Princess

by Jean P. Sasson

  Marci whispered as she told me the gossip of the servants. She said that Father’s second wife, a woman from one of the neighboring Gulf states, pinched and beat her female servants daily. One poor girl from Pakistan had a brain injury from being knocked down the stairs. Told that she did not work fast enough, she rushed down to the washroom with a basket of dirty sheets and towels. When she accidentally bumped into Father’s wife, the woman became so enraged that she punched the maid in the stomach, sending her tumbling down the stairs. As the girl lay moaning, the older woman ran down the stairs to kick and scream at the girl to finish her chores. When the girl did not move, she was accused of pretense. Eventually, the girl had to be taken to a doctor; she was still not normal, constantly holding her head in her hands and giggling.

  Under orders from Father’s wife, the palace doctor filled out a form stating that the girl had fallen and suffered a concussion. As soon as she could travel, she was to be sent back to Pakistan. She was denied her past two months’ salary and sent to her parents with only SR 50 ($15.00).

  Why did I act so surprised, Marci wanted to know. Most maids were mistreated in my country; our villa was a rare exception. I reminded her that I had been in many of my friends’ homes, and while I had to admit that little consideration was given to servants, I had never witnessed an actual beating. I had seen some of my friends verbally abuse their maids, but I had paid it little heed since no one had ever been physically assaulted.

  Marci sighed wearily, and said that physical and sexual abuse were generally hidden. She reminded me that I live only yards from a palace that hid the sufferings of many young girls, and yet I had no knowledge of them. She softly told me to keep my eyes open, to observe how women from other lands were treated in my country. I nodded sadly in agreement.

  Through this conversation, Marci became more aware of my empathetic nature. She decided to take me into her confidence and tell me the full story of her friend Madeline. I remember our conversation as well as if it were yesterday. Our exchanges are clear in my mind. I can see her earnest face before me now.

  “Ma’am, I want you to know about my closest friend, Madeline. You are a princess. Perhaps the day will come that you can help us poor Filipino women.”

  I was alone on that morning and felt boredom creeping into my day, so I nodded, eager for a morning of revealing gossip, even from a Filipino. I settled myself on my bed; Marci dutifully stuffed pillows behind my head, just the way she knew I liked them.

  I told her, “Before you begin your tale, go and get me a bowl of fresh fruit and a glass of laban. (Laban is a buttermilk-like drink common in the Middle East.) After she returned with a tray of fruit and my cold beverage, I stuck my feet out from under the covers and told Marci to rub them while she told me about this Madeline friend of hers.

  Looking back, I burn with shame as I recall my selfish, childish manner. I was intrigued by the thought of a tragic story, yet not content to sit still and listen until all my desires were met! Older and wiser, now I can only look back with regret at the habits I picked up from my Saudi culture. No Saudi I know has ever shown the slightest interest in a servant’s life: the number of family members, their dreams and aspirations. People from the Third World were there to serve us wealthy Saudis, nothing more. Even my mother, who was kind and loving, rarely expressed an interest in servants’ personal problems; though I do attribute that to Mother’s overwhelming responsibilities of running a huge household, and also satisfying my demanding father. I had no such excuse. I cringe as I now acknowledge that Marci and the other servants were little more than robots to me, there to do my bidding. And to think that Marci and the household servants thought me kind, for I alone questioned them about their lives. It is a hard remembrance for one who considers herself sensitive.

  Pensive, her face without expression, Marci began to rub my feet and started her story.

  “Ma’am, before I left my country, I begged that Lebanese man for the address of Madeline’s employer. He said no, he was not allowed. I told a lie, Ma’am. I said that I had items to take to my friend from her mother. After I begged, he finally agreed, and gave me a phone number and the area of Riyadh that Madeline worked.”

  “Is her employer a prince?”

  “No, Ma’am. He lives in the district called Al Malaz, about thirty minutes by car from here.”

  Our palace was in the Al Nasiriyah area, a prestigious location inhabited by many royals, the most wealthy residential district of Riyadh. I had been in the area of Al Malaz once a long time ago and recalled many nice palaces of the upper business society of Saudis.

  I knew Marci was forbidden to leave the palace grounds, other than special monthly shopping trips organized by Omar for the female servants. Since our servants, like most domestics in Saudi Arabia, worked a brutal seven-day week, fifty-two weeks a year, I wondered how she could slip away to visit her friend.

  I voiced my interest. “How did you manage a trip to Al Malaz?” Marci hesitated for a short moment. “Well, Ma’am, you know the Filipino driver Antoine?”

  We had four drivers, two Filipinos and two Egyptians. I was generally driven by Omar or the other Egyptian. The Filipinos were used for grocery shopping and the running of errands.

  “Antoine? The young one who always is smiling?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, that one. He and I like to see each other and he agreed to take me to find my friend.”

  “Marci! You have a sweetheart!” I burst out laughing.

  “And Omar. How did you avoid getting into a problem with Omar?”

  “We waited until Omar went with the family to Taif and we took our opportunity.” Marci smiled at my look of pleasure.

