Princess Sultana's Circle (30 page)

Still, Bedouins do always
extend warm reception to visitors to their camps, even though this
hospitality is often short-lived.

I had been in several
Bedouin camps during my youth, and now I was interested to discover
if the years in between had brought any improvement to their grim
lives. I recalled that the Bedouin I had seen had been packed into
tents filled with their own garbage.

The life of the Bedouin
begins with a high risk of infant mortality. Those children who
survive infancy run barefoot, unschooled and unwashed through the
camps. And, the women! I could scarcely think of them without an
involuntary wince. Certainly, in every class of Saudi Arabian life,
women are looked down upon as naturally and irrevocably inferior to
men, but life for Bedouin women is worse by any measure, for they
do not have the necessary wealth to relieve their harsh lives.
Bedouin women are terribly burdened by hard physical labor. Besides
waiting on their husbands, and taking care of many children, their
nomadic responsibilities even include the setting up and
dismantling of camp!

These thoughts were in my
mind as we endured our bumpy ride over the desert floor.
Thankfully, the distance we rode was no more than fifteen
kilometers. Soon the curling smoke of a campfire could be seen in
the distance. But the men of the camp had seen the dust from our
vehicles long before we saw their campfire. More than twenty men
had mounted their camels and were now waiting a short distance from
the entrance of their tent settlement.

One particular Bedouin
caught my eye. He was a robust man of middle age, with chiseled
features and dominating black eyes. With his long black cloak
flowing behind him, he was regal, as was his magnificent mount, a
strong, young female camel. His Bedouin gaze was piercing and
directed toward us with unquestioning self-confidence. No smile
came to his lips at the sight of strange visitors, although I found
it amusing that the lips of his camel seemed permanently carved
into a smile. In a strutting kind of dignity, he rode around our
vehicles more than once, as though inspecting us. I knew without
asking that this man was the chief of his village. The Bedouin are
proud, and not in awe of any man, not even men of the royal family.
He would show us all that our welcome depended upon his
approval.

When Ahmed stuck his head
out of the window of the vehicle, the Chief, who said his name was
Sheik Fahd, finally stretched his face in a welcoming smile. With a
voice like thunder, he greeted us with the hope of Allah’s
blessing. With a flourish of both hands, he pointed the way to his
village.

At this sign, the other
Bedouins began to shout their welcome. They rode cheerfully
alongside our vehicles as we slowly made our way to the
camp.

When Sheik Fahd called out
that he had honored guests, the Bedouin settlement instantly came
to life. Veiled women with their arms filled with infants, and many
poorly dressed young children emerged from the row of sloping
tents.

The moment I stepped out of
our jeep, I was struck by the strong odor in the air. My nose
twitched with the stench of close-living animals and blood-soaked
slaughter pits. I stepped daintily, for the ground was polluted
with animal droppings. This was a village cleaned only by the
rains, and no rain had fallen for a long time. I told myself that
each step I took was a step backward in time.

More than ten women dressed
in brightly colored dresses and covered with the Bedouin veil
walked toward us. It is customary for Bedouin women to leave their
eyes uncovered, while the tradition of city Arab women is to
conceal the entire face. When these women welcomed us, all their
energies flowed out through their dark and vivid eyes.

Our husbands went off with
the men to the Sheik’s tent to enjoy tea, while my sisters and I
followed the camp women. The tallest of the women, who was dressed
in a brightly colored blue dress covered in gold embroidery was
named Faten, and she quickly let us know that she was the favorite
of the Sheik’s four wives. Her eyes flashed with pride as she led
us toward her personal tent.

As decreed by the Koran,
this Bedouin chief apparently provided each of his wives with her
own tent, in the same manner that city Arabs build individual
villas or palaces for each wife.

As we were escorted inside,
Faten said with a flourish, “As the most favored wife of Sheik
Fahd. I welcome you to my tent.”

As we entered the flapping
goat-hair door of Faten’s tent, I looked around with undisguised
interest. The interior was dark and stuffy, just as I remembered
the Bedouin tents of my childhood. In the center of the room there
was a coffee hearth surrounded by piles of white ashes from
previous fires. Numerous gaudy tints caught my eyes. Cushions of
various orange, blue, and red hues were piled against mattresses,
and brightly colored quilts, pots and pans, food items, and folded
clothes were heaped up everywhere.

Everything appeared
unclean, and the tent carried the foul aroma of disease. Saddest of
all was the sight of the small children. The cries of several fussy
babies filled the room, and shy, grubby toddlers peeked around from
behind their mothers. I watched sadly as one unhappy little boy,
who looked to be four or five years old, used his hands to pull
himself along the floor. When one of the women saw that his pitiful
crippled condition drew my attention, she volunteered the
information that, when he was only an infant, his mother had
accidentally dropped him from a camel.

I tried to take him in my
arms, but in his fear, he began to scream. One of the women, who I
assumed was his mother, slapped his shrunken legs until he dragged
himself to a corner of the tent where he lay whimpering.

I was brokenhearted at this
child’s plight. Unlike people of other cultures, Arabs, and in
particular, Bedouin Arabs, are uncaring about their handicapped.
While healthy children are considered wealth and prestige for a
family, an unhealthy child is a dreaded shame. It was doubtful that
this child would ever receive medical attention. The little boy
would likely live out his miserably short life crippled, unloved
and undernourished.

I desperately wanted to
scoop the little boy up and take him away with me, but such a
reaction is unheard of in my country. In such a case as neglect,
children are never taken away from their families, no matter the
circumstances.

When one of the women
roughly nudged my arm, I accepted the tea cup offered me. It was
crusted with the filth of much previous use. A second woman with
the scarred hands of a woman who had raised many tents poured hot
tea into my cup. There was nothing to do but to drink from this
cup; otherwise, our hostess would be gravely offended.

