by Jean Sasson
“The High Court could not agree upon an action. They were obviously dealing with a man of courage, and the law said they must either behead him, or release him. Since the court was fearful of creating a martyr, the professor was given a chance to appeal his case. He was told that he would be released and given a chance to reflect upon his actions. If he kept away from political controversy, he might remain free.”
Such is the way of my family, I thought. They always hope that problems will simply vanish. If only all the dilemmas of life were so simple!
“Well, of course, the professor is not a man who can be silenced, so immediately on his release he began to participate in the Committee’s actions again.
“A secret source warned the professor that the capital charge of treason was being prepared against him. The Committee agreed that the time had come for the professor to leave Saudi Arabia, and continue his fight from abroad. An elaborate escape plan was prepared.”
I felt a flutter in my heart. Was my own daughter privy to secret information about his escape?
“The professor and a friend came up with a ruse to visit an ill friend confined in a hospital. Inside the hospital, they were met by a third man who bore a striking physical resemblance to the professor, who changed places with him. When the two men left, the government agents trailing the professor followed the wrong man. No longer followed, it was easy for the professor to get to the Riyadh Airport. With a false passport, he flew to a small town on the Yemeni border. He waited for two days for his Yemeni contacts, men who knew a route which avoided border controls. The small secret group crossed the Saudi-Yemeni border on foot. In Yemen, there were new contacts waiting to assist him on his journey to London.”
Amani’s voice came across low and heavy. “Of course, everyone knows that when the professor escaped, his own son and brothers were taken as hostages by our family and imprisoned.” Amani flopped back into the easy chair, expelling a deep breath. “And, that’s the story of the professor. Practically everyone under the age of thirty in our country knows this, and now many, many young people secretly support Professor Al Massari.”
I moved my head slowly and heavily. Was this why sit-ins and demonstrations were disrupting the peace of the land? Soon, I feared, the entire country would share the professor’s urgent demands for change.
“We Al Sa’uds are doomed.” I moaned, as I buried my head in my hands.
Chapter Fourteen
Kareem’s Prophecy
At that very moment, Kareem entered the room.
Concerned, he asked our daughters, “What is wrong with your mother?” Maha blurted out, “Mother is worried that Amani is a member of a revolutionary group.”
Confusion surged in Kareem’s eyes, and for a short period of time, words flew this way and that without anyone really understanding what was happening. Once he realized that Amani had more information than she should have of the man who was calling for our family’s downfall, Kareem became a man wildly possessed.
First, he screamed at Amani, telling her that, “Daughter! Have you lost all good sense? Are you a follower of this man?”
Amani protested her innocence, “I am not a follower! I simply reported what I have been told.” My daughter stared coldly into my face, “Mother insisted that I tell. It’s her fault!”
“Forget what your mother said! You must not be associated with anyone who has taken up the cause of our most vocal enemy! Arrests are happening every day!” Kareem pounded the wall with his fists, causing the expensive paintings to vibrate. “You stupid, stupid, stupid child!”
Alarmed, I watched as Amani chewed the inside of her mouth.
I was about to comfort my child when Kareem directed the greater force of his anger toward me! “Sultana! You have raised your daughters to be rebels! I tell you, I won’t put up with it a moment longer!”
I was so shocked at Kareem’s accusation that I could not speak.
Maha slipped from the room, and Amani tried to leave with her, but Kareem ordered her to stay.
“Wait here, Father, I have something that will interest you.” Amani spun on her heels and quickly left the room.
Kareem stood frozen like a stone.
In my uneasiness, I circled the room.
Amani returned with a briefcase, which she silently handed to her father.
Kareem’s anger was obviously growing by the minute, for he fumbled with the briefcase lock. Once he had opened it, he examined one paper after another, discarding sheet after sheet on the floor. I had never seen Kareem in such a state of agitation.
“Where did you get these papers?” he bellowed at Amani.
