by Jean Sasson
Tahani screamed in panic when she stumbled over her long dress and pitched forward on the ground. Dunia refused to stop and assist her sister; she ran ahead at exceptional speed, and was soon out of our sight.
Asad dropped his binoculars as he ran to meet us. When he saw the source of our fear, he entreated us to calm down and swiftly return to the camp. He would remain to greet the desert travelers.
An hour later, my sisters and I were able to laugh about the event. That is, everyone except Dunia. She was still weeping in terror, even though we were now sitting safely inside our own spacious tent, protected by our own men. Dunia’s maid placed one cool cloth after another on the forehead of her terrified mistress, but nothing brought our sister relief. She was convinced that she had narrowly escaped being seized by these men and forced to live out the rest of her life as an unwilling Bedouin wife.
Although it seems strange to us, there are still a few tribes in Arabia who have not capitulated to the urban life. And, it is a fact that these desert Arabs have been known to become offended to the point of violence when their offers to buy desirable females are refused. Who can say for certain that these nomads would not have reverted to past customs and simply stolen one of us?
In 1979, an American woman whom Sara knows well had narrowly escaped such a fate. While on a day trip into the desert, this woman, Janet, and her boyfriend, Bill, an American employed by Asad to run one of his many businesses, had come across a Bedouin encampment. Bill, who had lived in Arabia for some time, was fluent in Arabic. When the couple was invited to join the tribe for tea, Bill had been pleased at the rare opportunity to show Janet an authentic Bedouin camp.
But from the start, this encounter with the Bedouins was unsettling. The tribesmen were captivated by this American woman. Janet was a beautiful woman, with ivory skin, green eyes, and wavy, waist-length red hair, and these Bedouin had never seen such a bewitching display of feminine beauty!
Following the second cup of tea, the Bedouin chief grew bold and asked Bill the full price he had paid for his woman. In jest, Bill replied that his woman was very costly—a one-hundred camel woman, as a matter of fact. The Bedouin chief shook his head solemnly as he stared at the red-haired beauty. This woman would prove to be very costly indeed! The chief then clapped his hands together and agreed, yes, he would sacrifice the very financial future of his tribe to possess this irresistible temptress. Yes, he, too, would pay one hundred camels for her. Even more. The chief’s intense piercing eyes showed that he must have this woman!
To Bill’s growing consternation, the chieftain then called for his men to begin gathering one hundred prime camels from his huge herd. When Bill gently rebuffed the generous offer, the amount was increased, once, then twice. When the Chief finally understood that the woman was not for sale to him, for any number of camels, he quickly moved from a moment of gracious hospitality to a state of offended rage. Were the Bedouin not worthy of such a woman? This was an insult!
The situation deteriorated rapidly, and the frightened couple only barely escaped the incensed mob. They ran to their vehicle and drove away at a high speed, but they were chased for a short distance by Bedouins on camels. Who knows what might have happened had they not had a fast vehicle that eventually left the horde of aggrieved and irate Bedouin behind in the dust?
After greeting the Bedouin, Asad had invited them to our camp for tea. He reported that the men who had so frightened us were members of a Bedouin tribe on a hunting party.
We were now waiting for these men to leave so that we could rejoin our husbands. Soon after the aroma of the evening meal began to tease our growling stomachs, we heard the men’s loud farewells. After eliciting a promise from our husbands that we would soon visit their camp, the Bedouin men finally left.
Greatly relieved at their departure, I was the first to step through the drawn gap in our tent curtain. My sisters and the other women followed me in the rush from the tent.
Everyone was hungry, so we quickly arranged ourselves in a circle around carpets covered in large white linen cloths that would serve as our table. Although it is the custom in Saudi Arabia for men to eat first, and for women to wait and eat the remains of the meal, it is a custom we do not observe. When the party consists of our family only, all take their meals together. Even the arrogant Ali often eats meals with his wives and children. Therefore, we were all seated cross-legged when our servants brought water jugs for rinsing our hands.
