by Jean Sasson
Within a few moments, Kareem was out of the shower and standing beside me. He made an attempt to caress my breasts with his hands.
Several years before, I had traveled to Switzerland for a breast reconstruction to replace the breast I had lost to cancer during the early years of our marriage. As part of the medical rehabilitation, I had been told that the breast must be massaged daily in order to keep the liquid ingredients that formed my new breast soft and supple. Since that time, Kareem had insisted that he should be the one to take responsibility for my therapy.
An inviting smile spread across his face. “Do you want to go back to bed, Sultana?”
I returned his smile but said, “No, darling. Truthfully, I want nothing more than to see the beautiful faces of our two daughters.”
My husband’s smile faded, but he understood. “Yes, of course. I miss them, also.” He paused, “Telephone Nura and tell her that we will arrive in Riyadh later this afternoon. Have her drivers deliver the children home from school.”
Soon we were at the airport and ready to board our plane for the short flight from Jeddah to Riyadh. Once we had arrived, Sara and I said hasty farewells as we got into separate automobiles. Sara was as anxious as I to see her own children.
Maha and Amani were waiting for our arrival. After heartfelt hugs and greetings, I gave our daughters the gifts that I had purchased for them in New York. Both daughters received many new clothes, some electronic gadgets, music CD’s, movie videotapes, and books.
Kareem then said that he had work to do. I was further disappointed when both Amani and Maha expressed a desire to return to their own suites and return telephone calls from their friends. I had some difficulty convincing them to stay a while longer with their mother.
Once my children became teenagers, they began to prefer the company of their peers to their own mother, and I had often wished that I was possessed of a great power that could move back time so that I could once again enjoy the days when my children were babies.
Smiling, I held out my arms in invitation and said, “Let us sit together for a while. Then you can go and make your calls.”
I called out for one of our servants to serve us with some cold Laban, their favorite buttermilk-like drink.
Maha smiled, then snuggled against me on the large sofa that faced the television set. Amani curled up into an oversized chair.
Maha yawned and picked up the TV remote control to switch on the television set. Several years before, Kareem had purchased a large satellite dish to capture television channels from all over the world. It is illegal in Saudi Arabia to possess a satellite dish. Our government insists upon censoring the information its citizens see, hear, or even read.
However, this decree is ignored by people wealthy enough to purchase and import satellite dishes, partly because the limited programming fare offered by Saudi television is so boring! Certainly we were not interested in the sanitized news reports and endless self-congratulatory accounts of the good deeds performed by members of our own royal family that were all that were available on Saudi channels.
The religious authorities in Saudi Arabia are also against satellite dishes, for a different reason. Religious men fear that good Muslims will be adversely influenced by images from the decadent West. It is not unusual for a committee of Mutawwas, or religious men, to roam the streets of Saudi cities looking for satellite dishes. Although homes in Riyadh are surrounded by walls, their flat roof tops are usually visible from the street.
The Mutawwas go from street to street, examining roof tops. Should a television satellite dish be discovered, these men attempt to destroy the dish by any means possible. Rocks and sticks are thrown at the satellite dish, and if that fails, rocks and sticks are thrown at the owners of the satellite dishes! Just a year ago, a group of unruly Mutawwas had become so incensed by the presence of a television satellite dish that they fired bullets at it! A poor female Indian was on the roof hanging laundry. When the Mutawwas began to discharge their firearms, the woman was shot in the abdomen! Thankfully, she survived her injury.
Since that incident, Saudi owners of satellite dishes have gone to great lengths to hide their equipment. Today, many flat roof tops in Arabia are completely surrounded by sheets, hanging from high steel poles, to block the view of the roof top from the street. But this camouflage has merely encouraged the Mutawwas to fire at the sheets themselves, which have become targets.
Of course, as Al Sa’uds, we do not have to concern ourselves with the unpleasant activities undertaken by the Mutawwas.
When Maha paused to watch an English comedy show depicting a woman ridiculing a man, I noticed Amani’s lip curling in repulsion. In the Arab world, no woman would ever poke fun at her husband in view of another, or to depict a woman as more intelligent as a man.
Without warning, Amani leaped to her feet and grabbed the remote control.
“Mother!” Maha screamed her objection.
This was not the afternoon of pleasure and relaxation with my daughters that I had anticipated. I gestured with my hand for Amani to pass the control to me.
In an effort to appease both daughters, I began switching from channel to channel, searching for a suitable program that would entertain everyone. Quite unexpectedly, I came upon a news story on a British channel about Professor Mohammed Al Massari, a Saudi citizen who had greatly outraged all in the Al Sa’ud family. Instantly, I became so focused on the broadcast that Amani and Maha were forgotten.
