Princess Sultana's Circle Read online

  I held my hands over my mouth to keep from creating a commotion. Once I could control myself, I motioned to Tammam, and then held both hands over my head and then toward the ground, as a signal that I was praying and praising Allah.

  Dull-witted Tammam looked at me with a bewildered expression. She seemed to think that I was telling her it was time for the noon prayer, for she glanced at her watch and shook her head back and forth, no.

  In a slow, measured whisper I mouthed to her, “Ali is to let Munira decide!”

  Tammam smiled meekly.

  For the first time ever I felt a twinge of sympathy for Ali. Tammam was such a spineless creature! Were I the mother of Munira, I would have great difficulty in suppressing my joy at this news. Charitably, I decided her emotions had been permanently dulled by years of maltreatment.

  “I will call Munira now,” Ali said decisively. I heard the sound of his muffled footsteps as the door opened and closed.

  While Ali was absent, the three waiting men turned to small talk regarding our recent Egyptian holiday. I felt a flicker of disappointment since I was hoping that they would discuss some confidential family business that I did not know, but not so confidential that I could not repeat it.

  Soon I heard Ali re-enter the room. His booming voice sounded self-assured. “Munira, your uncles love and esteem you greatly. They have taken precious time from their busy schedules to personally deliver congratulations for your upcoming marriage.”

  Kareem, Asad, and Ahmed murmured quietly, but Munira said nothing in reply.

  Knowing Munira’s dread of men, I suspected that the poor girl was so overwhelmed by the male attention directed toward her that she was struck dumb.

  Ali continued, “Munira, child, the man Hadi has asked that you become an adored wife. You are aware of his friendship with this family and of his ability to provide for you and any children you might have. I have sought permission from the Almighty God to give you in wedlock to Hadi. Tell me now, Munira, if you approve.”

  I waited for Munira’s words. And waited. And waited.

  “Munira?”

  Silence.

  Ali spoke in an exhilarated tone, “God is great! Munira’s silence signifies her approval!” He laughed heartily, “Go, return to your room, child, and know that your modesty in this matter has made your father very happy.”

  I felt numbness creep into my face and spread throughout my body. I realized that Ali had cunningly used a sly trick to close the mouths of his male kin. He had repeated nearly word for word what Prophet Mohammed had asked his own daughter, Fatima, when he had arranged for her to marry a cousin, Imam Ali. When Fatima made no response, all good Muslims know that the Prophet had interpreted the girl’s refusal to answer as a sign of great modesty.

  The door slammed.

  Under the circumstances, my husband and brothers-in-law could say no more. If they did, they would be arguing against the Holy Prophet!

  Ali thanked them profusely. “Your concern for my family has lightened my heart! I am a most fortunate man! Please, come again soon.”

  As the men left, the door slammed once more. I heard my brother’s self-satisfied chuckle.

  With a tormented moan, I slumped against the wall. What had happened? Had Ali threatened Munira during their short walk through his palace? Or had the terrorized Munira simply gone mute?

  With tears coursing down my cheeks, I looked at Tammam and slowly shook my head. All was lost!

  As a woman who had never known the power of hope, Tammam didn’t appear surprised or upset. She rose to her feet and came and stood by my side. I wept while she comforted me.

  Within moments the door burst open. We had been discovered by Ali! My brother pulled himself up to his full height as he glared at his wife and sister.

  I glared back at him. Disgust swept over me. Surely, today, my brother was physically uglier than I had ever seen him. His figure had taken on a roundness visible even under his thobe. He wore a new pair of horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses that made his eyes appear shockingly large.

  Our dislike for each other was mutual. Our childhood experiences had created great distances between us that will never be overcome. At this moment, the hatred between my brother and me was so thick that I imagined the room growing darker around me.

  Defiant, I spoke with venom dripping from my tongue, “Ah, my wicked brother! For sure, Judgment Day will not be to your liking.”

