Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
A Note from Jean Sasson
Map
Foreword: The Challenge of Keeping Secrets
Chapter One: Yemen Is Burning
Chapter Two: The Beauty from Yemen
Chapter Three: Female Power in Yemen
Chapter Four: Maha’s Secret
Chapter Five: Infamy in Pakistan
Chapter Six: Maha: Where the Heart Goes
Chapter Seven: Dr Meena
Chapter Eight: Worthy Saudi Men
Chapter Nine: A Middle Woman
Chapter Ten: Saying Goodbye
Epilogue
Appendices
Glossary
About the Author
Also by Jean Sasson
Copyright
This book is dedicated to Raif Badawi,
a brave man who has given up his freedom
to fight for freedom for all.
Such a worthy man should be known by the world.
The hearts of so many are with you, Raif Badawi.
All that is written here is real.
Some of the stories are very happy while some are tragically sad.
But all are true.
A few names have been changed to protect those who would
come to great harm should their true identity be known. But the
names have been revealed of many others.
– Jean Sasson and Princess Sultana Al Sa’ud
Human beings are complex, diverse, creative and often indecipherable. Whether genius or ordinary, disappointing or inspirational, kind or evil, the human mind, with its eighty-six billion nerve cells and innumerable nerve fibres, is incomparable in the known universe.
Exploring its complexity and power in all its colours, shapes and furrows will hopefully lead us to an understanding of our world and our place in it. There is one thing I know for certain: if human beings survive for a billion years, writers will never run out of material, due to the strangeness, beauty and unique nature of our marvellously intricate minds.
I am pleased that readers walk this path of discovery with me.
So, turn the page and let us begin this latest journey into the lives of some remarkable human beings.
A good Muslim must keep secrets.
For non-Muslim readers who may feel surprise at hearing this disclosure, I will briefly explain the motivation for secret-keeping in Islamic societies.
For readers who do not know, the Muslim world is unique when it comes to secret-keeping. Certainly, no human secret is safe in most societies. For those who have read newspapers and magazines published in Great Britain or America, you have likely been scandalized at the malicious articles. Such stories are written with the sole intent of vilifying high-profile celebrities, or even ordinary people who are so unfortunate as to snag the notice of journalists. Many innocent lives have been damaged by such disagreeable media attention.
While there are many negatives in my own society, there are positives, too. One is that you will never read slanderous reportage in Saudi newspapers or magazines. Muslims are taught that anything told to others that does not serve a virtuous purpose is considered backbiting, which is highly improper conduct for any follower of Islam. Thus, it is essential to conceal secrets that protect us and those we know. This wisdom came from the Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him), who once told a companion, ‘Whomever sees a defect in a Muslim, and overlooks that defect, is the same as one who saves the life of a young girl who has been buried alive.’
For readers familiar with Saudi Arabia, you know that female babies born in our country once faced the peril of being buried alive. Before the Prophet Muhammad prohibited the heinous practice, there was widespread acceptance that fathers or mothers could end the life of a female infant thus. Even after the Prophet’s command to cease the custom, some unfeeling parents and unfaithful Muslims defied his ruling. They accepted the custom of freeing a family of a female child who might possibly bring dishonour upon them. This is a fear that still inhabits numerous parental hearts in my country, where mothers and fathers still endlessly fret that a daughter will witlessly conduct herself in such a manner as to bring them shame.
Truthfully, during the time of ignorance, most families believed that there were no beneficial aspects of birthing a daughter. Thus tiny girls were taken to the soft sands, where the father scooped out a small grave, placing the innocent and trusting infant in the ground to be buried alive, to die a terrifying, gruesome death.
But those fathers, or other male family members, who heeded the wisdom of the Prophet to take action to save the lives of innocent female infants were considered the best of men. And thus believers take the Prophet’s words to mean this: that to keep secrets that will expose others to idle gossip or societal reprimand is the same as saving a life.
Although I have been one of the first to acknowledge some of the undesirable facets of my society, I also take pleasure in revealing the advantages of life in Saudi Arabia. One such benefit is related to the Prophet’s words against backbiting and telling lies. If one is born a Saudi Arabian, there will be no fear that others will fabricate falsehoods about you or those you love. If such should happen, that person will be harshly punished. Such disapproval, and guaranteed punishment from society, stills the tongues of many gossips.
In my Muslim society, the loss of one’s reputation is considered as serious as physical death. This means that there have been several legal cases in Saudi Arabia where those found guilty of slandering others have earned a term in prison, topped by public and painful flogging. Potential backbiters take heed!
As a young girl, I often sat listening at the knee of my beloved mother, a Muslim woman who lived a life of devotion to all things Islamic. I clearly remember the day she made her point about secret-keeping, when she gently grasped my small tongue between her fingers and slowly pulled, telling me, ‘Sultana, the Prophet once took hold of his own tongue, saying, “Keep this under control.”’
