Princess Sultana's Daughters

by Jean Sasson

  We had arrived at the private clinic that Ali said was owned jointly by a Lebanese and a Saudi Arabian. The clinic was one often frequented by royal family members when confidentiality was desired. I was acquainted with three princesses who routinely entered the clinic for treatment of drug and alcohol abuse.

  Our family was escorted inside the building through a little-used door; we were met there by one of Reema’s physicians. The man informed us that he was an internist, a specialist from Beirut, and had recently been hired by the owners of the clinic to care for members of the royal family. It was easy to see why he had been selected to treat influential Saudis, for he was a tall, attractive man, deferential, yet with an air of competence that provided us with a sense of confidence in our sister’s safety.

  The physician walked between Nura and Ali, and though I made an attempt to lean forward and involve myself in their quiet conversation, I failed to hear the words that he spoke. We passed a group of Asian nurses who were clustered around an elongated nurse’s station. I could tell by their accents that they were Filipinos.

  The windows in Reema’s room were still closed, but the blinds were slightly open, allowing a small amount of the sun’s glow to penetrate and wash the room in a soft light. The room was completely white, and above Reema’s head hung a large pearl-white chandelier that looked strangely out of place in this clinical setting.

  Reema was resting, but when she heard us she opened her eyes. I could see that my sister suffered a moment of confusion before reality rushed back to her. Her face was extremely pale, and her eyes were those of a frightened child. My sister was receiving fluids from bottles hanging from metal stands, and I could not count the tubes that had been placed in her arms and nose.

  Nura rushed to her side, placing her arms around the form that was Reema. Sara and Tahani held hands, fighting back tears, and I could scarcely see as I flung myself into a white armchair. I bit my lips until I tasted blood, and I pressed my hands into the arms of the chair with such force that I broke three fingernails.

  Ali, uncomfortable with our display of grief, whispered to Sara that he would return within the hour to escort us to our homes. Before leaving, he reminded Sara that it was imperative she see Nada that very evening.

  I was seething with rage at the sight of my wounded sister and thought to myself that I would like to send the hottest fire raging throughout the whole country. Let the evil of my land die with the flesh of those Saudi men who dared to use the holy Koran as a basis for molesting those of my sex!

  I attempted to calm my thoughts, for there was no purpose in creating chaos and adding to Reema’s pain. I remembered the Prophet’s promises of punishment to those who so sin, but my religion could not soothe me, even in the knowledge that Saleem would suffer everlasting agonies in hell for what he had done to my sister. I had no patience to wait for divine intervention. Nothing would cool my boiling blood but the sight of Saleem’s mutilated remains!

  Once comforted by Nura, Reema spoke with each of her sisters in turn, pleading with us to treat Saleem with the same courtesy as before, reminding us that one of the duties of good Muslims is to forgive those who do wrong. Seeing the anger in my face, Reema quoted a verse from the Koran. “Sultana, do not forget the words of the Prophet: Forgive, even when angry.”

  I could not hold back my words. Remembering the text of the Koran that followed, I replied, “Let evil be rewarded with evil.”

  Sara pinched me on my buttocks, reminding me not to cause further anguish to our sister. I left Reema’s side and stared out the window, seeing nothing of what I was looking at.

  Reema began to speak once again. I could not believe what I was hearing and was chilled by Reema’s words, which were delivered with the impassioned eloquence of a woman whose reason for living was at stake.

  I returned to my sister’s bedside and stared at her face.

  As the intensity of Reema’s feelings increased, her brow became furrowed, and her lips grew tight with determination. My sister said that Saleem had repented and had promised there would be no other violence. She was not going to be divorced, nor would she seek a divorce.

  Suddenly I realized what was in Reema’s heart. My sister’s only fear was deprivation of her children, and those four children were the inspiration for Reema’s ability to forgive Saleem for his heinous attack. She would accept any indignity so long as her relationship with her precious children was not severed.

  Reema asked us to assure her that no one in our family would seek retribution on her behalf.

  It was the most difficult promise ever to pass my lips, and my tongue would scarce obey my mind. But my word was given, and I knew I had no choice but to abide by my sister’s sincere wish.

  Once recovered, Reema would return to the home of this man who had kept his infinite capacity for cruelty well hidden for many married years. I knew that once unleashed, Saleem’s ugly temperament would not soften. There was nothing we could do.

  Our frustration only increased when an Egyptian nurse employed by the clinic confided in Nura that Saleem had visited his wife earlier that day. In the presence of that nurse, Saleem had lifted his wife’s hospital gown, viewing the opening that had been made in her side for her bodily waste to be expelled, and had expressed shocked disgust at the sight.

  The nurse said that Saleem had then made a most callous remark, telling his wife that while he would not divorce her, he would never again come to her bed, for he could not bear the sight or smell of one so repugnant.

  I marveled at my ability to control my rage. My sisters and I had entered the clinic as a united force, swelled with determination to snatch our sister from the grasp of her evil husband. Defeated by Reema’s legitimate apprehension of the possible loss of her children, we retreated from the clinic as nothing more than a group of black-shrouded and nameless wives, without the ability to force justice upon a single man.

