by Jean Sasson
All the talk of beheadings distressed me even more than usual, especially because Kareem compared in great detail the barbaric cruelties of the American methods of capital punishment, such as the electric chair and gas chamber, to the quick and more humane method of beheading.
Moments after we retired, Kareem fell into a deep sleep. I, on the other hand, tossed and turned throughout the night.
For some reason, my mind rested on the tragic fate of a young man by the name of Abdullah Al'Hadhaif, a story which was well-known to every Saudi Arabian. In August of 1995, Abdullah Al'Hadhaif was only thirty-three years old, and the father of six young children, when he was executed on the orders of the Saudi government. Along with many other Saudis, Abdullah, his two brothers, and his elderly father, had been arrested for political crimes, involving personal conduct which offended our government, such as speaking out in the mosques, or distributing leaflets or audio tapes banned by our government.
It was reported that Abdullah’s aged father had been tortured while imprisoned, and that his abuse had been so brutal that it had led to a heart attack. Naturally, this had enraged the sons of the elder Al’Hudhaif, and none more than the sensitive Abdullah. When Abdullah was released from prison, he had sought out the secret policeman who had tortured his father. Once that man’s identity was known, Abdullah struck back by throwing a container of acid at the man. That man was injured, but not killed, and was able to identify his attacker.
Once again, Abdullah was thrown into jail. All the festering rage of Saudi authorities against the protesters focused on this one man. Friends and family of Abdullah reported that he was brutally tortured to obtain a confession. Reports said that he had been dipped in corrosive liquid, to revenge the policeman he had attacked. His bowels were inflated through his anus, and threats were made that his dear mother and precious wife would be sexually violated in his presence.
Still, Abdullah Al'Hadhaif refused to sign the confession.
The fury of his torturers was further heightened by his stubbornness. One report said that Abdullah was hung like a slaughtered sheep with his head tied between his legs. He had been so mercilessly beaten that he was paralyzed from his waist down.
I had to admit that the men of my family can be unbelievably heartless! Abdullah’s ordeal had ended only when he was beheaded.
What had been that tortured man’s final thoughts, I wonder. Had he known fear, and sadness at the thought he would not live to raise his six children? Or, had he been relieved that death would soon bring peace from the agony of his last days? Only God knew the answer to my question.
Many other harrowing images now began to plague my mind. I felt certain that the young child Heidi spent many unhappy hours weeping for her mother. Poor Afaaf was alone in the world. And, Hussah legally belonged to a cruel man, as did Munira.
Unable to sleep, I slipped from bed to prepare myself a mixture of rum and cola. Nothing would help but to drink myself into forgetfulness, I decided.
And so, I began a long night of heavy drinking. I became so drunk that, during one trip into my closet to conceal an empty bottle, I tripped over my long gown and knocked over a vase. I lunged forward to catch it, but the alcohol had slowed my movements, and the vase smashed against the wall. In the quiet of the night, the noise of the shattering glass vase was deafening.
When Kareem jumped from the bed in alarm, I could not coordinate my brain and my tongue to speak out in my defense!
Kareem was instantly aware that his wife was so drunk that she could not speak without slurring her words.
He shouted out in shock. “Sultana!”
“Oh, Allah!” I mumbled to myself. “My sins have been discovered!”
I remember nothing else of that moment, for I blacked out, finally obliterating the horrible images that I had tried to drown with drink.
Chapter Twelve
My Secret Revealed
For long hours I stayed in that mysterious realm of darkness when the mind closes down; no information, new or old, is processed. I was not burdened by sorrows, nor was I soothed by pleasing dreams. My brief respite from reality could not last, but I had the pleasure of that dreamless, mindless state until the sounds of the household awoke me the following morning.
When I finally opened my eyes in the harsh light, the first image I saw was Kareem’s face. Suddenly, the memory of him waking up and discovering his wife in a drunken state came back to me in a rush. Hoping to redeem last night’s disaster with a miracle, I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and prayed to God that what had happened the previous evening had not occurred at all, that it was all a bad dream.
