Princess Sultana's Circle

by Jean Sasson

  The life of the Bedouin begins with a high risk of infant mortality. Those children who survive infancy run barefoot, unschooled and unwashed through the camps. And, the women! I could scarcely think of them without an involuntary wince. Certainly, in every class of Saudi Arabian life, women are looked down upon as naturally and irrevocably inferior to men, but life for Bedouin women is worse by any measure, for they do not have the necessary wealth to relieve their harsh lives. Bedouin women are terribly burdened by hard physical labor. Besides waiting on their husbands, and taking care of many children, their nomadic responsibilities even include the setting up and dismantling of camp!

  These thoughts were in my mind as we endured our bumpy ride over the desert floor. Thankfully, the distance we rode was no more than fifteen kilometers. Soon the curling smoke of a campfire could be seen in the distance. But the men of the camp had seen the dust from our vehicles long before we saw their campfire. More than twenty men had mounted their camels and were now waiting a short distance from the entrance of their tent settlement.

  One particular Bedouin caught my eye. He was a robust man of middle age, with chiseled features and dominating black eyes. With his long black cloak flowing behind him, he was regal, as was his magnificent mount, a strong, young female camel. His Bedouin gaze was piercing and directed toward us with unquestioning self-confidence. No smile came to his lips at the sight of strange visitors, although I found it amusing that the lips of his camel seemed permanently carved into a smile. In a strutting kind of dignity, he rode around our vehicles more than once, as though inspecting us. I knew without asking that this man was the chief of his village. The Bedouin are proud, and not in awe of any man, not even men of the royal family. He would show us all that our welcome depended upon his approval.

  When Ahmed stuck his head out of the window of the vehicle, the Chief, who said his name was Sheik Fahd, finally stretched his face in a welcoming smile. With a voice like thunder, he greeted us with the hope of Allah’s blessing. With a flourish of both hands, he pointed the way to his village.

  At this sign, the other Bedouins began to shout their welcome. They rode cheerfully alongside our vehicles as we slowly made our way to the camp.

  When Sheik Fahd called out that he had honored guests, the Bedouin settlement instantly came to life. Veiled women with their arms filled with infants, and many poorly dressed young children emerged from the row of sloping tents.

  The moment I stepped out of our jeep, I was struck by the strong odor in the air. My nose twitched with the stench of close-living animals and blood-soaked slaughter pits. I stepped daintily, for the ground was polluted with animal droppings. This was a village cleaned only by the rains, and no rain had fallen for a long time. I told myself that each step I took was a step backward in time.

  More than ten women dressed in brightly colored dresses and covered with the Bedouin veil walked toward us. It is customary for Bedouin women to leave their eyes uncovered, while the tradition of city Arab women is to conceal the entire face. When these women welcomed us, all their energies flowed out through their dark and vivid eyes.

  Our husbands went off with the men to the Sheik’s tent to enjoy tea, while my sisters and I followed the camp women. The tallest of the women, who was dressed in a brightly colored blue dress covered in gold embroidery was named Faten, and she quickly let us know that she was the favorite of the Sheik’s four wives. Her eyes flashed with pride as she led us toward her personal tent.

  As decreed by the Koran, this Bedouin chief apparently provided each of his wives with her own tent, in the same manner that city Arabs build individual villas or palaces for each wife.

  As we were escorted inside, Faten said with a flourish, “As the most favored wife of Sheik Fahd. I welcome you to my tent.”

  As we entered the flapping goat-hair door of Faten’s tent, I looked around with undisguised interest. The interior was dark and stuffy, just as I remembered the Bedouin tents of my childhood. In the center of the room there was a coffee hearth surrounded by piles of white ashes from previous fires. Numerous gaudy tints caught my eyes. Cushions of various orange, blue, and red hues were piled against mattresses, and brightly colored quilts, pots and pans, food items, and folded clothes were heaped up everywhere.