During those long-ago babyish years, I felt a rush of pleasure to be encouraged by my darling mother to keep my tongue quiet from spilling secrets. Those declarations from her own impeccable mouth illuminated the truth that nothing good would come of publicizing mischievous behaviour. Truthfully, though, due to my youthful inability to judge my own actions in a mature manner, I applied her counsel to self only, meaning that while I took care to guard and keep secret my own naughty behaviour, the wicked ways of my nemesis, my brother Ali, were told to all.
As all of you know from the stories of my youth and adult life, there is no denying that I never fully absorbed my mother’s heartfelt guidance when it came to my brother.
And for those who will say that I have exposed many secrets about my own society, I will not disagree, but I caution any who criticize by reminding all that my conduct was, and is, discharged by my most cautious handling of the subjects: I have taken the greatest care to shield the real names of those whose actions I expose, although if one’s name has already been revealed in the courts of Saudi law, or in Saudi publications, the world already knows their secrets prior to my own disclosure.
Due to the teachings of the Prophet, all the Muslims I have known take deep satisfaction in keeping secrets. I am no exception to this rule when it comes to secrets I wish to keep. My secretive deeds have been noted by my husband Kareem, who has often remarked that no Muslim he has ever known could personally match my propensity for secret-keeping. When he says these words to me, I smile politely, never admitting to Kareem that I feel little remorse when I keep important secrets from him, the man who is my husband. Then I acknowledge to myself that while I am a loving person who cares for others I am an imperfect human being.
For all who follow the news, you know that these days there is tremendous instability rippling across the Arab world. During such chaotic times, secrets explode in huge numbers, most kept from public scrutiny. In the past year, I have been told secrets kept by the men who are the highest officials in our Saudi government. I have also been privy to secrets withheld by royal cousins and, most importantly to me, I have known of secrets hidden by members of my own family. But most dear to my heart are the secrets told me by abused and unhappy women. These distraught women have unburdened their confidences to me. Many have pleaded for me to reveal their secrets to the world. Their purpose is a fine one: they believe that if attention is drawn to their plight, other women in jeopardy of receiving the same ill treatment might be saved.
Catastrophically, the Middle East is burning, with extreme violence and war raging across Syria, Iraq, Libya and Yemen, ending many lives and threatening others. In times of conflict, women and children bear the brunt of men’s violence. Those women who are raped and brutalized carry their own heavy secrets, and are willing to share their darkest moments with other women only. Do not believe they are not courageous, for they are the most heroic of the brave just to continue living. They would shout their outrage from the highest mountain if not for compelling justifications. Most importantly, they are struggling to ensure that their small children will not be left without a mother.
Tragically, in ultra-conservative cultures women must live in apprehension of the men of their own family, as well as in dread of the fierce condemnation of a strict Muslim society that sides against any female who finds herself a victim of a man. Alas, when innocent women are raped in my corner of the world, they will often be held liable for their misfortune. This is true, and I will tell you stories that confirm this outrage.
Although I will reveal important secrets in this book, I will carefully divulge only those that will cause no harm to innocents. I will keep the names of girls and women anonymous, where they have requested this. Should I reveal names or secrets already disclosed by other sources – sources who have labelled the secret-keepers by their true names – I am not the one who has caused the harm.
An important secret I kept was told to me by my husband Kareem, who warned me of the bombings soon to commence against Yemen. I nervously kept the secret, for our entire country’s safety was at stake. But now the whole world knows that our new king, Salman, is sending Saudi pilots to war against the Houthi fighters in neighbouring Yemen. Those of you who have read the history of Saudi Arabia will know that it is uncommon for us to go to war against any nation, or any fighting group. While it is true that my warrior grandfather, Abdul Aziz, used combat against various opposing tribes to consolidate the vast lands of our country, once Saudi Arabia was formed as a viable nation, he tossed his sword to the side and employed his wisdom to pursue diplomatic approaches to solve political dilemmas.
But now my country is at physical war against rebels striving to occupy and control Yemen, our southern neighbour, with whom we share affection through our ancient ties and personal relationships. This troubling conflict is intertwined with a verbal dispute with Iran – a country that created no problems for its neighbours during the rule of the Shah but since the 1979 revolution, when the clerics devoured the country and looked beyond Iran’s borders to arouse the anger of many, a sense of dread of what would one day come has flickered in all our Saudi hearts.
Now it seems that the day we feared has arrived. With Iran and Saudi Arabia at odds in Yemen, with Iran supporting the Houthi rebels while Saudi Arabia is fighting them, perhaps our two countries will end up physically at war. Should this frightening scenario occur, the entire region will burn, threatening all of the Middle East and beyond. Due to the enormous ramifications of total war in the Middle East, every rational person living should pray that this simmering conflict does not erupt into a fully fledged war – one that will adversely affect our entire world.
