to the carpet, seriously studying the red threads. “Darlings, have either of you noticed the red stains on this carpet?”

  Neither of my daughters responded.

  With a frown, I gave the red threads a few more rubs, and with my shoe heel still caught in my dress, I stood up hunched over and limped down the corridor. Short on explanation, I mumbled, “The servants have become quite lax. I fear that the stain is permanent.”

  Amani, unable to allow me the pleasure of believing that my small lie had been convincing, spoke to my back. “Mummy. This carpet is not stained. Those are red roses woven into the pattern!”

  Maha could not restrain herself, and I heard her as she began to giggle.

  Amani called out, “Mummy, if you wish to hear my words, you are most welcome. Please, come into the room where I am speaking.” The door leading into the garden room slammed with a thunderous clap.

  Tears formed in my eyes, and I rushed to my bedroom. I could not bear to look at my beautiful daughter, for since we had returned from Makkah, she had begun to clothe herself from head to toe in black, even going so far as to wear thick black hosiery and long black gloves. In the privacy of our home, only her face remained uncovered, as my child wrapped her beautiful black hair in a stiff black head covering that reminded me of something a goat-herding Yemeni woman might wear. When Amani ventured outside our palace walls, she added a veil of thick black fabric that hindered her vision, even though the religious officials of Jeddah were much more relaxed in pursuing women with unveiled faces than were those of Riyadh. Our desert capital is known throughout the Muslim world for its diligent morals committees, which are composed solely of angry-faced men who harass innocent women on the city streets.

  Nothing I could say or do could persuade my daughter to dress more comfortably than in the heavy black cloak, veil, and head-dress that strike most Muslim believers in other Islamic lands as nothing less than ridiculous.

  I could not control my sobs. At great risk to my happiness, I had battled most of my life for my daughters to have the right to wear the thinnest of veils, and now my dear child dismissed my small victory as if it had no value.

  And that was not the worst! Not content with her newfound faith, Amani felt the zeal of the missionary to convert others to her new way of thinking. Today, Amani had invited her closest friends, along with four of her younger cousins, to our home to hear her read from the Koran and speak about her interpretation of the Prophet’s words, which sounded distressingly like the interpretation I had so often heard from the government’s Committee for Commendation of Virtue and Prevention of Vice.

  The intonation of Amani’s childlike voice was ringing in my head as I closed the doors to my private quarters and lay crossways on the bed, wondering how I was going to tackle this latest crisis of motherhood.

  While eavesdropping, I had overheard Amani as she read from the holy Koran:

  Do ye build a landmark

  on every high place

  to amuse yourselves?

  And, do ye get for yourselves

  fine buildings in the hope

  of living therein forever?

  and when ye exert

  your strong hand

  do ye do it like men

  of absolute power?

  Now fear God and obey me

  And follow not the bidding

  of those who are extravagant,

  and make mischief in the land,

  and mend not their ways.

  My knees shaking, I had listened in horror as Amani stressed the Saudi royal family’s similarity to the ostentatious sinners in the verse of the Koran.

  “Look around you! Witness the wealth of the home from which I speak! A palace fit for a god could be no finer! Are we not disregarding the very words of God in embracing the opulence of costly indulgence that no human eyes are fit to see?”

  Amani’s voice went soft, as if she were speaking in a whisper, but I had closed my eyes and leaned closer, listening with great care. I could barely hear Amani’s words. “Each of us must banish extravagance from our lives. I will set the first example. The jewels I have received from the wealth of my family name, I will give to the poor. If you believe in the God of Mohammed, you too must follow my example.”

  I did not hear the audience’s response to their leader’s outlandish demand, for at that moment, my eldest daughter, Maha, had made my unwelcome presence known.

  Now, remembering Amani’s promise to divest herself of her jewels, I pushed myself from the bed and hurried to my daughter’s bedroom. There, I opened the safe she shared with her sister and removed a large quantity of expensive necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and rings, locking those items into the safe in Kareem’s office. I had taken Maha’s jewelry along with Amani’s, for who knew what offense Amani might commit in her state of religious upheaval.

  I knew that the total value of Amani’s jewelry alone was well into the millions of dollars, and it had been given to her by those who loved her and desired economic security for her future. I promised myself that if Amani genuinely wanted to provide for the poor, then money would be given to her for that purpose.