  Everything appeared unclean, and the tent carried the foul aroma of disease. Saddest of all was the sight of the small children. The cries of several fussy babies filled the room, and shy, grubby toddlers peeked around from behind their mothers. I watched sadly as one unhappy little boy, who looked to be four or five years old, used his hands to pull himself along the floor. When one of the women saw that his pitiful crippled condition drew my attention, she volunteered the information that, when he was only an infant, his mother had accidentally dropped him from a camel.

  I tried to take him in my arms, but in his fear, he began to scream. One of the women, who I assumed was his mother, slapped his shrunken legs until he dragged himself to a corner of the tent where he lay whimpering.

  I was brokenhearted at this child’s plight. Unlike people of other cultures, Arabs, and in particular, Bedouin Arabs, are uncaring about their handicapped. While healthy children are considered wealth and prestige for a family, an unhealthy child is a dreaded shame. It was doubtful that this child would ever receive medical attention. The little boy would likely live out his miserably short life crippled, unloved and undernourished.

  I desperately wanted to scoop the little boy up and take him away with me, but such a reaction is unheard of in my country. In such a case as neglect, children are never taken away from their families, no matter the circumstances.

  When one of the women roughly nudged my arm, I accepted the tea cup offered me. It was crusted with the filth of much previous use. A second woman with the scarred hands of a woman who had raised many tents poured hot tea into my cup. There was nothing to do but to drink from this cup; otherwise, our hostess would be gravely offended.

  Once she was satisfied that her guests had been served, Faten removed her veil. She was proud to show us that she was, indeed, very pretty, and very young, no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, close to Maha’s age.

  The other Bedouin women removed their veils, too. These women looked much older and more worn out than Faten. It was no wonder that she was the favorite wife, for she had not yet been ravaged by repeated childbirth and the harsh desert life.

  Faten pranced before us as she showed off the various trinkets that she said were special gifts from the Sheik. “He no longer visits his other wives,” she said with a broad grin as she pointed out three other Bedouin women in attendance. Those three women exchanged subtle looks of irritation, while my sisters and I sat in silent unease. When one of the older women insisted that my sisters and I also remove our veils, we did so.

  Faten gawked in surprise at Sara’s beauty. Obviously, she was accustomed to being the village celebrity, but no woman could match Sara’s breathtaking loveliness. If my dear sister lived in a country where women were not forced to cover their faces, she would be famous for her magnificent beauty.

  The other women fluttered around Sara and began to touch her face and hair. One of them told Faten that if Sheik Fahd were ever to see such a one as Sara, that he was sure to abandon her bed in frustration. The other three wives of the Sheik quickly agreed.

  The visibly spoiled Faten became jealous and began to command the other women to retrieve this item or that item. Her voice was far too impolite and loud, and as a token of resistance, the women pretended not to understand Faten’s instructions.

  The words exchanged became so harsh and the looks so fierce, that I feared we were about to witness an altercation between these ill-mannered women. This display made me reflect on what would have been the reality of my own life had our ancestors not abandoned the desert for the city. In the Bedouin culture, a woman’s status depends only on her youth, beauty, and ability to produce sons. Certainly, a Bedouin woman of my age who had suffered the loss
of a breast and the ability to bear children would be cast aside by her husband. Undoubtedly, I would have become the servant of an insensitive beauty such as Faten!

  For the first time in a long time, I acknowledged that Saudi Arabians are taking some small progressive steps toward improving the lives of Saudi women. I felt a rare moment of gratitude for my current status.

  When an embarrassed Sara threatened to veil her face again if she was not left alone, the women cried out that they would sit quietly for the pleasure of looking at Allah’s most perfect creation.

  Faten could take no more! Her lip curled in anger as she glared at Sara, and cursed her. “A pox on you! May Allah disfigure your face!”

  We were all speechless with shock at this uncivilized behavior.

  In dignified silence, Sara rose to leave. Faten mistook Sara’s movement as a challenge. Her wide-set eyes grew wild, her nostrils flared, and the skin of her face rose and fell in angry rhythm. This wild Bedouin woman advanced toward my gentle sister with the clear intent of violence!

