by Jean Sasson
Inside the note, I apologized for using him in such a deceptive manner; I added a postscript to Kareem describing my duplicity of the pilot. I knew Kareem would have a flash of anger at the pilot, but it would pass when he considered the circumstances. The pilot, Joel, was a favorite of Kareem’s. He was sure not to lose his job.
The children and I climbed into the waiting limousine, which sped to the airport; a direct flight to London was departing within the hour. I would use whatever lie I could muster to obtain four seats on the plane.
As it turned out, I did not have to damage my soul with God further. The flight was almost empty; most people were returning to the Gulf at the end of the hot summer, not departing. The children were sleepy and asked few questions; I told them they would be surprised at the end of the journey.
As the children slept, I nervously turned the pages of a magazine. Nothing on the pages penetrated my thoughts; I was considering my next move with great care. The remainder of my life would depend upon the events of the next few weeks. Slowly, the feeling overcame me that someone with a purpose was staring directly at me. Had my flight from Kareem already been discovered?
I looked across the aisle. An Arab woman of thirty or so years of age was staring hard at me. She cradled a sleeping three-or four-year-old girl in her arms. I was relieved to see that my mental intruder was a woman, and a mother, for Saudi men would never put such a one in their employ. Her piercing glower was a puzzle, so I stood, threaded my way around the serving cart, and sat in the empty seat beside her. I asked her what her trouble was; had I offended her in some manner?
Her granite face came to life and she practically spat her words at me: “I was at the airport when you arrived; you, and your brood.” She glanced with contempt at my children, “you practically ran over me and my child as you checked in at the ticket counter!” She looked with black malice into my eyes when she emphasized my nationality in her next insulting sentence: “You Saudis think you can buy the world!”
My warped day had sapped my strength; I surprised myself even more than I surprised the woman when I burst into tears. Through my sobs, I patted her shoulder and told her I was sorry. I had a great tragedy in my life and catching this flight was of utmost importance. With tears streaming down my face, I returned to my seat.
The woman was of a sympathetic nature, for she was unable to remain far from my side after my show of emotion. She carefully placed her daughter in the seat and knelt in the aisle beside me. My body stiffened and I turned away, but she maneuvered her face close to mine and said, “Please, I apologize. I, too, have had a great tragedy. If I tell you what happened to my daughter in your country, more than likely at the hands of some of your countrymen, you will understand my great bitterness.”
Having absorbed more horror than most people endure in a lifetime, I felt no desire to carry yet another image of injustice in my comprehension. Unable to trust my voice, I mouthed the words “I am sorry.” She seemed to understand that I was on the verge of hysterics so she left my side.
But the woman was unwilling to let the dreadful happening go unheard, and before the flight had ended I knew the cause of her despair. Upon hearing her story, my bitterness further hardened toward the degenerate patriarchal society that endangers all females, even children, who dare to tread on the soil of Saudi Arabia, regardless of their nationality.
Widad, the woman, was from Lebanon. Because of the persistence of the heartbreaking civil war of that once beautiful little country, Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States were overflowing with Lebanese in search of jobs. Widad’s husband was one of the fortunate who had been employed as an executive in one of the many booming businesses in Riyadh. After a favorable beginning, he had felt secure enough to bring his wife and young daughter to live in the desert capital.
Widad had been content with her life in Riyadh. The war in Lebanon had taken away any desire to return to the endless shelling and mindless deaths of those innocent there. She happily settled herself in a land far different from the one she had known. A spacious villa was rented, furniture was purchased, lives were reassembled. Widad had been most impressed with the lack of crime in our country. With severe punishments meted out to those guilty, few criminals ply their trade in Saudi Arabia, for a convicted thief will lose his hand, and a murderer or rapist, his head. With a mind of peace, she had failed to caution her young daughter of the danger of strangers.
Two months before, Widad had given a small woman’s party for a group of friends. As with Saudi women, there is little for foreign women to occupy themselves with in my land. Widad served light refreshments and her guests played cards. Two of the women had brought children, so Widad’s daughter was fully entertained in the garden.
After the last guest departed, Widad helped her two Indian servants to clear the house for her husband’s return in the evening. The phone rang and Widad chatted much longer than she had realized. When she glanced through the window, she could see only darkness. She called out for one of the servants to go and bring in her child.
Widad’s daughter was not to be found. After a frantic investigation, the last guest remembered that the child had been sitting on the curb, holding her doll. Widad’s husband returned, and a search of the neighborhood was begun. No one had seen the child. After weeks of searching, Widad and her husband could only surmise that their sole child had been abducted and more than likely murdered. When all hope for her precious daughter was gone, Widad found she could no longer reside in her villa in Riyadh. She returned to her family in war-torn Lebanon. To earn a living for them, her husband remained in his job, in the same villa.
Ten days after Widad arrived in Beirut, she heard a loud pounding on her apartment door. Frightened from the recent militia battles in her neighborhood, she pretended that no one was at home until she heard the voice of her neighbor screaming news from her husband in Riyadh.
