Our second holiest city, Madinah, considered “the city of the Prophet,” is the place of Mohammed’s burial. And Jerusalem is our third holiest city. It was in Jerusalem that Mohammed was taken up by God to heaven on the Dome of the Rock. Muslims weep bitter tears at the mention of Jerusalem, for it is a city now occupied and no longer free and open to our people. If Makkah, Madinah, and Jerusalem are a Muslim’s spiritual fountainheads, then Cairo is the crowning glory of a Muslim’s self-esteem. Cairo represents fifty centuries of titanic duration, and presents Arabs with the marvel of one of the greatest civilizations to appear on the earth. Egypt is a source of great pride for all Arabs. The might, wealth, and accomplishments of the ancient Egyptians makes the oil wealth of the modern Gulf Arabs seem puny and inconsequential.
It was in Cairo, that city bursting with life from the beginning of time, that I became a woman. In the Arab culture, with so much importance attached to the change from girlhood to womanhood, every young girl awaits with a combination of dread and deep satisfaction the sight of her first blood. When my Western women friends tell me that they did not know what was happening to them when their first blood appeared, and that they were convinced they were dying, I am struck dumb with surprise. The coming of women’s menses is a source of easy conversation in the Muslim world. Suddenly, at that moment, a child is transformed into an adult. There is no going back to that warm cocoon of childhood innocence.
In Saudi Arabia, the appearance of the first menses means that it is time to select the first veil and abaaya, with the greatest of care. Even the shopkeepers, Muslim men from India or Pakistan, inquire with ease and respect as to the time the girl-child became a woman. In all seriousness, the shopkeeper will smile indulgently, and proceed to select the abaaya and veil that will show the child to her greatest advantage. Even though the only color for a veil is black, there are many possibilities for fabric selection and weight of material. The veil can be of thin material, giving the world a shadowy glimpse of the forbidden face. A medium-weight fabric is more practical, for one can see through the gauzy cloth without the rude glances or sharp remarks from the keepers of the faith. If a woman chooses the traditional thick black fabric, no man can imagine her features under a facial mask that refuses to move with the strongest of breezes. Of course, this selection makes it impossible to examine jewelry in the gold souq or to see speeding cars after dusk. In addition to this traditional heavy veil, some of the conservative women choose to wear black gloves and thick black stockings so that no hint of flesh is visible to the world. For women with a need to express their individuality and fashion sense, there are ways to avoid that endless sea of conformity in dress through creative design. Many purchase scarves with jeweled decorations, and the movement of trinkets turns the heads of most men. Expensive eye-catching decorations are often sewn to the sides and back of the abaaya.
Younger women, in particular, strive to set themselves apart by their unique selections. The male shopkeeper will model the latest designer fashions in veils and abaaya and show the young girl the stylish way of throwing the scarf cover over her head to project a look of smart fashion. The method of tying the abaaya to show the exact amount of foot that is allowed without being considered risqué is discussed in great detail. Every young girl experiments to find her own method of wearing the abaaya with flair. A child enters the store, but a woman emerges, veiled and, on that day, of a marriageable age. Her life changes in that split second. Arab men barely glance at the child as she enters the store, but once she dons her veil and abaaya, discreet glances come her way. Men now attempt to catch a glimpse of a forbidden, suddenly erotic, ankle. With the veil, we Arab women become overwhelmingly tantalizing and desirable to Arab men.
But I was now in Cairo, not home in Saudi Arabia, so the full impact of my first blood did little more than irritate me. Sara and Nura showed me all the things a woman should do. They both warned me against telling Ali, as if I would, for they knew he would try to make me veil immediately, even in Cairo. Sara looked at me with great sadness and gave me a long hug. She knew that from that day forward I would be considered a threat and danger to all men until I was safely wed and cloistered behind walls.