  She knew nothing gave me more joy than a successful trick pulled on the men of the household. “First, I called the telephone number given to me in the Philippines. No one would give me permission to speak with Madeline. I said I had a message from Madeline’s mother. After a lot of hard work of convincing, I was told the location and description of the villa. Antoine drove to the area and located the place to deliver a letter to Madeline. A Yemeni took the letter from Antoine. Two weeks later I received a call from my friend. I could barely hear Madeline, for she whispered, afraid she would be discovered using the telephone. She told me she was in a very bad situation, to please come and help her. Over the telephone, we made a plan.”

  I put aside my food and gave Marci my full attention. I told her to stop rubbing my feet. I felt the danger of their meeting and my interest in this brave Filipino, whom I did not know, grew.

  “Two months passed. We knew the hot summer months would give us an opportunity to meet. We were afraid Madeline would be taken to Europe with her employer, but she was told to remain in Riyadh. When you and the family, along with Omar, left the city, I hid in the backseat of the black Mercedes and Antoine took me to Madeline.”

  Marci, her voice cracking with her first show of emotion, described Madeline’s dilemma: “I sat in the car while Antoine rang the bell of the villa. While I was waiting, I could not help but notice the condition of the villa wall. The paint was peeling, the gate was rusty, the few bits of greenery hanging over the villa wall were dying from lack of water. I could tell it was a bad place. I knew my friend was in a dangerous situation if she worked in such a home.

  “I felt depressed even before I was allowed inside. Antoine had to ring the bell four or five times before we heard activity as someone came to answer our call. Everything happened just as Madeline had said. It was creepy! An old Yemeni man dressed in a plaid wrap-around skirt opened the gate. He looked as though he had been sleeping; his ugly face told us he was none too happy at being awakened from a nap.

  “Antoine and I both became frightened and I heard the shaking of Antoine’s voice when he asked, please, to speak to Miss Madeline from the Philippines. The Yemeni could hardly speak English, but Antoine has a little knowledge of Arabic. Together they managed to understand each other enough for the Yemeni to refuse us entry. He waved u
s away with his hand and began to close the door when I leaped from the backseat and began to cry.

  Through my tears, I told him that Madeline was my sister. I had just arrived in Riyadh and was working at the palace of one of the royal princes. I thought that might frighten him, but his expression remained the same. I waved an envelope at him that had just arrived from the Philippines. Our mother was gravely ill. I had to speak with Madeline for a few moments to deliver a last message from our dying mother.

  “I prayed to God not to punish me for such lies! I think God heard me, for the Yemeni seemed to change his mind when he heard the Arab word for mother. I saw that he was thinking. He looked first at Antoine and then at me, and finally told us to wait a moment. He closed the gate and we heard the flip-flop of his sandals as he made his way back toward the villa.

  “We knew the Yemeni was going inside to question Madeline and ask her to describe her sister. I looked at Antoine with a weak smile. It seemed our plan might work.”

  Marci paused, remembering that day. “Ma’am, that was a frightening Yemeni. He had a mean look and carried a curved knife at his waist. Antoine and I almost got in the car and drove back to the palace. But the thought of my poor friend gave me a feeling of power.

  “Madeline had told me that two Yemenis guarded the villa. They watched the females of the house. None of the female servants were ever allowed to leave their place of work. Madeline had told me over the telephone that the young Yemeni was without a good heart and would not allow anyone in the gate, even a dying mother herself. Madeline thought we might succeed with the old Yemeni.

  “Since the entire family was on a holiday in Europe, the young Yemeni had been given a two-week leave, and had returned to Yemen to marry. At this time, the only men on the villa grounds were the old Yemeni and a gardener from Pakistan.

  “I looked at my watch and Antoine looked at his watch. Finally, we heard the shuffling of feet as the old man returned. The gate creaked with a slow swing. I shivered for I had a feeling I was entering the gates of hell. The old Yemeni grunted and made a motion with his hands that Antoine was to stay outside with the car. Only I would be allowed inside.”

  I tensed up as I imagined the fear Marci must have felt. “How did you dare? I would have called the police!”

  Marci shook her head. “The police do not help Filipinos in this country. We would be reported to our employer and then jailed or deported, according to the wishes of your father. The police in this country are for the strong, not for the weak.”

  I knew what she said was true. Filipinos were a notch below us women. Even I, a princess, would never receive aid if it meant the police had to go against the wishes of the men of my family. But I did not want to think of my problems at that moment; I was wrapped up in Marci’s adventure.

  “Go on, tell me, what did you discover inside?” I imagined the inner workings of a Saudi Frankenstein’s monster!

  Having the full interest of her mistress, Marci became enlivened and began to make facial expressions and describe her experiences with relish.

  “Following his slow steps, I was able to look all around. The concrete blocks had never been painted. A small block building nearby had no door, just an open space with a stringy old rag pulled across the top. Judging from the clutter of dirty mats, open cans, and garbage smells, I knew the old Yemeni must live there. We walked by the family pool, but it was empty of water except for a black, foul residue at the deepest end. Three tiny skeletons—which looked like the remains of baby kittens—were lying at the short end of the pool.”

