by Jean Sasson
However, there is an area reserved for members of the royal family, so there are many senior royals there, too.
After the body is in the grave, it is then covered with wood or stones, then each mourner will place three handfuls of soil into the grave.
It is forbidden to decorate the grave or erect a large monument.
In Islam there is a saying, “To God we belong, and to God we will return.”
My father had returned to God.
Epilogue
How I longed to attend my father’s funeral. I have heard of desperately miserable women who hide behind bushes or buildings to watch the proceedings from a distance, but I obeyed the rules of Islam and kept away however much I wished to say a final good-bye. I felt keen pain and grief that while my husband and son could, and did, attend my father’s funeral, my daughters and I could not. But there was nothing to be done, so I accepted with the best temper disposition possible.
While I felt the urge to wail and cry loudly, I did not. Islam demands believers to show patience and acceptance of Allah’s will when faced with the calamity of the death of any relative. All acts that show discontent and dissatisfaction with Allah’s verdict, such as wailing or tearing clothes or hair, is forbidden. Only the calmest displays of sorrow are permitted.
And so I remained at home in my quarters, alone and praying quietly for my father. I knew from our teachings that he had already met with the angels to discuss his deeds, both good and bad, while he lived on Earth. So his new life was opening up to him, whatever form it might take, although I prayed that my father was on his way to paradise. Although I found him lacking as a husband to my mother, and as a father to his daughters, I know that he never took anything that did not belong to him, and he never murdered another person, and as far as I know he never tried to harm others in an intentional and cruel manner.
Some hours after the funeral had ended, and the family men had dispersed, Kareem came to me. I was greatly comforted by my husband, the person who knows me best. Kareem is so familiar with the thoughts in my mind that I feel he has known me for my entire life, although I had lived sixteen years on this earth before we first met. But knowing me from that age, and through the heartbreak of losing my mother, there is nothing of my past of which my husband is unaware. This long history between us means that Kareem is a great consolation in my life.
I looked at him and, with my voice breaking with emotion, said, “I am glad we are not divorcing.”
Kareem pulled me into his arms and nuzzled my ear, whispering, “I love you more than I could love any other woman on Earth. You may try my patience, my love, but you are my life, Sultana.”
How glad I was to hear his words.
I knew that I must remain in mourning for three days, which is the time allotted for a woman who loses her father, so my behavior could not be unseemly.
Muslims are instructed: “It is not legal for a woman who believes in Allah and the Last Day to mourn for more than three days for any dead person except her husband, for whom she should mourn for four months and ten days. During this three days of mourning, women are supposed to abandon all that is normal when it comes to adornments or ornaments.” And so I did as taught. I was wearing the most basic black dress. I had on no perfume. My face was bare of makeup. No jewelry decorated my body. I had even removed my wedding ring.
Kareem and I pushed our emotions to a quiet place in our hearts and left my quarters arm in arm. To our great relief, our three children and four grandchildren were waiting for us in the largest of our living rooms. Abdullah was sitting beside Little Sultana, who looked very much the young lady at age eight, soon to be nine. Prince Faisal and Prince Khalid were playing with a tent and camel set Kareem had found for sale in Qatar when he was there for business, and had given to them a few months before. Both were cute toddlers and had no idea that it was a time of sorrow. Amani was sitting in front of her brother, Abdullah, and beside her sister, Maha, who was cooing at Princess Basinah. I felt Kareem cringe beside me when Amani exclaimed, “Little Kitten, smile darling, for your grandparents.” I knew that my husband wished to reprimand her, to tell her to please call Basinah by her proper name, but thankfully he ignored her habit of calling our granddaughter a kitten, something that irritated us both.
We have nothing against kittens or cats, for the Prophet Muhammad himself was tender and kind to cats. He even kept cats, and his favorite was named Muezza. In fact, once when the time to pray was called, Muezza happened to be asleep on one of the sleeves of the Prophet’s robes. While the Prophet wanted to wear the robe to prayers, he could not bear to disturb the sleeping Muezza. So he surprised those around him with his kindness when he cut off the sleeve where Muezza was sleeping and went to prayers with a one-sleeved robe, while Muezza slept peacefully.
There are other witnesses who said that the Prophet gave sermons while Muezza rested upon his lap. Most surprising, he did his ablutions from the same water where Muezza drank.
Islam teaches Muslims to treat cats respectfully, and to cherish and love them. If one mistreats a cat, then that is considered a severe sin in Islam.
So Kareem and I tried to temper our responses to Amani’s nickname for our greatly loved granddaughter, for we felt that the Prophet would approve of Amani’s great love for cats.
Little Sultana was sweetly subdued, getting up from her seat to come to her grandparents. Without speaking a word, she clung to us both, with one arm around Kareem’s legs and the other around my waist. The forlorn expression in her little eyes said all that she needed to say. If those she loved were sad, then she was sad. Little Sultana was of the age to know that when someone died, we would not see them again, so she knew the sobering implications of death. And although she had never enjoyed a relationship with my father, she had never forgotten the night at our palace when Father showed obvious delight by her appearance and her behavior. She had been reminded of that evening many times when we were making an effort to let her know that she was as important as any male child in our family.
