Princess (9 page)

I felt terrible. My stupid prank had disgraced my entire family with a stinging humiliation. I did not think the lesson would harm Ali, but I knew my parents had been affected and other innocent people would be injured. Also, I am ashamed to admit, I was petrified that my guilt would be discovered. I prayed to God that if he would let me escape capture this once, from that day forward I would be a perfect child.

Omar led the mutawas out of our grounds. Mother and I waited for Father and Ali to return to the family sitting room. Father was breathing loudly and gripped Ali by his upper arm, pushing him toward the stairway. Ali looked my way and our eyes met. A moment, a flash of realization, and I understood that he had concluded I was the guilty party. Sadly, I saw that he looked more hurt than angry.

I began to sob, for I felt the weight of the terrible deed I had committed. Father looked at me in pity. Then he shoved Ali and screamed that he had upset the entire family, including the innocent children. For the first time in my life, my father came and held me in his arms and told me not to worry. I was now truly miserable. The touch that I had been longing for all my life now felt barren, and the joy I had so often imagined was destroyed in the elusive prize so wrongly taken. My misdeed had accomplished my target, however. No mention was ever made of Ali’s broken toe, or the toilet clogged with Ali’s headdress. One sin had so outweighed the other that they ended up canceling each other out.

Chapter Six: The Trip

Despite the recent family turmoil, the trip to Italy and Egypt was still planned, but my heart was no longer joyful. I organized my suitcase and made my lists as I watched Ali warily trudge by my bedroom door. In the past, Ali had given me little thought. I was scorned as a girl, someone to antagonize or push about occasionally—a person of little worth. He looked at me differently now, for he had made the surprising discovery that I, a lowly female and the youngest member of the family, was a dangerous and worthy opponent.

On the day of our departure, six limousines were needed to transport us to the airport. Eleven of us were traveling for four weeks: Nura and Ahmed, with three of their five children; two of their Filipino maids; Sara and myself; and Ali and his friend Hadi. Two years older than Ali, Hadi was a student at the Religious Institute, a boys’ school in Riyadh for those young men who aspired to become mutawas. Hadi impressed adults by quoting the Koran and acting very pious in their presence. My father felt confident that Hadi would have a good influence on his children. To those who would listen, Hadi loudly expressed his viewpoint that all women should be confined to the home; he told Ali that women were the cause of all evil on earth. I could tell it was going to be a pleasant and enjoyable trip with both Ali and Hadi around.

Mother did not accompany us to the airport. For the past few days, she had been listless and sad; I assumed Ali’s antics had worried her. She said her farewells in the garden and waved us off from the front gate. She was veiled, but I knew tears were falling on her face. Something was amiss with Mother, I felt, but I had no time to dwell on the possibilities as the prospect of this exciting trip lay ahead of us.

Ahmed had recently purchased a new plane, so our flight was strictly a family affair. I looked to see if the two Americans who had flown Mother and me to Jeddah were piloting; disappointed, I saw they were not. Two British pilots were in the cockpit and they looked friendly enough. The Royal Family hired a large number of American and British citizens as private pilots. Ahmed conferred with the two men while Nura and the maids settled in with her three little ones.

Sara, her veil now removed, was already bundled in a blanket, clutching her precious books. Hadi looked with distaste at her uncovered face and whispered angrily to Ali, who in turn ordered Sara to replace her veil until we left Saudi Arabia. Sara told Ali she could not see to read through the thick fabric, and if he were smart he would shut his ugly mouth.

Even before we had left the ground there was already a family squabble. I tried to stamp on Ali’s sore toe but missed, and Ali took a swipe at my head; I ducked and he missed. Ahmed, as the oldest male authority figure, shouted at everybody to sit down and be quiet. He and Nura exchanged a look that let me know they were already rethinking the wisdom of their generous invitation. The three holiest spots in Islam are Makkah, Madinah, and Jerusalem. Makkah is the city that captures the hearts of more than a billion Muslims scattered over the globe, for it was there that God revealed his will to his Prophet, Mohammed. The foundations of our religious life are five ritual obligations, called the pillars of religion. One of these obligations requires that every Muslim with the financial ability must attend Haj. No good Muslim feels complete without making the pilgrimage to Makkah at least once in his lifetime.

