Princess Sultana's Circle Read online

  As I listened, my knees became weak. This was the most horrid story I had ever heard! Although I knew that in the past eunuchs were prized in many countries, I had never considered the terrible agony those poor men had undergone. I sincerely hoped that God had reserved the hottest places in hell for the vile men who had committed such acts!

  Poor Omar continued with his tragic saga. “Congratulations went all around when the Christian pulled the tube from my small passageway that remained for water, and liquid spurted out; for those men knew that whoever passed water would survive. Only two of the three still living were able to urinate, myself and one other boy. The third boy’s hapless body was poisoned by his own urine, and he soon died a tortured, screaming death.

  “After the fourth day, we slaves were packed into a ship that set sail for a slave emporium in Constantinople. I had survived castration and the slave trader knew that I would bring a large sum of money.”

  I nodded. In those days, eunuchs were prized as trustworthy guards for Muslim women. Only impotent men were allowed in the women’s quarters.

  Omar’s words interrupted my thoughts. “Therefore, the slave trader treated us two castrated boys more kindly than the other slaves. We were housed on the top deck and fed good food, while those other poor souls kept below were stacked on top of one another during the sea journey. As far as I could tell, they received no food or water. Many were dead by the time we arrived at the harbor of Constantinople.”

  I judged that Omar’s story had now passed the point that Kareem would object to my hearing, so I returned quietly to the room and sat down.

  “Go on,” Kareem said to Omar’s questioning eyes. “It is all right, now.”

  Omar looked at me and smiled. “I already told the Mistress that I was purchased by a wealthy Turkish man. He owned a number of slaves, but owned only two eunuchs, and both were growing old. I was told that when I grew tall and strong, that I would be the one to guard his women.

  “Meanwhile, I was taken by my new master on the pilgrimage to Makkah. My Master died there while worshipping at the big mosque, and I became a property of the Makkah authorities. Those men gave me to the grandfather of Faddel, who was owed a favor by the authorities in that city.

  “My time with that family was not unhappy. My food was the family’s food. At fourteen years of age, I was entrusted to guard the Master’s wives and female slaves. Time flowed smoothly until after the deaths of Faddel’s grandfather and father. I had nowhere else to live, so I remained with Faddel. Omar looked me full in the face. “Faddel is nothing like his grandfather or his father, Mistress.” He paused, “For someone to answer to Faddel is to be sent to hell and be punished everlastingly.”

  I sighed in despair as I suddenly remembered the young women who now belonged to Faddel. Could hell be worse than what those women now endured? Thinking about Faddel, I was reminded of his wife, Khalidah. She could help those young women, if she so chose. I spoke heatedly, “To my eyes, Khalidah is as wicked as Faddel!”

  Omar shrugged his thin shoulders. “If the Master of the house beats a tambourine, do not condemn his family for dancing.”

  Kareem looked at me and smiled.

  With an instinct that came from being married for many years, I knew that Kareem often wished that I would dance to his tune!

  “Never will that happen, Husband,” I whispered.

  Kareem laughed aloud before turning his attention back to Omar.

  Omar straightened his turban as he smiled at Kareem. “But today, I am more happy than I have been in many years. It is good to live with a kind family.”

  Just then several female servants entered the room with refreshments.

  Omar’s eyes twinkled at the sight of the food, and his fingers reached eagerly for the honeyed sweets.

  Kareem and I watched in astonishment as Omar quickly consumed more food than could be expected from a man twice his size.

  Later that evening, once we were alone in our private quarters, Kareem confessed that he had given much thought to Omar. He tried to convince me that Omar should not live in Arabia, but instead, should be sent to live in one of our palaces abroad. For Omar’s safety, no one in our country could know that the eunuch who once belonged to Faddel’s family had taken refuge with us.

  Even though Omar was legally free, and Faddel had previously expressed irritation at housing and feeding an elderly eunuch, he was certain to be insulted that Omar preferred to live with another family. And, who could guess whether Faddel would attempt to take revenge on poor Omar.