“My friend stole them from her brother’s room,” she confessed.
“Here!” Kareem shoved a stack of papers into my reluctant hands.
I picked up a packet of cigarettes and toyed with the pack as I tried to focus on the printed pages. After lighting a cigarette, I finally calmed myself to the point that I could understand the significance of the papers I held in my hand.
I quickly saw that the papers were copies of actual press releases and documents written by Dr. Al Massari and other Saudi dissidents. The document I selected to read was entitled, “Prince of the Month,” which was an exposé of the alleged activities of one of my older cousins, who was a province governor. The document claimed that, “He has been overheard to say in the Majlis, (the open house where citizens bring complaints to their governor) ‘The tribes of the south have the mentality of slaves, {I} fill their bellies and mount their backs.’ And, ‘My grandfather Abdul-Aziz told me that the people of this province are a combination of apes and slaves.’”
The writer of this document went on to accuse my cousin of various sins, including the appropriation of huge tracts of Province land to his own name, and then sell it for a huge profit.
As I rushed through the documents, I saw that each page contained at least one savage indictment of an uncle or a cousin. One cousin was even implicated in a murder! An accountant for Saudia Airlines had been beaten to death after he had presented a bill for millions of riyals to this cousin. Of course, nobody had ever been charged with this crime.
Any detachment that I hoped to maintain rapidly vanished when I saw the name of my own father! I held my hand against my mouth to keep from crying out as I quickly read over a litany of vile deeds attributed to him. My heart sank, for I suspected that some of the denunciations could easily be true. Overcome with sad thoughts of my father, I looked at the faces of my husband and child. A hundred questions rose in my mind, but one look at Kareem’s drawn face and my questions died on my lips.
However, Amani bravely burst out, “Father, is this true?” She gripped tightly to the document she was showing Kareem. “Does our Al Sa’ud family arrest children?”
Her query brought me to my feet. Looking over Amani’s shoulder, I softly read, “Last week Fahd Al-Mushaiti, age 11 years, and Mansour Al-Buraydi, age 12 years, were detained in Buraydi and charged with carrying leaflets that had angered Al Sa’ud. It would seem that the Al Sa’ud’s have conveniently forgotten that they are repeating the crimes of Saddam Hussein, against whom they have previously fought. They have also forgotten that their newspapers, even today, still criticize his actions.”
Our defiant daughter persisted, “Father, answer me, does our family really arrest children?”
Kareem withdrew the document from Amani’s hand. He did not answer.
A tearful Amani persisted, “Father?”
Kareem began stuffing the papers back into the briefcase. In a flat voice he retorted, “You know that our enemies lie.”
“Much of what I read was true, Husband.”
Seething like a pot on a hot fire, Kareem flashed an angry look in my direction.
“But greatly exaggerated, of course.” I added quickly.
Kareem then tried to recover every document, but I hid the ones in my hands behind my back. “I want to read one particular section again,” I said. “I’ll return them to you later in the
evening.”
After inhaling several deep, ragged breaths, Kareem turned his attention back to Amani. “I won’t ask you to name who provided you with these documents, but only on the condition that you banish these people from your life.”
Amani’s voice was shrill. “But, Father, she’s my friend!”
“This is an order, child! I will not have my own daughter fraternizing with our enemies!”
Amani began to weep, but Kareem did not soften his stance. “Amani?”
After some moments, she gave her word, “I promise, Father.”
Frightened into submission, Amani whispered in her father’s ear before receiving a heartfelt embrace, and left the room.
Kareem’s penetrating eyes were now turned on me. He mimicked the sound of my voice, “Much of what I read was true, Husband!” He glowered, “A wife who upholds her husband is a great treasure, Sultana!”
Only recently had I learned that a cunning warrior knows when to retreat. Unable to rival Kareem’s intense fury, and fearful of provoking him even further, I hurried from the room.
Kareem stormed out of the palace. When he did not return for our evening meal, I knew that I would not see him again until late.