  Tammam’s sallow face collapsed in fright, and she shrank back in horror at my effrontery. Evidently, she never stood up against her husband. The poor woman tried to apologize for my words, only the words of another lowly woman, but Ali cut short her apology with a dismissive flick of his hand.

  It’s little wonder he does not love her, I thought cruelly. No man could respect one so cowardly.

  As I watched Ali’s face, I knew that he was searching through his mind for a remark that would wound me. Many were the times I had gotten the better of my brother with words. He had never been particularly quick verbally, and now, he appeared even more lost for words.

  I smirked, leaned back, and relaxed. When it came to a battle of wits, I could always outshine Ali. But suddenly he puffed out his hanging jowls. My disdainful sneer slowly began to fade. Had Ali realized, as had I, that when one is the victor, there is no need for verbal repartee?

  He began to laugh with relish. The sight of my cheerfully obese brother, standing there triumphant, knowing he was fully supported by the entrenched legal institutions of my country, caused me to sink to the floor in despair.

  Munira’s fate was settled, and I feared that there was nothing I could do or say that would change the horror that awaited her.

  Even after Ali closed the door and began his slow lumbering walk down the long corridor leading to the front entrance of the palace, I could hear the sound of his low, wicked laughter.

  Chapter Two

  Munira’s Wedding

  The shock of failure in my confrontation with Ali meant that I went directly home and took to my bed. My head was throbbing severely, and I did not join my family for the evening meal.

  Later that evening, when my distressed husband told me of the meeting with Ali, I did not confess that I already knew the outcome of the visit. When I began to cry, a sympathetic Kareem comforted me.

  The following morning I was still so distraught that I remained in bed long after Kareem left our home for his offices in the city. As I lay in bed, my thoughts swirled around Munira and the terrifying and grim life she would soon lead. My sense of helplessness in the face of Munira’s predicament brought forth a disturbing question: when it came to improving the lives of individual women, what accomplishments could Sultana Al Sa’ud really claim as her own?

  Very little, up to this point, I had to admit. For the first time in my life, I was forced to acknowledge that my lofty aspirations to assist helpless women had come to nothing. My spirits sank so low at this bitter thought that I began to crave an alcoholic drink. I was longing for a drink even before I had my breakfast! Pushing aside any thought of food, I got out of bed and went straight to the bottle of scotch sitting on the bedroom credenza. After pouring myself a generous amount of the liquor, I took a long drink and waited for the expected warmth to flow through my body.

  Suddenly I was struck with a second worry. During the past few months, my cravings for alcohol had grown. Would the solace I was receiving from alcohol now lead to a personal predicament? Was I becoming an alcoholic? Such an idea caused me to throw the glass to the floor. I moaned and covered my eyes with my hands.

  From my childhood on, I had been taught that intoxicating spirits are evil and totally forbidden to Muslims. I still remember my mother telling me that Prophet Mohammed had cursed many men in connection with liquor. Mother said that our great Prophet cursed the man who squeezed it, the one who carried it, the one to whom it was carried, the one who served it, the one who drank it, the one who dealt in it, the one who devoured its price, the one who pu
rchased it, and the one from whom it was purchased. None were to be spared!

  Yet, despite my Mother’s dire warning, somehow, I now found myself ensnared by the promise of fleeting happiness so easily found in a bottle of alcohol.

  In the Al Sa’ud family I am not alone in this sin. Alcohol has taken a shocking toll on the lives of many of my royal cousins. To speak truthfully, I must say if these cousins are not buying or selling alcohol, they are drinking it. And, they do this, regardless of both religious taboo and the law. What would our mother think?

  Everyone who resides in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is fully aware that it is illegal to consume alcohol. It’s common knowledge that every year there are a large number of Saudis as well as foreigners imprisoned for the offense of possessing or consuming alcohol. It is also well-known that such laws do not apply to members of the Al

  Sa’ud family. But, while the male members of the royal family remain unpunished for any crime they might commit, it’s a different matter when it comes to Al Sa’ud females. While we are saved from public condemnation for our missteps because of the embarrassment such an admission would cause our rulers, female members of my family are forced to pay a high penalty should they develop any kind of addiction.

