Princess Sultana's Circle (2 page)

Sultana’s own unhappy
childhood experiences caused her to become a rebellious teenager.
But she learned in a most horrifying manner that rebellion against
the harsh system of her country could only lead to disaster when
one of her own friends was executed by her own father, for the
“crime” of sexual misconduct.

At age sixteen, Sultana was
told by her father that he had arranged for her to marry a cousin,
Kareem. Sultana and Kareem’s betrothal was unlike most Saudi
engagements, for Kareem requested to meet his future bride, and his
request was granted. Upon their first meeting, Kareem and Sultana
were strongly attracted to each other. They quickly fell in love,
and enjoyed a special union of mutual love, so unlike most Saudi
marriages.

The early years of her
marriage brought Sultana the tranquility she had always desired.
She and Kareem were blessed first with a son, Abdullah, and then
with two daughters, Maha and Amani.

Sultana and her family
remained in Riyadh during the Gulf War of 1991. The princess was
saddened that this war, rather than helping the status of women in
Saudi Arabia as she had hoped, made their lives even more
difficult. Sultana mourned that when the war ended, “thin veils
thickened, bare ankles were covered, and loosened chains were
tightened.”

In
Princess Sultana’s Daughters
, the
princess and I told the world that her immediate family had learned
that she was the princess behind the book
,
Princess
, which had become a bestseller in
many countries, but that the secret of her identity had been
maintained as far as the rest of the royal family was
concerned.

Readers also learned that
despite Sultana’s constant battle against the status quo, and her
own relatively enlightened marriage, her own two daughters did not
escape the pressures of feudal prejudices against women in Saudi
Arabia.

Sultana’s daughters each
reacted differently to her Saudi heritage. Her eldest daughter,
Maha, hated the life of a woman in Saudi Arabia, and following in
Sultana’s own path, rebelled against the injustices she saw
inflicted on women in her country. She became so unsettled in her
mind that she had to undergo psychiatric treatment in London before
she could resume life in Saudi Arabia.

Amani, Sultana’s youngest
daughter, reacted in a way which was even more troubling to her
mother. Amani embraced the Islamic faith with a distressing degree
of fanaticism. As Sultana fights against the veil, Amani battles
for the veil.

In this third book, Sultana
has asked me to be her voice once more. Although she continues to
challenge the treatment of women in Saudi Arabia by letting the
world know that the ongoing abuse of women in her country is both
alarming and routine, Sultana has discovered a new direction for
helping women worldwide, and persists in her gallant crusade for
reform.

Although readers of this
book will learn that Sultana is far from perfect, and that her
imperfections are often all too human, no one can doubt her
sincerity when it comes to fighting for the rights of
women.

As a writer, and her
friend, I am proud to tell the story of this extraordinary
princess.

Introduction

My Dream

A few months ago as I lay
sleeping, my beloved mother came to me in a dream. Mother was robed
in an embroidered cloak of vivid red; her long, black hair was
braided with golden threads. Her face was shining and unlined, and
her luminous eyes were all-knowing and wise.

Her appearance under a
shimmering green tree beside a spring of the bluest water dazzled
me. Bright flowers grew lush and abundant all around
her.

In my dream, my heart was
beating wildly as I called out, “Mother!” With arms outspread, I
anxiously hurried toward her. But there was an invisible barrier
keeping her tantalizingly out of reach.

Mother gazed at the
youngest of her earthly children with great love mingled with sad
resignation.

And then she spoke.
Although her voice was sonorous and sweet, her revelation was
stern. “Sultana,” she said, “my journey here has been frustrated by
your pains, discontents, disappointments, and misfortunes.” She
quietly scrutinized me.

“
Daughter, when you were a
wayward child, I often had to frighten you into reasonable
behavior.” She arched her eyebrows, “I see that my presence is
still needed, Sultana.”

The knowledge that I had
created worries for my mother, even after she entered paradise,
caused me to burst into tears.

I was born a Princess in a
rich desert Kingdom where the persecution of women is increasing,
and I could not dispute that I have led an unconventional
life.

I cried out, “Mother, a
great wind has carried me through life! How might I have lived my
life differently?”

Mother slowly shook her
head. “Even in the midst of a heated battle, Sultana, a good heart
fights clean.”

I flinched.

Mother’s look softened.
“But, that is not the matter of which I am now speaking,
child.”

“
Then, what?” I
entreated.

“
Sultana, your life is as
that of a mindless magician unfurling endless silks. You seem to
have everything in life; yet, you have nothing. Your existence does
not bring you happiness, my daughter.”

Desperate for Mother to
comfort me as she had done in the past, the significance of her
words slipped past me.

Then the fragile petals of
the flowers around her began to fold, and Mother’s countenance,
too, began to fade.

I cried out, “Mother!
Please stay! Wait!”

Her incandescent form was
now barely visible, yet I clearly heard her say, “Sultana, in the
middle of a feast, you are starving. Dissolve into something
greater than yourself, my child.”

I emerged from that dream
in an ecstasy of joy, but the memory of Mother’s mysterious message
has continued to haunt me.

Sadly, I had to acknowledge
that Mother’s words were true, that I have let my life stagnate.
Once, I embarked on a noble and stimulating quest to improve the
lives of women in my land. But finding myself helpless against the
unassailable power of Saudi Arabian men, I let myself grow
discouraged. Yet, so long as women in my own country can be married
against their will, physically abused and raped under the sanction
of the law, even legally murdered at the whim of their fathers,
husbands, and brothers, how could I stop fighting?