For the moment, however, Yemen and the countries of the Gulf Corporation Council (GCC), consisting of Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar and the United Arab Emirates, are those most affected by the simmering battle.
While I care about all who suffer, my thoughts dwell on the women and children, for those are the ones most harmed in times of chaos and war. Nothing is more important to me than the right for women to live in dignity and freedom.
The personal problems of Yemen’s women and children were always challenging, as females suffered greatly from raging gender discrimination even before the Houthi rebels assumed government control of the county. Now, with full-blown war, women’s lives are nearly unendurable.
These shattering times in Yemen have greatly affected my life and the lives of those in my family. Kareem and I have agreed and disagreed, according to the incidents creating alarm throughout the region. I am sorry to say that we have kept secrets from each other, which have created turmoil in our home. But through it all we remain a family, and nothing can change the love we feel for one another.
THERE ARE TIMES when we are so tightly aligned with a person, or with a country, that we overlook the importance of its presence, sometimes forgetting that it even exists. This happened to me. For the past twenty years, one of the principal countries adjacent to Saudi Arabia faded from my thoughts. The nation of which I am speaking is Yemen, a country with whom Saudi Arabia shares a 1,800-kilometre (1,100-mile) border. The crossings between our two countries remained porous for many years, with Yemenis and Saudis moving at will, but after the upsurge in radical uprisings and violence in the Middle East my country began building a physical wall, known as the Saudi–Yemen Barrier. This structure is ten feet high, and has been filled with concrete and outfitted with electronic surveillance. The wall has been a point of contention between our two governments, with Yemen claiming it is as ruinous for Yemenis as the Israeli West Bank barrier is for Palestinians. This stinging rebuke, comparing Saudi Arabia to Israel, caused the men in my family to stop and start wall-building in bursts of activity. But, with increasing tensions in Yemen, they refuse to allow emotion to temper their plans. The Saudi–Yemen Barrier has now become a reality for our two countries.
With the continuing eruptions of violence in my region of the world, it is heartrending to admit that perhaps every country would benefit from such a barrier.
Now the Saudis are at war, and perhaps this much-criticized barrier will help to save the lives of some people.
For certain, with all that has happened, those reflections on Yemen and its people which had been waning of late have recently been ignited to become a mental obsession.
It was on Jumada t-Tania 1436 (25 March 2015, Gregorian calendar) that I felt my passion first burn again. This was the crucial day that my uncle Salman – the new king of Saudi Arabia after the death of King Abdullah on 2 Rabi’ath-Thani 1456 (23 January 2015) – commanded Saudi fighter pilots to unleash their bombs over the disruptive Houthi rebels in Yemen. From the first moment of Saudi military action, memories collected over a lifetime sparked in my mind, flaring as brightly as those exploding bombs.
While I will not elaborate regarding the lengthy history of the Houthi rebels in Yemen, I will reveal some facts about these insurgents that rarely make the news reports in other countries, for I know that readers of my books frequently correspond with the author and even send second-hand messages to me to say that they enjoy the history behind the events that affect my life and the lives of other women in the area. I respect the reader’s preference, for it is good to know the background of important current events.
The Houthi insurgency has been battling the Yemeni regime for a decade. This rebellion, named after Hussein al-Houthi, is causing enormous despair in Yemen and apprehension in Saudi Arabia and other Gulf countries. Hussein al-Houthi’s life and history are noteworthy, despite the fact I am not in agreement with his sayings or teachings.
The current troubles did not stem from the usual Sunni/Shia problems, although al-Houthi was a pious Shia religious leader who became well known in Yemen, and in Saudi Arabia, in 2002, when he chanted a sarkha, or the slogan of the Houthi. The cleric’s words were his song: ‘God is Great. Death to America. Death to Israel. Curse the Jews. Victory to Islam.’ While I fully agree that God is great, the remainder of al-Houthi’s provocative sarkha is unnecessarily confrontational. This hostile slogan is the symbol of the Houthi – words, fighting words, that they emblazon on their flags. By their slogan alone, one can presume that the rebels are fractious negotiators and thus far no one has been able to convince them to relax their combatant attitude.
Furthermore, Hussein al-Houthi gave a speech in 2002 that divulged his boiling hatred for America. In his defiant speech (which was very popular with the masses), he asked: ‘Why did America come to Yemen? Under the pretext of spreading democracy and fighting terror? Did they come to be briefed on the situation in Yemen, and then decide what kinds of projects were needed for Yemen’s development? Or did they come to plough the lands? Did they come to make beehives? Did the Americans come to work with us, or did they come for something else? America is the greatest devil and lies behind every evil in the world.’