I felt miserable that of all my grandchildren only Little Sultana would have a memory of my father. Prince Faisal and Prince Khalid were still toddlers on the evening Father had visited my home, so he would never feel alive in their thoughts. And so the two continued playing happily, unaware that death had visited our family and that their maternal great-grandfather was a man they would never know other than through the memories of the generations before them. Princess Basinah had been so recently born that Father would always be a distant figure in our family’s past, no more alive than al-Saud ancestors who had lived and died hundreds of years before our time.
I felt doubly sad that my father had never expressed a true interest in coming to know my children or grandchildren. Yet who could blame him, for he had been married many times, and had taken a number of concubines, and most had given him children. There are too many direct family members to know them all!
A huge negative of a man having many wives—and numerous children by those wives—is that there is little time to give specific attention to the individual children and grandchildren. Most men select their firstborn son, and sometimes their firstborn daughter, to lavish much attention and all the rest are merely a number in a long line of numbers.
Thankfully, Kareem and I were the parents of only three children and four grandchildren, so we had time for all; none were numbers for us, but real alive and breathing individuals whom we cherished.
On that evening, Kareem and I sat and derived some joy from visiting with them.
My children showed an interest in their maternal grandfather for the first time, pleading with me to share some little stories. I was taken aback, for most stories embedded in my mind about my father were unpleasant and not stories one would relish sharing. I thought of a few tidbits regarding my father and his beloved horses, and a few trips he had taken our family on when I was young. My children most enjoyed the story of my eating the bitter dandelion root and could not believe that
I was so foolish about such a thing. All claimed to know that the dandelion was not to be eaten when most bitter, but I doubted them on this point and asked where they had heard such. All claimed not to remember from where they got their knowledge.
After a time, we sat quietly and had tea and ate a few dates to give us strength.
I was so tired from the emotions of the past twenty-four hours that I soon retired, leaving Kareem to visit with our children. My children promised to return the following day, for they wished to be with me during the three-day mourning period. Little Sultana volunteered to remain the night and sleep with me. “Grandmother,” she said, “I will tickle your back so you can sleep better.” I held back my laughter. Little Sultana has long, delicate fingers that feel wonderful when she runs them over my back. She had done this for me in the past when I was stricken with a headache, which I had assured her was cured by her tickling, so since that time she believed that her fingers could cure all maladies.
“Darling, thank you. But on this night I will sleep soundly. Your father will take you home to your mother, where you will rest well, too.”
The little darling nodded solemnly and clasped her father’s hand in her own.
And so I went to my bed and slept more soundly than I had believed possible. Exhaustion, I believe, made this so.
***
The three days of mourning for my father passed quickly, and I attempted to return to a normal place in my life, although there is never a good time to lose a parent. There is a sense of true loss for a child when a parent leaves this earth, even if the child is of an older age.
One week after my father passed away, I was sitting in my office organizing one of my charities when Maha and Amani walked in together. My daughters had seemingly developed a more cordial relationship since the huge blowup when Maha had been forced to return from Syria.
Both daughters had charity on their mind, and for this I was glad, as I believe that there is no better good or greater pleasure than that which one finds from helping others.
Amani had interested Maha in their cousin Princess Sabrina’s project in Pakistan. Maha, in fact, was planning to travel to that country soon and work closely with Sabrina. Amani, the mother of two young children who needed their mother on a daily basis, was unlikely to spend time there.
Maha had also piqued Amani’s interest in the desperate refugees who had lost everything—their homes, their jobs, their countries, and in too many cases the lives of those they loved. Amani and Maha were discussing how best to help, as both liked to know the individual stories of those they assisted rather than donate money to organizations who sometimes fail to notice the individuals behind the need.
I was pleased and happy with both my girls. Just as I was telling them about my own charity, Little Sultana walked in the door holding a single piece of paper in her small hands. Her little face appeared sad, which immediately caused me to stand and walk toward her.
“Grandmother,” she said, “am I old enough to have my own charity?’
“Darling, I do not think so.” I smiled at the precious girl. “What charity are you thinking to begin?’
“I want to be like you, Grandmother. I want to help girls and women.” Little Sultana held out the paper for me to see. “Like this poor girl. She needs a lot of help, Grandmother,” she said.
I felt a tingling in my head and shoulders, worried that somehow or another Little Sultana was in possession of some of the photographs of the acid-scarred women from Pakistan. I took the paper from Little Sultana’s hand and gasped. There was a hideously injured young woman sprawled across a bed, with a swollen head and face, both partially covered in bloodstained bandages.
“Where did you get this?’
“I found it in some papers in Mommy’s office.”
I did not know that Zain was taking up a charity, or even had the time to consider doing such work. Zain was a very active and busy mother, and was also a devoted wife to my son. Abdullah did not like to travel without Zain, and he was an active traveler. This was the first I had heard a single mention that Zain might be interested in working in any kind of assistance program.