The professor was a Saudi scholar whose subversive ideas for the democratization of Saudi Arabia had severed him from his own country. After being arrested and imprisoned, he was released but was continuously harassed by the Saudi authorities. He had escaped Saudi Arabia the previous year and sought refuge in England. Since that time, he had organized a band of Saudi Arabian exiles into a London-based organization that called itself “The Committee for the Defense of Legitimate Rights.” To appease their fury at the injustices they had suffered, this group of dissidents had recently drawn Western media attention by describing the alleged corruption of our Saudi royal family. Indeed, these disclosures undoubtedly caused many sleepless nights in Al Sa’ud palaces. This man had exposed so many family secrets that my relatives were left wondering how he could possibly have obtained such confidential information. Had some people working for our family become spies for our enemies?
Mohammed Al Massari’s allegations included that certain high-ranking members of the ruling family routinely embezzle millions of riyals, from pay-backs on foreign contracts, to the confiscation of valuable land belonging to ordinary citizens. He claimed that these cheated people were too frightened to protest, for they feared arrest and imprisonment on false charges. It was alleged that all this corruption has created more than fifty billionaires in my own extended family.
I found everything Al Massari claimed hard to believe, although I could not deny corruption was rife in some branches of our family. For example, a prominent Princess, a cousin whom I know quite well, often laughingly boasts about the scandalously inflated rent she collects by renting buildings to the Saudi military.
What makes me so indignant is that there is no need for such behavior. The monthly allowances received by all royals far exceeds our needs. With each Prince and Princess receiving SR 35,000 ($10,000) monthly, a large branch of family can collect several hundred thousand dollars each month.
There were other allegations. This professor, and his associates, also accused certain foreign journalists from highly regarded newspapers and magazines of being paid handsome bribes to vilify and slander other writers who dare write the truth about our government and our country. And, here was Mohammed Al Massari, speaking out freely on British television broadcast all over the world, while a reporter listened with interest and sympathy!
I sprang to my feet and stood before the television set.
When Maha started to speak, I hushed her. “Shhh, look,” I said as I leaned forward. I wanted to commit this traitor’s face t
o memory. The physical appearance of this enemy of my family would surely match the evil portrait that already formed in my mind. But, I saw a dignified man whose eyes flashed with intelligence. Judging by his genial appearance, an observer would never dream that there was anything particularly important on the man’s mind, certainly not such desperate ideas as overthrowing a King. Here was a disturbing man!
Kareem had spoken more than once about this professor. He was considered an ominous threat to the rule of the Al Sa’uds, and the throne that allowed my family to claim the country, and its revenues, as their own. I knew that my husband, father, brother, cousins and uncles would go to extreme measures to protect their right to control the oil of Arabia—the black gold that currently flowed in a thousand streamlets directly into the coffers of the royal clan.
My mind raced as I listened. The interviewer appeared to approve the fact that England was becoming a haven for Middle Eastern dissidents such as Professor Al Massari. But I felt that British citizens might one day regret offering sanctuary to opponents of oil-rich governments, for the men of my family are extremely vengeful. After all, a Saudi government vendetta against the people of England had already occurred. In 1980, Princess Misha’il, the granddaughter of Prince Mohammed, had been put to death in Saudi Arabia for the crime of adultery. A film dramatization of her story, Death of a Princess, made by an independent television company, had been broadcast in Britain.
When King Khalid learned the contents of the film, he was embarrassed and outraged by the film’s depiction of Saudi royalty. He temporarily severed diplomatic ties with Great Britain, recalling the Saudi ambassador to London and sending the British ambassador to Saudi Arabia packing. More seriously, contracts with British firms worth millions of pounds were cancelled. The consequence was that many British jobs were lost.
When the broadcast ended, I returned to my chair and slowly sipped my drink of cold Laban. Mohammed Al Massari looked nothing like I had imagined, I mused. Instead, he looked the scholar he was, not the rebel he had become.
Maha took the remote control from my hand and switched to a channel that was showing music videos. Amani’s face was set like granite as she stared into nothingness.
I gripped one hand in the other and murmured out loud, “What caused that man to hate us so? Why risk his reputation, his liberty, and the well-being of his family, all for an idea?”
Maha murmured, “I don’t know, Mother.”
Amani came to life with a self-satisfied smile as she said, “I know.”
I sat astonished, and looked dumbly at Maha, who also looked puzzled. “She knows?” Amani’s words triggered a stream of speculations in my mind. “What do you know of that man, Amani?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Desperate thoughts of Amani allied to some forbidden political organization sank into my mind like a dagger. I stared at her without blinking before finally shouting. “Your mother demands to know!”
“All right,” she said, as if proud of her special knowledge.
Unspoken ideas were running through my mind. My daughter is part of a rebellion! Whatever will Kareem and I do?
Amani cleared her throat before she began speaking. “You asked why the professor was willing to risk everything? The reason is simple, Mother. The professor grew up in a family which has always questioned our family’s claim to the throne.”
Drenched with anxiety for my daughter, I wiped my forehead and upper lip with a tissue. I could hold my tongue no longer. “Wait, Amani.” I spoke in a dry croak. “Are you a member of this banned organization?”
Stillness hung in the room, no one spoke.
“Amani!” I shouted.
My daughter pulled herself up in the seat and tucked her legs beneath her. She stared boldly into my eyes, luxuriating in the agony she was inflicting upon her visibly shaken mother.