Although America, like every other country that has ever existed, is not perfect, only the ignorant would say that one country is behind every evil in the world. Such foolish statements create disrespect for the person who utters them. Ask yourself only one question: were there no evils on this earth prior to the formation of America in 1776?
Although Hussein al-Houthi is the face of today’s rebels in Yemen, the roots of the Houthi movement snake back through the country’s modern history, although there are some minor differences between the current rebellion and the original one, which began in 1986, prompted by the religious sheikh Salah Ahmed Feletah.
Feletah’s passion for change attracted Hussein Badr al-Din al-Houthi, a cleric with similar ideological leanings. The small rebellion led to great unease in the region. When a civil war in Yemen broke out in 1994, Feletah and al-Houthi cast their lot with south Yemen. When north Yemen won the conflict, Feletah and his party lost their power.
I shall try to make the history of a long revolution short for my readers. Hussein al-Houthi was the physically attractive and personally charismatic son of Badr al-Houthi. Hussein became a man under the tutelage of his father. But unlike his father and Feletah, he believed that he could bring change if he participated officially. He ran for office and served in parliament. After a series of disappointments with a government that was moving towards the West, Hussein came to the conclusion that he could not successfully reach his goals as part of the regime, so in 1997 he resigned, establishing a political organization, the Believing Youth.
The people of Yemen easily followed this handsome man with a magnetic personality. Instantly popular with the masses, he gained many followers. Instantly unpopular with the government, he was proclaimed a dangerous reactionary. His enthusiastic supporters flooded nearby governorates, calling for the most conservative interpretation of the Koran. Tensions mounted as al-Houthi’s support surged. Believing Hussein al-Houthi a true threat to the legitimacy of their authority, full-blown war finally erupted between the government and al-Houthi in 2004. The war became so costly that various government leaders met with al-Houthi, asking him to list his demands so that negotiations might result in the end of the rebellion. Al-Houthi replied that he had no demands. He wanted nothing more than for Yemeni youth to be taught the true principles of Islam, and for Yemeni officials to move away from cooperation with the West, in particular the United States.
Neither side could find their way to peace. Physical fighting renewed. That’s when government soldiers bombarded al-Houthi’s home with missiles, injuring many family members and killing him and some of his guards.
As is the case with so many rebellions, when the leader is killed, the spirit of the rebellion swells. Hussein al-Houthi’s brother, Abdul Malik, assumed leadership of the spreading movement. Fighters following Abdul Malik called themselves Ansar Allah, or Supporters of God.
At this stage, the Yemeni government realized that the Houthi rebellion was bigger than its deceased leader, for it threatened even more unrest without him than it had with him at its helm. The rebellion became so detrimental for the government that the president of Yemen offered a pardon, if only the rebellion would end. Abdul and his fighters declined the peace offering.
Fighting was intermittent over the years. Like a wild fire that would not go out, the fighting crept near our own Saudi border in 2008. By 2009, Saudi armed forces and Houthi fighters battled one another across the border. Alarm bells began to sound in Riyadh.
Now to return to the long-dead Hussein al-Houthi. When Hussein was killed in 2004, the government feared that his grave would become a shrine. And so they refused the pleas of his family to return the body of their martyr for a proper burial. Instead, authorities unceremoniously buried his body in a prison yard. Their act caused such bitterness with the Houthi that finally, in December 2012, eight years later, the Yemeni government allowed the family to claim the body. The government hoped that their benevolent gesture would encourage national harmony.
They were wrong. The burial stimulated the rebellion. And so, from that time until the present, battles have erupted alternately between Houthi fighters, the Yemeni government and various other groups. Then after several years of unflagging fighting, the rebels finally toppled the Yemeni government and assumed control of Yemen.
Most tragically, many innocent Yemenis have been caught in the line of fire, with thousands dying and many more losing their homes and becoming refugees.
With the rebels making threatening moves towards our own country, the men in my family felt that there was no option but to go to war for the purpose of booting the Houthis from power and reinstating a less aggressive leadership.
And so Saudi Arabia has entered a new and most unpleasant period in its history, when we feel we must defend ourselves against a neighbour with whom we have generally enjoyed close ties since ancient times. Our king sought a coalition of other Arab states, and with the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, Qatar, Egypt, Morocco, Jordan, Bahrain and Sudan the air strikes began. While no thinking person applauds war, I will not deny that the all-Arab military intervention sparked a sense of pride in many Saudis, a people whose government has been accustomed to looking to America and other Western allies for defence. Most Saudis calculate the enormous amounts of money spent on military might for the kingdom and believe that the correct course for our land is to defend ourselves, whenever feasible.
And so the day arrived that Saudi Arabia and other Arab nations joined forces to solve their own problems in the neighbourhood.
