Princess Sultana's Circle (32 page)

With tears of despair
streaming down my face, I walked alone into the desert.

What was it that my mother
wanted from me? How could I be what she thought I should be? Where
had I failed? What changes could I make in my life?

My mind was so tortured
that I failed to see the sky lighten as the sun began to rise over
the desert. I did not even see Sara approaching until she sat down
by my side.

Sara touched my arm,
“Sultana?”

The expression in my eyes
appeared to distress Sara. She asked me, “Dearest love, are you all
right?”

Weeping, I threw myself in
my sister’s arms.

“
You must tell me, Sultana.
Whatever is the matter?”

I choked on my sobs as I
whispered, “I have always drawn my life as I wished to see it,
Sara. But, now, I know that I have lived a useless life. Mother has
told me so.”

Sara studied my face
carefully, then said, “Your life has not been useless, Sultana. You
have protected your children. You have made Kareem a happy man.
And, you have undergone great personal danger to alert the world to
our women’s plight.”

“
Not enough…not enough…” I
muttered tearfully. “Mother keeps telling me that I should do
more.”

Sara sat without speaking
for a long time. At length, after long moments of quiet reflection,
she said, “Sultana, few of us do enough. I finally know that,
now.”

I looked with new interest
at Sara. Had she been dreaming of Mother, too?

“
What do you mean?” I
asked.

Sara sighed deeply, before
retrieving a much-folded piece of paper from the pocket of the
jacket she was wearing over her dress.

Her words were slow and
soft, “It is so easy to be a coward in Saudi Arabia. There is so
much to lose.”

Sara looked so empty and
sad. Whatever was she speaking about?

“
Sultana, I now realize
that I should have moved the very earth to help Munira. Together,
with our other sisters, we could have succeeded in helping that
poor girl to escape to another country.”

I gasped. Had something
happened to Munira? Was she dead?

Sara handed me the paper in
her hands. “I just found this last evening.” Sara’s voice lowered,
“I am broken-hearted with remorse.”

I opened up the paper and
saw that small, precise handwriting filled the page.

Sara explained, “Some weeks
ago, I lent Munira one of my books. The day Munira returned the
book, I was packing for this trip. Thinking that I might reread
this book while on this trip, I packed it with my luggage. I could
not sleep last night, so I opened the pages of the book, and this
is what I discovered.”

Sara’s eyes were red, and
wet with tears.

She flicked her finger on
the page, “Read what Munira has to say, Sultana.”

Convinced that I was about
to read a suicide note, my hands began to shake so much that I
could barely focus my eyes on the moving page.

Sara helped me to hold the
page firm.

What Munira had written was
a poem.

Buried Alive

I have lived
and known what it is to smile

I have lived
the life of a young girl with hopeful
promise

I have lived
the life of a young girl who felt the warmth of
womanhood

I have lived
the feeling of longing for the love of a good
man

I have lived
the life of a women whose promise was cut
short

I have lived
the life of one whose dreams were
dashed

I have lived
knowing tremendous fear for every man

I have lived
through the fears raised by the specter of an
evil coupling

I have lived
to see the devil in the guise of a man, ruling my
every action

I have lived
as a beggar to this man, pleading with him to
leave me alone

I have lived
to witness my husband have the pleasure of being
a man

I have lived
to be ravished by the man to whom I was
given

I have lived
only to endure nightly rapes

I have lived
to be buried while still alive

I have lived
to wonder why those who claim to love me, helped
to bury me

I have lived
through all of these things, and I am not yet
twenty-five years old

We were both speechless
with unbearable pain; my sister and I could only stare at the
other.

Without saying a single
word to Sara, I knew that no matter the consequences, I must now do
more to bring change to the lives of women, who, like Munira, were
in danger of being buried before they were dead.

I returned with my sister
to the camp, knowing that my life was now forever changed. There
was no turning back.

Chapter
Eighteen

“
Sultana’s
Circle”

I once read that for every
gift that Allah grants His children, He also attaches an equal
challenge. I believe this to be true, for I have never heard about,
or even read about, a single human life that encompasses only
perfection and happiness. Certainly my own character is riddled
with imperfections, and because of these flaws, I have faced many
sorrows in my own life.

Although I have been the
beneficiary of numerous blessings, I have also been presented with
many obstacles. In choosing my parents, God linked a cruel father
with a loving mother. He gave me wonderful years with my Mother,
and then took her from me when I was still of a tender age. He
granted me the lofty status of Princess in a royal Kingdom, yet
that elevated status would be of little value in a land
traditionally hostile to females.

For some years now, I have
seen my life spread out before me as though it were already
written. I do not like what I know will come to be: my wealth will
multiply and my possessions will increase, but at the same time my
happiness and contentment will decrease. An uneasiness with the
pattern of my daily life created a problem with alcohol that led me
into a listless life where I foolishly squandered my prospects for
achieving my life-long goal of assisting women in need. The fact
that these handicaps were self-imposed undermined my feelings of
worthiness. The Sultana of an earlier time, who once dreamed of a
glorious destiny, had become an apathetic soul, miserable and
lost.