When I looked once more at Kareem, I knew that God had not answered my prayer. Kareem’s sad, knowing eyes peeled away any hope that my secret drinking remained hidden from him. Without a word, my husband’s expression told me he knew that I was in serious trouble with alcohol.
My husband’s clear voice was deceptively calm. “Sultana, how do you feel?”
I knew full well that my future was now forever altered, for my destiny was certain to be that of a scorned and divorced wife. I was so filled with horror at this thought that I could not speak.
“Sultana?”
I squeaked, “I am not so well, Husband.”
Kareem nodded.
We stared at each other for a long time without speaking. Neither of us had the heart to attempt further conversation.
In the silence, my presence of mind slowly returned. I quickly reminded myself that I was uncertain as to exactly how much Kareem knew of my drinking; that perhaps I should take heed of that wise Arab proverb: “Your tongue is your horse, and if you let it loose, it will betray you.”
I clung to the hope that Kareem believed my drunken state was nothing more than an infrequent occurrence. After all, many were the times throughout our marriage when together Kareem and I had indulged ourselves in drink, and Kareem had never expressed displeasure of this.
“We need to talk, Sultana.”
I remained quiet.
Dropping his gaze, Kareem rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I have not slept all night.” With a tired sigh, he looked at me once more. “I have been wondering how you managed to hide this drinking problem from me, and for so long.”
I asked, in that same squeaking tone of voice, “Drinking problem?”
Ignoring this question, Kareem continued to stare at me as he softly spoke words that I did not wish to hear.
“Please do not consume our time trying to prove your innocence when you are clearly guilty. I have already spoken with Sara. I now know that you often drink to excess when I am away.”
It was no use to deny it. By the anguished look on his face, I knew Kareem had learned the truth. At the pain of that thought, my chest tightened.
I began to weep. “Nothing will ever be the same again,” I cried out, wringing my hands. Already, I could imagine the cruel gossip about me that would spread rapidly throughout the large extended Al Sa’ud family. My reputation was forever ruined!
“You cry like a child for what you cannot defend as a woman?”
Kareem’s words struck me like a sharp dagger, yet I could not stop weeping. The worst had happened! My desperate need for alcohol had been found out, and I was truly lost. Kareem would divorce me. My children would be humiliated by the scandal. My hated brother, Ali, would be elated that my life had taken a turn for the worse. And my elusive father would feel justified in his dislike of the youngest child born of his first wife, Fadeela, even more that he already did. My sobs became even more heartfelt.
My earnest cries softened Kareem’s heart. He rose and walked toward me. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to push my long hair away from my face. “Darling, I am not angry at you,” he said. “I am angry at myself.”
I stared in confusion at Kareem. “Why are you angry at yourself?” I sputtered.
“I failed to see what was in front of me.” He thoughtfully wiped the tears from my face. “Had I not
been so occupied with business, I would have been aware of your problem long ago. Please forgive me, Sultana.”
Relief swept over me. Kareem was willing to take my burden upon his shoulders. He blamed himself, and not me. I had been saved, once again!
Reckless with the thought of yet another unearned reprieve, I was eager to agree with Kareem, and say that, yes, he had been much too occupied with business matters. He had neglected me, his wife. Just as I opened my mouth to express my smugness and feeling of victory, abruptly, I felt the closeness of my mother’s spirit in the room. I gasped as I looked around. Although I could not see Mother, I instinctually knew that she was here, witnessing this encounter between my husband and me.
“Sultana, are you all right?” With a look of great concern, he gently stroked my face with his hand.
I nodded, yet still could not utter a sound. The essence of Mother was becoming even stronger. I cannot express the terror I felt when I was struck with the absolute knowledge that I was undergoing some manner of a trial like no other, and that much more was expected of me than my usual immature reactions. A small, silent voice told me that if I were ever again to know genuine peace and joy, I must change my behavior.
