by Jean Sasson
I squeezed his cold hands.
My brother turned his head and opened his eyes, looking directly into my face. His own expression was one of great sorrow. “Sultana?”
“Yes?” I braced myself for an emotional moment. Surely, Ali was now going to apologize for his life’s unsavory deeds. How could he die without first acknowledging, and then expressing regret for the enormous pain he had caused me, and other women?
Just then, Nura came rushing to Ali’s side. “Here,” she said in an urgent tone, “Ali, open your mouth and swallow this.” Nura was holding a cup of the tea made from the ramram plant. She held the cup to Ali’s lips.
As Ali drank the tea, Nura whispered to him consolingly, telling him that he must try very hard to live.
“Yes, I will try, Nura.” Ali said determinedly. “I will try.”
I, too, hoped that Ali would not die. Possibly such a fright would make him become a better father and husband, I reasoned.
I waited at Ali’s side. After a short time, he looked directly at me. He whispered, “Sultana, is it you?”
“Yes, Ali.”
“Sultana, for sure, I will be dead within moments.”
I sighed deeply, not wanting to argue with his words, should Ali’s death on this day be God’s will. But when I looked closely at him, I saw that his lips were not quite as blue as before. Perhaps the antidote was working.
Ali waited to see if I had anything else to say. When I remained silent, he spoke once more. “Sultana. Since I am on the way to the grave, I thought perhaps you might have something important to say to me.”
Confused, I sputtered, “Well, Ali, I wish Allah’s kindness and blessings on you.”
“Oh?” Ali’s face fell in disappointment.
What did my brother want from me?
Haltingly, Ali spoke once more. “Sultana, I thought perhaps you would wish to apologize to me.”
In my surprise, my voice rose higher than I intended. “Apologize?”
Ali looked positively stricken at my response, yet by the sound of his voice, I could tell that he was gaining strength. “Yes,” he said, “Sultana, you should apologize for your wicked behavior. You have tormented me for all of my life.”
So! Ali’s renewed strength had brought back his arrogance! I was so shocked at this unexpected turn that I began to stammer once again, “I have nothing to apologize about, Ali! In truth, I was waiting to hear your apology!”
Ali gave me a long, stony look. Finally, he whispered, “I have done no harm. I have been an excellent father to my children, a good husband to my wives, an obedient son to my father, and a supportive brother to my sisters. What is there to apologize for?”
I could only stare at my brother in despair. Did he truly believe the words he spoke? I quickly decided that my brother was actually helpless when it came to recognizing his own evil! Quite simply, Ali did not have the capacity to think like a normal human being. Ali truly believed that it was I who was the wicked sinner!
At that moment, I had to curb my tongue or I would curse Ali. Although driven by a fierce passion, I did not wish to be haunted by deep regrets. And, regret it I would, if my brother died with my curses ringing in his ears.
Still, it was difficult to hold back every word. I released my hand from Ali’s hand and then patted his face. “May Allah give you the two greatest blessings, Ali.”
Ali smiled, “Thank you, Sultana.” He then frowned slightly, “What two blessings do you wish me?”
I smiled back, “I pray for Allah to crown you with good health, but most importantly, Ali, I pray for Allah to provide you with self aware- ness of your wickedness.”
Ali’s jaw slackened in surprise.
I then left his side without waiting for his response. For the first time in my life, my brother’s thoughts and behavior no longer held sway over me. The strong chain of hate linking us had been forever severed. I no longer hated Ali, indeed, I felt a rush of sympathy for him.
With other members of my family, I waited in Ali’s tent to see what the day might bring. We watched as Ali thrashed and moaned, calling out for a quick delivery from his pain. There were moments we believed that he would die any minute, and other times when it appeared that he would live to see another sunrise.
The snake that had bitten Ali was cornered and captured by several of our employees. The happy discovery was made that the snake was not after all a yaym, as feared, but a hayyah, or sand viper. The hayyah is poisonous, too, but its venom is not nearly as deadly as that of the yaym. Most who are bitten by the hayyah do survive, although the experience is frightening and painful.
Everyone rejoiced in the knowledge that Ali, once given up as dead, would survive. Asad comforted Ali with the news, then said, “Thanks be to God, Ali, for your sisters who prepared the antidote.”
That was true, the antidote had obviously diminished Ali’s pain and quickened his recovery. But with cool indifference, Ali dismissed his sisters’ efforts.
“No, Asad,” he said, “it was just not my time. Remember the wise saying that until my day comes, no one can harm me, when my day comes, no one can save me.” Ali smiled. “My sisters had nothing to do with the ending of this day.”
Even Ali’s wives exchanged incredulous looks at these words. Still, in view of his near death, his family was in a charitable mood, and no one reprimanded him.
Before leaving his tent, each of us filed by Ali’s bedside and wished him a speedy recovery. When it was my turn, he looked at me and sneered. “Ah, Sultana, I knew that God would not take such a man as me from this beautiful world while leaving such a sinner as you to enjoy his blessings.”
I smiled sadly at Ali. And, although he and I embraced, I understood that in my brother’s eye, he and I remained enemies.