Miraculously, I was now
given this new understanding that the pattern of my life must now
change: my beloved mother’s coming to me in dreams, the effect of
Munira’s plaintive poem, even my brother Ali’s near-death
experience—each contributed to my new perspective. I will always
believe that God Himself masterfully arranged these happenings with
the clear purpose of bringing forth the magical metamorphosis that
I experienced that day in the desert. For one who believes in the
power of Almighty God, there can be no other
explanation.

Although in that instant my
life became even more complicated, I have no regrets. Had my
dramatic transition not occurred, I know that I would have remained
mired in a restless unhappiness. More importantly, a young
Pakistani woman by the name of Veena would have continued to live
in brutal sexual bondage.

“
Never again,” I told Sara
as we walked back into camp. “Never again will I remain silent in
the face of cruelty and maltreatment to any woman.”

Sara nodded grimly. She
understood.

Just at that moment I saw
Dunia’s youngest son, Shadi, step out from a vehicle and begin to
greet his uncles and cousins with great enthusiasm.

“
Shadi has arrived,” Sara
softly murmured.

“
Dunia is sure to be
happy,” I replied with a smile.

Shadi is a tall, heavily
built young man of twenty who does not present a particularly
attractive appearance. Any personal knowledge I had of this nephew
was slight, though, for we saw each other only at large family
events.

I now vaguely recalled
Dunia’s mentioning earlier that Shadi would be late in joining his
family on this desert journey. Already Dunia had been proud to
announce that Shadi was her most brilliant son, and that his
expertise in business dealings far surpassed every other young man
in the Al Sa’ud family. In fact, Dunia smugly confided to all who
would listen, Shadi owned several joint business interests in
Pakistan, and was just coming back from a trip to that country to
purchase even more businesses. My sisters and I had not taken
personal offense at thoughtless words, even though they were an
insult to our own beloved sons.

At that moment, Sara and I
did not go forward to greet Shadi since he was already surrounded
by his uncles and eager young male cousins. We would welcome the
young man later, we decided, as we walked toward our own
tents.

I was not particularly
surprised to see a young woman in Pakistani clothes sitting in the
back seat of Shadi’s vehicle; our men frequently drive our female
servants from one place to another. I assumed the young woman was
one of my sister’s maids, being transported to our desert site at
Dunia’s request.

When I returned to my tent,
I was told by my own maid, Libby, that Kareem, worried when he
found our bed empty, had sent her to look for me. After she had
assured him that I was safe in the company of Sara, Kareem had
taken our daughters on a final camel ride in the desert.

I gratefully took this time
to indulge myself in a leisurely bath. Bathing in the desert was no
hardship, for our bathrooms were equipped with a small toilet, tiny
sink, and a large bathtub. During the daylight hours, the desert
sun heated the water in large tanks located outside our
tents.

After Libby had filled the
tub with warm water, I soaked for a short time before attempting to
wash the sand from my hair. Afterward, I prepared myself for what I
hoped would be a pleasant last day and night in the desert. I
dressed in an ankle-length cotton dress before placing my prayer
rug on the carpeted floor of the tent.

After kneeling toward
Makkah, I prayed to God that He would maintain my life on a
straight course of correct behavior. My heart and mind then became
more peaceful, for I had great hope that I would face the
temptations of life with a renewed integrity. Thankfully, at that
moment, I had no thought that a most difficult first test was
nearly upon me.

After reading Munira’s
poem, I was a more subdued Sultana than usual. I needed time to
assimilate my thoughts, so when my husband and children invited me
to take a short walk in the desert, I refused. When my sisters
pleaded with me to join them in a game of backgammon, I
declined.

Although I spent that last
day in the desert alone, I was not lonely. Preoccupied with my own
thoughts, I was a woman who was once again picking up the threads
of her life. My inner strength was reinvigorated by a renewed
determination to alter the course of my life.

Our family gathering that
evening was the most pleasant of all the evenings in the desert,
for there was a special poignancy in knowing that the following day
would return each of us to the routine of our urban life. When the
night’s gathering ended under the glittering stars, we warmly
embraced each other as we parted to return to our own
tents.

Once we were back in our
own tent, Kareem and I, and our two daughters, relaxed together. We
looked through Polaroid pictures taken on this camping trip. When
Amani began to yawn, we decided it was time to retire for the
night. I was smiling as Kareem and I went into our
bedroom.

Just as I was about to pull
my dress over my head to change into a nightgown, I was startled by
anguished cries.

Unnerved, I asked Kareem,
“What was that?”

Kareem tilted his head as
he listened. “It sounded like the cries of a woman.”

“
Oh, Allah! I pray no one
else has been bitten by a snake, as was poor Ali.”

As the screams became more
intense, Kareem grabbed a flashlight and rushed from our
tent.

I followed him.

These cries had also
disturbed Nura and Sara, who along with their husbands, Ahmed and
Asad, quickly joined Kareem and me. As we made our way through the
labyrinth of the large camp, we saw several of our male employees
also bolting from their tents to find the source of the
commotion.

The cries slowly faded, but
still, we followed the troubling sounds to one of the smaller tents
housing our female servants. Just as we arrived, the cries
diminished. No light came from within the tent, but loud American
rock-and-roll music suddenly blared into our ears.

Relieved, Kareem muttered,
“Some of the women have gotten into an argument over one thing or
another.”

Ahmed nodded. “Now they are
covering up with loud music.”