Although my privileged husband, Kareem, is privy to many of the secrets known only to the male rulers of my land, from the first day of war he joined me in watching endless television news reports, as well as reading internet articles, about Saudi Arabia’s military intervention in Yemen. When Kareem first informed me that the intervention’s title was codenamed Operation Decisive Storm, I was stupefied.
‘Husband,’ I said, ‘this is not prudent. Most Saudi citizens will connect our military action with Operation Desert Storm.’ This, of course, was the military reaction to Saddam’s invasion and occupation of Kuwait. Surely our Saudi military minds could do better than imitate the Americans.
Kareem shrugged without answering, as such a thing had not entered his thoughts.
I exhaled noisily, reminding myself that female minds often see dark corners not visible to male minds. All who live in my country remember that Operation Desert Storm left a sour taste on the tongues of nearly all Saudi Arabians. There was jittery instability in the country for many years after that time of war, for ordinary Saudis found it objectionable that, after many years of spending many millions of Saudi oil money on military hardware, their rulers felt our own Saudi military was incapable of defending our country.
Yet I said nothing more, for I saw Kareem’s jaw clench, bracing for my retort. I chose to surprise him with silence. I like reacting in ways unexpected to my husband, as I do not wish to be a woman easily read. Rather than argue, I gave my husband a pleasant smile and asked if he might like a nice coffee with a sweet. Kareem agreed and was pleased to have a piece of Arabic honeyed dessert, which our kitchen staff had made especially for the men in my family, who greatly fancy such things. Still, even as he nibbled the sweet, Kareem failed to conceal the vexed, and slightly confused, look on his face, for rarely do I give in so easily or miss a chance to make my full point.
As time passed, I concluded that men and women will never think alike. As I listened to my husband applaud our military successes, I felt increasingly gloomy, wondering if there was a less physical way than war to solve the problem. I am not ashamed to admit that as Kareem crowed, my tears flowed. I could only think of the Yemeni civilian heads poised unknowing beneath those falling bombs. With more than 200,000 Yemenis displaced, and the number of lives lost climbing higher every day, my unease increased. Once, when Kareem leapt into the air and clapped his hands in glee upon hearing the damage done in Yemen, I looked at my husband in dismay and fled to my bedroom, locking the door and ignoring his appeals to allow him entry.
As I collapsed in abject misery, I asked myself: Sultana, how could you have forgotten our southern neighbour and its inhabitants? Since I was a child, Yemen and its people have been interwoven in nearly every aspect of family life. When I was a small girl, my first knowledge of the country came from my father’s Yemeni tea boys. There were always two or three of the boys in our palaces, as in most Saudi royal households.
Accustomed to seeing Saudi men dressed in the white thobe, a shirt-like garment that reaches the ankle, I was astonished by the attention-grabbing attire of those tea boys. On the first occasion I was of an age to become aware of non-family members around me, I stopped and stared at the short futa they wore, a wraparound skirt topped by a dark-coloured jacket. Most appealing to my unaccustomed eyes was the famous jambiyya, a Yemeni curved dagger, tucked comfortably into the skirt waistband. The tea boys topped off their native dress with a meshedda, a shawl that is wrapped around the head or shoulders, while they slouched around with simple sandals on their feet.
While it was their national dress that first attracted my notice, it was their attitudes and faces that drew my attention. For some reason, every Yemeni tea boy I have ever seen has a painfully thin body. Those thin bodies loiter tenaciously, sagging with the tediousness of standing in wait for many hours on end. While the tea boys’ postures showed hopelessness, their faces were generally arched in hopeful expectation, anxious that someone in the family would request a cup of sweet tea or bitter coffee. If there is a more wearying duty than anticipating thirst in others, I do not know of that occupation.
But I was only a child at that time, with no concern for the dilemmas plaguing others. I remember spinning around, rushing to tell my sister Sara about the captivating spectacle I had seen. But my noisy enthusiasm drew the attention of my mother. My beautiful mother looked at me in quiet disappointment before gently reminding her youngest child that female children should keep their eyes down, to count steps, anything to cease the temptation to stare at those different from us, and most particularly when observing the opposite sex. I tried to obey my mother’s teachings, but I never ceased ogling those waif-like boys in our home, although I trained myself to look around to ensure no one in my family might see my bold stares.
Later I remember political discussions between my father and his brothers regarding a few troubling circumstances with our neighbour Yemen. I recall something of their worries, for they felt the problems stemmed from the fact that our neighbour was very poor while Saudi Arabia was, and is, very rich. Such variance in economic resources means that the government of Yemen and the Yemeni people have looked to Saudi Arabia for generosity since the early days of the oil wealth. Yet the people of Yemen are very proud and will never accept humiliation. Therefore I have never known of a Yemeni who felt reduced in the presence of wealthy Saudis. No nationality of people is as self-respecting as them.
