Princess Sultana's Daughters Read online

Within moments of our arrival, Father enters the room. His ten daughters rise respectfully to their feet, and each of us expresses her greetings to the man who has given her life without love.

  I have not seen my father in some months, and I think to myself that he looks exhausted and prematurely old. When I lean to kiss his cheek, he impatiently turns away, failing to return my greeting. Giving my fears full range, I know at that moment that I have been naïve, thinking that the Al Sa’uds are too busy accumulating wealth to care much for books. My trepidation mounts.

  In a stern voice Father asks us to sit, saying that he has some disturbing news to relay.

  Lured by a stare, I see that Ali, with his morbid interest in the suffering of others, is gloating, regarding me with a pitiless stare. There is little doubt in my mind that Ali is privy to the evening’s business.

  Father reaches into his large, black briefcase and retrieves a book none of us can read. It is written in a foreign language. My mind in conflict, I think that I have made a mistake with my earlier fears, wondering what this particular book has to do with our family.

  In a voice filled with undisguised rage, Father says that Ali recently purchased the book from Germany, and that the book tells about the life of a princess, a stupid and foolish woman who is not aware of the royal obligations that accompany the privileges of royalty. Circling the room, he holds the book in his hands. The picture on the cover is plainly that of a Muslim woman, for she is veiled and is standing against a backdrop of Turkish minarets. I have a wild thought that an aging, exiled princess from Egypt or Turkey has written a revealing book, but quickly realize that such a tale would hold no interest in our land.

  When Father steps closer, I read the title: Ich, Prinzessin aus dem Hause Al Saud.

  It is my story!

  As I had not been in touch with the book’s author since learning of its sale to William Morrow, a large and respected American publishing house, I was unaware that the book, Princess, was a huge success and had sold to numerous countries. The one before me is quite obviously the German edition.

  I have a short moment of elation followed by sheer terror. I feel the blood rush to my face. I am numb and can barely hear my father’s voice. He explains that Ali had been curious when he saw the book in the Frankfurt airport and had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to have the book translated because he saw that our family name was written on the cover.

  At the time, Ali had an irritating thought that some obscure, disgruntled princess within the Al Sa’ud family had divulged the gossipy secrets of her life. Once Ali had read the book and clearly recognized himself from our childhood dramas, the truth was revealed. He canceled the remainder of his holiday and hastily returned to Riyadh in a fury.

  Father has had copies of the translated version made for the meeting.

  He nods at Ali, giving a small signal with his hand. My brother grapples with a bulky pile of paper at his side and proceeds to hand each person a bundle secured with a large rubber band.

  Confused, Kareem nudges me, raising his eyebrows and rolling his eyes.

  Until the last possible second, I express my denial, returning an expression of bewilderment. Shrugging my shoulders, I stare, unblinking and unseeing, at the papers in my hand.

  In a soaring voice Father shouts out my name, “Sultana!”

  I feel my body jump into the air.

  Father begins to speak rapidly, spitting out words as I imagine a machine gun expels bullets. “Sultana, do you recall the marriage and divorce of your sister Sara? The wickedness of your childhood friends? The death of your mother? Your trip to Egypt? Your marriage to Kareem? The birth of your son? Sultana?”

  I have stopped breathing.

  Relentless, my father continues to accuse. “Sultana, if you have difficulty in recalling these momentous events, then I suggest that you read this book!”

  Father throws the book at my feet.

  Unable to move, I stare, mute, at the book on the floor.

  My father orders, “Sultana, pick it up!” Kareem grabs the book and stares at the cover. He gasps—a deep, ragged breath—and then turns to me. “What is this, Sultana?”

  I am paralyzed with fear. My heart stops beating. I sit and listen, longing for the life-giving thump.

  Quite out of control, Kareem drops the book to the floor, grabs my shoulders, and shakes me like a rag.