  At first I was dismayed at the idea of sending poor Omar away. He appeared so pleased and happy with our family. Besides, I adored the little man, and anticipated that his gentle presence might help to bring welcome peace into our family life.

  After a night of consideration, though, the thought of Omar living the life of a free man in the world outside of Arabia brought a smile of satisfaction to my face. Besides, we would still see him abroad, I reasoned.

  The following morning, Kareem spent some time alone with Omar. The decision was made that Omar would live at our villa in Egypt. In that highly populated country teeming with Egyptians, Arabs, and Africans, a small black man with a high-pitched voice would not be so conspicuous. And the monthly allowance Kareem offered would provide Omar with a personal financial freedom that he had never known.

  Omar appeared overjoyed to be returning to the continent where he had been born, and spoke excitedly of taking a trip into Sudan, to locate any remaining members of his family or tribe.

  The happiness Kareem and I felt at seeing Omar’s joy brought pleasure and contentment. Even Kareem had to agree that some good had come from my second trip to Faddel’s palace. While my visit had not benefited the young girls, the eunuch Omar would now live out his life in a wonderful way that he had never dreamed possible!

  By the time Omar left for Egypt, we had grown to love him. That little man had quickly become the trusted confidante of every family member. To my astonishment, even Amani cried as she promised Omar that she would remember all that he had told her, and that she would try her best to become a more forgiving and gentle Muslim than she had been.

  Each of us greatly looked forward to the day when we could see Omar’s kindly face once more.

  Chapter Nine

  Prophet Mohammed Defamed

  Several days after Omar had departed Saudi Arabia for Egypt, Kareem told me that he and Asad must travel to New York City. Important business matters needed their attention. Knowing that I was still grieving over the plight of the young women in Faddel’s harem, Kareem thought that I needed some new experiences to occupy my mind, and suggested that I accompany him.

  At first I was not anxious to leave Saudi Arabia, and I was insulted that Kareem did not seem to trust me to remain alone in Saudi Arabia. If my husband believed that I might renew my efforts to obtain those young women’s release, once he had left the country, he was wrong. Nothing I could say or do could convince Kareem that I was resigned to the hopelessness of the situation. Although I desperately wanted to help those girls, I am not totally devoid of common sense. I fully understood that, when dealing with young girls who had been sold by their own parents and now lived in a country where the government sees no wrong in such a situation, I was, indeed, helpless to resolve the problem.

  When I learned that Sara, along with two of our cousins, Maysa and Huda, were going on the trip to New York, I changed my mind and became eager to accompany them.

  Since school had reopened after the Ramadan holiday, Sara and I agreed that our children would remain behind in Riyadh with our eldest sister Nura.

  When the day came for us to depart, our party flew on one of our private jets to London. After a brief stopover in that city, we continued on with our journey to the United States.

  Including the three maids who were accompanying us, Afaaf, Libby, and Betty, there were seven women on the plane. To pass the time, we began to entertain each other with amusing stories, but
our laughter ceased when Maysa changed the tone by sharing one particular story that we found to be horrifying.

  Maysa is a Palestinian who is married to Naif Al Sa’ud, one of my favorite cousins. Although lively and attractive, Maysa could not be called beautiful, but she is highly popular with everyone who meets her. As a child born in Hebron, in occupied Palestine, Maysa’s childhood had been full of incident. Over the years, our family had heard many stories from Maysa about fleeing refugees, street battles with Israeli soldiers, and her younger brothers’ participation in the more recent Intifada, the Palestinian uprising against the Israelis.

  The Palestinian Arabs have always been more attuned to women’s rights than have the desert Arabs. Recognizing Maysa’s intelligence, her parents made many sacrifices so that their daughter could be educated. Maysa was sent to Beirut to be schooled at the prestigious American University of Beirut. It was there that she met my cousin, Naif. The vivacious Maysa easily captured Naif’s heart. Deeply in love when they married, they enjoy a happier union than most married couples in my land. Although Maysa and Naif have only one child, a daughter, Naif has never indicated the slightest interest in taking a second wife for the purpose of enlarging his family.