Long moments passed before I could speak. Looking straight at my husband, I said, “Kareem, I will no longer seek shameful victories. My own weakness, not yours, has created this dilemma. You are blameless. So, erase this worry from your face, Husband. I alone am responsible for my drinking.”
There! I had said it! For once in my life, I had not taken the easy means of escape regarding my personal imperfections. Kareem was shocked, as was I, at my new mature accountability.
I smiled at my husband. “I promise that from this moment, I will make every effort to defeat this problem.”
Kareem took me in his arms. “Darling, together we will defeat this problem.”
Indeed, being in Kareem’s loving arms was a great consolation. I did so want to defeat my vexing cravings for alcohol with all its lies and secrecy. Brimming with hope and optimism, my mood quickly became joyful.
Later, Kareem went to find Asad, who was staying at our Jeddah palace with Sara.
Wishing to speak with my sister, I rang through to the guest suite and spoke with Sara on the palace intercom. We agreed to meet in the women’s garden.
After embracing my sister, I quickly confided everything that had happened between Kareem and me. Sara was openly happy for me and praised my courage.
She said, “You should have unburdened your troubles to your husband at the first hint of trouble. I knew that Kareem would not react as you said he might.” She paused before speaking. “You should have seen him last evening, Sultana. He was completely distraught when he learned that your greatest fear was that he might desert you at your greatest time of need.”
I tried to persuade my sister to tell me everything Kareem had said about me, and our marriage, but Sara refused. My husband had spoken to her in confidence.
“We are two fortunate women, Sultana,” she reminded me gently. “We both married men who are wonderful husbands.” She paused before admitting, “In this land, such men are as rare as flawless diamonds.”
I thought about Sara’s words. What she said was true. Certainly, Asad was a husband unlike any other. He adored my sister. Since the first moment Asad’s eyes had seen Sara, no other woman had existed for this former playboy. Sara was the luckiest of women.
And while Kareem had greatly disappointed me on more than one occasion, those painful events had occurred a long time ago. As the years had passed, Kareem had grown into a supportive and loving husband and father. I, too, was a fortunate woman.
After giving my sister a second heartfelt embrace, I returned to my bedroom suite. Kareem walked into the room a few moments later, and with a wide smile, he said that he had an idea that he thought I might like.
I rushed toward my husband and pulled him toward me. He stumbled from the force of my embrace, and we tumbled backward together onto the bed.
Kareem attempted to speak even as I continued to kiss his lips, his eyes, and his nose. “Sultana, I…”
Just knowing that I had a second chance to redeem my life, I felt like the thief who is told he is going to lose his hand, only to discover that the swordsman has died, and he has been reprieved. I felt so relieved and joyful that I kissed Kareem until he forgot what idea he wanted to discuss. Soon we were involved in ardent lovemaking.
Later, after Kareem lit a cigarette and passed it back and forth between us, he asked, “What was that all about?”
I teased, “Am I not allowed to show my husband how much I love him?”
He smiled. “Of course, darling. Anytime you are so overwhelmed with this love, call me.”
I laughed, “Who else would I call?”
Kareem held the cigarette up in the air as he contentedly nuzzled my face with his. “And, I love you, too, darling.”
Kareem placed the cigarette between my lips and waited for me to inhale before placing it once more between his own lips.
“What was that idea you spoke of?”
“Oh, yes. I have been thinking today that it has been a long time since we took a trip into the desert, together, as a family.” His eyes searched my face for my reaction. “I believe that you, Sultana, most of all, would benefit from a desert journey into our past.”
What he said was true. While Kareem and Abdullah often joined their royal cousins for jaunts into the desert for hawking and hunting trips, rarely did my daughters and I make such excursions. Thinking back, I realized that it had been several years since our family had retreated to the desert. In the past, such journeys into a simpler way of life, not governed by clocks and calendars had brought great mental relaxation to me.
