Princess Sultana's Daughters

by Jean Sasson

  Knowing Amani’s delicate mental state, Kareem gave his son a stern look and said that the matter was no joke, that the evil practice was a terrible problem in India, Pakistan, and China. Kareem told us he had recently read an article in a foreign newspaper that quoted startling statistics. Tens of millions of females were missing in those lands, and no one seemed particularly interested in finding out what had happened to them.

  My husband felt so strongly about the matter that he insisted upon discussing further the evil practice of infanticide by telling our children a story I was not aware he knew in such detail.

  The children moaned and said they were too old for stories from their father, but my husband insisted, saying that while statistics made little impact on our emotions, individual tales of horror brought tears to the eyes and generated action on social issues in the world community.

  Seeing my husband in a new light, I listened as he told the famous Muslim tale that had been passed down by professional storytellers from the time of Prophet Mohammed.

  “Prior to the founding of the Islamic faith by Prophet Mohammed,” Kareem said, “there was a tribe in Arabia that practiced the inhuman deed of burying alive their baby daughters in much the same manner that baby girls are murdered today in other countries.

  “Qais bin Asim was the chief of this tribe. When Chief Asim embraced Islam, he confessed a dreadful tale to Prophet Mohammed.”

  *

  “O Messenger of God! A daughter was born to my wife when I was away from my home on a journey. My wife was fearful that I might bury the child alive, and after nursing her for a few days, sent this child to her sister so that she might be cherished by another. My wife prayed that I might be merciful to the child when the girl became older.

  “When I came back home from the journey, I was told that my wife had given birth to a dead child. Thus, the matter was forgotten. During the time, the child remained being loved by her aunt. Once I went out of the house for a whole day, and my wife, thinking I would be out much longer, thought it safe to call her daughter home and enjoy her company for some time in my absence.

  “Unexpectedly, I changed my mind and came home earlier. When I entered my home I saw a very beautiful and tidy little girl playing in the house. When I looked at her I suddenly felt a surge of strong and spontaneous love for her within me. My wife sensed my feelings and thought that my blood had called to my own blood and my fatherly love and affection had sprung up naturally for the girl. I asked her, ‘Oh, my wife, whose child is this? How charming she is!’

  “Then, my wife told me about the truth of the girl. I could not control my joy and eagerly took the girl in my arms. Her mother told her that I was her father and she began loving me dearly, and calling out to me, ‘Oh, my father! My father!’ At those moments I felt an indescribable pleasure when this girl child put her arms around my neck and showed me affection.

  “Days went by in this way and the child remained being nourished by us and was free from any worry or discomfort. But there were times when this girl caught my attention and such thoughts came to my mind: I have to give this girl to another man in marriage. I will have to bear the insult that another man will know my daughter as his wife. How will I be able to face other men, knowing that my honor is ruined when this child is bedded by a man? These thoughts took hold of my mind and I was tortured incessantly. At last these thoughts aroused my indignation and made me devoid of patience with the girl. After some time of thinking, I decided that I had to do away with the stigma of shame and humiliation for me and for my ancestors.

  “I decided I had to bury the girl alive. I could not confide this plan to my wife, so I asked her to get the child ready, that I was going to take her to a feast with me. My wife gave the girl a bath, clad her in pretty clothes, and made her ready for the feast. The little girl was excited, bubbling with cheerfulness, believing that she was accompanying her father on a joyful occasion.

  “I left the house with the girl. She was leaping with joy and pleasure, holding my hand every now and then, and running ahead of me, prattling to me with squeals of innocent laughter and gaiety.

  “By this time I had become blind to the girl, and was impatient to get rid of her as soon as possible. The poor child was unaware of my sinister intentions and followed me merrily.

  “At last I stopped at a lonely spot and began to dig into the ground. The innocent girl was surprised to see me doing this and asked repeatedly, ‘Father, why are you digging in the earth?’

  “I paid no attention to her questions. She could not know that I was digging a pit to bury my own beautiful daughter with my own hands.

  “While digging in the earth, dust and sand fell upon my feet and clothes. My lovely daughter would clean the dust from my feet and clothes while saying, ‘Father, you are spoiling your clothes!’

  “I was like a deaf person and did not look at her, and pretended that I heard nothing she said. I continued my task and finally had dug a pit large enough to serve my purpose.

  “I grabbed my daughter and threw her into the pit, and began to fill the pit with great haste. The poor girl was looking at me with frightened eyes. She began to cry frantically and screamed, ‘My dear father, what is this? I have done no wrong! Father, please, do not hide me in the ground!’”