  The sting of the defeat was unbearable.

  Who could deny that the main bulwark of the Saudi social order remained male dictatorship?

  Since our husbands and children were still in Monte Carlo, my sisters and I decided we would stay together in Nura’s house. Ali took us there from the clinic. Nura and Sara pledged to our brother that they would have one of Nura’s drivers take them to visit Nada that evening and said it would be best for him to stay in the home of another wife that night.

  Once we had telephoned our husbands in Monte Carlo, giving them our news of Reema, Tahani pleaded exhaustion and retired early to bed. I insisted on accompanying Sara and Nura to Nada’s palace. I was forced to make a second promise, guaranteeing that I would make no suggestion that Nada quit Ali while she had the opportunity.

  My sisters know me well. Admittedly, I had already made a plan in my mind to try to convince Nada that she must quickly move to marry another. My brother had treated women with contempt all his life, and in my opinion it was time for him to learn not to use divorce as a weapon. Perhaps if he lost the only wife for whom he felt affection, he would temper his bullying tactics.

  Now, I had a second difficult promise to keep.

  It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening when we arrived. Ali’s compound seemed more peaceful than we had ever seen it. We saw none of his wives, concubines, or children as our car made its way along the wide circular drive that wound around the four palaces belonging to our brother. Nada’s palace was the third building within the compound walls.

  Nada’s Egyptian housekeeper informed us that her mistress was having a bath but was expecting us and had instructed the housekeeper to take us to her living quarters.

  Nothing about my brother is modest. The influence of Saudi oil wealth was evident in his home at every turn. Conspicuous consumption met my eyes as I entered the white-marbled front hallway that was the width of an airport terminal. The towering staircase gleamed, and I remembered Ali’s proud announcement that the columns bracing the structure were coated with real silver. Fifteen-foot-high doors with solid s
ilver doorknobs led into Nada’s private living quarters.

  I tried not to gloat, recalling that my brother had taken a serious financial loss during the worldwide run on the silver market in the 1980s. In his greed, Ali must have purchased more of the precious metal than we had realized, only to see his fortunes tumble. Now, Ali’s financial loss was the gain of a silver-enhanced palace!

  I had never visited Nada’s bedroom, though I had once received an invitation to view the bedstead. I had been told by a shocked and saddened Sara that the bed was carved in solid ivory, and now I saw that her description was true. Ali had once bragged about the number of elephants that had died to support his bulky frame, but now I could not recall the figure he had quoted.

  Looking around my brother’s opulent home, I had a vision of justified Al Sa’ud exile from the kingdom of Saudi Arabia, for such inherent corruption of wealth deserved no other fate. Would we one day share royal displacement with the likes of King Farouk of Egypt, the Shah of Shahs of Iran, or King Idris of Libya? There was one certainty in my mind, that if the working class of Saudi Arabia ever viewed the private living quarters of Prince Ali Al Sa’ud, revolution would be inescapable.

  This terrifying idea numbed my body.

  At that moment, Nada swept into the room wearing a fashionable hairdo, a haughty expression, and a bulging bosom crammed into a blinding gold lamé dress. It required little imagination to understand how our brother had been infatuated by his most beautiful wife. Nada had achieved fame in our family through her daring fashions and her will to do battle with a man who had met little resistance from women throughout his life. In spite of her ability to torture Ali, I had always thought the expression in her eyes looked subtly malicious and had never veered from my opinion that Nada’s itch for gain had been her only purpose in marrying my brother. I did remember Sara saying that it was Nada’s insecurity in her marriage that made her appear what she was not, for she had no idea when Ali might dispense with her, as he had other women. Such a position creates the need to ensure one’s future economic security. But I still had my lingering doubts about her true nature. I did admit to myself that Nada had paid dearly for the softer luxuries, for married life with Ali surely must be grim.

  Nada said, “Ali sent you, did he not?”

  I watched her face, thinking that she was pouting and mourning, as if our visit were all a mistake. I alternated between like and dislike, and as Nura and Sara gathered ‘round our sister-in-law, I excused myself, saying that I was going to the bar to fetch myself a drink.

  The house was completely quiet and there was no one about. After preparing myself a gin and soda, I felt no desire to rejoin my sisters, and I wandered through my brother’s palace, finding myself in his private study, which was located on the lowest level of his home.

  A childlike curiosity came over me, and I began sifting through my brother’s personal belongings, making a discovery that first puzzled me and then brought great amusement.

  I opened a small packet on the top of his writing desk, and read with vague curiosity about a set of undergarments my brother had obviously purchased during a recent trip to Hong Kong.

  A flimsy sheet of instructions accompanied the underpants, and I read the sheet with interest.

  *

  Wonder Garment: Congratulations on the purchase of your new Wonder Garment! The garment that you have purchased should be worn daily. This garment is guaranteed to improve the wearer’s sexual performance.

  The secret of these miracle underpants lies in the “strategic” pouch, which maintains the sexual organs at the correct temperature and under optimum conditions.

  The Wonder Garment is recommended for all men, but most especially for those who maintain an active sexual life and for those who sit down at their work.