  I again feel the familiar heartbeat, though I have a childlike thought—a moment of sorrow that I did not die on the spot and so burden my husband’s conscience with lifelong guilt. I hear the muscles of my neck snapping from the force of Kareem’s strength.

  My father yells, “Sultana! Answer your husband!”

  Suddenly the years evaporate. I am a child again, at my father’s mercy. How I long for my mother to be alive, for nothing less than maternal fervor can save me from this vicious encounter!

  I feel a whimper forming in my throat.

  I have told myself many times in the past that there can be no freedom without courage, yet my courage fails me when I need it the most. I had known that if members of my immediate family read the book, my secret would be discovered. Foolishly, I had felt protected by the fact that in my family, only Sara reads books. Even if gossip of the book had spread throughout the city, I assumed that my family would take little note of it, unless mention was made of a particular incident they would recall from our youth.

  Now, ironically, my brother, a man who scorns the mention of women’s rights, had read the book that focused attention on the abuse of women in my land. My demon of a brother, Ali, had foiled my precious anonymity.

  Timidly, I look around the room at my father, my sisters and brother. Together, as if they had practiced, their looks of surprise and anger slowly forge into a united hard stare.

  After only one short month, I am discovered!

  Finding my voice, I protest weakly, blaming my deed on the highest authority, saying what all good Muslims say when caught in an act that will bring punishment on their heads. I thump the papers with my hand. “God willed it. He willed this book!”

  Ali is quick to retort, scoffing, “God? Not so! The devil willed it! He willed it! Not God!” Ali turns to my father and says with perfect seriousness, “Since the day of her birth, Sultana has had a little devil living inside her. This devil willed the book!”

  Quite rapidly, my sisters begin to flip through the pages in their hands, to see for themselves if our family’s secrets have been made public.

  Only Sara gives me her support. She quietly gets to her feet and slips behind my back, resting her hands on my shoulders, reassuring me with her soft touch.

  After his initial outburst, Kareem is quiet. I see that he is reading the translated copy of the book. I lean sideways and see that he has discovered the chapter that tells of our first meeting and consequent marriage. Sitting perfectly still, my husband reads aloud the words that he is seeing for the first time.

  Father’s angry shouting arouses the enthusiastic hatred of Ali, and my father and brother quite outdo each other in their verbal assaults on my stupidity. Amid the passionate disorder, I hear Ali shout out the accusation that I have committed treason.

  Treason? I love my God, country, and king, in that order; and I shout back that “No! I am not a traitor! Only a haphazard council of mediocre minds can reach a conclusion of treason!”

  As my anger builds, my fear is receding.

  I think to myself that the men in my family are proof that men and women can remain at peace only when one sex is strong enough to completely dominate the other. Now that we women in Saudi Arabia are becoming educated, and are beginning to think for ourselves, our lives will be filled with additional discord and mayhem. Still, I welcome the battle if it means more rights for women, for a false peace does nothing more than further women’s subjugation.

  Yet, I know that this is not the most opportune moment for argument.

  The hot controversy continues to rage, and I become lost in th
e details. My initial fright had dimmed my memory of why I had requested Jean Sasson to write my story in the first place. Now, I stop listening to the accusations and force myself to remember the drowning death of my friend Nada. I was a teenager at the time, and religious authorities had discovered my good friends Nada and Wafa in the company of men to whom they were not wed nor related. Because both girls were still virgins, they were not punished by the State for their crime against morality; instead they were released to their fathers for punishment. Wafa was wed to a man many years her senior. Nada was drowned. Nada’s own father called for the cruel punishment, saying that the honor of his family name had been ruined by the sexual misconduct of his youngest daughter. With Nada’s execution, he dubiously reclaimed the honor he had lost.