  “I kept on doing my work like a deaf, dumb, and blind person without paying any attention to her pleadings and entreaties.

  “O Great Prophet of God! I was too heartless to have pity on my own child! On the contrary, after burying her alive, I heaved a huge sigh of relief and came back satisfied that I had saved my honor and pride from humiliation.”

  When Prophet Mohammed heard this heartrending story about an innocent girl, the Holy Prophet could not control himself and tears fell upon his cheeks. He asked the Chief of the Tribe of Asim, “This is too cruel! How can one, who does not pity others, expect to be pitied by the Almighty God?”

  *

  Kareem looked into the faces of his children. “Prophet Mohammed, upon hearing this story, became very gloomy, and he related another story that was similar in its horror.”

  A man came to Mohammed and told him that he had once been very ignorant. He said that he had no knowledge and no guidance until the Prophet came and made God’s wishes known.

  This man said, “O Messenger of God! We worshiped idols and killed our children with our own hands. I once had a little and very charming daughter. When I would call her she would run into my arms laughing with joy and pleasure. One day I called this girl to me, and she readily came. I asked her to follow me, and she did. I walked too rapidly, and this girl came running with her small steps. There was a deep well at a short distance from my home. When I reached this well, I stopped and the child came to the well, trotting after me. I caught hold of that child by the hand and threw her into the well. The poor child cried and called out for me to save her. ‘Father’ was the last word on the child’s lips.”

  When the man finished his story, the Prophet wept for a long time, and the tears were so plentiful that they wet his beard.

  *

  “Our ignorance about females was washed away by the shedding of his tears, and today it is considered a vile and cruel act for a man to bury alive, to throw down into wells, or to harm his female children.”

  I hugged each of my daughters. In our hearts, it was as if the Prophet himself were near us, and it seemed as if the tragic tale of the two young girls had occurred in the present and not centuries prior to our existence. Who could doubt that our Prophet had done much to abolish unjust practices and cruel customs? He had been born in an evil time, when pagan gods were worshiped, when men took hundreds of wives, and the practice of infanticide was common. Prophet Mohammed had great difficulty in abolishing theseevil practices, and what he could not abolish, he restricted.

  I told my family that in my opinion, the traditions remaining from that era and not the Koran were what kept us women in bondage. Few people know the facts that the Koran does not call
for veiling, nor the restrictions women endure in the Muslim world. It is the traditions passed down that so hinder us from moving forward.

  A lively discussion ensued as to why the position of women was one of subjection to men, with Maha insulting her brother Abdullah by pointing out that her scores in school topped his in every subject.

  Just as Abdullah opened his mouth to respond, I warned my children not to make the conversation personal.

  Then I brought up the obvious, that the physical vulnerabilities of a woman can be traced to that most important of human accomplishments, the absorption of her strength in carrying, nursing, and rearing children. I have always known that this one fact doomed females to a subordinate status in all societies. Instead of attaining honor for being the producer of life, we are penalized!

  To my mind, this fact is the scandal of civilization!

  Abdullah, whose favorite instructor at school was a Lebanese philosophy professor, showed off his knowledge by giving us a history lesson on women’s slow climb from the beginning of life until the present moment. Women had been nothing more than beasts of burden in the earlier days, tending to the children, gathering wood for the fire, cooking the meals, making the clothes and boots, and working as pack animals when the tribes were on the march. The men, Abdullah said, risked themselves in the capture of the game, and their reward for providing the tribe with meat was to rest the remainder of the time.

  Teasing his sisters, Abdullah flexed his muscles and said that brute force kept men at the fore, and if his sisters were truly interested in equality, they should work out with his weights in our exercise studio, rather than reading books in their spare time.

  Kareem had to restrain our daughters, to keep them from piling on top of their brother. Maha dodged her father’s arms and gave a kick to Abdullah’s private parts, and Kareem and I both were astonished at her knowledge of his weakest area.

  I smiled at the antics of my children, but nevertheless my heart was gloomy as I thought of how we women had suffered from the moment of creation. From the beginning of time, we were used as slaves to do the work, and now that practice continued in many countries of the world. In my own country, women are considered nothing more than objects of beauty, sexual toys for the enjoyment of our men.

  I have personal knowledge that women are the equal of men in endurance, resourcefulness, and courage, but I am ahead of my time in the backward land of Arabia.

  Kareem became quiet. Then he broke the silence and said that he was remembering his old friend Yousif, and the wrongful path he had chosen.

  I became pleased that Kareem had witnessed Yousif’s disintegration as a civilized man, for it was as if by recognizing the evil that sprouts and take holds in society when such men gain power, my husband finally became what I wanted him to be.