  *

  I began to giggle, and an evil spirit came over me. I stuffed the slim plastic bag containing the undergarment and instruction sheet under my long dress. I had no thought of what I was going to do with the item but felt an urge to share the secret with Kareem. Feeling as I had in the days of my childhood rivalry with Ali, I gleefully envisioned how my brother would frantically search through his home for the magical pants.

  I met my sisters on the staircase and could see from their eyes that they’d had no success with Ali’s wife.

  Nada was leaving Ali.

  Unlike poor Reema, Nada was not worried that her children would be taken, for Ali had little love for his female offspring and had made no secret to his wife that their three daughters were of no value to him and would be allowed to live with their mother.

  I left without saying good-bye. In the car, I cradled my gin and tonic. My thievery of Ali’s personal possession had brought forth childish emotions, and I felt quite daring as a princess in the House of Al Sa’ud riding down the streets of Riyadh, enjoying an alcoholic drink.

  I asked Sara why Nada was leaving the tempting life of an Al Sa’ud, for she had a dubious family background, and it would be difficult for her to duplicate the wealth enjoyed as a wife of Ali. It had been Nada’s great beauty, not her family connections, that had won her a husband of immense riches.

  Nura said that from what she could gather it seemed that Nada and Ali’s divorce had come about over an evening of love.

  Nada had tearfully confessed to my sisters that she had been divorced on all three occasions over the issue of sex, saying that Ali insisted she accommodate him at odd hours in the night, often waking her from a heavy sleep. The week before, Nada had refused her husband sex, and Ali had insisted, saying that when a man calls his wife to intercourse, she must not resist him even though she might be on a camel! When Nada still refused, Ali had divorced her.

  Sara then told me that Nada had made a surprising second declaration, saying that while she had some affection for Ali’s other wives, she had grown increasingly weary of the bastards that sprang from his infidelities, for our brother was the father of seventeen legitimate children and twenty-three illegitimate off- spring. The compound that Nada called home was overrun with her husband’s concubines and their children.

  At the mention of all that sexual activity, which had produced endless offspring, I could not avoid thoughts of Ali’s Wonder Garment and laughed until tears streamed down my face, refusing to divulge the source of my uncontrolled merriment to my two sisters, who feared that the day’s events now threatened their youngest sister’s sanity.

  Epilogue

  O God, make the end of my life the best of my life,

  And the best of my deeds, their conclusion,

  And the best of my days, the day on which I shall meet Thee.

  O God, make death the best of those things we choose not,

  But which we await;

  And the grave the best dwelling in which we shall dwell,

  And, than death, make best which follows death.

  —A Pilgrim’s Prayer

  It had been a week since we left our families in Monaco. In two days our husbands and children would return to Saudi Arabia. On this night each of the ten female children of my mother had gathered in the home of Nura. We were blessed that Reema was among us, for that morning she had been dismissed from the clinic and had come to stay in the home of her oldest sister until her health was further improved.

  The occasion was bittersweet, for we had come together on the twentieth anniversary of our dear mother’s death. This was an annual ritual that we had never failed to commemorate, for our mother was sorely missed, even after twenty years. On past occasions we had celebrated our mother’s memory by calling to mind our favorite childhood stories of her—telling of the wonderful influence she had had on our lives. Tonight, because of our sadness over Reema’s recent tragedy, our mood was subdued, and our woeful spirits led us to themes more sorrowful than in the past.

  “Twenty years?” Sara mused. “It cannot be so long since I looked upon my mother’s face.”

  Each of us agreed that the years had moved more rapidly than we lik
ed to think.

  I had a sudden realization that of ten daughters, eight were now older than our mother had been at her death. Sara and I were the two exceptions. When I gave voice to this thought, there were many moans and frowns.

  Nura demanded, “Sultana! Say no more! Please!”

  Nura now had grandchildren, and our eldest sister’s age had become a forbidden topic in the past few years.

  Reema asked us to hush, saying that she had a small story about our mother she had never shared, for she had thought I might take offense.

  My eyes flashed with interest and surprise, and I agreed that nothing Reema might say would create controversy.

  “You must promise, Sultana! And keep your word, no matter your emotions!”

  I laughed and agreed, my curiosity aroused.

  When I was only eight years of age, Reema was called into our mother’s bedroom, and mother asked Reema to give her a solemn promise. Shy Reema was awed at the thought of a special secret that she alone would share with our mother. In great anticipation, she gave her word that no one would know of their conversation.

  Mother told her that she had made a disturbing discovery about Sultana. Mother told Reema, “Sultana is a thief!”

  My eyes popped in surprise, while my sisters burst into loud laughter.

  Reema held her hand in the air, asking for silence so that she could complete her story.

  Mother had caught her youngest child stealing from the personal belongings of others in our home. Mother said that I had been discovered stealing toys, books, candy, cookies, and even items for which I had no use, such as Ali’s record collection. Mother told Reema that she had tried every tactic and punishment and nothing had succeeded, that I was a child who could not be shamed into obeying her mother. Now, Mother needed Reema’s assistance in saving my soul.

  Mother made Reema swear that each time she prayed, for the rest of her days on earth, she would never cease to ask God to protect Sultana, guide Sultana, and forgive Sultana.