by Jean Sasson
I hugged Maysa just to let her know that she had not angered me. I did not bother to justify my extravagant life style, however, for I felt comfortable in the knowledge that Kareem and I give much more of our wealth to the poor than is required by our faith. What more were we to do?
After we returned from our exhausting shopping adventure, I retired to my suite to rest before dinner.
Kareem had not returned by the late afternoon, and knowing that my sister and the other women in our party were most likely still resting in their rooms, I became restless. I decided to telephone several American women that I had befriended many years before.
I was soon pleased to hear the voice of a dear friend, Anne, who squealed upon hearing my voice. “Thank God, you have called, Sultana!
I desperately wanted to call you in Riyadh, but feared someone might overhear our conversation.”
I smiled. Anne is convinced that all telephone lines in my country are tapped.
“Sultana, a terrible thing has happened! A little American girl, not yet five years old, has been kidnapped and taken into your country. Her Saudi father took her from her American mother. The mother is hysterical, of course, and I was hoping that you might help us locate her child.”
My heart sank as I listened to her story. Was I never to escape these disturbing stories? Every day of my life I had heard about exploited, ill-treated, and abused women, but unlike most other Saudi women, I could never accept that this was merely a woman’s lot. And some years before, I had come to the sad realization that the abuse of women was not unique to Saudi Arabia. This was a worldwide phenomenon!
Sadly, my victories in helping such women were woefully few. And, now, my hopes were dashed of putting aside such worries and enjoying a few carefree days in America. Already, my heart ached for the little girl and her mother.
Knowing that Anne was waiting for my answer, I took a deep breath. “Anne, you know that it is difficult to help anyone in this situation in my country.”
With a note of sadness in her voice, Anne said, “I understand, Sultana, but I was hoping you could do something.”
“Is this father a member of my family, the Al Sa’uds?”
“No. He is not royalty.”
“Well, at least, tell me what happened.” With a sigh, I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Dinner would have to wait.
“Whether you can or cannot do anything, at least this mother will be pleased when I tell her that I have spoken with you.”
“Tell me all that you know,” I said, as I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. This could take some time.
“The mother of this child is a woman by the name of Margaret McClain. She is an instructor at Arkansas State University, and it was there that she met and married a Saudi student named Abdulbaset Al'Omary.”
Al'Omary? I did not personally know a Saudi family by that name. But, as my life revolves around members of the royal family, my lack of knowledge was not surprising.
“From what I have learned, the marriage unraveled rather quickly. Margaret said that once they were legally married, the charming and affectionate suitor quickly changed into a jealous and unreasonable husband.”
“That is not uncommon with Arab Muslim men,” I muttered. I had never discovered the reason for this disturbing and consistent pattern of behavior in many Arab men who woo non-Muslim women. Since inside Saudi Arabia few men meet their wives prior to their arranged marriages, Saudi men have no occasion to be charming before they marry. But, when it comes to romancing women from other countries, no lover could be more charming and attentive than a Saudi suitor, or indeed any Arab nationality, including Syrians, Egyptians, Kuwaitis, or Jordanians.
Tender words are spoken, gifts are given, and promises are made. Usually, no mention is made of the potential problems of different cultural and religious backgrounds. But, once the woman has been lured into marriage, the man too often turns into a tyrant, becoming abusive and rude to his wife, or becoming too interested in other pretty women.
Differences in religion and culture can soon begin to create serious marital problems. The woman’s normal way of dressing, which was greeted with compliments during their courtship, is now declared too revealing. Loud, abusive accusations are thrown into her face if she should dare speak to another man.
What few non-Arabs realize is that every Arab man is accustomed to getting his way in every family situation. There will be no peace at home until he is recognized as the undisputed ruler, a fact that many non-Arab wives do not realize until it is too late.
I had seen this over and over, for a number of my cousins had married women from Europe and America. These Saudi cousins would profess to love everything about their foreign wives before they were married, but, after marriage, they would suddenly seem to detest everything that they had previously claimed to love.
When the couple begin to have children, the husband will invariably insist that the children be raised solely as Muslims. The mother’s religious heritage is considered of no importance.
If divorce results, the woman is in serious danger of losing custody of her children. Islamic law says that mothers may only keep their sons until they are seven, and that although daughters may remain with their mothers until puberty, in Muslim countries the age of puberty for females is often as young as eight years old. And, if a Saudi Arabian man should claim custody of his sons, or daughters, at any age, the mother has no legal recourse. If the children live in another country, Arab fathers later often steal their children and bring them back to their country. Few Arab governments will interfere on the mother’s behalf when an Arab man has custody of his own children.
Anne’s story interrupted my thoughts, “Margaret had a daughter, Heidi, by Abdulbaset, but the couple divorced soon after the child’s birth.
“Although Abdulbaset often made threats that he would never allow his daughter to be raised in America, he was still attending school in this country. Therefore, temporarily, Heidi was safe. Or so Margaret thought.