  Feeling depressed and unappreciated for our generosity, I remembered the millions of riyals Kareem and I had quietly donated
over the years to the poor of the world. In addition to the required zakah liability, the percentage of our annual income not needed for our daily living expenses, Kareem and I contribute an extra 15 percent of our income for purposes of education and medical care to various Muslim countries less fortunate than Saudi Arabia. Never have we forgotten the words of the Prophet: “If you give alms openly, that is well, but if you give them to the needy in private, it is even better for you, and will atone for some of your bad deeds. Allah is aware of all you do.”

  Thinking of the funds we had provided to build medical clinics, schools, and private dwellings in the poorest of Muslim lands, I felt the keen desire to remind Amani of the enormity of the financial contributions made by her parents. Had my child discounted our charitable activities as meaningless? Or was her true desire to turn our family into beggars, like those who benefited from our great wealth?

  Returning to my bed, I lay quiet for over two hours, thinking thoughts, discarding wild ideas, not knowing how to do battle with a force that is higher than any man.

  Darkness had fallen over my room when Kareem came home from his Jeddah offices.

  “Sultana! Are you ill?” Kareem switched on several lamps and walked to my bed, peering down at my face with concern.

  “Your face is flushed. Do you have a fever?”

  I did not answer my husband’s questions. Instead, I took a deep, tortured breath. “Kareem, one of your flesh and blood is plotting the overthrow of the monarchy.”

  Kareem’s face turned from pale brown to bright red in a matter of seconds. “What?”

  I feebly waved my hand in the air. “Amani. Today, our daughter held a meeting of young princesses and good friends. I accidentally overheard her speaking. She is using the Koran to turn her youthful cousins and acquaintances against the leadership of our family.”

  Kareem clicked his tongue in the Arab manner that denotes disbelief. He laughed. “You are crazy, Sultana. Amani is the least likely of our children to incite violence.”

  I shook my head. “No more. Religion has strengthened our child. She is beginning to resemble a hungry lion rather than a gentle lamb.” I repeated to Kareem what I had overheard.

  Kareem made a face. “Sultana. Believe me when I say this latest passion is nothing more than a passing phase. Ignore her. Soon she will tire of her excesses.”

  It was clear that Kareem himself was tired of the topic of Amani’s religious conversion. I had talked of little else during the past week. Amani’s passionate embrace of all things extreme in our religion tortured her mother, while her father dismissed his daughter’s fervor with a joke and a prediction that it would be short-lived.

  I realized that Kareem and I would not share and resolve this latest crisis together as we had in Maha’s case. I felt the fight go out of my body. For the first moment since giving birth to Abdullah so many years before, I grew weary of motherhood, and wondered how many more generations of women could be enticed to burden themselves with the solitary and thankless procreation, nourishing, and guidance of the human race.

  With a rasping sound in my throat, I cried out to my husband, “How lonely is the life of a woman!”

  Fearing that I would react in an extreme manner to my grief, Kareem patted me tenderly on my back, and sweetly asked if I would like my dinner served to me privately in our quarters. He said he would take the evening meal alone with our children, if that were the case.

  With a sigh of martyrdom, I decided not to stay alone. I had been in solitude for many hours, and I did not want to give Amani the idea that her mother was sulking. I pushed myself off the bed and told my husband I would freshen myself for dinner and see him downstairs.

  Kareem and I met in the small family sitting room, and since we were an hour early for dinner, I asked him to go with me on a stroll in the Turkish bath and garden area.

  Remembering the evening we had shared before, Kareem thought I was feeling romantic, and his eyes caressed my face with tenderness.

  I returned his smile, but in reality I wanted to examine the garden area and see what evidence, if any, my child had left of her religious meeting with her friends and royal cousins.

  We entered a large, beautiful courtyard that had been designed by a famous Italian fashion designer. Over the years, many of our royal cousins had attempted unsuccessfully to copy the loveliness of our unique “Turkish room.” A flowing waterfall situated in the back of the room emptied clear water into a large circular pool inhabited by many exotic fish. A stone path circled the pool, and beautiful flowers, tenderly cared for by the staff of gardeners, lined the walkway. Two raised sitting areas were located to the left and to the right. Lush green foliage imported from Thailand was draped over the rattan furnishings, which were covered in pastel cushions. Glass-topped tables were set about the sitting areas, and it was a most pleasant spot for our family to enjoy morning or evening coffee.