  Maysa is a caring person who always concerns herself with the problems of others. If she is not worried about the starving babies in embargoed Iraq, then she is thinking about earthquake victims in Iran or in China.

  A few weeks previous to our trip, Maysa had returned from her annual visit with her Palestinian family in the Arab city of Hebron. While on that visit, Maysa had witnessed the most heinous sight imaginable to the eyes of a Muslim.

  Maysa’s voice now quivered as she related what she had seen. “I knew that day we should not have gone out! There had been unrest for several weeks, and I did not want to take a chance that my dear mother might be struck by a wayward stone! But Mother was restless, and insisted that we would walk only to the corner of our street, and then back. We wanted only a breath of fresh air, nothing more!

  “By the time we arrived at the end of our street, we were relieved to see that all was quiet. So, we decided to walk one street further.” Maysa slapped her forehead with her hand. “That was our mistake!”

  Maysa then became agitated at the very memory.

  “We saw a young woman running ahead of us, nailing posters to the walls. We thought the woman was a brave Palestinian demonstrator putting up signs of protest against the Israelis!”

  Maysa slapped her forehead once more, only harder this time. “How were two naïve women to know that this woman was a Zionist attacking our beloved Prophet!”

  Maysa slumped back into her seat and moaned at the memory of what she had seen.

  Sara patted her gently. “Do not tell us, Maysa, if it is so painful for you.”

  Maysa sat up straight. “I must tell you, Sara! Every Muslim should know this story!” Maysa is a religious woman, but not so strict as to be annoying.

  Every passenger on the plane, including Asad and Kareem, remained attentive.

  “Well, I tell you, I have never had such a shock. Our curiosity aroused, Mother and I stopped in front of one of those posters. It took us some moments to comprehend that what the poster depicted was a likeness no Muslim should ever live to see.”

  She stared vacantly ahead, sitting in silence until Sara touched her arm. “Maysa?”

  “I tell you, Sara. My own lips hesitate to say the words.”

  I spoke up. “For God’s sake, Maysa! Tell us! The suspense is driving us mad!”

  Maysa’s face became pale as she looked intently into the face of each of us in turn. Her voice lowered to a whisper, “It was a caricature of our Prophet.” She buried her face in her hands before crying out, “On that poster, our beloved Prophet Mohammed was shown to be a pig!”

  Every woman on the plane gasped in horror, then joined in a chorus of screams.

  I struggled to keep my composure as I clasped Kareem’s hand tightly.

  “Yes! There it was, right before my eyes! The Prophet Mohammed depicted as a pig! I tell you, my heart nearly stopped. And, Mother? Well, she swooned! I had to call for help to carry her back to our apartment! She has still not recovered! She is no longer the person she once was!”

  Poor Maysa collapsed against the back of her seat. “Since that time, I have suffered horrible nightmares. Each night the Prophet Mohammed comes to visit me in a dream. In that dream the Prophet has the body of a man and the disgusting face of pig!”

  “Oh, Maysa,” Sara murmured with sympathy. “How terrible for you.”

  Dreams of our beloved Prophet as a pig! I drew back, regretting that Sara had invited Maysa to come with us on the trip. I, for one, did not want to be contaminated by being near to a person with such wicked dreams!

  Maysa began to weep in earnest. “I tell you, Sara, it is getting so that I fear to close my eyes, for I am surely committing the most vile sin because I cannot prevent this dream.”

  I began to feel remorse at my initial reaction, so I tried to look more kindly at Maysa.

  Libby, my Filipino maid, said, “I recently read a newspaper article which claimed that enemies of Arab countries were coating their bul- lets with pig lard to use against Muslims in war.”

  This was a well-known scandal! Should a Muslim soldier be wounded or killed by such tainted ammunition, that soldier would be automatically excluded from paradise. The Islamic religion does not allow Muslims to make any contact with pig flesh. A Muslim believes that merely touching the flesh of a pig would keep him or her from entering paradise.

  Maysa’s muffled sobs grew louder, and she pleaded with Sara to pinch her if she must—anything to keep her from falling sleeping and dreaming her blasphemous dream.