The neighbor had just received a telephone call from Widad’s husband. The line had been disconnected, but not before he had taken down an unbelievable message for Widad. She was to take the boat to Cyprus and go immediately to the Saudi embassy in that country. Her visa for reentry to Saudi Arabia was waiting. She should return as quickly as possible to Riyadh. Their daughter was alive! She had come home.
Three long days were needed for the boat trip from Jounieh, Lebanon, to Larnaca, Cyprus, so that her visa could be stamped for the plane trip to Riyadh. By the time Widad arrived in Riyadh, the startling truth of their child’s whereabouts was revealed.
Once Widad’s husband had recovered from the shock of driving up to his villa to find his long-lost daughter standing by the gate, he had taken the child to a medical clinic to ascertain if she had been raped, for that was his biggest fear. After a thorough examination, the discovery was chilling. The physician told the astonished father that his child had not suffered from sexual assault. However, she had recently undergone major surgery. Widad’s daughter had been used as a kidney donor, the doctor told him. The child’s scars were ragged and infection had set in from filth.
Speculations were wild among the medical staff that examined the child, for many questions arose as to donor-typing and surgical procedures. It was unlikely that the child had undergone surgery in Saudi Arabia; at that time such an operation was not common in the kingdom.
When the police investigated, they suggested that the child had been taken to India by a rich Saudi who had a child in need of a kidney transplant. Perhaps this person had abducted more than one child and had selected the one most suitable. No one could determine the events that led to the surgery, for the child could recall only a long black car and a bad-smelling handkerchief held by a big man. She had awakened to severe pain. Isolated in a room with a nurse who could not speak Arabic, she saw no other persons. The day of her release, she was blindfolded, driven for a long time, and unexpectedly dropped at her door.
Without a doubt, whoever had abducted the child was wealthy, for when her father had jumped from the car and sei
zed his daughter in his arms, she was clutching a small bag filled with more than twenty thousand dollars in cash, along with many pieces of expensive jewelry.
Understandably, Widad despised my land and the oil riches that had shaped a people who considered their wealth the conqueror of all of life’s obstacles. Sacred body parts were taken from innocent children and cash left to neutralize the anger of those injured! When Widad saw my look of utter disbelief at her story, she rushed to bring me her sleeping child and exposed the long red scar that showed clearly the moral depths to which some men will stoop.
I could only shake my head in horror.
Widad gazed at her sleeping daughter with rapt love; her return was nothing short of a miracle. Widad’s parting words erased the fragile pride I still had left in my nationality: “You, as a Saudi woman, have my sympathy. In my short time in your country, I saw the manner of your lives. For sure, money may smooth your paths, but such a people as the Saudis will not endure.” She paused for a moment of reflection before continuing: “While it is true that financial desperation leads foreigners to Saudi Arabia, you are still hated by all that have known you.”
I last saw Widad at the London airport, clinging fiercely to her precious child. After scheduled medical appointments in London for her daughter, Widad was willing to risk the bombs of Lebanese enemies over the hypocrisy and inconceivable evil of those of my land, the Saudis.
The children and I stayed overnight in London. We crossed the Channel in a ferry and arrived in France the following day. From there we went by train to Zurich. I left the children in a hotel for a few hours while I emptied my son’s Swiss bank account. With a draft for more than six million dollars in hand, I felt secure.
I hired a driver with a car to take us to Geneva; from there we flew back to London and then on to the Channel Islands. There, I deposited the money in an account in my name and kept the cash from the safe in Riyadh for our expenses. We then flew to Rome, where I hired another driver to take us back to Paris.
In Paris, I hired a full-time housekeeper, a driver, and a bodyguard. Then, under an assumed name, I rented a villa on the outskirts of Paris. After such a confusing trail, I felt secure that Kareem would never find us.
A month later, I left the children in the care of the housekeeper while I flew to Frankfurt. There, I entered a bank and said that I was from Dubai and wanted to make a large deposit. Escorted into the bank manager’s office and given preferential treatment, I removed large sums of money from my bag and laid the cash upon the manager’s desk.
While he stared in shock at the money, I said that I needed to make a telephone call to my husband, who was away on business in Saudi Arabia. I was, of course, more than willing to pay for the call and laid five hundred dollars in his hand. The manager quickly got to his feet and practically clicked his heels together as he told me to take as much time as I needed. He closed the door and said he would be three offices down the hallway if I needed him.
I telephoned Sara. I knew her baby had been born by now, and she would more than likely be at home. I breathed a sigh of relief when one of the servants answered and said yes, the mistress was at home.
Sara screamed in relief when she heard my voice. I quickly asked her if her telephone lines were tapped and she said she was not certain. In a rush of words she added that Kareem was out of his mind with worry. He had traced me from Dubai to London, but had lost all evidence of us from that point. He told the family what had happened and was truly filled with deep regret. He wanted nothing more than for me and the children to come home. Kareem had said we must talk.
I asked Sara to give my husband a brief message. I wanted him to know that I found him despicable; he would never see us again. Furthermore, I had made arrangements for citizenship for the children and me in another country. Once I was fully protected in a new land, I would advise my sisters of my new life, but Kareem must never know where I was. And, as an added worry for Kareem, I told Sara to let him know that Abdullah, his son, no longer wanted contact with his father.
