by Jean Sasson
Italia continued with her captivating tale. “I do remember that my uncle did not laugh. He did not even smile. I was afraid that my mother had gone too far with her teasing. Then my uncle brushed past my parents and knelt down before me, staring into my face before saying in his quiet voice, ‘My sister, tell me, what happened to that big nose? And look at her huge eyes. They are beautiful! Those unattractive baby teeth are gone, too!’ Never had I seen my uncle so excited, other than when he was sharing his tales of Italy.
“That’s when I was rushed by my parents, who stooped beside my uncle. They both stared at me as though they had never seen their only daughter before.
“ ‘Look, Sister, your daughter’s legs are no longer scrawny like those chickens in the village.’ Then he laughed happily, scaring me into pulling away from him. That’s when he leaped to his feet and looked to the heavens, crying out, ‘Thank you, Allah, for this miracle. She is a beauty!’
“I remember little more of that evening for I became embarrassed by the favorable attention. I was accustomed to ridicule, never to praise. I did not like it so much, to tell you the truth, although my life changed radically and in many ways for the better from that moment on.
“The following morning, the visitors to our home began, all wanting to verify what they had heard through the rapidly moving village gossip. Everyone said that they must see me so that they might stroke my long hair that they had never before noticed, to debate how the little girl had transformed from an ugly monkey into a beautiful woman. I tried to hide under my parents’ winter blankets, but they forced me to stand to be scrutinized, to show the villagers that my uncle’s prediction had come true.
“Truthfully, that morning is stamped upon my memory as if it happened yesterday. There were bellowing voices, praising God that such an unattractive little girl had blossomed from a twisted vine into a blooming flower, a rose that would tempt the strongest man. Even an old auntie who was half-blind shouted, ‘Look, even her toes are beautiful.’ I hopped about, trying to see what she saw. Looking back, I wonder why no one noticed my physical changes as I was developing. I can only speculate that an ugly little girl was considered of such little value that, while people glanced in my direction, no one ever really took the time to look at me properly. I was not only the ugly little girl but the invisible little girl as well, I suppose. Even today, this makes me very sad because it highlights how females are judged in our society.
“A man, known as Haji, who was considered the wisest man in the village because he had made the hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca, and had seen things others could not imagine, speculated that perhaps a good jinni had visited me during the night, removing all my unattractive features and replacing them with flawless parts. Such things were believed to happen. In fact, he said, when he was visiting with other pilgrims in Mecca, he had heard of a number of similar miracles, where good-looking women were transformed into hideous humans, while unpleasant specimens of women became breathtaking beauties. He said that obviously this had happened to me because only the day before there was no sign of beauty on my face or my body.
“Suddenly, everyone wanted to befriend our family. All the mothers with appropriately aged sons thought that I should be matched with those men. Several began to speak of well-to-do relatives who lived in the capital. There would be huge dowries offered, they said. Some of the old men already wed to several women wanted me as their newest bride.”
At this, Italia’s shoulders slumped with the burden of built-up memories. “That is when I discovered that great beauty has its own special curse,” she confided.
“I appreciate what you are saying, Italia,” I stated, struck unexpectedly with the recollection of Sara’s early marriage; her beauty had attracted much attention. In Saudi Arabia, female social gatherings are organized for mothers or sisters of Saudi men who are looking for brides for the men in their families. The primary goal is to find a woman of great beauty, an important quality. The second objective is wealth and influence. The third objective is for a woman to be large physically. Therefore, beautiful females of the royal family are the most coveted brides in the kingdom.
To Sara’s future despair, the sister of an older man looking for a young, beautiful and moneyed bride attended such a function. The man was exceedingly wealthy and influential, and after hearing of Sara’s unique beauty, he became a determined suitor and had no difficulty persuading our father to agree to Sara’s marriage, even though it was far too early for her to wed. Neither my mother’s heartfelt pleas nor Sara’s virginal innocence could touch my father’s heart.
“What happened next, Italia?” I questioned.
“Well, my parents were overjoyed when word of my beauty spread throughout the region. Soon they were accepting the dowry offered by a wealthy Yemeni businessman, who promised them the moon if only they would accept his proposal over the twenty or more proposals they were considering. Although the dowry offered was modest by his standards, it was huge to my parents—it was enough money for my parents to pay off some debts and to feed the family for at least a year. Additionally, he promised to send farm animals to my father, and I was to receive gold necklaces and bracelets.
“Princess, I was not yet twelve years old. That man was forty-three.”
“Oh no,” I uttered quietly, aware of the pain and horror the young girl Italia had endured.
“At first, I was excited to hear details about the village party that would be given in my honor, and the fact that I would receive some dolls for play. I had always wanted a doll after a friend told me about seeing one when she went with her family to Sanaa.
I knew that Sanaa was the capital of Yemen, as well as the largest city in the country, a place few village women would ever see.