Our second holiest city, Madinah, considered “the city of the Prophet,” is the place of Mohammed’s burial. And Jerusalem is our third holiest city. It was in Jerusalem that Mohammed was taken up by God to heaven on the Dome of the Rock. Muslims weep bitter tears at the mention of Jerusalem, for it is a city now occupied and no longer free and open to our people. If Makkah, Madinah, and Jerusalem are a Muslim’s spiritual fountainheads, then Cairo is the crowning glory of a Muslim’s self-esteem. Cairo represents fifty centuries of titanic duration, and presents Arabs with the marvel of one of the greatest civilizations to appear on the earth. Egypt is a source of great pride for all Arabs. The might, wealth, and accomplishments of the ancient Egyptians makes the oil wealth of the modern Gulf Arabs seem puny and inconsequential.

It was in Cairo, that city bursting with life from the beginning of time, that I became a woman. In the Arab culture, with so much importance attached to the change from girlhood to womanhood, every young girl awaits with a combination of dread and deep satisfaction the sight of her first blood. When my Western women friends tell me that they did not know what was happening to them when their first blood appeared, and that they were convinced they were dying, I am struck dumb with surprise. The coming of women’s menses is a source of easy conversation in the Muslim world. Suddenly, at that moment, a child is transformed into an adult. There is no going back to that warm cocoon of childhood innocence.

In Saudi Arabia, the appearance of the first menses means that it is time to select the first veil and abaaya, with the greatest of care. Even the shopkeepers, Muslim men from India or Pakistan, inquire with ease and respect as to the time the girl-child became a woman. In all seriousness, the shopkeeper will smile indulgently, and proceed to select the abaaya and veil that will show the child to her greatest advantage. Even though the only color for a veil is black, there are many possibilities for fabric selection and weight of material. The veil can be of thin material, giving the world a shadowy glimpse of the forbidden face. A medium-weight fabric is more practical, for one can see through the gauzy cloth without the rude glances or sharp remarks from the keepers of the faith. If a woman chooses the traditional thick black fabric, no man can imagine her features under a facial mask that refuses to move with the strongest of breezes. Of course, this selection makes it impossible to examine jewelry in the gold souq or to see speeding cars after dusk. In addition to this traditional heavy veil, some of the conservative women choose to wear black gloves and thick black stockings so that no hint of flesh is visible to the world. For women with a need to express their individuality and fashion sense, there are ways to avoid that endless sea of conformity in dress through creative design. Many purchase scarves with jeweled decorations, and the movement of trinkets turns the heads of most men. Expensive eye-catching decorations are often sewn to the sides and back of the abaaya.

Younger women, in particular, strive to set themselves apart by their unique selections. The male shopkeeper will model the latest designer fashions in veils and abaaya and show the young girl the stylish way of throwing the scarf cover over her head to project a look of smart fashion. The method of tying the abaaya to show the exact amount of foot that is allowed without being considered risqué is discussed in great detail. Every young girl experiments to find her own method of wearing the abaaya with flair. A child enters the store, but a woman emerges, veiled and, on that day, of a marriageable age. Her life changes in that split second. Arab men barely glance at the child as she enters the store, but once she dons her veil and abaaya, discreet glances come her way. Men now attempt to catch a glimpse of a forbidden, suddenly erotic, ankle. With the veil, we Arab women become overwhelmingly tantalizing and desirable to Arab men.

But I was now in Cairo, not home in Saudi Arabia, so the full impact of my first blood did little more than irritate me. Sara and Nura showed me all the things a woman should do. They both warned me against telling Ali, as if I would, for they knew he would try to make me veil immediately, even in Cairo. Sara looked at me with great sadness and gave me a long hug. She knew that from that day forward I would be considered a threat and danger to all men until I was safely wed and cloistered behind walls.