My mouth watered in anticipation of the feast that I knew awaited us. The cooks had been busy preparing our meal since we first arrived.
Their previous disagreements now forgotten, all three cooks proudly stood side-by-side as the procession of food began. Six men carried a huge brass platter that was at least ten feet long. A small camel which had been roasting on a spit all day now lay on a mound of rice on the huge platter. Inside that camel was a lamb, which had been stuffed with chickens. The chickens, in turn, were stuffed with boiled eggs and vegetables.
Servants began to place bowls of salads, olives, cheeses, and a variety of other dishes before us.
Our eating rituals began in earnest. Kareem uttered the blessing, “Bismillah,” or “in the name of Merciful Allah.” In his role as host, Kareem began to insist that Nura’s husband, Ahmed, who was the eldest at our family gathering, be the first to sample the food.
Ahmed insisted that, no, he did not deserve such an honor.
With mounting fervor, Kareem’s voice grew louder and louder, as he declared that our family name would be disgraced if Ahmed were not the first to sample the food.
I was hearing but not listening, for I was so accustomed to such ceremonial rituals that I usually think nothing of this delay before eating. But on this occasion, I was faint from hunger. Although I said nothing, the idea crossed my mind that we Saudis devote too much time to senseless rites when the outcome is already known. It was a foregone conclusion that Ahmed would eventually allow Kareem to convince him to take the first bite.
Kareem and Ahmed went on for so long that I thought I might sneak a meatball from a bowl close to my hand. Just as I eased my hand toward the bowl, Kareem formed a ball of rice in his palm and handed it to Ahmed. My brother-in-law finally relented. He tossed the rice ball into his mouth before tearing off a piece of meat from the carcass of the camel, and stuffing his mouth.
This was the signal that the feast could now begin. Bowls were passed from hand to hand, while other eager hands reached toward the large platter. Everyone was so hungry that this was a rare occasion when no conversation interrupted our eating.
After we had consumed all we wanted of the main course, the servants began to bring out tray after tray of sweets made of cream, nuts, and honey. Although our stomachs were full, everyone sampled the delicious sweets.
Voices rose with the thanksgiving of “Alhamdulilah,” or “thanks be to God.” Finally, silver bowls filled with rose water were brought out for everyone to wash their hands and mouth.
Our meal was finished.
Kareem suggested, “Everyone, come, let us sit upon the ground by the campfire.”
With the disappearance of the sun, the evening air of the desert was now chilled, so we were happy to move to congregate around the glowing embers of the big fire. Even the smallest children joined us. We embarked on the custom of sharing our history, a favorite activity of all family gatherings.
As the servants began to serve us coffee and tea, and lemonade for the younger children, various family members began to tell exciting stories in verse of caravan life and tribal war.
In the past, Arabs and Bedouins had frequently raided each other. Such vicious attacks were considered an honorable way to support one’s tribe. No warriors were feared more than Al Sa’ud warriors, for they mercilessly slaughtered their enemies, bragging that in their raids, they never left a single warrior alive. Those considered innocent—women, children, and the elderly—found themselves distributed among the victorious.
Stirred by t
hese stories, the older men in our family obviously felt the draw of our past, for when Ahmed jumped to his feet, calling out for the servants to bring him his sword, our husbands joined him. Soon our party was rewarded with the men’s dancing of the ardha, a version of an Arab war dance.
I smiled broadly as I watched Kareem and the other men hopping about and chanting, brandishing their swords in extravagant movements. Brother Ali began to sword-joust with Asad, but soon gave way, red-faced and flustered. Although Ali is much larger than the trim Asad, over the years, Ali’s flesh has turned to fat, while the highly disciplined Asad, on the other hand, has retained his healthy muscle.
After much gaiety, our men, breathing hard, returned to sit around the campfire. They lifted water jugs up into the air and aimed the spouts toward their mouths. Skillfully, they directed the flow of the water directly into their throats without splashing a single drop on their lips.