Once she was satisfied that
her guests had been served, Faten removed her veil. She was proud
to show us that she was, indeed, very pretty, and very young, no
more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, close to Maha’s
age.

The other Bedouin women
removed their veils, too. These women looked much older and more
worn out than Faten. It was no wonder that she was the favorite
wife, for she had not yet been ravaged by repeated childbirth and
the harsh desert life.

Faten pranced before us as
she showed off the various trinkets that she said were special
gifts from the Sheik. “He no longer visits his other wives,” she
said with a broad grin as she pointed out three other Bedouin women
in attendance. Those three women exchanged subtle looks of
irritation, while my sisters and I sat in silent unease. When one
of the older women insisted that my sisters and I also remove our
veils, we did so.

Faten gawked in surprise at
Sara’s beauty. Obviously, she was accustomed to being the village
celebrity, but no woman could match Sara’s breathtaking loveliness.
If my dear sister lived in a country where women were not forced to
cover their faces, she would be famous for her magnificent
beauty.

The other women fluttered
around Sara and began to touch her face and hair. One of them told
Faten that if Sheik Fahd were ever to see such a one as Sara, that
he was sure to abandon her bed in frustration. The other three
wives of the Sheik quickly agreed.

The visibly spoiled Faten
became jealous and began to command the other women to retrieve
this item or that item. Her voice was far too impolite and loud,
and as a token of resistance, the women pretended not to understand
Faten’s instructions.

The words exchanged became
so harsh and the looks so fierce, that I feared we were about to
witness an altercation between these ill-mannered women. This
display made me reflect on what would have been the reality of my
own life had our ancestors not abandoned the desert for the city.
In the Bedouin culture, a woman’s status depends only on her youth,
beauty, and ability to produce sons. Certainly, a Bedouin woman of
my age who had suffered the loss of a breast and the ability to
bear children would be cast aside by her husband. Undoubtedly, I
would have become the servant of an insensitive beauty such as
Faten!

For the first time in a
long time, I acknowledged that Saudi Arabians are taking some small
progressive steps toward improving the lives of Saudi women. I felt
a rare moment of gratitude for my current status.

When an embarrassed Sara
threatened to veil her face again if she was not left alone, the
women cried out that they would sit quietly for the pleasure of
looking at Allah’s most perfect creation.

Faten could take no more!
Her lip curled in anger as she glared at Sara, and cursed her. “A
pox on you! May Allah disfigure your face!”

We were all speechless with
shock at this uncivilized behavior.

In dignified silence, Sara
rose to leave. Faten mistook Sara’s movement as a challenge. Her
wide-set eyes grew wild, her nostrils flared, and the skin of her
face rose and fell in angry rhythm. This wild Bedouin woman
advanced toward my gentle sister with the clear intent of
violence!

Frightened, Sara froze in
place, her hand poised at her throat.

Since Sara’s unfortunate
first marriage, when she was brutalized at the hands of a cruel
husband, everyone in our family is determined to offer Sara
unconditional physical protection.

Nura moved forward to
shield Sara, but she was not as fast as her youngest
sister.

I stepped in front of Sara
just as Faten’s hand reached out for her. I felt a sharp tug on my
face. The crazy Bedouin woman had twisted my nose!

I had once heard my father
say that, “He that does not make a Bedouin fear him, will soon fear
the Bedouin.” Quite obviously, this woman would understand nothing
but force. As Faten reached out to twist my nose once more, I gave
a loud cry as I leapt toward her. It had been years since I was
involved in any kind of physical altercation, but my years of
childhood fighting with the much larger Ali had taught me to make
my moves swift and certain. I am too small to long outlast a big
woman like Faten. I moved quickly to get a stranglehold on her
neck, forcing her backwards onto the floor. I tripped on my long
skirt and fell on top of my opponent.

The other Bedouin women
obviously hated Faten, for they did nothing to help her; rather,
they laughed and cheered me on.

One woman shouted, “Oh,
Princess! Poke out her eyes!”

Another encouraged me,
“Twist her neck!”

My sisters became
hysterical with fear that the vicious Faten would get the best of
their baby sister. Their screams resonated through the small
tent.

Faten managed to scrape a
handful of sand from the floor, and tossed it into my
face.

Blinded, I pulled Faten’s
hair until her hands clawed the air as she pleaded for Allah’s
mercy.

For good measure I pounded
her head twice on the hard earth, then rose to my feet. While
brushing off my skirt, I offered the greatest insult I could think
of, “This is how you welcome your guests?”

I knew that the true
Bedouin tradition treats guests with great respect. Even a mortal
enemy is permitted three days of grace—even after departing the
boundaries of a Bedouin tent.

Faten’s face had reddened
with each word I spoke, and now her black eyes were tremendous with
a threatening look. But, she made no further advance toward
me.

The Bedouin women began to
laugh hysterically at Faten’s defeat.

Nura and Tahani rushed to
brush the sand from my face and hair.

Tahani cried out, “Sultana!
Did she hurt you?”

I laughed, “No.” When my
eyes locked with Faten’s eyes in mutual hatred, I flung her my
final insult. “This Bedouin fights like a small child.”

Quickly fastening our veils
over our faces, the three of us followed Sara and Haifa as they
hurried out of the tent.

Meanwhile, the men had
heard the commotion, and spilled out of Fahd’s tent, looking around
in confused concern. As we approached our husbands, and were about
to explain the situation, a wild scream exploded from behind
us.

What was happening, now? I
wondered.

I turned to see the sands
swirling from the force of Faten’s running footsteps. The crazy
Bedouin grabbed two fistfuls of sand and rushed toward me. Before I
could move, she had thrown the sand on my head, screaming, “May
Allah pour all his punishments upon your head!”