I sighed and slipped into something comfortable, for I had no intention of seeing my husband again that evening. After settling in bed and calling for a glass of cold apple juice, my mind settled on two specific Yemeni women whom I had come to know during my adulthood. Their names are Italia and Fiery.
No two women on earth could be more different from one another. Italia was born into stark poverty, her early life marked with fear and constant need. When she became a great beauty from the age of ten years, she suffered abuse due to the gift that had freed her from poverty.
Fiery, however, was born into completely different circumstances, hers being a respected, middle-class family; her father was a scholar seen as a wise and fair man to those who knew him. Her father’s position in life spilled deference over to his two sons and three daughters. Fiery was always ordinary in appearance, but with a colourful personality; those who know her well often say that the physically plain Fiery has achieved a certain female splendour reserved for those of magnificent beauty in my country, where what is on the outside is what defines women, not intelligence or personality. Despite her lack of beauty, Fiery was esteemed as much as a woman could, and can, be in Yemen, a country that has fallen below Saudi Arabia in terms of its treatment of women, in 2006 being named the worst country in the world to be a woman by the World Economic Forum (WEF).
While I am pleased that Saudi Arabia and other neighbouring Gulf countries have moved up on this respected listing, I am not so happy that women in Yemen cannot climb the ladder of freedom with other Arab women to enjoy more independence and greater prosperity.
I came to learn much about Yemen and the women who live there by getting to know beautiful Italia and intelligent Fiery. Their lives are meshed fully with the good, and the bad, of our neighbour.
I believe that there is no truer way to discover the most significant aspects of a country and its people than through the private lives of the native women.
FOR MY ENTIRE life, I have measured female beauty against that of my older sister, Sara. So physically magnificent is she that the first time Kareem’s brother, Assad, accidentally saw Sara in the women’s garden of my father’s palace, he was, temporarily, speechless! For those who have read the first book of my life, you will know the full details of Assad and Sara’s courtship and marriage; it has been a wonderful love story from the first day until now, and promises to last for their lifetimes.
Assad’s reaction was no surprise to anyone in our family, for all so fortunate to see Sara’s unveiled face never fail to declare that nowhere have they ever seen a more beautiful woman.
It is especially agreeable that my sister Sara’s beauty is not limited to its physical form. Sara’s heart and mind are as exquisite as her physical self.
Assad, her husband of many years now, frequently emphasizes that there is perfection in all aspects of his wife. Truthfully, Assad would become wearying with his repeated exclamations if all did not love Sara completely. We are in agreement with Assad that our precious Sara is a perfect woman in every way.
But when I first saw Italia, a woman from Yemen so striking that I openly stared, I was nearly as stunned as Assad had been upon viewing Sara. My own eyes beheld a great beauty – and while Italia’s physical splendour did not surpass Sara’s, it at least equalled it.
The occasion I first met Italia was some time ago at the palace of Ameera, a royal cousin who is the daughter of my father’s youngest sister. Ameera was hosting an intimate party of eight royal female cousins to specifically confer about several scandals that had erupted in our royal midst.
While the Al Sa’ud men are the public face of the royals, the women often quietly solve problems from within our family circle so that they do not reach the world at large. Sometimes there are royal princesses who travel abroad and behave badly, their conduct known only to the women of our family. When such things happen, a group of older princesses endeavours to counsel the young women, discouraging them from misbehaving in future and thus avoiding the severe punishment meted out by the men of the family.
With a large royal family whose numbers are expanding by the week, there are many such human complications. There are times when our humiliations are intentionally leaked to the Western press. For example, many readers will recall the episode when one of my cousins was arrested in Europe for physically assaulting one of her maids. We could do nothing to solve that specific problem, for her vicious conduct was splashed across numerous foreign newspapers, embarrassing those in our family who treat our domestic help properly.
And so some of we more modern royal princesses use our energy to solve tribulations in our innermost circle. But the purpose for the gathering at Ameera’s home was more political than usual, so I was surprised to see the elegant stranger sitting quietly, turning the pages of a large, illustrated book about the most picturesque gardens in the world.
I instantly knew that the beauty was not a Saudi woman, for there are identifiable indications of our nationality. I cannot describe them precisely, but as a Saudi woman I am rarely mistaken when presuming whether an Arab woman is a Saudi or not. While I could not guess the woman’s exact nationality, I knew she was not ‘one of us’.
Then our hostess introduced her, gently coaxing our unknown visitor to her feet. ‘Dear cousins,’ Ameera said, ‘Italia is a special guest in my home. I wanted to present her to you before she retires, as she is quite exhausted from a tiring journey.’