  Returning to bed, I tried to count on my fingers all the female royal cousins who had become addicted to alcohol or to drugs, but I ran out of fingers. Within the past few years the problem has become so rampant that special clinics for substance abuse have begun opening within the Kingdom. No longer is it necessary for Al Sa’ud men to send their alcohol or drug-addicted wives abroad for rehabilitation.

  Only a few months before, I had visited a cousin committed to one of these clinics. The atmosphere there was one of wealth and privilege. Soft steps and hushed voices told the visitor that they were in a medical facility like no other. The doctors and nurses were foreign, as were all the other staff. To ensure that they were never alone, each patient was assigned five personal nurses, all women who had grown accustomed to working with over-pampered royal Princesses.

  I had found my cousin in a large three-room suite where the luxuries of her normal life were duplicated. Special chefs created the finest food, which was served on costly china. My cousin continued to dress in expensive designer gowns while entertaining her closest friends and relatives in the clinic suites. The only accessories lacking in this new setting were alcohol and drugs.

  Although her treatment consisted of many sessions with qualified physicians, she was not subjected to the humiliation—or the benefit—of group therapy, as are addicts in Western countries.

  The cost for this special treatment at that clinic was over SR 100,000 ($26,000) per week. My cousin remained in the facility for sixteen weeks, and was pronounced cured of her habit. Unfortunately, within a few months of being discharged, she once again resumed her addiction to alcohol. At last count, I hear this cousin has been treated at her special clinic on at least five occasions.

  Yet, once admitted for such treatment, whether cured or not, nothing is ever the same again for the unfortunate Saudi wife. Servants gossip to other servants, and the truth always escapes. The addicted Princess is looked upon with great pity by her female cousins, but her husband will usually reject her, possibly take a second wife, or even seek divorce. As every Saudi woman knows, divorce brings the loss of everything—her status and her children. A divorced woman soon becomes socially isolated and ostracized.

  Recently, Hazrat Al Sa’ud, another royal cousin afflicted with alcoholism, had been divorced by her husband. Her five young children, who now lived with their father and his other two wives, had been forbidden all contact with Hazrat. Her own blood family had renounced her as well, and she now lived under the supervision of an elderly, blind aunt and two Filipino servants. Yet the attraction to alcohol was so strong that Hazrat still took reckless chances at every opportunity in order to acquire the drink that had brought about her ruin.

  Only a week before, my eldest sister Nura had been told that Hazrat had caused an explosion when trying to concoct homemade wine out of grape juice, sugar, and yeast. Nura said that Hazrat’s elderly aunt swore the explosion was so loud that she thought the Iraqis were bombing Riyadh. She took cover under a bed and remained there until she heard Hazrat wailing and weeping over the lost liquor. There was no denying that Hazrat’s life was utterly ruined by the very craving for alcohol that I was now experiencing.

  I shuddered. Fearful of what my future might hold if my secret was ever exposed, I promised myself that Kareem must never know that I was consuming alcohol in the morning hours. I had understood long ago that my strength and boldness were the arrows that had pierced my husband’s heart and drawn him to me. Surely, the foundation on which our love was based would crumble should Kareem discover my weakness.

  Horrified at the turn my life had taken, I vowed that I would overcome this progressive and dangerous desire for alcohol. I began to recite the ninety-nine names of Allah aloud, hoping that, by proving my devoutness, the God of all Muslims would take pity on me, and give me added strength to defeat my weakness. My lips moved as I whispered the words, “The Compassionate, The Merciful, The Sovereign, The Holy, The Giver of Peace, The Protector, The Mighty One, The Creator, the Majestic, The Great Forgiver…”

  My sincere devotions were interrupted by a hysterical Maha. My daughter said that Munira had just telephoned in tears. The poor girl had confirmed to Maha what I had already expected, that she had good reason for her silence on the day her uncles had visited. Munira said that Ali had threatened to beat both her mother and herself if she dared to open her mouth in protest about her engagement to Hadi.