“Such a luxury was beyond my parents’ means. I played with dolls in my dreams only. When I heard that I would be eating meat frequently, my mouth watered, imagining a table laden with lamb and chicken. Truthfully, I was eager for this new life my parents were describing. What small girl, who had never known wealth or abundance, would not be thrilled by the prospect of dolls and toys and plenty of food?
“Of course, I was unaware that I was being sold into sexual bondage. I was the most innocent of girls, never having been away from my mother, other than to play in the dirt path bordering our mud home.”
“Oh, Italia. I don’t know what to say, other than I am so, so sorry. I know that Yemen, as in Saudi Arabia, does not have an age limit set for marriage. I have been told several stories of young Yemeni girls no older than eight or nine years old being wed to men in their forties, men who so brutally raped the girls that they died on the wedding night. This is a crime that should be stopped now. Such marriages also happen in Saudi Arabia, although there is little media coverage since the Saudi authorities do not allow newspaper reporters to write about such scandals.”
Italia nodded. “There is talk of various women pushing for that in Yemen, too, but the clerics have such power that a law like this will never pass. Many of the poor in Yemen are uneducated; they are stuck in the past, where the happiness of females means nothing. They will go with the opinion of the clerics. Even the mothers of young girls don’t give the well-being of their daughters a thought.”
“Yes, I agree. Many women in Yemen and in Saudi Arabia are so steeped in our authoritarian patriarchal cultures that they truly believe that the only purpose for females is to serve the men, whether in the kitchen or in the bedroom. Without the unwavering support of enlightened mothers, young girls will always be used as sexual bait to capture some of the wealth of those disgusting pedophiles.”
Just then Italia’s gaze rested upon an expensive golden clock, a very special present from Sara’s husband, Assad, who had given it to me for my birthday. “The time is getting late, Princess. Should I take my leave now?”
“No, no. My husband is in Jidda until tomorrow and my children are in Europe on a holiday.” Ordinarily, I would never sit and listen to such a lengthy tale in one
afternoon, regardless of my interest in every woman’s life. Generally, I learn about others over the course of many visits. But I was alone in my big palace and I had a genuine interest in Italia, for she was in many ways a mystery. I was intrigued by this dazzling woman from a poor Yemeni family who spoke like a highly educated woman, although I doubted she had been schooled as a child.
I encouraged her, “Please stay a while longer. I must hear the rest of your story, Italia.”
Italia suddenly had a dazed look on her face. Her voice gradually raised in pitch, something I had noticed happened routinely when she was surprised or excited. “Is that clock solid gold, Princess?” she asked.
I smiled, telling her, “I have never asked, Italia. The clock was a gift from two very special people in my life, so I am sure it was costly. However, I doubt it is solid gold. Perhaps it has a gold layer.” I had little concern whether the clock was real gold or fake, so long as it gave the correct time. Years before, I had lost my desire for expensive possessions, although various family members still paid premier prices for all purchases, as owning the finest was gratifying for many al-Saud family members, including Assad.
“Tell me about your marriage, Italia,” I suggested.
“Which one, Princess?” she replied, as she reluctantly pulled her gaze away from my gold clock before clicking her perfectly manicured nails together, waiting for my reaction.
“How many times have you been married?” I asked.
“Seven. Seven times, Princess. But I am divorced at present.”
I did not ask for details, but my face must have shown my astonishment. Although many men in my culture marry frequently, as Muslim men are allowed four wives at one time, I have never known a woman to have been married more than two or three times.
“Princess, when men hear about me from the women in their families, or see me for the first time, they feel they must marry me. Once they have me in the marriage bed, they wear themselves out enjoying me, but they tire of me after a year or two and then send me back to Yemen with some good jewels and a little money.”
Italia then revealed a new, interesting detail. “In fact, I am in Saudi Arabia looking for a new husband, Princess. This time, I want to marry a member of the royal family. I have yet to marry a prince.”
“Oh?” Remembering what Ameera had said, I asked, “Are you thinking to marry Ameera’s brother?”
“Perhaps,” Italia replied. “It is according to the dowry he offers.”
“He is married to two other women at the moment, Italia. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I know.”
“And you are not concerned?”
“No, Princess. I am accustomed to being the new wife in a family of other wives.”
I am a believing Muslim woman, and acknowledge that our religion allows a man to marry more wives than he needs, yet I had physically fought my husband over his scheme to take a second wife. My strong reaction had changed Kareem’s plan, and from that day my husband has never again mentioned the possibility.
Now I held my tongue, although I desperately wanted to advise Italia that it was important for all women to stand together, to fight against such customs, which I do not believe fit into our modern world, but I did not. I moved on.
“Well, for now, tell me about your first marriage, Italia, when you were a child bride.”
Although I would warn Sara never to mention Italia’s name, I knew she might refer to Italia’s experience as a child bride in some of her documents. Personal accounts were the most compelling of all.