Following my mother’s
visit, I took courage from the knowledge that there was still a
purpose for me in this ongoing struggle, a new role that I was
meant to fulfill. At this moment, however, I had no understanding
of where that might lead.

Chapter One

Munira’s
Destiny

One of the major traditions
of Islam is reported to have originated from a meeting of the
Prophet Mohammed and his followers when the Prophet took a stick
and pointed to the ground, “There is not one among you whose
sitting place is not written by God, whether in fire or in
paradise.” From this tradition, the Islamic faith teaches that all
things in life are predestined and that every person’s fate has
been decreed by Allah. While this fatalism creates a dignified
resignation to life’s hardships for many Muslims, I have fought
against this pessimistic inertia throughout my life, and I cannot
accept the tragic lives lived by so many Saudi women as the
preordained will of Allah.

So when I learned that a
dreadful piece of our family history was about to be repeated, I
knew that I could never just fatalistically accept a horrifying and
shameful destiny being assigned to one of my nieces.

Our family had recently
returned to our palace in Riyadh from a trip to Egypt. My husband,
Kareem and our eldest child and only son, Abdullah, were in
Kareem’s home office. Amani, our youngest daughter, was in the
garden with her pets, and I was sitting in the living room with our
elder daughter, Maha.

Suddenly, my sister Sara,
and three of her four daughters, Fadeela, Nashwa, and Sahar, burst
through the door.

I rose with a smile to
greet my most beloved sister, but I saw the fear shining through
Sara’s eyes. Sara’s dark eyes desperately sought mine as she
clasped my hands. She told me to sit down, that she had appalling
news.

“
What is wrong,
Sara?”

Sara’s melodious voice
betrayed a great bitterness. “Sultana, while you were away, Ali
arranged for Munira to be married. The wedding is ten days from
tomorrow.”

Maha grabbed my hand from
Sara’s, and dug her nails into my palm. “Oh, Mother,
no!”

I pulled away. My hands
twitched nervously as I spread my fingers across my face. One idea
beat mercilessly into my brain. Another young woman, my own flesh
and blood, to be married against her will.

Munira was the oldest
daughter of my despised brother, Ali. She was a pretty, though
slight girl, who appeared many years younger than her true age.
Munira had always been an obedient child whose timid demeanor
aroused our sympathies and affection.

Munira’s mother was Ali’s
first wife, Tammam, the royal cousin my brother had married so many
years before. At the time, Ali had readily boasted that his
marriage to Tammam was for the sole purpose of sexual release when
he came home to our country in between school terms abroad. Love
and affection were never on his agenda. Anyone could have easily
predicted Tammam’s miserable future.

She had been married while
still a child, and she never had an opportunity to develop
emotionally. Even as a mature woman, Tammam rarely entered into
conversation, and when she did speak, her voice was so low the
listener was forced to lean close to hear her.

Three years after his
marriage to Tammam, Ali took a second wife. Since Tammam was a most
dutiful wife, Ali was questioned by our eldest sister, Nura, as to
his need for a second spouse. Nura later revealed to us that Ali
had declared that his displeasure was linked to Tammam’s
unhappiness. He was angry and baffled over the fact that his young
bride had become a melancholy wife. With the greatest puzzlement,
Ali claimed that Tammam had not once smiled since the day he had
become her husband!

Tammam’s union with Ali
produced three children, two daughters and a son. The daughters
were as cheerless as their mother, while the son was a perfect
arrogant duplicate of his father. By now, their ranks had been
swelled by twelve other children, by a total of six women apart
from Tammam.

Munira had lived a troubled
and unhappy life. As the daughter of a man who cared little for
daughters, Munira had spent her early years striving to win the
love of her father, a man who had no love to give. In that respect,
Munira’s childhood quest for a father’s love resembled my own. But
that is where the similarity ended. At least I had survived the
deprivation of my father’s love with my ability to love intact.
Munira’s thwarted love for her father gradually twisted into open
dislike before turning into a combination of fear and hatred. Those
feelings had now grown to include all men—even those men who were
kind. Five years before, at age sixteen, Munira had told her mother
that she wished to remain celibate.

And so, unlike most Saudi
girls, who spend much of their youth perfecting methods to keep
their future husbands content, Munira determined a different life
for herself. She trained as a social worker with the intent to
spend her life assisting the handicapped who are so scorned in our
land. Nevertheless, she made it clear that she would only attend to
the female handicapped.

For a period of time it
appeared that Ali had simply forgotten the fact that his eldest
daughter was unwed. But sadly, he had been reminded of her single
state during a recent family social event. Now Ali was denying his
daughter the one pleasure she sought, which was to be allowed to
remain unmarried.

The moment a girl is born
in Arab lands, the parent immediately begin to think of an
appropriate marriage. With the idea of future allegiances, suitable
families with eligible sons are studied keenly. While a Saudi girl
remains unmarried, she must stay a virgin. On the other hand,
virginity prolonged is deemed a family disgrace. Now that Munira
had turned twenty-one years old, her unmarried state was causing
her father grave discomfort.

Maha interrupted my
thoughts. She loved her cousin and knew Munira’s views on marriage.
“Mother! Uncle Ali can’t force Munira to marry, can he?”

“
To whom is Munira
promised?” I sputtered.

Sara hesitated so long that
I thought she did not know the answer. Finally, she said, with a
long sigh, “Sultana, Munira is to wed Hadi.”

My memory was barren of a
face to connect with the name. “Hadi? Who?”

“
The
Hadi. Sultana, don’t you
remember? Ali’s boyhood friend who traveled with our family to
Cairo.”

I could barely speak.
“
That
Hadi?”

Sara nodded woefully.
“
Yes. That Hadi
.”