In Cairo, Ahmed owned a luxurious apartment that spread over three floors inside the city center. For privacy, Ahmed and Nura settled in the top floor. The two Filipino maids, Nura’s three babies, Sara, and I occupied the second floor. Ali, Hadi, and the Egyptian caretaker stayed on the first floor. Sara and I hugged each other with delight when we realized Ali and Hadi were separated from us by an entire floor.
On our first evening, plans were made for Ahmed, Nura, Hadi, and Ali to go to a nightclub to watch belly dancing. Ahmed thought that Sara and I should stay home with the babies and the Filipino servants. Sara made no protest, but I pleaded our case so eloquently that Ahmed relented.
At fourteen, I came alive in the land of the pharaohs and joyfully anointed Cairo as my favorite city of all time. That attachment to Cairo has never wavered. The excitement of this city inflamed me with a passion I had never known before, and which I cannot fully explain to this day. Men and women of every color and dress roamed the streets, searching for adventure and opportunity. I recognized that my life before had been dry, without stimulation, for I saw that Cairo was the opposite of our Arabian cities, which were, to my young eyes, sterile and lifeless. I found the grinding poverty unsettling, yet it was not discouraging, for I saw in it a profound force of life. Poverty can turn a person into a flaming torch for change and revolution, without which mankind would come to a standstill. I thought again of Saudi Arabia and knew that some degree of poverty or need should seep into our lives and force us to renew our spiritual life.
Yes, there are many classes of people in my land, from those various levels of the wealthy Royal Family down to that of lowly salaried workers. But no one, including foreign workers, is with- out the basic necessities of life. Our government ensures the well-being of all Saudis. Each male citizen is assured of a home, health care, education, a business where he can earn a living, interest-free loans, and even money for food, should the need arise. Our female citizens are provided for by the men of their families, whether it be father, husband, brother, or cousin. As a result of this satisfaction of basic needs, the spark of life generated by material desire is hopelessly lacking in my land. Because of this, I despaired that the pages of history would ever turn on my land. We Saudis are too rich, too settled in our apathy for change. As we drove through the bustling city of Cairo, I mentioned this idea to my family, but I saw that only Sara listened and understood the essence of my thoughts. The sun was now setting and the sky turned to gold behind the sharp outline of the pyramids. The generous, slow-moving Nile was breathing life throughout the city and into the desert. Watching it, I felt life rush through my veins.
Ali and Hadi were furious that Sara and I—two unmarried females—had been allowed to go into the nightclub. Hadi spoke long and seriously to Ali about the deterioration of our family’s values. He declared with smug satisfaction that his sisters had all been married by the age of fourteen, and that they were guarded carefully by the men of his family. He said that, as a man of religion, he had to protest to our father when we returned from the trip. Sara and I, bold in our distance from Riyadh, made faces and told him he had not yet become a religious man. We told him, in slang we had learned from watching American movies, “to save it.” Hadi devoured the dancers with his eyes, and made crude remarks about their body parts, yet he swore to Ali that they were nothing but whores, and that if he had his way, they would be stoned. Hadi was a pompous ass. Even Ali tired of his holier-than-thou attitude and began to thump his fingers on the table with impatience and to look around the room. After Hadi’s comments and attitude, I was staggered by his actions the following day.
Ahmed hired a limousine driver to take Nura, Sara, and me shopping. Ahmed went to meet a businessman. The caretaker, who doubled as a driver, took the two Filipinos and the three children t
o the pool at the Mena House Hotel. When we left the apartment, Ali and Hadi were lounging about, exhausted from the previous late night.
The sweltering heat of the city soon tired Sara, and I offered to go back to the apartment and keep her company until Nura finished her shopping. Nura agreed, and sent the driver to drop us off. He would return to collect Nura afterward.