I could not conceal my feelings. “Yes,” I said, “the desert. I would like that, Kareem.”
Although we Saudi Arabs now dwell in ornate palaces and modern cities, we have not forgotten that our recent ancestors were tribal nomads who once lived in tents. Actually, today, there are few nomads moving back and forth across the vast Arabian deserts. For the past twenty years or more, the Saudi government has encouraged Bedouin tribesmen to abandon their tents and move into the cities. Yet all Saudi Arabians carry the tribal memory of nomadic travelers in their blood. And although the Al Sa’ud family abandoned the desert long before many of our countrymen, we are no different from other Saudis when it comes to an unrestrained love of the desert.
In 1448 AD, early members of the Al Sa’ud clan withdrew from the harsh desert and began to cultivate the land around the settlement known today as Diriya. The men in our family became successful farmers and traders; in time, they became what are known as city Arabs. Therefore, we Al Sa’uds do not consider ourselves to be nomads, yet we are inexplicably drawn to the magnet what is, to us, an irresistible sea of endless and sweeping sand.
Kareem interrupted my agreeable musings.
“We will make a family event of this trip.” He said as he watched me. “We will invite everyone.”
Knowing the exact meaning of Kareem’s words, I quickly complained, “Not Ali, I hope!”
Kareem touched my face with his hand. “Darling, don’t you believe that the time has come for you and your brother to put the past behind you? What good does this ceaseless hostility do, for either of you?”
“How can I befriend such a man as Ali? Brother or not, he is too contemptible for words!” I said stubbornly.
“Well, if we invite one, we must invite all.”
I knew that Kareem was right. It would be a shocking insult, a total disregard of Arab hospitality to invite all our siblings to accompany us to the desert, but to deliberately omit Ali and his family. If such an offense were to occur, the scandal of our family’s estrangement would become Riyadh gossip.
Imprisoned in my heritage, I sighed deeply, “Invite him then, if you must. But, I truly dislike the way we Arabs cannot be open about our feelings,” I muttered.
“Yo
u were born an Arab Princess, Sultana,” Kareem said with a short laugh. “Why fight your fate?”
What more was there to say?
Despite the hated thought of my brother, I felt more calm than I had in a long time. I lovingly wrapped an arm around Kareem’s waist and pulled him close. “Let’s take a short nap,” I suggested.
Although Kareem rarely sleeps in the daylight hours, he too, was weary from our international trip. “A short rest would be welcome,” he agreed.
As sleep seduced me, I listened to my husband as he softly quoted an old Bedouin creed taught to him by his father. I felt a rush of nostalgia mingled with sadness for a way of life that has disappeared forever.
Land that is open wide to wander
Covered with grass that is fit for grazing
Ample wells of the sweetest water
A tent large enough for a large family
A beautiful wife with a sweet temper
Many sons and some daughters
To own great herds of camels
To belong to an honorable tribe
To see Makkah
To live a long life without shame
To be saved from the fires of hell
To enjoy the rewards of Paradise!
Lulled by pleasing visions of the simple life once lived by my own ancestors, I drifted off to sleep.
Although my shameful secret had been discovered by my husband, I slept with the serene soundness of a woman who could now look to her future with new hope.
Had I known that the following day would bring forth yet another family drama, creating one of the most alarming moments of my life, I am certain that my afternoon nap would have been much less restful.
Chapter Thirteen
Threat to the Throne
While Kareem was enjoying his morning shower, I lingered under the bed covers, moving restlessly from side to side. I missed our daughters terribly and was anxious to leave Jeddah and return to Riyadh.
As the rushing sound of the water flow from Kareem’s shower ceased, I arose from bed and walked toward the balcony adjoining our bedroom suite. Pushing aside the window shade, I looked outside. The view was just as I expected. It was a typical day in Saudi Arabia, bright and sunny.