  Poor Munira also confided that her daily prayers now consisted of pleas to God for an early death before her wedding date.

  It was then that memories of Sara’s attempted suicide caused me to rise from my bed. In coalition with Maha, I discarded one risky proposal to rescue the bride after another. Finally, we concluded that a simple plan was best. We decided to hide Munira in our home at Jeddah until Hadi became so mortified by the reluctance of his young bride that he would nullify their engagement.

  I eagerly telephoned Sara and told her to come quickly! I was hoping that I could induce my most intelligent sister to join us in devising further strategy.

  When Sara arrived, she bewildered me when she balked at the idea, even warning me that she felt compelled to alert Kareem of my reckless objective.

  “Sara!” I admonished, “You once traveled the same path as poor Munira. Do your own memories of abuse not compel you to help save this girl?”

  Sara appeared frozen in place.

  “Sara?”

  Sara’s brooding face belied the calm tone of her voice. “Sultana,” she confessed, “every day of my life is clouded by what happened during that time. Even when I am most happy with Asad, a sliver of pain always works its way into my consciousness.” She paused briefly. “If I could save Munira from such a fate, I would do it. But only God can save Munira, Sultana. Only God.”

  “God gave women cunning minds in order to scheme,” I argued. “How else can we defeat the evil nature of men?”

  Sara placed a light hand on my shoulder. “You may have the years of a woman on you, my sister, but in many ways, you are still a child.”

  I turned away, so disappointed and angry that I could not speak.

  “Come, Sultana. Try to think clearly for one moment, and you will realize that anything you might do to conceal Munira will only serve to make our brother, and Hadi, even more determined. If you hide Munira, they will find her. Then, Hadi will marry her anyway, but by that time his heart will be filled with anger and bitterness. Her life will only be worsened by your efforts.”

  Like the caged bird that finally comes to acceptance of its captivity, the lightness of hope left my body. I collapsed on the sofa and wrapped my arms around my body. Sara spoke the truth, so, for now, I put aside all thoughts of extricating my niece. I knew that excluding a miracle, Munira w
ould be Hadi’s future wife. And there was nothing any of us could do about it.

  After Sara departed for her own home, I returned to my bed and spent the rest of the day lethargic with hopelessness.

  Nine days passed as fleetingly as mere moments. The evening of Munira’s wedding arrived, all too soon.

  Although Ali possessed no love for his eldest daughter, his position as a high-ranking Prince ensured that Munira’s wedding would be a grandiose occasion, indeed. The celebration and wedding were to take place at the King Faisal Hall, a large building in Riyadh where many Saudi royal weddings have been staged.

  On the night of the wedding, a stream of limousines wove their way to the entrance of the hall, discharging flocks of veiled women. Our driver stopped at the wide steps that led to the entrance of the building. Two doormen rushed to open the doors of our automobile, and my daughters and I stepped out into a night filled with music. I could feel the beat of Arabic dancing music drifting through the hall as we moved toward the stairs.

  Although we were all veiled, I knew that most of the other guests were members of the royal family, or women whose families had high connections with our family.

  Other than the groom, his father or brother, the father of the bride, and possibly a Mutawwa, or religious man, we never see men at this kind of occasion. Men and women in my country celebrate weddings at separate locations. Even as we women were gathering at the King Faisal Hall, our men were congregating at Ali’s Riyadh palace.

  As my daughters and I walked across the threshold into the large hall, a swarm of female servants dressed exactly alike in red velvet gowns and caps waited to relieve us of our cloaks and veils. The three of us were elaborately dressed in expensive designer gowns that we had purchased the year before while vacationing in Paris. I wore a black evening dress covered in red Italian lace.

  A few days earlier, in an attempt to distract me from Munira’s plight, Kareem had sent a trusted Lebanese employee on one of our private planes to Paris for the sole purpose of acquiring a special gift for me. The ten-tiered diamond choker was now fastened securely around my neck.