  My thoughts then drifted to the crushing imprisonment of the best friend of my sister Tahani. Sameera was a young woman whose parents had died in an automobile accident. She fled to the United States with her lover when she felt threatened by her uncle, who had become her legal guardian at the death of her parents. A great tragedy occurred when Sameera’s uncle tricked her into returning to Saudi Arabia. In a rage over her love affair, he married his niece to a man not of her choice. When it was discovered Sameera was no longer a virgin, she was confined to the “woman’s room,” where she was still locked away even as my own crisis unfolded.

  Even before the book was published, I had realized that neither tale seemed credible, unless the book’s readers would consider the barbarities that men inflict upon women. Yet, something was telling me that those with genuine knowledge of my land—its customs and traditions—would recognize the truth of my words. Now, I wonder if Nada’s and Sameera’s tragic lives have yet touched readers’ hearts.

  The memory of my unfortunate friends and their sad fate renews my strength.

  With mounting exasperation I think that those who desire freedom must be willing to pay for it with their lives. The worst has happened. I have been discovered. Now what?

  It was a pivotal moment. Feeling my strength return, I stand up and face my foes. I feel the warrior’s blood of my grandfather, Abdul Aziz, surge through my body. From the time I was a child, I have been most to be feared when I stand in real danger.

  My courage gives me a hardened resolve. Thinking back, I remember the face of a kind man who offered a little girl succulent dates. I have a wild idea. Without hesitating, I shout brave words over the din, “Take me to the king!”

  The shouting stops. Incredulous, my father repeats my words, “The king?”

  Ali makes an impatient tsking sound with his tongue. “The king will not meet with you!”

  “Yes. He will! Take me to him. I wish to tell the king the reasons why the book came to be. To tell him of the tragic lives of the women he rules. I will confess, but only to the king.”

  My father looks askance at his son, Ali. Their eyes lock. It is as if I could read their minds. “One must be honorable, but not too much!”

  “I insist upon confessing. To the king.” I know this king well. He hates confrontation. Even so, he will punish me for what I have done. I think to myself that I will need someone from outside Saudi Arabia to keep my memory alive. I say, “But before I go to the king, I must speak with someone at a foreign newspaper to make my identity known. If I am to be punished, I refuse to be forgotten. Let the world know how our country deals with those who unveil the truth.”

  I walk toward the telephone that sits on a small table next to the hallway door, thinking that I must notify someone of my plight. I am desperate, trying to recall the telephone number of an international newspaper that I had memorized for just such an occasion.

  My sisters begin to wail, crying out to our father that he must stop me.

  Kareem jumps to his feet, rushing to beat me to the phone. My husband stands tall over me, blocking my path. With a stern face, he holds out his arm and points to my chair as if it were the executioner’s block.

  Despite the seriousness of the moment, something about Kareem’s expression amuses me. I laugh aloud. My husband can be a foolish man and still has not learned that to silence me, he must bury me. That, I know, he can never do. My knowledge of Kareem’s inability to commit violence has always given me strength.

  Neither Kareem nor I move. Keenly feeling the drama of the moment, I shout out, “When the beast is cornered, the hunter is in danger.” The thought enters my mind to ram into his stomach with my head, and I am considering this option just as my oldest sister, Nura, takes center stage and quiets us all with her calm voice.

  “Enough! This is not the manner to solve a problem.” She pauses, glancing at Father and Ali. “All this shouting! The servants will hear every word. Then we are in a true dilemma.”

  Nura is the only female child of my father who has gained his love. Father motions for everyone to be quiet.

  Kareem leads me by the arm and we return to our chairs. Father and Ali continue to stand, both quite speechless.

  Since the book’s publication, I have been weakened by my fear. Now, for the first time in weeks, I feel absolutely fierce, recognizing that the last thing the men want is to turn me over to the authorities.

  The meeting continues much more calmly, with serious talk of how to keep my identity a secret. We understand that there will be much talk and speculation within the kingdom as to the identity of the princess in the book. My family decides that it will be impossible for the common men of Saudi to uncover the truth, for they are outside our family circles. And there is no real danger from male relatives within the extended Al Sa’ud family, for females and their activities are carefully guarded from male view. In Father’s mind, there is genuine concern regarding close female relatives, since they sometimes participate in our intimate gatherings.