  Frightened, Sara froze in place, her hand poised at her throat.

  Since Sara’s unfortunate first marriage, when she was brutalized at the hands of a cruel husband, everyone in our family is determined to offer Sara unconditional physical protection.

  Nura moved forward to shield Sara, but she was not as fast as her youngest sister.

  I stepped in front of Sara just as Faten’s hand reached out for her. I felt a sharp tug on my face. The crazy Bedouin woman had twisted my nose!

  I had once heard my father say that, “He that does not make a Bedouin fear him, will soon fear the Bedouin.” Quite obviously, this woman would understand nothing but force. As Faten reached out to twist my nose once more, I gave a loud cry as I leapt toward her. It had been years since I was involved in any kind of physical altercation, but my years of childhood fighting with the much larger Ali had taught me to make my moves swift and certain. I am too small to long outlast a big woman like Faten. I moved quickly to get a stranglehold on her neck, forcing her backwards onto the floor. I tripped on my long skirt and fell on top of my opponent.

  The other Bedouin women obviously hated Faten, for they did nothing to help her; rather, they laughed and cheered me on.

  One woman shouted, “Oh, Princess! Poke out her eyes!”

  Another encouraged me, “Twist her neck!”

  My sisters became hysterical with fear that the vicious Faten would get the best of their baby sister. Their screams resonated through the small tent.

  Faten managed to scrape a handful of sand from the floor, and tossed it into my face.

  Blinded, I pulled Faten’s hair until her hands clawed the air as she pleaded for Allah’s mercy.

  For good measure I pounded her head twice on the hard earth, then rose to my feet. While brushing off my skirt, I offered the greatest insult I could think of, “This is how you welcome your guests?”

  I knew that the true Bedouin tradition treats guests with great respect. Even a mortal enemy is permitted three days of grace—even after departing the boundaries of a Bedouin tent.

  Faten’s face had reddened with each word I spoke, and now her black eyes were tremendous with a threatening look. But, she made no further advance toward me.

  The Bedouin women began to laugh hysterically at Faten’s defeat.

  Nura and Tahani rushed to brush the sand from my face and hair.

  Tahani cried out, “Sultana! Did she hurt you?”

  I laughed, “No.” When my eyes locked with Faten’s eyes in mutual hatred, I flung her my final insult. “This Bedouin fights like a small child.”

  Quickly fastening our veils over our faces, the three of us followed Sara and Haifa as they hurried out of the tent.

  Meanwhile, the men had heard the commotion, and spilled out of Fahd’s tent, looking around in confused concern. As we approached our husbands, and were about to explain the situation, a wild scream exploded from behind us.

  What was happening, now? I wondered.

  I turned to see the sands swirling from the force of Faten’s running footsteps. The crazy Bedouin grabbed two fistfuls of sand and rushed toward me. Before I could move, she had thrown the sand on my head, screaming, “May Allah pour all his punishments upon your head!”

  Words failed the men. They were struck dumb at Faten’s outrageous gesture of contempt. My blood ran cold at her curse, but I was dignified and silent as I leaned forward and brushed the sand from my head and veil. Let Faten appear the villain.

  With great satisfaction, one of the older Bedouin women explained to Sheik Fahd that his new bride had physically assaulted his guests.

  “Sultana!” Kareem rushed toward me. “Were you harmed?”

  The Sheik sprinted after Faten, who was now running away. We heard him shouting, “You stupid woman! You dishonor my tent!”

  Faten was sure to get a good thrashing by her husband, but here was a woman who deserved a beating, I reasoned.

  Nura urged our men to take us away from what was, for us, a primitive and frightening place, and they quickly complied.

  When everyone heard the full story, I was praised as a heroine. Sara is the most beloved member of our entire family, and even Kareem understood that I had no option but to defend her. Asad was so shaken at the thought that a crazed Bedouin woman would have attacked his beloved, that he told Sara he was going to buy me the most expensive piece of jewelry available in Riyadh, as a gift of thanks. Even Ali looked upon my act with great pride, and told everyone that would listen that he was the one who had taught me my fighting skills, which I had to agree was true. For the next few days, talk of my victorious fight with Faten kept our camp in a high state of excitement.