A great sadness gripped my heart. I could not deny that Amani is a lovely girl. She is doll-like petite with a perfectly shaped figure. Her skin is the color of honey, and she has a dainty straight nose, full pink lips, perfect white teeth, and velvety chocolate eyes widely spaced under arched, slanting brows. Yet, even though my daughter grows more beautiful with each passing year, her personality has become more and more uninviting. As the years have passed, I have become convinced that internal beauty is more important for living a happy life than external beauty, therefore, I knew that if I were given the power, I would dearly like to turn Amani inside out.
Finally, just as I was about to grab my child and shake her, she gave me a squinting smirk and waved her hand in the air.
“No, Mother. Don’t worry.” She narrowed her eyes as she spoke, “Women play no role in the professor’s movement. I am not wanted.”
“Alhamdulilah!” “Praise God!” For the first time in my life, I was glad to hear that females were excluded.
Amani raised her voice. “ I learned all I know from a friend whose brother distributes documents and tapes for this organization. The brother is a zealous supporter of the professor and knows everything about his life. He told her what I am now telling you.”
Regaining my composure, I looked at Maha and said, “We women must remember that our own family can do more for females in Saudi Arabia than any other individual. Surely, this man’s talk of fighting for democratic rights will evaporate in the heat of the desert; in any case, where women’s rights are concerned, he is obviously a typical Saudi man.”
I turned my attention back to Amani, “The professor’s organization has no use for women. You said so yourself.”
In a slow, provoking tone, Amani asked, “You said you wanted to know about this man. Do you still?”
“I want to know everything you know about this man, Amani.”
“Well,” Amani bit her lip in concentration, “Where was I?”
Maha spoke, “The rebel’s family has always questioned our family’s right to the throne.”
“Oh, yes. Coming from a family who fostered democracy, the professor was determined to help create reform. He waited on the government to introduce reform, but he waited in vain.”
Although I was beginning to have some respect for this Al Massari, even agreeing that some change is in order, I have never wished for my family to lose their power. And, while Mohammed Al Massari might be a man of brilliant thoughts, I suspected that he might find it difficult to hold a country together that had been created decades ago by a warrior genius.
The country of Saudi Arabia is made up of many different factions, including the uneducated Bedouin class, wealthy business families, and middle-class professionals. It is difficult enough for our family, which has been in power since Saudi Arabia’s creation, to keep such a diverse group of citizens happy, without having to concede democratic reforms.
I turned my attention back to my daughter’s droning voice.
“The professor was unable to convert others to his way of thinking. But, when Iraq invaded Kuwait, everything changed. We Saudis were stunned to discover that we could not defend ourselves, and that we needed foreign armies to come into our country to save us. Suddenly, with the presence of foreign armies, ordinary Saudis finally became politicized. Many Saudi Arabians were heard to say that the presence of foreign armies in their beloved land was so shameful that it was the final nail in the coffin of the House of Al Sa’ud.”
With her hands, Amani pretended to hammer that nail.
“And so, Uncle Fahd lost his own people when he embraced the Western enemy.”
“That’s simply not true, Amani,” Maha exclaimed in protest. “All Saudis love the King!”
Amani gave her sister a condescending smile, but did not bother to argue Maha’s claim.
Remembering the very real fear that Saddam Hussein, our Arab neighbor and former friend, might actually bomb our cities, I quoted an Arab proverb, “Never forget, Amani, ‘a prudent enemy is safer than a reckless friend’!”
An increasingly curious Maha now asked her sister, “And so, what el
se do you know, Amani?”
Amani shrugged her small shoulders. “The rest of the story is known by everyone in Saudi Arabia. The moment Western armies arrived on our soil, Saudis began to rise from a long sleep. Intellectuals began to participate in clandestine meetings, and an opposition group was formed.”
I sniffed. What Amani said was true. Every Saudi Arabian knew that a committee of dissidents, composed of fifty men, including scholars, businessmen, judges, and religious leaders had written a letter to the King.
This letter called for an end to oppression, and asked for participation in the running of the government. Over four hundred prominent Saudi Arabians added their signatures to the dissidents’ document. When this letter was presented to the King, it is said he went into shock before consulting the Council of the Senior Scholars. On orders from the King, this council had condemned the committee, saying it should be abolished and members punished. The secret police had arrested the professor and had jailed him at Al Hayir Prison, located a few kilometers outside of Riyadh.
Amani spoke once again. “I do know that for six months Professor Al Massari was kept imprisoned, partly in solitary confinement.”
Maha clicked her tongue in sympathy.
I gave her a sharp look. “Do not forget, Daughter, this man is calling for the downfall of your own family.”
Maha’s face reddened as she looked away.
“I was told by my friends that this professor was tortured while in prison,” Amani continued. “While under interrogation, prison guards spit in his face, beat his feet with a bamboo cane, pulled his beard, and boxed his ears.”
I stared at my hands listening, ashamed, knowing that such events are routine in Saudi prisons.
“My friend also told me that the professor was charged with heresy. Of course, when told to confess, he refused.