With that, I left the subject of Kareem behind. With delight, I learned that Sara had a new baby son and that the rest of my family was in good health. She said Father and Ali were furious and insisted I return to Riyadh and adhere to Kareem’s every wish, as was my duty. I had expected nothing more from those two of my very blood.
Sara tried to soothe me and asked if it would not be better to accept a new wife rather than to live my life as a refugee. I asked her if she would consider such an arrangement with Asad. Her silence was my answer.
After the call was made, I shoved my money back into my bag and slipped out of the bank without further notice from the eager manager. I felt a twinge of regret for my trickery, yet I knew I could not risk a call from a pay phone, for an operator might well announce the country calling to hidden tape machines linked to Kareem.
In deep contemplation of Sara’s words, I felt a smile grow across my face. My plan was working. But I thought it best to let Kareem suffer additional agony. He would need some time to recognize that I would never accept the multiple-wife existence, no matter the ultimate price.
Actually, the children knew nothing of the drama in our lives. I had told them a convincing tale of their father’s business taking him to the Orient for many months. Instead of remaining in Riyadh to suffer boredom, he had thought we would enjoy a pleasant time in the French countryside. Abdullah was curious as to why he received no calls from his father, but I kept him occupied with his lessons and numerous social activities; young minds adapt more easily than we could ever imagine. Our two daughters were still babies unable to consider dire circumstances. They had spent their lives traveling; the missing link was the absence of their father. I did my best to compensate. I consoled myself by considering the alternatives.
Life for my children in Riyadh with their parents in constant turmoil was unacceptable in my mind. Life without their mother would be unnatural. For if Kareem brought another woman into our lives, the murder of my husband was a real possibility. What good would I be to the children without my head, for it would surely be parted from my body after I took the life of their father! For a moment I considered the sharp blade of the executioner’s sword and shuddered at the thought that I might one day feel that coldness. I knew I was fortunate to be a royal, for I, like Ali so many years ago, could ease through difficult legal and ethical situations without the interference of the men of religion. Were I not of royal blood, the pounding of stones would end my life for such actions. But we royals keep our scandals inside our walls; no one outside the family would know of my defection. Only Kareem could call for my death, and no matter my actions, I knew with certainty that my husband did not have the stomach to call for my blood.
I called Sara once a month. During this lengthy absence from my family and country, my days and nights were restless. But I knew there was gain to be had; my determination and patience would alter Kareem’s plans of cluttering our lives with other wives.
Five months after my departure I agreed to speak with Kareem over the telephone. I flew to London to place the call. Our conversation convinced me that Kareem was desperate with desire to see me and the children. He would now enter the second stage of my carefully laid trap.
We made plans to meet in Venice the following weekend. My husband was stunned to see me accompanied by four hefty German bodyguards. I told Kareem I no longer trusted his word; he might have hired thugs to kidnap me and bundle me off to Riyadh to face the unjust way our legal system dealt with disobedient wives! His face began to redden. He swore, he blushed with shame; I thought perhaps he was angered by his inability to control his wife.
Our impasse ended with a compromise. I would return to Riyadh only if Kareem signed a legal document stating that so long as he and I were wed, he would not take another wife. If he were to break his word, I was to be given a divorce, custody of our children, and half of his fortune. In addition, I was to retain, under my control, the monies I had taken
out of our son’s account in Switzerland. Kareem would replace Abdullah’s funds. In addition, he would deposit one million dollars in each of our daughters’ names in a Swiss bank account. I would keep, in my possession, our passports with updated papers stating we could travel without restrictions.
I told Kareem that after he signed the necessary papers, I would remain in Europe with the children for an additional month. He had been warned of my determination; perhaps his desire for me would fade after consideration. I was not interested in replaying the same song twice. Kareem winced at my words, delivered with a hardness he had seldom heard.
I accompanied Kareem to the airport. My husband was not a happy man. I walked away less content than I had anticipated after the biggest gamble of my life had produced such a stunning victory. I had found that there is little joy derived from forcing a man to do what is right.
One month later I called Kareem to hear his decision. He confessed that I was his strength; his life. He wanted his family back, with everything as it was before. I bluntly told him that surely he could not expect to sever our love with the cold knife of indifference and then expect that a seamless union would remain in our grasp. We had been among the most fortunate of couples with love, family, and unlimited wealth. He was the destroyer of all that, not I.
I returned to Riyadh. My husband was waiting, with trembling lips and a hesitant smile. Abdullah and my daughters went wild with joy at seeing their father. My pleasure slowly grew from the happiness of my children.
I found I was a stranger in my home, listless and unhappy. Too much had happened for me to go back to the Sultana of a year ago. I needed a real purpose, a challenge. I decided I would return to school; there were now colleges for women in my country. I would discover the normalcy of life and leave behind the mindless routines of a royal princess.
As far as Kareem was concerned, I could only wait for time to erase the bad memories of his behavior. I had undergone a transition in the fight to save my marriage from the alien presence of another woman. Kareem had been the supreme figure in my life until he weakened our union with talk of wedding another. A substantial part of our love was destroyed. Now he was simply the father of my children and little more.