Italia smiled with a distinctive sweetness, nodded, then spoke gracefully in her soft voice, revealing a conspicuous Yemeni accent. I was more than surprised. Despite Italia being the most physically striking woman at the gathering, it was rare for women from Yemen to be part of our social gatherings. There had been occasional instances when the wife, daughter or sister of the ruler of Yemen might visit Saudi female royals while her husband, father or brother conferred with the Saudi king or high-ranking Saudi government ministers, but I could count those events on the fingers of one hand. But perhaps this was the case with Italia, I thought to myself, for at that particular time in our history I had little knowledge of the sisters and daughters of the rulers of our neighbouring country. Nonetheless I felt strangely drawn to Italia. As I smiled at the woman, I made a mental note to ask Ameera later to share something of what she knew about her unconventional guest.
Our family gathering ended once we made plans on how to solve a few important problems and I sat quietly, intentionally lingering as my cousins exited the palace. Once alone with Ameera, I encouraged her to share details of Italia.
‘Ameera, dear, I am intrigued by your guest, Italia. Can you tell me something about her?’
For some reason, Ameera was shy to provide personal particulars about the young Yemeni, saying that her brother, who was considering marriage to the woman, would be annoyed. But she did accept an invitation to bring Italia to my palace the following day, so that we might have a private lunch. ‘Italia is free to tell you whatever she likes, but I must keep private what I have been told.’
Ameera’s words spiked my curiosity, but I did not push my cousin to break her brother’s confidences. As I was saying my farewell, Ameera did reveal something of what I had already guessed. ‘But I will tell you that Italia is from Yemen.’
‘That I assumed from her speech,’ I acknowledged.
Not least, Italia’s name intrigued me. Traditionally, Arabic names are mostly given to offspring, with Mohammed and Ali being very popular for male children, yet Yemeni parents sometimes name their children after an event, a country, a dream or even a memory. Never have I heard more peculiar names than those bestowed on Yemeni children. I was keen to discover where Italia’s unusual name originated, guessing that the story was bound to be fascinating. But just as I was posing my question, Ameera was interrupted by two of her three daughters, who had finished their school studies and wished to speak with their mother. The young princesses were obviously not privy to Italia’s personal story, for uneasiness streaked Ameera’s face. She hastily redirected our conversation, enquiring about the health of my father, for he had been unwell for the past few weeks.
My father was still relatively young at that time, but he had suffered what was feared to be a stroke. Strokes are common with the men in our Al Sa’ud family, so there was reason for worry.
‘He has not left his bed for many days, and I admit I am nervous,’ I acknowledged with a resigned shrug, for my father’s physicians would never confer with me, the daughter from whom he had been estranged for so many years.
However, Sara and several of my other sisters were at his palace for a visit at that very hour. Suddenly recalling that I had asked Sara to stop by my palace on her way home so we might discuss my father’s deteriorating condition, I quickly gathered my abaya, veil and handbag, but not before reminding Ameera that I would be expecting her and Italia at my palace the following day.
I departed Ameera’s home with a giddy sense of anticipation, feeling a very strong magnet pulling me into Italia’s life. I did not fight the urge to better know this appealing Yemeni woman. How could I know that many lives in my family would be altered by our meeting?
When I arrived at my Riyadh palace, I was frustrated to learn that Sara had come and gone. I would have to wait until the following morning to learn of my father’s health. I had cheerfully anticipated Sara’s visit, as she is the closest of my sisters, and has been my most trusted confidante since childhood. Kareem was unavailable for a late-night visit, as he was in the company of several high-ranking prince cousins. My children were not yet married but all were in Europe on a skiing holiday with one of my older sisters and her family.
Our huge home was bustling with the activities of our palace staff, as there is someone in attendance twenty-four hours a day, but I was the only member of my family present. I remember feeling quite lonely, as I wished to see my family, but that was not to be. I asked for a cup of tea and a basket of sweets from one of the nicest and most bashful of our Indonesian servants.
After my tea and sweets arrived, I sat alone in the sitting room, my thoughts drifting to the one person I have missed for my entire adult life. That person is my mother. I was only a young girl when Mother died and I had missed her every day since the moment she breathed her last. I closed my eyes, daydreaming, visualizing how the evening would be so special if only Mother could be sitting with me, sipping tea, laughing lowly, discussing my children, giving advice about my marriage and guiding me through my young adulthood.
However blessed I am, my life would have been much sweeter with my mother by my side.
Although she would have been considered elderly in my Arab society, at that time, in fact, she would have only been sixty-two years old. Though lost in a reverie, thinking of Mother and how much I needed her, and how she would have loved my children, I forced my thoughts to return to the present, to consider my father’s health crisis and wonder if he might die long before expected.
I did not want my father to die.
I had not acknowledged my feelings to anyone, but I had become amenable to an improved relationship with a man I had once feared, and disliked. The years had passed and, despite the fact he was not yet old, I had noticed a surprising shuffle when I had last seen him, a reminder that he was many years my senior, for my father was in his fortieth year when I was born. Sara had recently confided that his hearing had diminished. His ageing touched my heart, increasing my affection for the man who had given me life.