  I prayed to God that He would eradicate that evil image from Maysa’s mind. Shaking my head in sadness, I turned around and began walking toward my seat. Just as I was sitting down, I noticed that Sara’s maid, Afaaf, was sitting alone and weeping. I motioned to Sara and together we approached Afaaf.

  Sara touched Afaaf’s shoulder. “Afaaf, are you unwell, dear?”

  Afaaf’s face was a picture of complete misery. She tried to speak, but could not. Finally, after Libby brought her a glass of water and encouraged her to take a few sips, Afaaf told us, “I am sorry to cry, but this terrible story reminded me of how our Holy Prophet has been defamed, and in so many ways…” Afaaf began weeping again, “and his name and his holy words are often used as a weapon of revenge and evil, even by his own people. Does that not besmirch our Prophet, also?”

  Sara nodded, but did not speak.

  I stood helpless as poor Afaaf sobbed. If there was anyone in the world who had a reason to cry, it was Afaaf.

  Afaaf was a refugee from Afghanistan. Although she had escaped the war in her country, she could never recover from the terrible losses she had suffered. Afaaf had lost her entire family. Her parents and one brother had been killed in the long war that preceded the brutal Taliban regime’s coming to power. Afaaf and her younger sister were left alone, without any male protection in a country now ruled by men who were determined to totally control every aspect of a woman’s life.

  In 1994, when the Taliban adherents who now rule Afghanistan came to power, they had carried the suppression of women to a new level. While the lives of Saudi women can be unbelievably bleak, I had learned from Afaaf that the lives of women in Afghanistan were much more tragically harsh than our own.

  In the Taliban’s drive to restore Islamic purity, they had launched a horrifying assault on their own women. Not only were Afghan women forced to cover their bodies and faces in the Burqa, a thick, tent-like garment even more awkward and uncomfortable than the Saudi abaaya and veil, but women were also forbidden to even talk loudly or to laugh in public. Even though women were totally hidden by the Burqa, the men in power claimed that the sound of women’s voices alone had the power to excite men! Additionally, women were banned from going to school, from wearing makeup, jewelry, or
high heel shoes, and even from working to feed themselves and their families. Afghan women were banned from every activity of normal life.

  The harsh regime’s edicts extended even to small children. In Afghanistan it was now a crime to watch television and videos, play with toys and games, listen to music, or even to read books!

  With the Taliban came to power, Afaaf’s own life changed dramatically. She had once been a teacher, but she was no longer allowed to teach. She had once worn her hair in a short style, but had been told that it was a crime for a woman to cut her hair!

  Shortly after the Taliban gained power, Afaaf’s sister had been caught speaking to a man to whom she was not related. She had been merely asking this former neighbor about his elderly parents. A group of teenage boys saw this exchange and demanded to see proof that Afaaf’s sister was a relative to the man. Of course, no proof was possible, since the two were former neighbors, and nothing more. Afaaf’s sister had been taken before the “Department to Protect Virtue and Prevent Vice,” where she had been condemned to receive fifty lashes by a panel of male judges.

  Afaaf had been forced to witness her beloved sister being tied to a pole and lashed with a leather strap. Afaaf had nursed her wounded sibling back to health, but the poor woman was so aggrieved at the turn her life had taken that she swallowed a large amount of rat poison. Since women were banned from hospitals, she had died in Afaaf’s arms.

  Having nothing more to lose, Afaaf fled to the Pakistani border. After slipping into Pakistan, she had been employed by one of Asad’s men, who happened to be in Pakistan to search for domestic staff to work in Saudi Arabia.

  Afaaf put her face in her hands and sighed deeply. “Fanatical Muslim men defame the Prophet and his words in their determination to destroy every woman’s life.”

  I was so struck with sadness that I felt like crying along with the poor woman. For me, the unfortunate Afaaf was one of the saddest human beings I had ever known. She was truly alone in the world—and all because of evil men who intentionally twist the meaning of the words of the Holy Prophet in their obsession to control women.