With Kareem by my side, I returned exhausted to our own tent. Kareem slept easily all through the night, but my sleep was not so peaceful. Mother returned to me in the night, in the form of endless dreams. She kept repeating the same message: that my earthly life was not bringing me the happiness and fulfillment that was attainable. I did not awaken until the sound of the early morning prayers drifted into our tent.
My dreams had been so real that the years in between Mother’s death and the present time had vanished. And so, I looked expectantly around the room, fully believing that my Mother would be there, in the flesh, waiting with soft words to ease her youngest child into another day.
Then I remembered that Mother had been dead for more years that I had even known her. I was only sixteen years old when she died, and I had now lived twenty-four long years without a mother’s embrace. That thought so depressed me that I rose from bed, dressed quickly, and left the tent without telling anyone where I was going.
With tears of despair streaming down my face, I walked alone into the desert.
What was it that my mother wanted from me? How could I be what she thought I should be? Where had I failed? What changes could I make in my life?
My mind was so tortured that I failed to see the sky lighten as the sun began to rise over the desert. I did not even see Sara approaching until she sat down by my side.
Sara touched my arm, “Sultana?”
The expression in my eyes appeared to distress Sara. She asked me, “Dearest love, are you all right?”
Weeping, I threw myself in my sister’s arms.
“You must tell me, Sultana. Whatever is the matter?”
I choked on my sobs as I whispered, “I have always drawn my life as I wished to see it, Sara. But, now, I know that I have lived a useless life. Mother has told me so.”
Sara studied my face carefully, then said, “Your life has not been useless, Sultana. You have protected your children. You have made Kareem a happy man. And, you have undergone great personal danger to alert the world to our women’s plight.”
“Not enough…not enough…” I muttered tearfully. “Mother keeps telling me that I should do more.”
Sara sat without speaking for a long
time. At length, after long moments of quiet reflection, she said, “Sultana, few of us do enough. I finally know that, now.”
I looked with new interest at Sara. Had she been dreaming of Mother, too?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Sara sighed deeply, before retrieving a much-folded piece of paper from the pocket of the jacket she was wearing over her dress.
Her words were slow and soft, “It is so easy to be a coward in Saudi Arabia. There is so much to lose.”
Sara looked so empty and sad. Whatever was she speaking about?
“Sultana, I now realize that I should have moved the very earth to help Munira. Together, with our other sisters, we could have succeeded in helping that poor girl to escape to another country.”
I gasped. Had something happened to Munira? Was she dead?
Sara handed me the paper in her hands. “I just found this last evening.” Sara’s voice lowered, “I am broken-hearted with remorse.”
I opened up the paper and saw that small, precise handwriting filled the page.
Sara explained, “Some weeks ago, I lent Munira one of my books. The day Munira returned the book, I was packing for this trip. Thinking that I might reread this book while on this trip, I packed it with my luggage. I could not sleep last night, so I opened the pages of the book, and this is what I discovered.”
Sara’s eyes were red, and wet with tears.
She flicked her finger on the page, “Read what Munira has to say, Sultana.”
Convinced that I was about to read a suicide note, my hands began to shake so much that I could barely focus my eyes on the moving page.
Sara helped me to hold the page firm.
What Munira had written was a poem.
Buried Alive
I have lived and known what it is to smile
I have lived the life of a young girl with hopeful promise
I have lived the life of a young girl who felt the warmth of womanhood
I have lived the feeling of longing for the love of a good man
I have lived the life of a women whose promise was cut short
I have lived the life of one whose dreams were dashed
I have lived knowing tremendous fear for every man
I have lived through the fears raised by the specter of an evil coupling
I have lived to see the devil in the guise of a man, ruling my every action
I have lived as a beggar to this man, pleading with him to leave me alone
I have lived to witness my husband have the pleasure of being a man
I have lived to be ravished by the man to whom I was given
I have lived only to endure nightly rapes
I have lived to be buried while still alive
I have lived to wonder why those who claim to love me, helped to bury me
I have lived through all of these things, and I am not yet twenty-five years old
We were both speechless with unbearable pain; my sister and I could only stare at the other.
Without saying a single word to Sara, I knew that no matter the consequences, I must now do more to bring change to the lives of women, who, like Munira, were in danger of being buried before they were dead.
I returned with my sister to the camp, knowing that my life was now forever changed. There was no turning back.
Chapter Eighteen
“Sultana’s Circle”
I once read that for every gift that Allah grants His children, He also attaches an equal challenge. I believe this to be true, for I have never heard about, or even read about, a single human life that encompasses only perfection and happiness. Certainly my own character is riddled with imperfections, and because of these flaws, I have faced many sorrows in my own life.
Although I have been the beneficiary of numerous blessings, I have also been presented with many obstacles. In choosing my parents, God linked a cruel father with a loving mother. He gave me wonderful years with my Mother, and then took her from me when I was still of a tender age. He granted me the lofty status of Princess in a royal Kingdom, yet that elevated status would be of little value in a land traditionally hostile to females.