When we entered the apartment, we heard muffled screams. Sara and I followed the noise to Hadi and Ali’s room. The door was unlocked and we suddenly realized what was happening before our eyes. Hadi was raping a young girl, no more than eight years old, and Ali was holding her. Blood was everywhere. Our brother and Hadi were laughing. At the sight of this traumatic scene, Sara became hysterical and began to scream and run. Ali’s face became a mask of fury as he shoved me from the room, knocking me to the floor. I ran after Sara. We huddled in our room.
When I could no longer endure the sounds of terror that continued to filter up to our floor, I crept back down the stairwell. I was desperately trying to think of a course of action when the doorbell rang. I saw Ali answer the door to an Egyptian woman, about forty years of age. He handed the woman fifteen Egyptian pounds and asked her if she had more daughters. She said that she did and that she would return tomorrow. Hadi ushered out the weeping child. The mother, showing no emotion, took the child, who was limping, tears streaming down her face, by the hand and closed the door behind her. Ahmed did not seem surprised when Nura, angry, told him the story. He pursed his lips and said he would find out the details. Later, he told Nura that the mother herself had sold her child, and that there was nothing he could do. Even though caught in this shameful act, Hadi and Ali acted as though nothing had happened. When I sneered at Hadi and asked him how he could be a religious man, he laughed full in my face. I turned to Ali and told him that I was going to tell Father he was attacking young girls, and he laughed even harder than Hadi. He leaned toward me and said, “Tell him. I do not mind!” He said that Father had given him the name of a man to contact for the same type of service. He smiled and said young girls were more fun, and besides, Father always did the same sort of thing when he came to Cairo.
I felt as though I had been electrocuted; my brain felt burned, my mouth hung open, and I stared blankly at my brother. I had my first thoughts that all—All—men are wicked. I wanted to destroy my memory of that day and lapse once again into the innocence of the mists of my childhood. I walked softly away. I came to dread what I might discover next in the cruel world of men. I still cherished Cairo as a city of enlightenment, but the decay brought by poverty caused me to rethink my earlier notions. Later in the week, I saw the Egyptian mother knocking on doors in the building, with another young girl in tow. I wanted to question her, to discover how a mother could sell her young. She saw my determined look of inquiry and hurried away.
Sara and I talked with Nura for long hours about the phenomenon, and Nura sighed and said that Ahmed told her it was a way of life in much of the world. When I shouted indignantly that I would rather starve than sell my young, Nura agreed, but said it was easy to say such things when the pangs of hunger were not in your stomach.
We left Cairo and its woes behind us. Sara finally had the opportunity to realize her visions of Italy. Was her radiant look worth the travail that had freed her to come here? She dreamily proclaimed that the reality soared above her fantasies. We toured the cities of Venice, Florence, and Rome. The gaiety and the laughter of the Italians still ring in my ears. I think their love of life one of the earth’s great blessings, far overshadowing their contributions to art and architecture. Born in a land of gloom, I am consoled by the idea of a nation that does not take itself too seriously.
In Milan, Nura spent more money in a matter of days than most people earn in a lifetime. It was as if she and Ahmed shopped in a frenzy, with a deep desire to fill some lonely void in their lives.
Hadi and Ali spent their time buying women, for the streets of Italy were filled, by day or by night, with beautiful young women available to those who could pay. I saw Ali as I always had, a selfish young man, concerned only with his pleasure. But Hadi, I knew, was far more evil, for he bought the women yet condemned them for their role in the act. He desired them, yet hated them and the system that left them free to do as they would. His hypocrisy was to me the essence of the evil nature of men. When our plane touched down in Riyadh, I prepared myself for more unpleasantness. At fourteen, I knew that I would now be considered a woman, and that a hard fate awaited me. As precarious as my childhood had been, I had a sudden longing to cling to my youth and not let go. I had no doubt that my life, as a woman, would be a perpetual struggle against the social order of my land, which sacrifices those of my sex. My fears regarding my future soon paled with the agony of the moment. I arrived home to discover that my mother was dying.