I sighed as I recalled the unpleasant stages of our relationship.
I hated my father when I was a child, for I truly felt that he disliked me. My independent character does not allow me to love someone who does not love me. As an adult, I became accustomed to his disregard and convinced myself that I was indifferent. But as he aged, I matured, and I wished for a better relationship, despite the fact my father did not appear particularly keen to become the father for whom I had always longed, a father whose eyes would light with pleasure at the sight of his youngest child by my mother. With news of a possible stroke, however minor, I knew that the time was passing and the chance of a better relationship was slipping from my grasp.
‘It is impossible to befriend a corpse, Sultana,’ I reminded myself.
Little did I know that my father was experiencing similar feelings at that time. How could I know that one day our relationship would rekindle when he bequeathed a picture of my mother as a gift to his youngest child by his first wife. But that memorable occasion was some years away, so I retired to bed feeling lonely, unloved and quite miserable.
I was awakened late the following morning by the persistent ringing of my private telephone, which is easily reached from my bed. I was not quite awake, but I was pleased to hear Sara’s voice, and listened carefully when she told me that our father had not suffered a stroke but instead had been ill with food poisoning from a fish dinner. The food poisoning had created pains in the top of his head that alarmed Father’s physician, who chose to explore all serious possibilities.
My expressed relief surprised Sara, but she did not enquire further when I changed the focus to tell her about the beautiful Yemeni woman named Italia. I hoped that Sara might join us for lunch, but my sister declined, saying she had some pressing work to do with a committee of royal women who were working in private to write a convincing presentation to offer to several of our younger male cousins who were in line for powerful positions in government. These modern-thinking male cousins were in agreement with their female cousins, who wanted to make it illegal for any Saudi Arabian girl under the age of eighteen to marry.
I believe it is inexcusable that there is no legal age limit set for girls to marry in Saudi Arabia. Although most families do not push their girls to marry before they become sixteen, should a father decide to accept a proposal for his eight-year-old daughter no one in the government, or in our society, will attempt to block the marriage. Such decisions, regardless of how detrimental they might be to a child, are considered private matters and are under the full control of the child’s father or legal guardian.
Such marriages have caused unending anguish and life-threatening health emergencies. Many young girls who know nothing of adult life and the sexual relationships between men and women are terrified and brutalized when forced to have sex with adult men. Tragically, many give birth long before their young bodies are properly matured, creating lifelong health complications.
Sara had a special reason for waging war against child marriages. Prior to becoming Assad’s wife, the teenage Sara had been compelled by our father to marry a much older man; as a consequence of sexual assaults upon her youthful body, she had experienced grave mental and physical problems. Due to her personal experience, Sara and her husband Assad had made it their life’s work to push for a law to protect young girls from early marriage.
Theirs is a daunting task since there are many powerful men in Saudi Arabia working against such a law, saying it is the right of a Muslim man to marry a child.
There is no more important work being done in my country.
I wished Sara success before ending our call and preparing for my guests. Several minutes prior to the time I expected Ameera and Italia, I received a second telephone call, this time from my cousin Ameera, who called to say she’d had a change of plan, as her seventeen-year-old daughter was hysterical after being told by her father that she was too young to attend school in Paris the following year. I could hear the young princess screeching in the background, along with crashing and banging that I assumed was the result of a full-blown teenage tantrum. Ameera lowered her voice and confided, ‘You know how we have spoiled these girls. All three of my daughters are accustomed to having all wishes granted.’
I replied with true empathy, ‘Yes, I understand.’
Most Saudi royal children are shamefully overindulged, either from the love of wealthy parents who want their children to have everything they desire, or from parental laziness. I have discovered that it is much easier to be a lax parent than a vigilant one, to give in to my children’s requests rather than explain the reasons they cannot and will not be allowed certain privileges. I suffered a fleeting image of a similar noisy performance thrown by my own two daughters. At such times only their father could put an end to their childish commotions. Thankfully, my son Abdullah had never once given his parents heartache with such childlike feats.
I felt disappointment mounting that the luncheon I had planned was not to be, but then Ameera added some good news: ‘If you are fine with Italia coming alone, she is free and quite pleased to accept your invitation.’
Since meeting and talking with Italia was the purpose of the luncheon, I felt cheered. ‘Yes, please send Italia over. I will be waiting.’
‘She is extremely shy, though, Sultana,’ Ameera confided.
From Italia’s reticent demeanour the previous day, I believed my cousin’s words. But Italia’s reserved appearance had been misleading, as I was soon to discover.
When Italia disclosed her true motive for travelling to Saudi Arabia to meet with Saudi royals, I realized that the way she presented herself was very clever and she was destined to achieve her objective.