When Tahani began to tell a Bedouin love story, Ali interrupted her, scoffing at such sentiments.
Much to my dismay, Tahani fell silent immediately.
Ali looked toward the youngest children, sternly saying, “These tales of love will bend your mind in the wrong direction. The most important lesson of all, is to be learned from the story I am about to tell you.”
I exchanged a glance with Sara, but remembering my promise to Kareem that I would not fight with my brother while on this trip, I attempted to feign interest.
Even surrounded by so many women of his own family, my brother could not control his deep bias against women! Ali’s hatreds fueled his story! He had the nerve to tell the tale of a young Bedouin man, who, after being viciously attacked by members of a rival tribe, and grievously wounded, had his life saved by a woman who was a stranger to him. That young man had been so revolted to discover an unknown woman’s hands on his body that he had spat in the woman’s face, and called out for her to be stoned! Ali looked at his young sons and nephews, and, confident in his exalted role as a wise elder, he told the impressionable young men and boys that it was better to die at the hands of male attackers than to be saved by a strange woman!
My mouth fell open at the audacity of my brother! To keep from speaking up, I was forced to hold my tongue between my teeth.
Ali’s story met with disapproval from every corner, but everyone was far more polite than Ali deserved, and to my disappointment, no furor of criticism fell on his ears.
The female faces were still sullen when Kareem cleared his throat and offered a final story. My heart went out to my husband, for it was apparent to me that he wanted our young children to retire to sleep with other ideas in their minds than Ali’s perverse tale.
Kareem directed his attention to the children and young adults. “Dear children, the most desirable trait any person can claim is generosity and hospitality. And, it is my pleasure to tell you about an Arab man who was the most generous man ever to live.”
My husband then told a popular Bedouin story that touches the heart of every Arab, for nothing impresses us more than stories of great generosity.
“It is said that all great men are born in small tents. And, this was the case with Sheik Hatim. He was born in a small tent, but through hard work, raised himself to be one of the richest Sheiks who pastured their herds in the great desert.
“This Sheik’s name was in every man’s mouth, not because of his wealth, but due to that great Arab virtue, generosity, which he practiced more faithfully than any man alive. Sheik Hatim gave to all who asked, and never questioned the need of anyone. He refused no one’s request, not even his enemies. Once four hundred starving men, women, and children traveled from drought-scorched hills to this Sheik’s tent. What did he do? He killed and roasted fifty camels to supply them with meat.
“The Sultan of Roum, hearing about this Sheik, was certain that his generosity was a pretense, that it was a way of advertising himself and the things he had for sale. The Sultan decided to send his men to ask Sheik Hatim for his most prized possession, a precious stallion known throughout the land, to see if the Sheik was as generous as people said.
“This stallion, named Duldul, was the finest horse in all of Arabia. He had been raised with Hatim’s children, and had shared in all the joys and sorrows of Hatim’s household. The horse was so loved that he had never known the touch of a whip or heard an unkind word.
“Well, the Sultan’s men got lost along the way in a great storm, and when they arrived, they were half-starved and almost dead. They were surprised to see only three small tents, and no herds of animals, although Sheik Hatim met them on his beloved steed, Duldul.
“The Sultan’s men saw plainly that the Sheik was not expecting guests, yet he greeted them with warmth and great hospitality. Seeing his guests in such pitiful condition, the Sheik declared that he would prepare a feast.
“After witnessing the bare grazing land, those men were surprised when they later sat down to a meal of delicious meat, which had been broiled, and roasted, and made into soups and savory dishes. The hungry men declared that they had never been fed so royally.
“The Sultan’s men then became ashamed of their errand, and told the Sheik that they had been sent by the Sultan of Roum to test his generosity by asking for the Stallion Duldul.