For some years now, I have seen my life spread out before me as though it were already written. I do not like what I know will come to be: my wealth will multiply and my possessions will increase, but at the same time my happiness and contentment will decrease. An uneasiness with the pattern of my daily life created a problem with alcohol that led me into a listless life where I foolishly squandered my prospects for achieving my life-long goal of assisting women in need. The fact that these handicaps were self-imposed undermined my feelings of worthiness. The Sultana of an earlier time, who once dreamed of a glorious destiny, had become an apathetic soul, miserable and lost.
Miraculously, I was now given this new understanding that the pattern of my life must now change: my beloved mother’s coming to me in dreams, the effect of Munira’s plaintive poem, even my brother Ali’s near-death experience—each contributed to my new perspective. I will always believe that God Himself masterfully arranged these happenings with the clear purpose of bringing forth the magical metamorphosis that I experienced that day in the desert. For one who believes in the power of Almighty God, there can be no other explanation.
Although in that instant my life became even more complicated, I have no regrets. Had my dramatic transition not occurred, I know that I would have remained mired in a restless unhappiness. More importantly, a young Pakistani woman by the name of Veena would have continued to live in brutal sexual bondage.
“Never again,” I told Sara as we walked back into camp. “Never again will I remain silent in the face of cruelty and maltreatment to any woman.”
Sara nodded grimly. She understood.
Just at that moment I saw Dunia’s youngest son, Shadi, step out from a vehicle and begin to greet his uncles and cousins with great enthusiasm.
“Shadi has arrived,” Sara softly murmured.
“Dunia is sure to be happy,” I replied with a smile.
Shadi is a tall, heavily built young man of twenty who does not present a particularly attractive appearance. Any personal knowledge I had of this nephew was slight, though, for we saw each other only at large family events.
I now vaguely recalled Dunia’s mentioning earlier that Shadi would be late in joining his family on this desert journey. Already Dunia had been proud to announce that Shadi was her most brilliant son, and that his expertise in business dealings far surpassed every other young man in the Al Sa’ud family. In fact, Dunia smugly confided to all who would listen, Shadi owned several joint business interests in Pakistan, and was just coming back from a trip to that country to purchase even more businesses. My sisters and I had not taken personal offense at thoughtless words, even though they were an insult to our own beloved sons.
At that moment, Sara and I did not go forward to greet Shadi since he was already surrounded by his uncles and eager young male cousins. We would welcome the young man later, we decided, as we walked toward our own tents.
I was not particularly surprised to see a young woman in Pakistani clothes sitting in the back seat of Shadi’s vehicle; our men frequently drive our female servants from one place to another. I assumed the young woman was one of my sister’s maids, being transported to our desert site at Dunia’s request.
When I returned to my tent, I was told by my own maid, Libby, that Kareem, worried when he found our bed empty, had sent her to look for me. After she had assured him that I was safe in the company of Sara, Kareem had taken our daughters on a final camel ride in the desert.
I gratefully took this time to indulge myself in a leisurely bath. Bathing in the desert was no hardship, for our bathrooms were equipped with a small toilet, tiny sink, and a large bathtub. During the daylight hours, the desert sun heated the water in large tanks located outside our tents.
After Libby had filled the tub with warm water, I soaked for a short time before attempting to w
ash the sand from my hair. Afterward, I prepared myself for what I hoped would be a pleasant last day and night in the desert. I dressed in an ankle-length cotton dress before placing my prayer rug on the carpeted floor of the tent.
After kneeling toward Makkah, I prayed to God that He would maintain my life on a straight course of correct behavior. My heart and mind then became more peaceful, for I had great hope that I would face the temptations of life with a renewed integrity. Thankfully, at that moment, I had no thought that a most difficult first test was nearly upon me.
After reading Munira’s poem, I was a more subdued Sultana than usual. I needed time to assimilate my thoughts, so when my husband and children invited me to take a short walk in the desert, I refused. When my sisters pleaded with me to join them in a game of backgammon, I declined.
Although I spent that last day in the desert alone, I was not lonely. Preoccupied with my own thoughts, I was a woman who was once again picking up the threads of her life. My inner strength was reinvigorated by a renewed determination to alter the course of my life.
Our family gathering that evening was the most pleasant of all the evenings in the desert, for there was a special poignancy in knowing that the following day would return each of us to the routine of our urban life. When the night’s gathering ended under the glittering stars, we warmly embraced each other as we parted to return to our own tents.
Once we were back in our own tent, Kareem and I, and our two daughters, relaxed together. We looked through Polaroid pictures taken on this camping trip. When Amani began to yawn, we decided it was time to retire for the night. I was smiling as Kareem and I went into our bedroom.
Just as I was about to pull my dress over my head to change into a nightgown, I was startled by anguished cries.
Unnerved, I asked Kareem, “What was that?”
Kareem tilted his head as he listened. “It sounded like the cries of a woman.”
“Oh, Allah! I pray no one else has been bitten by a snake, as was poor Ali.”
As the screams became more intense, Kareem grabbed a flashlight and rushed from our tent.