  When Sheik Fahd offered an apology in the form of ten female Batiniyah camels, we knew that Faten’s behavior was indeed a source of great shame to that proud Bedouin chief. Batiniyah camels are from Oman, and are considered one of the best species of camels. The ten camels were of high quality, for they all had small heads, wide foreheads, large eyes, small nostrils, and long ears.

  A Bedouin tribe’s wealth is measured by the size and quality of its camel herd, and ten Batiniyah camels are extremely costly. Suspecting that they represented the best of Sheik Fahd’s herd, Kareem did not wish to accept this expensive gift. Still, he could not decline, for his refusal would have offended Sheik Fahd deeply. So, the Batiniyah beauties joined our own herd.

  After such a melodrama, we attempted to enjoy the remaining days of our desert trip with more quiet pursuits.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Buried While Still Alive

  Several mornings before we were to return to Riyadh, I was rudely awakened by Maha.

  “Mother,” she screamed, “come quickly. Uncle Ali is dying.”

  Groggy from sleep, I questioned, “What are you saying, child?”

  “Uncle Ali has been bitten by a poisonous snake! By now, he has drawn his last breath!”

  “Allah! No!”

  My maid stood by with one of my full cotton dresses, which she flung over my nightgown. I slipped into a spare pair of Kareem’s sandals that were at the doorway of the tent, and I ran with Maha to Ali’s tent.

  A large crowd of our servants and employees had gathered outside the tent. As Maha and I worked our way through the crowd, I overheard their excited talk. One of the Filipinos was saying, “He was walking only a few steps from the camp, when out of nowhere, a huge snake appeared and bit him on the hand!”

  “Those snakes can fly like a bird,” one of our Egyptian employees claimed excitedly.

  Another Sudanese man reported, “Even a big man cannot survive the bite of the yaym!”

  With those words I groaned. The yaym! If not already dead, Ali was sure to die! I knew that the venom of that snake was more deadly than the strongest poison! The yaym, of the cobra family, is one of three venomous species in Arabia, and the rarest. Since it is seldom seen, there are few accounts of its causing a death.

  A
lthough my brother has made it easy for me to dislike and, at times, even hate him, I have never wished him dead. But I have always had strong desire for Ali to change his evil ways. Should Ali die on this day, he would die a wicked sinner. Such a thought was disturbing to my mind, for I knew that this would greatly sadden my Mother’s spirit.

  When I tore through the opening in the tent, my body sagged at the sight that greeted me. Ali was lying motionless on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by his wives, who seemed to be already in mourning. He is dead, I thought, as I gave a tortured scream.

  Kareem rushed to my side. “Sultana!”

  I leaned against Kareem’s broad chest and began to weep.

  “Sultana, Ali has been asking for you,” Kareem told me.

  “He is still with the living?” I asked in amazement.

  “He is—but you must be brave. It seems his time has come.”

  I looked around the room and saw that the crisis had spurred our family into a frenzy of activity. Nura, Sara, and Haifa were busy chopping the leaves of the ramram plant. Once ground, this substance would be made into a tea, which Bedouins routinely use as an antidote for the poison of venomous snakes. Yet, I knew that if Allah had determined this particular day for Ali’s passing, nothing my sisters could do would change his fate. All Muslims believe that each person’s fate is determined at the beginning of time, and that no mortal man has the capability to change or interfere with God’s plan.

  Ali cried out, “Oh Allah, save me, I beg you!”

  Kareem led me to my brother’s side. My heart seemed to plunge when I saw that Ali was sweating profusely, and that his lips had turned blue. Indeed, it appeared that my brother had only moments left to live.

  Ali’s wives moved aside, and so I knelt down by Ali’s side.

  “Ali,” I whispered. “It is your sister, Sultana.”

  At first, there was no response. Instead, Ali struggled to breathe.