“Sheik Hatim sat as though he had been stunned by a heavy blow. His face became deathly white before he said, ‘Ah, friends, if you had only made your errand known in the beginning. You could not have fathomed my circumstances. I was not prepared for guests, for we arrived at this spot only two days ago. We have been waiting for our household and flocks, but a great rain fell and flash torrents prevented them from reaching us. When you arrived, exhausted and hungry, what was I to do? There was no meat in my tent—and no goats or sheep within a day’s journey. Could I fail to provide hospitality? I could not bear the thought of hungry men in my tent. And so my prized horse, Duldul, that matchless steed who knew my every wish and obeyed my every word—what else could I do?’
“Tears were flowing down the Sheik’s face when he said, ‘Now, go and tell your disbelieving Sultan Roum that in my extremity, I cooked and served the beautiful and obedient Duldul for your suppers.’”
Kareem now smiled at the youngest children, who were wide-eyed at the thought of such hospitality. “Now children, know that you have heard the story of a true Arab—the best Arab—a man whose generosity is never questioned.”
Kareem’s tale had us all smiling and in a good humor as the party began to break up and move toward the individual tents.
But when Ali passed by me, his arrogant look still irritated me. When my brother offered his cheek to me for a good-night kiss, I stiffened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kareem watching me.
I smiled, then stood on my tiptoes.
Ali leaned closer.
My lips brushed teasingly past his cheek before I whispered a favored devastating Bedouin curse into Ali’s ear, “May every camel in your herd go lame, Ali.”
While Kareem looked at me with loving approval, Ali stared at me in startled bewilderment. He was still reveling in his role as a wise man, and could not fathom the reason for my words of disdain.
I smiled triumphantly as I made my way to our tent.
Our tent had been readied earlier in the day according to Kareem’s instructions. It was divided into five parts. With velvet curtains serving as partitions, the largest room was arranged for entertaining and eating, two rooms were for sleeping, and two more rooms served as bathrooms. Kareem and I would share one bedroom and bath, and our daughters the other.
I walked through the largest room where small, custom-made sofas as well as peach and beige silk cushions lined two walls. Persian carpets covered the sandy floor of the desert. Camel saddles decorated with gold and silver fringe to be later used by our men while on desert outings lined a third wall. Banners, swords, and the Saudi flag added to the array of decorations.
The cozy contours of the bedrooms had been furnished with unique pieces of beautiful fu
rniture. Our beds were crowned with light-weight canopies, and draped with a sheer fabric that would screen our bodies from the desert dust and insects.
My maid had already laid out my sleeping gown, and after washing my face and cleaning my teeth, I slipped out of my dress. I sighed with contentment as I stretched across my side of the bed.
This day in my life had been more agreeable than most. I was asleep within moments, and never even heard Kareem when he came into the room.
Chapter Sixteen
Swirling Sands
The following days were most pleasant for the whole family. Our men mounted their camels and hunted desert wildlife while our children played endless games with their cousins. The women enjoyed long walks around the camp, admiring the scenic vistas and sharing many happy memories of our childhood.
Three days into our trip, our husbands suggested that we visit the camp of the Bedouin tribe whose men had so startled us on our first day. We women were eager to go, for every city Arab remains forever curious about the Bedouin.
All the women except Dunia, that is. Dunia flatly refused the invitation, claiming that her frail temperament simply could not survive such a shock as visiting a dirty Bedouin camp, so she stayed behind with our female servants and the children.
People unfamiliar with Arabia believe all Arabs are Bedouin; actually, city Arabs and desert Bedouin Arabs have rarely co-existed peacefully, and even today, a pervasive and continuing conflict exists between them. City Arabs mock the Bedouin as simple-minded fools while Bedouins revile city Arabs as amoral sinners. In the not too distant past, the “wild Bedu” would stuff their nostrils with cloth when it was necessary for them to come into the city, to avoid being polluted by the odor of city Arabs.
Still, Bedouins do always extend warm reception to visitors to their camps, even though this hospitality is often short-lived.
I had been in several Bedouin camps during my youth, and now I was interested to discover if the years in between had brought any improvement to their grim lives. I recalled that the Bedouin I had seen had been packed into tents filled with their own garbage.