A sad expression crossed Italia’s face. “The engagement was fun. The marriage was bad. I was excited during the short engagement because everyone was making an enormous commotion over me. My groom dispatched three dolls from Egypt, along with my dowry of gold coins, bracelets, ten cows, fifteen goats, and twenty sheep. He also sent a wagon filled with food. Never had we seen such an array of food, and all of it was purchased from a big store in Sanaa. There were packages of food stored in plastic wrapping—my youngest brother nearly died after he ate the clear wrapper along with the food. He said later that it was not very flavorsome, but he thought he might develop a taste for it, so the fool kept eating. My other three brothers ate until they were almost sick.
“My mother told me nothing of what to expect regarding my duties as a wife. The wedding was very expensive because the groom paid for everything. In fact, hundreds of people came from neighboring communities. They still talk about that wedding in my village.
“I was very tired when the time came for my mother and aunties to dress me in a frilly nightgown which my groom had sent prior to the wedding. I felt pretty and pampered in that new clothing, for I had never before worn anything so fancy. After arranging everything just so, they left me alone in the marriage bed. I honestly believed that I was being put to bed to sleep. I snuggled in for the night, but within moments my eager groom entered the room. I was puzzled at first, thinking that he might be there to give me another doll. I quickly told him that three dolls was plenty. He was so excited that he could not stop grinning. Then he started taking off his clothes and I was so shocked I could not speak, for I had never seen a naked man. I remember shaking and whimpering with fear, but nothing I did discouraged him. I even told him that my father, brothers, and uncle would kill him if he didn’t leave. I knew that men out of the family were not allowed in the rooms where women slept. Of course, my naive manner made him merry because those kind of brutish men like to rape young and innocent girls under the guise of marriage.
“That man was big and powerful. In his eagerness to take me, he leapt clear across the room and into the bed. He began ripping my pretty new gown off, and before I knew what was happening, he was in. I was a very young virgin, too small to endure sex. As I screamed, he laughed. I remember the wild look in his eyes and the foam that came from his mouth and onto his lips. He was like a mad dog and I was his prey. He raped me more times than I could count. Knowing what I now know of men, I have no idea how he could have sex so many times so quickly long before the days of sex pills.
“This is the story of my first marriage. He was a man with lots of money in comparison to most men in Yemen, yet he was not nearly as wealthy as some men I later married. His only thought was to have sex. I was raped every night for two years, then he heard about another young girl, supposedly a blonde Yemeni girl whom many men wanted. That poor girl was only nine years old, but he got her. Once she was in his home, I knew some peace. That’s when I began my studies. He agreed to hire a female teacher to come to our home daily to give me some lessons. Once I learned to read, I read everything available, and still do, to this day.”
Now I understood where Italia had acquired such an extensive vocabulary for a girl whose education was limited.
My thoughts at that moment returned to the horror of Italia’s early marriage. I felt a great anger flooding my mind, for nothing is more upsetting than to brood over the plight of young girls forcefully married to grown men. Such young brides are nothing more than helpless children at the mercy of brutish men who have no compassion. I decided at that moment to join Sara in her efforts to bring change to my own country, so that an age limit for marriage might change the lives and futures of many young Saudi girls.
And at this moment, Kareem unexpectedly arrived from Jidda. I was surprised to see my husband a day early, but more surprised to see his father, as it was not common for my father-in-law to visit our home. Shielding Italia’s exposed face with my hands, I protested: “Kareem! I have company!”
Kareem would never have entered the room had he known that I was entertaining a woman not of our family. Such conduct is out of respect for the woman. While some Muslim women do not object to strange men seeing their unveiled faces, other women react visibly with tears and protests. Saudi men learn early in life to announce their entrance into their own homes.
My protest was too late. Both Kareem and his father were noticeably startled by the vision of Italia, for
rarely does one see a woman so beautiful.
Italia pushed my hands aside and peeked at Kareem and his father, seemingly pleased to see the admiration displayed on the faces of two men she did not know.
Kareem quickly recovered his composure, but his father was rendered speechless, much in the same manner that his son, Assad, had reacted to Sara’s beauty many years before. Kareem grabbed his father by the arm and both hurriedly exited the area. Thinking that the crisis had passed, I helped Italia slip into her abaya and fastened her veil over her face. I apologized for my husband and his father, although Italia was not concerned.
“Never mind, Princess,” she said. “I am not like so many Muslim women who blush at the sight of a strange man.”
“I am glad not to have offended you in my home, Italia,” I told her as I walked her toward the entrance. I then asked Mahmoud to escort my guest to her car, where her driver could return her to Ameera’s palace.
Although I would have been pleased to have learned more of Italia’s story, I assumed that I would never see the beautiful Yemeni woman again. Even if she had married Ameera’s brother, as was her plan, I might never have see her again because I am not particularly close to that part of the family
But I was wrong.
Italia’s story, and her connection to my family, did not end at that luncheon. Kareem’s father is a serial husband and marriage addict. While still married to Kareem’s mother, Noorah, and his second wife, a Lebanese woman, my father-in-law marries and divorces a new and young woman every few years. His behavior is a great shame for Kareem and Assad, but no Saudi man will confront his father over anything. In light of this, by inviting Italia into my home I had started a family crisis that would affect all our lives in ways we could never have imagined.