  “Kittens? Oh, my goodness!” Marci knew how I loved all baby animals. “What a terrible death!”

  “It looked like kittens. I guessed they were born in the empty pool and the mother cat was unable to get them out.”

  I shuddered with despair.

  Marci continued. “The villa was large but had the same coarse look as the wall. Paint had been splashed on the blocks at some time in the past, but sandstorms had left it ugly. There was a garden, but the plants had all died from the lack of water. I saw four or five birds in a cage hanging under a large tree. They looked sad and skinny, without a song in their hearts to sing.

  Through the front door, the Yemeni yelled something in Arabic to an unseen person; he nodded his head at me and motioned for me to enter. I hesitated at the doorway as the bad-smelling air rushed over me. With great fear and trembling, I called out Madeline’s name. The Yemeni turned and walked back to his interrupted sleep.

  “Madeline came down a long dark hallway. The light was very dim, and after the bright sunshine outside, I could barely see her walking toward me. She began to run when she saw it was really her old friend Marci. We rushed to embrace and I was amazed to see that she was clean and smelled good. She was skinnier than when I last saw her, but alive!”

  A feeling of relief flooded my body, for I had expected Marci to tell me she had found her friend half-dead, lying on a dirty mat, struggling to give her final instructions to take her body back to Manila.

  “What happened then?” I was in a rush to discover the end to Marci’s story.

  Marci’s voice took on the tone of a whisper, as though her memories were too painful to recall. “After we completed our cries of greetings and our hugs, Madeline pushed me toward the long hallway. She held my hand and guided me to a small room off to the right. Directing me to a sofa, she sat on the floor facing me.

  "She immediately burst into tears now that we were alone. As she buried her face in my lap, I stroked her hair and whispered for her to tell me what had happened to her. After she stopped her tears, she told me of her life since she had left Manila one year before.

  “Madeline was met at the airport by two Yemeni servants. They were holding a card with her name spelled out in English. She accompanied the two men, for she did not know what else to do. She was alarmed at their wild appearance, and said she feared for her life as they careened through the city. It was late at night when she arrived at the villa; there was no light, so she did not notice the unkempt grounds.

  “At that time, the family was away at Makkah for the Haj pilgrimage. She was shown to her room by an old Arab woman who could not speak English. She was given cookies and dates to eat and hot tea to drink. As the old woman left the room she handed Madeline a note that said she would be informed of her duties the following day.”

  “The old woman must have been the grandmother,” I said.

  “Maybe—Madeline did not say. Anyhow, I do not know. Poor Madeline’s heart sank when sunlight revealed her new home. She jumped at the sight of the bed in which she had slept, for the bed sheets were filthy; last night’s glass and plate were swarming with roaches.

  “With a sinking heart, Madeline located a bathroom only to discover the shower was not functioning. She tried to cleanse herself in the sink with a remnant of dirty soap and tepid water. She wished in vain for God to calm her beating heart. Then the old woman knocked on the door.

  “Having no choice, she followed the woman into the kitchen, where she was handed a list of responsibilities. Madeline read the hastily scribbled note and saw that she was to assist the cook, be the housekeeper, and care for the children. The old woman motioned for Madeline to prepare herself some food. After eating breakfast, she began to scrub filth off the pots and pans.

  “Along with Madeline, there were three other female employees: an old cook from India, an attractive maid from Sri Lanka, and a homely maid from Bangladesh. The cook was at least sixty years old; the other two were in their mid-twenties.

  “The cook refused conversation with anyone; she was returning to India within the next two months and her dreams were of freedom and home. The homely maid was silent in her unhappiness, for her work contract had over a year until completion. The pretty maid from Sri Lanka did little work and spent most of her time in front of a mirror. She wished out loud for the return of the family. She hinted strongly to Madeline that she was much loved by the master of the house. She wa
s expecting him to buy her a gold necklace upon his return from Makkah.

  “Madeline said she was surprised when the pretty maid ordered her to turn around so she could see her figure. The maid then put her hands on her hips and declared with a grin that the master would find Madeline too skinny for his taste, but perhaps one of the sons would find her favorable. Madeline did not understand the implication and went on with her endless cleaning.

  “Four days later, the family returned from Makkah. Madeline saw at once that her employers were of a low-class family; they were crude and ill-mannered and their behavior soon proved her assessment correct. They were accidentally wealthy without any effort on their part, and their only education was from the Koran, which in their ignorance they twisted to suit their needs.

  “To the head of the household, the secondary status of women indicated in the Koran was understood to be slavery. Any woman who was not a Muslim was considered a prostitute. Matters were not helped by the fact that the father and two sons traveled to Thailand four times a year to visit the brothels in Bangkok and buy the sexual services of young, beautiful Thai women. Knowing that some of the women of the Orient were for sale convinced the family that all women outside of the Muslim faith were for purchase. When a maid was hired, it was assumed she was to be used like an animal, at the whim of the men of the house.

  “Through the mother, Madeline immediately learned that she had been employed to serve as a sexual release for the two teenage sons. She informed Madeline that she was to serve Basel and Faris on an every-other-day basis. This information was given without emotion to Madeline’s utter despair.