I looked in on the children and found that an unusually subdued Amani had retired early. Maha was talking on the telephone.
I stared at the clock and waited for my husband. As I waited, I read once more the vituperative accusations against many prominent members of my family. I read of allegations of adulterous behavior, theft, acts of repression, false arrests, and arrogant disregard for the responsibilities of the elevated station that we Al Sa’uds had been fortunate to inherit.
My suspicion that there was truth in these allegations depressed me. This depressed state of mind soon led me to imagine that Kareem was at that moment in the arms of another woman. Many Al Sa’ud princes are guilty of bringing women of questionable moral character into our country for the illicit sexual pleasure they offer. Haunted by visions of my beloved caressing another, I began to wander restlessly around the room. In an outburst of frustration, I smashed a crystal vase against the wall. Even this provided no relief, and I began to cry.
Sleep escaped me. Just as I finally closed my eyes, the light shining through the cracks between the window shades revealed that it was dawn.
Kareem did not return home until midmorning.
I was preparing to telephone Kareem’s brother, Asad, when my husband walked through the door. Despite his red-rimmed eyes, Kareem had the expression of a man who was merely returning from a routine errand.
“Sweetheart,” he said, as he bent to kiss me.
My calm smile concealed my despair. Every woman has a hidden source of knowledge about her husband. I smelled the scent of another woman on my husband, and told him so.
In an attempt to placate me, Kareem spun one lie after another, but in a jealous fury, I dragged three suitcases into our bedroom.
I packed my clothes.
Kareem unpacked my clothes.
I packed, and he unpacked.
Our conversation went the same way as our packing, with everything repeated in different words.
I stared into my empty bag, and threatened divorce.
Kareem held the phone and told me to dial a certain number, that he had been at the home of a friend, and that the friend would swear to the truth that they had been without female companionship.
Knowing that such a friend would protect him, I understood that I would never know the truth. “Why should I cook water?” I asked scornfully. “It will only remain water.”
Temporarily defeated by the freedom only men can claim as their own, I felt a desperate urge to inflict pain on my husband. Remembering the vow I had made to defeat my drinking habit, and knowing that Kareem would be greatly wounded were I to break it, I walked to the cabinet that held our store of liquor. Uncapping a bottle of whiskey, I drank straight from the bottle. My eyes met Kareem’s shocked stare. I told him what was on my mind: “Husbands rule, wives endure.” I paused as I took another swallow, then threatened. “If you go to bed with other women, Kareem, then I will certainly become an alcoholic.”
Kareem blinked in surprise, then said, “Ah! A drink,” as he glanced at his watch. “At ten o’clock in the morning! What a wonderful idea, Sultana.” He walked toward me, took the bottle from my hand, and then he, too, took a long drink from the bottle.
With the back of his hand he wiped his lips and mustache. “If the woman I love becomes an alcoholic, then I will become one too!”
I stared at Kareem. I had no desire for either of us to become an alcoholic!
The faintest of smiles began to flicker across Kareem’s face. My husband was a man of two distinct parts, one lovable, and one detestable. I began to weaken after looking into his large black eyes filled with so much affection.
When Kareem’s massive chest began to rise and fall with silent laughter, my anger evaporated all at once. I laughed aloud as I put the bottle of alcohol back into the cabinet.
Suddenly, we were locked in a lover’s embrace. Our latest disagreement was quickly buried in the same bottomless container as every other unresolved issue of our marriage.
The following morning a serious Kareem said that he had to speak with me about an important matter.
After ordering a strong coffee from the kitchen, I sat quietly, sipping from my cup, listening as Kareem shared his thoughts.
“The incident with Amani has caused me to rethink my ideas on Saudi Arabia’s future. I have decided to invest more of our money into foreign ventures.”
I stared blankly before responding. “Why would you do that?”
“For the sake of our children, Sultana.” He paused. “Do you agree?”