In Cairo, Ahmed owned a luxurious apartment that spread over three floors inside the city center. For privacy, Ahmed and Nura settled in the top floor. The two Filipino maids, Nura’s three babies, Sara, and I occupied the second floor. Ali, Hadi, and the Egyptian caretaker stayed on the first floor. Sara and I hugged each other with delight when we realized Ali and Hadi were separated from us by an entire floor.

On our first evening, plans were made for Ahmed, Nura, Hadi, and Ali to go to a nightclub to watch belly dancing. Ahmed thought that Sara and I should stay home with the babies and the Filipino servants. Sara made no protest, but I pleaded our case so eloquently that Ahmed relented.

At fourteen, I came alive in the land of the pharaohs and joyfully anointed Cairo as my favorite city of all time. That attachment to Cairo has never wavered. The excitement of this city inflamed me with a passion I had never known before, and which I cannot fully explain to this day. Men and women of every color and dress roamed the streets, searching for adventure and opportunity. I recognized that my life before had been dry, without stimulation, for I saw that Cairo was the opposite of our Arabian cities, which were, to my young eyes, sterile and lifeless. I found the grinding poverty unsettling, yet it was not discouraging, for I saw in it a profound force of life. Poverty can turn a person into a flaming torch for change and revolution, without which mankind would come to a standstill. I thought again of Saudi Arabia and knew that some degree of poverty or need should seep into our lives and force us to renew our spiritual life.

Yes, there are many classes of people in my land, from those various levels of the wealthy Royal Family down to that of lowly salaried workers. But no one, including foreign workers, is with- out the basic necessities of life. Our government ensures the well-being of all Saudis. Each male citizen is assured of a home, health care, education, a business where he can earn a living, interest-free loans, and even money for food, should the need arise. Our female citizens are provided for by the men of their families, whether it be father, husband, brother, or cousin. As a result of this satisfaction of basic needs, the spark of life generated by material desire is hopelessly lacking in my land. Because of this, I despaired that the pages of history would ever turn on my land. We Saudis are too rich, too settled in our apathy for change. As we drove through the bustling city of Cairo, I mentioned this idea to my family, but I saw that only Sara listened and understood the essence of my thoughts. The sun was now setting and the sky turned to gold behind the sharp outline of the pyramids. The generous, slow-moving Nile was breathing life throughout the city and into the desert. Watching it, I felt life rush through my veins.

Ali and Hadi were furious that Sara and I—two unmarried females—had been allowed to go into the nightclub. Hadi spoke long and seriously to Ali about the deterioration of our family’s values. He declared with smug satisfaction that his sisters had all been married by the age of fourteen, and that they were guarded carefully by the men of his family. He said that, as a man of religion, he had to protest to our father when we returned from the trip. Sara and I, bold in our distance from Riyadh, made faces and told him he had not yet become a religious man. We told him, in slang we had learned from watching American movies, “to save it.” Hadi devoured the dancers with his eyes, and made crude remarks about their body parts, yet he swore to Ali that they were nothing but whores, and that if he had his way, they would be stoned. Hadi was a pompous ass. Even Ali tired of his holier-than-thou attitude and began to thump his fingers on the table with impatience and to look around the room. After Hadi’s comments and attitude, I was staggered by his actions the following day.

Ahmed hired a limousine driver to take Nura, Sara, and me shopping. Ahmed went to meet a businessman. The caretaker, who doubled as a driver, took the two Filipinos and the three children to the pool at the Mena House Hotel. When we left the apartment, Ali and Hadi were lounging about, exhausted from the previous late night.

The sweltering heat of the city soon tired Sara, and I offered to go back to the apartment and keep her company until Nura finished her shopping. Nura agreed, and sent the driver to drop us off. He would return to collect Nura afterward.

When we entered the apartment, we heard muffled screams. Sara and I followed the noise to Hadi and Ali’s room. The door was unlocked and we suddenly realized what was happening before our eyes. Hadi was raping a young girl, no more than eight years old, and Ali was holding her. Blood was everywhere. Our brother and Hadi were laughing. At the sight of this traumatic scene, Sara became hysterical and began to scream and run. Ali’s face became a mask of fury as he shoved me from the room, knocking me to the floor. I ran after Sara. We huddled in our room.