“Then, just a few months ago, Abdulbaset took Heidi on his weekend visitation. When the weekend passed, he failed to return his daughter to her mother. The distraught mother has not seen her child since that time. A week or so afterward, Margaret received a telephone call from Abdulbaset, and he claimed to have Heidi with him in Saudi Arabia.”
“Poor, poor woman,” I murmured, wondering how any mother could bear such a terrible loss.
Anne’s voice lowered, “Sultana, Heidi is Margaret’s youngest child. Her other two children, by her first marriage, are much older than Heidi. The whole family is heartsick at this loss. I have never felt so sorry for anyone in my life.”
“My own heart is breaking at the thought of her misery,” I whispered.
“Isn’t there anything that you can do? Poor Margaret can think of nothing else.”
My thoughts were racing. What could I do? What help could I possibly offer? Truthfully, I could think of nothing. Finally I asked, “What about your own government? This woman should take her story to your President.”
Anne laughed. “Sultana! No ordinary American citizen would be allowed to speak personally to the President about such a thing!”
“Oh?” I answered in surprise. “In Saudi Arabia, the simplest of men can approach our King. It is not unusual for many small problems involving Saudi citizens to be resolved by the King, himself. Actually, our King regularly travels around the country visiting various tribes so that people can approach him more easily.” How could it be more difficult to see a President than a King?
“No, Sultana. That is not our way here. America is too big. Of course, Margaret has contacted the U.S. State Department. But there is little our government can do when the situation involves another country’s sovereignty.”
“I do not understand. An American child has been taken from its mother. Why does your government not intervene in such a situation?”
From what I had seen of American soldiers in Saudi Arabia, I could en
vision their raiding this Abdulbaset Al'Omary’s home and simply returning this child to her mother. What good is a government if it cannot perform a simple act such as returning a child to its mother?
“No…no. Apparently, if the child is in Saudi Arabia, it is under Saudi law. It would be up to your government alone to return Heidi.” Anne hesitated, “But, the Saudis will not, of course.”
I feared poor Margaret would never get her child back.
“What do you know of this Abdulbaset Al'Omary?” I asked. “Where does he work? Where does he live?”
“Well, Margaret has never been to Saudi Arabia, and she has no idea where he lives. He has a degree from Arkansas State University, so he is qualified to teach computer programming. But, since Abdulbaset so recently returned to Saudi Arabia, Margaret has no way of knowing if he has a job.”
“Hmmm.” I was thinking how I might help. If only there were a telephone number or a home address.
“Anne, I cannot rescue this child. You know that. But, if the mother can provide pictures of Heidi and her father, I will do my best to locate her, but don’t raise her hopes too much, please.”
“I have a recent picture of Heidi,” Anne said, “but I will have to telephone Margaret about a picture of the father.”
“His evil act shames every Saudi and every Muslim,” I murmured.
“Well, Margaret says that Abdulbaset professes to be a devout Muslim.”
“Believe me, Anne, no truly good Muslim would steal a child away from its mother,” I said angrily.
Before we ended our conversation, Anne promised to send any additional information on this case to me at the Plaza Hotel.
I sighed deeply, overcome with depressing visions of the innocent Heidi in her bewilderment at finding herself in a strange country, far away from her loving mother.
My sorrow soon turned to anger, which grew until I began to feel an unreasoning hatred toward every man.
When Kareem returned to our hotel suite I refused to answer his queries about my day of shopping. Confused by my surliness, he persisted with his questioning until I burst out, “You, and every other man on earth should be flogged, Kareem!”
Kareem’s mouth dropped in surprise, and his comical expression finally convinced me to tell him the reason for my distress.
“I telephoned Anne.”
Kareem’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Oh?” Although he likes Anne he believes she is a woman who would rather climb a wall than go through an unlocked gate.
But I know that Anne’s willfulness is borne of her sincere desire to help many people, and for that, I like and admire her.
I then told Kareem the details of my conversation with Anne. His reaction was exactly as I would have predicted. Despite the fact that he is more sympathetic to feminist issues than most Arab men, he is reluctant to waste time on problems that he believes are unsolvable.
“Sultana, when will you ever learn that it is impossible for one woman to solve every other woman’s problem?”
“That is why we need help from men—men in power!”
Kareem shook his head in a determined manner. “I refuse to get involved in this situation, Sultana. This is a personal matter best dealt with by members of the family.”
I could not restrain my urge to strike Kareem for one moment longer! I kicked out at his leg, but missed.
A laughing Kareem grabbed me and held me close.
I broke down in tears. Without the help of our men, how would we women ever change the course of women’s lives? Men had all the political power!
In his desire to alter the course of the evening, Kareem began to kiss my face and tell me, “It’s just that I worry about you, Sultana.” He stroked my back. “You have such small shoulders, darling, yet you try to carry every problem afflicting women on these delicate shoulders.”