Trying to think, I rubbed my forehead with my fingers.
“Well, I don’t know. It’s too early to think about business.” I paused before adding, “Don’t you think we already own enough businesses abroad?”
Kareem and I owned hotels and businesses in Europe, America, and Asia. Even now, to keep watch over all that we owned was nearly impossible. Following a recent accounting, we were told that our total assets in real estate, cash, and businesses worldwide, was nearly $900 million dollars.
Kareem leaned in toward me. “Listen to me, Sultana. It’s time to face reality. Even our own daughter, the niece of the King, is critical of the regime. Can you imagine what other Saudis think of our family? Sultana, one day, we are going to lose Saudi Arabia. Perhaps not in our lifetime, but certainly during the lifetimes of our children.”
My husband’s words depressed me, although this was a topic our family had discussed on many occasions before.
“Nothing lasts forever,” Kareem mused. “Our family will eventually lose its control. I greatly fear that Saudi Arabia will tread the same path taken by Iran and Afghanistan. The Islamic fundamentalist ripple is growing into a tidal wave that will engulf every Muslim country.” Kareem paused while gathering his thoughts.
The idea of Saudi Arabia going the way of Afghanistan caused my heart to pound with fear. The sad story of Afaaf, Sara’s maid, made one thing quite clear. Should Saudi Arabia ever be ruled by fundamentalists, Saudi women’s lives would become even more oppressed.
Kareem’s voice became bitter, “Besides, the only reason we’re still in power today is because the United States needs Saudi oil. One day that need will be filled by some other fuel source. Already scientists are starting to find substitutes for the fuel needs of the West. When that day comes, Saudi Arabia—and our family—will be expendable to the Americans.”
Kareem’s face became blotched with anger. “All American politicians are self-serving. They’ll throw us to the jackals the moment our usefulness is gone, in the same manner they discarded Reza Shah Pahlavi.” Kareem looked at me sadly. “Sultana, my estimate is that within twenty years, we all will be living in exile.”
I stared at Kareem. “Even if we no longer rule,” I whispered, “could we n
ot live in quiet obscurity in our own country?”
“No,” Kareem sighed. “We will be burdened with our name. A fundamentalist regime will rule. Saudi Arabia will be too dangerous for any Al Sa’ud. We will be hated by everyone.”
I knew that what my husband was saying was true. We have a saying that “Arabs are either at your feet or at your throat,” and I knew that in one swift moment our fortunes would be reversed. We Al Sa’uds’ would rule, or we would be destroyed; there would be no in-between.
Kareem shook his head wearily. “We’ve got no one to blame but ourselves, Sultana. What have we done to endear ourselves to the religious leaders? Nothing! What have we done to reassure the business community? Nothing! Our fathers do not listen to their sons. A few concessions here and there would do no harm. It would make our position stronger. But, no. Our fathers are deaf. They can hear nothing but the ghost of their own father, a man who thought of himself as the hammer, and his subjects as the nails.”
I nodded in agreement. Everyone knew that Grandfather Abdul Aziz, the Bedouin warrior who had created the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in 1932, had ruled his family and the citizens of his country with a firm hand.
Kareem slapped his hands together before leaning back in his chair. “It’s hopeless, Sultana.”
Tears of sadness began to roll down my face.
Kareem searched his pockets for a handkerchief. He pleaded, “Sultana, please do not cry.”
I buried my nose in Kareem’s handkerchief. I knew that everything he had said was true, and that one day I would lose the only life I had ever known. This, because the elders of our family were too stubborn and too foolish to understand change is often necessary just to maintain the situation one has. And why couldn’t the Al Sa’uds better control the current climate of nepotism, corruption, and wasteful outlay that so enraged the citizens of Saudi Arabia? Every person in the Al Sa’ud clan was already rich and powerful beyond imagination.
Even if they never made another Saudi Riyal, the members of my family could still live a hundred lifetimes in unbelievable splendor.