Little Sultana enlightened me. “This poor girl was attacked by some very mean men.”
“How do you know that, sweetheart? Perhaps she was in a car accident.”
“No. Some men did some bad things to her and threw her off a bus.”
“Let me take this from you, darling. I will investigate.”
“Once you investigate, I must help,” she insisted. “I want to help.”
I had not noticed her little purse hanging from her shoulder. With her words, she took her small handbag and laid it on a chair, opening it to reveal many thousands of riyals, which would certainly be hundreds of British pounds or U.S. dollars when converted.
“Little Sultana, what is this?”
Amani and Maha exchanged looks of surprise, but said nothing.
“Little Sultana, where did you get this money?”
“I have a safe that my father gave me. Anytime anyone gives me money, I put it in that safe. I have lots more there, but I wanted to show you and ask how many girls we might help with this money.”
“Darling, you can help, but it is best for you to be a bigger girl before you think of such serious issues,” I suggested.
“No, Grandmother. I want to help now. I am a big girl. You told me that I am a big girl.”
I really did not know what to do because such decisions about their daughter should be left to Abdullah and Zain. “Where is your father, darling?”
“He is sitting by the pool and eating fruit.”
“Does he know about this picture?” I waved the photograph of the injured women.
“No, Grandmother. But you can tell him. He will be glad that I care about girls and women because he told me that you are a special person who helps women all over the world. He told me that one day I could do the things that you do, which is to make many sad girls very happy.”
I felt very pleased that my son appreciated the work I do, but I was at a loss about Little Sultana. She really was too young to know anything about such horrific stories. She was still a child, and I wanted her childhood to be innocent and free of the knowledge that one learns soon enough when one becomes an adult.
I looked quickly around the room and found a nice pink stationary box. I removed the stationary and held the box out to Little Sultana. “All right, darling. Auntie Maha will help you to count your money and note the amount. Then put your money in this pretty pink box and we will keep it in my safe until we decide the best thing you can do with it.”
I looked at Maha. “Maha, help Little Sultana. I need to speak with Abdullah.”
My two daughters and Little Sultana were counting the rumpled riyal bills as I left the room with the photograph of the injured woman in my hand.
Abdullah was startled to hear the story, although he explained to me the source of the photograph. Zain’s cousin was firmly involved with an organization in India, and she had spoken with Zain about contributing money to help with women in need in that country. Clearly, one of the papers she had presented to Zain had accidentally been left for Little Sultana to find. Abdullah gave Zain a quick call, and she was clueless as to how Little Sultana had found the paper, but she did say that her daughter had been playing in a nearby room when Zain was talking to her cousin. Evidently, Little Sultana had done less playing than her mother believed, and much more listening. She had absorbed the conversation and knew that there were women in India who were being grievously harmed. She wanted to help.
I knew something of the ongoing violence against women in India. There had been a rash of news reports over the past year about the callous rape of girls in that country who were doing nothing more than taking a bus or walking home. The Indian government wanted to brush the outrages under a rug, saying that all the stories did were humiliate their country.
It appeared to me that the governments of both Pakistan and In
dia refused to address the problem behind the rising instances of rape and violence against their women, and the problem was that the men who did the criminal deeds were not punished. It was open season against innocent women in Pakistan and in India.
What is wrong with men of this world? I silently screamed to myself. Women’s needs are ignored. Violence against women is ignored. The murder of innocent women is ignored. The only wish of the Pakistani and Indian governments is for women to accept whatever happens to them and to remain quiet. Any uproar about the harmful discrimination against women is met with silence, or even disproval. It is a scandal and a shame against the men of both countries.
Abdullah said that he and Zain would speak with Little Sultana, and if she wanted to contribute money to the cousin’s charity in India, she would be allowed to do so, although it would be some years before they would consent for her to know further details of the abuse.
My precious granddaughter had enormous empathy in her heart for others. She had always had a unique kindness, noticing when people were in need of a sympathetic word. For this, I was most happy and looked forward to the day when she could join me in my quest to relieve the pain, grief, and anguish that so commonly visits women.
But for now, she was too young.
While walking to my quarters to advise Little Sultana that her father wished to speak with her, and that she would be allowed to contribute funds, I was pleasantly surprised to see Fatima walking down the hallway, with Afaf and Abir, her two precious twin daughters, following closely behind. Fatima once called herself the unhappiest woman who had ever lived, and she had reason for her unhappiness. But after keeping custody of her two daughters, and obtaining a position working in our summer palace in Taif, she now wore a bright smile and laughed constantly about one thing or another. I could easily name her the happiest woman I knew. She was a woman whose life had gone from one extreme to the other, from bad to good.
She was exceedingly intelligent as well. She basically ran the entire household staff at Taif with a perfection none could have guessed. I only wish I had a Fatima managing all my homes. Fatima’s two daughters were enrolled in a good school, and both were excellent students. The girls were two years younger than Little Sultana and from the beginning the three children had enjoyed an instant rapport.