  The walls were made of special tinted glass, but the greenery was so abundant and dense that it shaded us from the hot rays of the sun. A stone pathway, carved with the faces of various wild animals, led around the waterfall. I felt sad as I walked on the face of a giraffe, for I remembered that Kareem had had the stones specially carved for Amani, as a surprise to our animal-worshiping child.

  The walkway took us to the Turkish bath area. Our home in Cairo had such a room, and I had requested the Italian designer to study that design and duplicate it at our palace in Jeddah.

  The Turkish bathhouse contained four baths, each one in a different style and size. Steps led to each bath, and over one of the larger baths was an arched bridge made of stone. The water gave off a steam that I watched rise and dissipate into the cool air.

  My family had enjoyed many wonderful times in the Turkish baths, and Kareem and I, just the evening before, prior to our night of romance, had soothed ourselves by enjoying a lengthy steam bath.

  There was nothing I could see to indicate that Amani had held a religious meeting in our home. Yet my head still thundered with the words I had overheard. I desperately wanted Kareem to acknowledge the seriousness of Amani’s new passion, for our daughter was now speaking of her desire to become a female imam, a woman who would minister to other women’s religious needs. While I wanted my daughter to live the life of a good Muslim, I had no desire for her to further the bondage of women under the strictest interpretation of the traditions that so hobbled females in our land.

  Sensing correctly that Kareem was not burdened by Amani’s passionate embrace of all that I had fought against since an early age, I thought to remind him of where such religious passion could lead, for I knew that my husband was sensitive to the subject of the Al Sa’uds’ legitimate claim to the throne and the wealth and privilege that accompanied our envied position.

  Knowing my husband’s world was firmly centered in a fashionable life of luxury, which could hardly be afforded without the vast wealth of the Saudi oil fields, I swept my hand across the lovely setting of the Turkish bath. “This,” I said to Kareem, “is what our daughter believes is a great sin, to enjoy what God has seen fit to provide our family.”

  My husband made no response.

  I pressed him further. “Kareem, we must take action. Or do you want your own flesh and blood to lead the revolt that will bring down the house of Al Sa’ud?”

  Kareem, still not believing his daughter capable of serious mischief, refused to further analyze Amani’s disenchantment with our royal status, saying only that our daughter should be left to her consoling faith, even if it was against her mother’s obstinate resistance.

  Holding me tightly by my shoulders, Kareem forbade me to mention the subject again, making a ridiculous statement. “Sultana,” he said, “I decided long ago that each of us must respect the other’s delusions, or there will be no peace in our home. Now! Drop this disagreeable subject!”

  *

  After days of soul-searching, I finally reached the understanding that I was not to blame for my daughter’s new direction
in life. I decided that Amani’s zeal for a cause was a direct result of Saudi Arabia’s horrendous poverty, which had been relieved by sudden and enormous wealth. To get to the heart of the matter, I had to go back in time.

  Many people, Muslims and Christians alike, despise Saudis for their unearned wealth. Yet, few bother to understand the wretched poverty endured by all Saudi Arabians until the mid 1970s. I highly resent this hasty analysis of our current situation.

  Many years passed after the actual discovery of oil under the sand of the desert before our people benefited from the riches guaranteed by the oil production that had been organized by American companies. In the beginning, King Abdul Aziz, my grandfather and the founder of Saudi Arabia, trusted the smooth- talking men who made false promises, not understanding that the deals they struck put millions into the pockets of the Americans and paltry sums into the coffers of Saudi Arabia. Only when the American oil companies were forced to be fair did they behave in a principled manner.

  Thus, due to the disproportionate method of dividing the proceeds from the oil wealth, it took many years for the bedouin tents of the desert to be replaced by luxurious villas and palaces. Meanwhile, the people of Saudi Arabia suffered greatly. Infant mortality in Saudi Arabia was among the highest in the world, for there was no money, doctors, or hospitals to treat the sick. The Saudi diet consisted of dates, camel milk, and goat and camel meat.

  I can remember seeing the desperate look in the eyes of one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom as he shared the horrifying tale of his early years. A brilliant and highly respected man of business, he spent the first fifteen years of his life going from door to door in the mud-hut village of Riyadh, in an attempt to sell small bags of goat’s milk. He was the man of the family at age seven, for his father had died of a slight infection received when he cut himself with his sword while slaughtering a camel for the Haj feast. The infection had turned to gangrene, and his father had left the living with screams of great pain rending the air.