I refused to respond.
Kareem studied my face carefully before saying, “Darling, I have a special gift for you. I was saving it for later, but now seems an appropriate time.”
I resisted Kareem’s attempt to kiss my lips. I was not interested in yet another expensive gift.
“It’s not what you think, Darling.” He paused. “I wrote a poem for you.”
I leaned back in surprise.
We Arabs are “people of the ear,” rather than “people of the books,” and we are often inclined to express our strongest feelings by composing poetry and reading it aloud.
Yet, Kareem was one of the few Arabs I knew who rarely arranged his thoughts and emotions into poetry. My husband has an analytical mind, which I attribute to his lawyer’s training.
Kareem gently led me toward a chair. “Sit down, darling.”
I sat.
Kareem knelt on the floor and took my hands into his, his eyes staring straight into mine. His strong, clear voice lowered to a lover’s whisper.
You go first.
Go through the door before me.
Enter the limousine while I wait by your side.
Enter the shops while I stand behind, guarding your back.
Sit at the table before me.
Please, sample the tastiest morsels while I sit quietly.
My desire is that you go first, in every occasion of earthly life.
Only once will I go before you,
And that will be at my last moment.
For when death claims us, you must go last.
Because I can’t live one second without you.
Kareem kissed my hands.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I couldn’t speak. Finally I sputtered, “Kareem, that’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever said. The most wonderful gift you could have ever given me, you have just laid at my feet.” I added, “A basket of diamonds would offer less pleasure.”
Kareem arched his eyebrows in amusement. “Oh? Be careful what you say, Sultana, or I’ll give the basket of diamonds to beggars.”
I smiled.
Kareem stroked my face with his hand. “Now, Sultana, tell me, did you enjoy your shopping trip?”
I felt a flash of guilt. I am indeed fortunate to have a husband who provides me with my every desire. “Of course, darling. I had a most wonderful time. I bought many lovely items. No man that I know is more generous toward his family.”
My words greatly pleased Kareem.
It is a source of great pride for our Saudi husbands that they are able to acquire anything that their wives and children might covet. There is a heated competition between the Al Sa’ud men as each attempts to surpass the other in buying their families the rarest adornments and the most precious possessions.
But secretly, the high-priced trinkets that money could buy were ceasing to bring Kareem’s wife joy or happiness.
In the past, I had sought solace for my problems by buying many beautiful and expensive possessions. But something had changed. I realized that spending sprees like mine that morning would no longer provide me with the needed psychological consolation.
What was happening to me? Was I becoming like Maysa? I wondered. Such a change in personality would disrupt everything familiar in our lives. Certainly, Kareem would not know how to react to a woman who had lost her fondness for expensive jewels and beautiful clothes. I did not want a barrier between my husband and me. Eventually I would have to share these strange and new sensibilities with Kareem. But not today. We were both exhausted.
Kareem continued to worry about my lingering depression, and since he was going to be busy with business meetings, he asked Sara to keep a close watch on me for the remainder of the trip.
Sara insisted that we enjoy whatever New York City had to offer, and we did. We saw two Broadway plays, visited the American Museum of Natural History and the Guggenheim Museum, and dined at some of the finest restaurants in the world, Le Bernardin, Le Cirque, Lutece, and The Quilted Giraffe.
The day before we were to depart New York City, I received the parcel from my friend, Anne. I ripped it open and carefully studied its contents. I was pleased to
see that a color photograph of little Heidi was enclosed. She was a beautiful child with a big smile.
Several typed pages of information were also enclosed, including facts about other young children stolen by Saudi fathers from their American mothers and taken out of the country without permission. I was shocked to learn that over ten thousand children, nearly two thousand of them American, had been illegally taken from their non-Arab mothers by their Saudi fathers, and were now living in Saudi Arabia.
As I read individual stories of young children who had not seen their mothers for many years, I wept. The pain of losing a child was worse than any other loss, of that, I was certain.
Sifting through the material, I saw a photograph of Heidi’s father, Abdulbaset Al'Omary. Physically, he was not an unattractive man, yet, from what I knew of his behavior, I could find nothing to admire.
If only I could reach this man. I would plead for him to return his child to her mother. Unfortunately, Margaret McClain had been unsuccessful in her efforts to discover an address or telephone number for her former husband, and the chances of finding Heidi were slim indeed.
I left New York City in a melancholy frame of mind. Traveling with my family and friends on our private airplane, my mood was somber. I removed myself from the jovial atmosphere and sat apart from the other passengers.
Sara glanced toward me protectively, but she did not attempt to draw me into the women’s circle. Huda was absorbed in a lengthy story of a special dish that she had savored at Bouley’s, one of New York City’s finest French restaurants. Sara knew that I found Huda’s absurd obsession with food increasingly annoying.
Even in the midst of excited voices, I became lost in my sad thoughts of the innocent children stolen from their mothers.