  There is a moment of panic as Tahani remembers that one old auntie who was closely involved in Sara’s calamitous marriage and divorce is still living. Nura calms their fears by revealing that our auntie, just a few days before, had been diagnosed with a disabling brain disorder that affects the elderly. Nura says that our auntie is rarely, if ever, coherent. If by some remote chance she hears of the book, nothing she says or does would be taken seriously by her family.

  Everyone breathes a sigh of relaxation.

  I, myself, have no fear of the old woman. She was an anomaly in her time. I understand her frisky character better than the others. My intimate knowledge has come from past conversations when she whispered in my ear that she supported me in my quest for small female freedoms. This auntie had bragged to me that she was the world’s first feminist, long before the European women thought of such matters. She said that on the night of her marriage, she had insisted to her startled husband that she handle the money from the sale of the sheep, since she could figure numbers in her head and he had to use a stick in the sand. Not only that, her husband had never even thought of taking another wife, saying often that my auntie was too much woman for him.

  With a toothless laugh, my auntie had confided in me that the secret to controlling a man was in a woman’s ability to keep her husband’s “leather stick” rigid and ready. I was a young girl at that time and had no idea what a “leather stick” might be. Later, in my adult years, I often smiled, thinking of the lusty activities that must have shaken their tent.

  After her husband’s early death, my auntie confessed that she missed his tender caresses and that it was his memory that kept her from accepting another mate.

  Over the years I have jealously guarded her happy secret, fearing that such a confession would nibble at my auntie’s soul.

  For several hours my family pore over the translated pages and satisfy themselves that no one else alive, or traceable outside of our immediate family, is aware of the family dramas and squabbles divulged in the book.

  I can see that my family feels a keen sense of relief. In addition, I catch a trace of mild admiration that I had so cleverly altered the pertinent information that would have led the authorities direc
tly to my door.

  The evening closes with Father and Ali warning my sisters not to tell their husbands of the night’s business. Who knows which husband might feel compelled to confide in a sister or mother? My sisters are instructed to say that the meeting involved nothing more than personal female matters not worthy of their husbands’ attention.

  Father sternly ordered me not to “come out” in public and announce my “crime.” The fact that the book is the story of my life must remain a well-kept secret within our family. My father reminds me that not only would I suffer dire consequences, house arrest, or possibly imprisonment, but that the men of the family, including my own son, Abdullah, would be scorned and shut out by Saudi Arabia’s patriarchal society, which values nothing more highly than a man’s ability to control his women.

  As a token of submission, I lower my eyes and promise compliance. My heart is smiling, for on this night I have made a brilliant discovery that the men of my family are locked to me as if by a chain, that their dominance jails them as surely as it imprisons me.

  As I say good night to my father and brother, I think to myself: complete power poisons the hand of the person that holds it.

  Cheated of my blood, Ali is displeased and gruff in our parting. He would like nothing better than to see me placed under house arrest, but he cannot risk the wound to his male pride that would come from being associated by blood with such a one as I.

  I give him an especially warm farewell, whispering in his ear: “Ali, you must remember that not everyone in chains can be subdued.”

  It is a great triumph!

  *

  Kareem is sullen and stubborn as we make our way home. He smokes one cigarette after another, soundly cursing the Filipino driver on three occasions for not driving to suit his master.

  I lean my face against the car window, seeing nothing of what we pass on the Riyadh streets. I brace myself for a second battle, for I understand that I cannot escape Kareem’s great anger.

  Once locked in our bedroom, Kareem grabs the pages of the book. He begins to read aloud the passages that most insult him: “His facade was wisdom and kindness; his very bowels were cunning and selfish. I was disgusted to discover that he was merely a shell of a man with little to commend him, after all!”