Chapter Seven: Journey’s End
Our one certainty in life is death. As a staunch believer in the words of the Prophet Mohammed, my mother felt no apprehension at the end of her life’s journey. She had followed the pure life of a good Muslim and knew her just reward awaited her. Her sorrow was intertwined with her fears for her unmarried daughters. She was our strength, our only support, and she knew that we would be tossed in the wind at her passing.
Mother confessed that she had felt her life ebbing even as we departed on our travels. She had no basis for her knowledge, other than three very extraordinary visions that came to her as dreams. Mother’s parents had died of fever when she was eight years of age. As the only female child, Mother had nursed her parents during their brief illness. They both seemed to be recovering when, in the middle of a swirling fury of a blinding sandstorm, her father had risen on his elbows, smiled at the heavens, uttered four words—“I see the garden,” and died. Her mother died shortly afterward without revealing a hint of what she witnessed awaiting her. My mother, left in the care of her four older brothers, was married at an early age to my father.
Mother’s father had been a compassionate and kind man. He had loved his daughter as he did his sons. When other men of the tribe sulked at the birth of their daughters, Grandfather laughed and told them to praise God for the blessing of a tender touch in their home. Mother said she would never have been married at such an early age had her father lived. He would have given her some years of the freedom of childhood for herself, she believed.
Sara and I were sitting by her bedside as Mother haltingly confided her disturbing dreams. The first of her visions came four nights before we received word of Sara’s attempted suicide.
“I was in a bedouin tent. It was the same as our family tent of my childhood. I was surprised to see my father and mother, young and healthy, sitting beside the coffee fire. I heard my brothers in the distance, bringing in the sheep from a day of grazing. I made a rush for my parents, but they could not see me, nor could they hear me as I cried out their names. “Two of my brothers, the ones now deceased, came into the tent and sat with my parents. My brothers sipped warm milk from the she-camel, in small cups, while my father pounded the beans for the coffee. The dream ended as Father quoted a verse he had made up about the Paradise awaiting all good Muslims. The verse was simple, yet reassuring to my mind. It went:
Pleasant rivers flow,
Trees shade the yellow of the sun.
Fruit gathers around the feet,
Milk and honey knows no end.
Loved ones are waiting,
For those trapped on earth.”
The dream ended. Mother said she thought little of it, other than that it might be a message of joy from God to assure her that her parents and family were in Paradise. About a week after Sara came home, Mother experienced a second vision. This time, all the members of her deceased family were sitting under the shade of a palm tree. They were eating wonderful food from silver dishes. But this time they saw her, and Mother’s father got to his feet and came to greet her. He took her by the hand and tried to get her to sit, and to eat. Mother said she became frightened
in the dream and tried to run away, but her father’s hand tightened. Mother remembered that she had young to care for and begged her father to release her, told him that she had no time to sit and eat. She said her mother stood and touched her shoulder and told her: “Fadeela, God will care for your daughters. The moment is coming for you to leave them in his care.”
Mother awoke from her dream. She said she knew at that instant that her time on earth was passing and that she would soon go to those who went before her.
Two weeks after we left on our trip, Mother began to experience back and neck pains. She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach. The pain was her message; she knew her time was short. She went to the doctor and told him of her dreams and the new pain. He dismissed the dreams with a wave of his hand, but became serious at the description of the pain. Special tests soon revealed that Mother had an inoperable tumor on her spine. Mother’s most recent dream came the night the doctor confirmed her terminal illness. In the dream, she was sitting with her heavenly family, eating and drinking with great gaiety and abandon. She was in the company of her parents, grandparents, brothers, and cousins—relatives who had died many years before.
Mother smiled as she saw little ones crawling along the ground and chasing butterflies in a meadow. Her mother smiled at her and said, “Fadeela, why do you not pay attention to your babies? Do you not recognize those of your very blood?” Mother suddenly realized that the children were indeed hers—they were the ones lost to her in their infancy. They gathered in her lap, those heavenly five babies, and she began to sway and swing and hold them close.
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