  Kareem mulled over his thoughts. “Sultana, you know, it is unsuccessful men such as Yousif who mold the myth that women are the root of all evil. I know now that although this inaccurate opinion of women is attractive to men, it creates a paralyzing disillusionment that only forms a hateful barrier between the two sexes.”

  Kareem looked at his son and said, “Abdullah, I hope you will never accept such obstinate resistance to the worth of women. It will be up to your generation to abandon the subjugation of women. I am sad to say that the men of my generation have given new form to women’s oppression.”

  I could only imagine what my daughters were thinking, but Maha seemed bewildered and angry that she had been born into a society so reluctant to adjust to social change, while Amani, so recently immersed in her consoling faith, appeared burdened by the traditional sanctions that favor the subjugation of women.

  Weary of men such as Yousif and of the life they envision for women—all of whom they consider wicked and therefore strive to control—I could not reconcile myself to the dark years ahead when women would be forced to protect themselves from the growing movement of the extremists who called so loudly for their banishment from normal life.

  As I prepared myself for bed, I felt that the sparkle had gone from the occasion of Haj. This, in spite of Kareem’s newfound philosophy that spoke of enlightened liberation within the confines of our family.

  The following morning our faces were drawn from our late evening. Silent throughout our morning meal, we prepared ourselves for the most important day of Haj.

  We were driven five miles north to the hill of Arafat. This was the place where Prophet Mohammed had delivered his final sermon. Four months later he was dead.

  Disheartened, I barely moved my lips as I uttered the words of the Prophet, “You have to appear before your God, who shall demand from you an account of all your actions. Know that all Muslims are brothers. You are one brotherhood, no man shall take from his brother unless by his free consent. Keep yourselves from injustice. Let him who is present tell this to him who is absent. It may be that he who is told this afterward may remember it better than he who has now heard it.”

  Walking up the steep slope of Mount Arafat, I cried, “Here I am, O God! Here I am!” This is the day when God erases all of our sins and confers his forgiveness.

  For many long hours my family and I, with the other pilgrims, stood in the heat of the desert. We prayed and read from the Koran. My daughters, like many other pilgrims, held umbrellas over their heads to seek the shade, but I felt the need to suffer the effects of a baking sun, as a testimony of my faith. Many men and women were fainting all around me, and they were transported on stretchers to the sunstroke vans, manned by hospital attendants.

  As the sun was setting went to the area between Mount Arafat and Mina. Abdullah and Kareem gathered small stones for the following morning’s rituals, and without family communication—for each of us showed signs of physical weariness—we rested fitfully that last night and prepared ourselves for the final day of Haj.

  The last morning we chanted, “In the name of God Almighty I do this, and in hatred of the devil and his pretense! God is Great!” Everyone then began casting seven sets of the small stones gathered by Kareem and Abdullah. There are stone pillars there symbolizing the devil.

  Cleansed of our sins we then traveled to the plain of Mina. There we found sheep, goats, and camels being butchered to commemorate Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his beloved son to God. Butchers were walking among the crowds of people, giving their prices to butcher an animal. Once paid, those butchers would hold the animal, facing its head toward the Kaaba at the Holy Mosque. Then they would loudly pray, “God is Great!” Instantly they would slit the animal’s throat so that all the blood would drain out.

  Hearing the cries of the poor beasts and watching the blood run freely, poor Amani screamed as one insane and dropped to the ground in a faint. Kareem and Abdullah carried her to one of the small trailers that are set about for the faint of heart and the weak.

  They soon returned, saying that Amani was resting comfortably but was still crying, paralyzed with grief at what she deemed to be the senseless slaughter of many beasts.

  Kareem gave me an I-told-you-so look. I felt some small degree of happiness that a recognizable part of Amani’s personality had survived intact and hoped that Kareem was right in his assessment that once we departed Makkah our daughter would be her old self.

  As we watched the violent activity, I reminded myself that it was an important ritual, that the animals are sacrificed to remind the pilgrims of the lessons they have learned at Haj: sacrifice, obedience to God, mercy to all men, and faith.

  The four days of celebration now began in earnest. I knew that Muslims all over the world were joining us, their hearts sad because they were not in Makkah, too. We cut small locks of our hair to signify the end of our pilgrimage. We rushed to change our plain clothes for more colorful attire. Our men slipped on white cotton thobes.

  The feasting began in the afternoon. Amani was still pale but had recovered sufficiently to join in the festivities, though she refused to partake of any meat.

  Our family g
athered at our tent, and we exchanged small gifts and congratulated each other. We said our prayers before sitting to eat our meal of lamb with rice.

  What remained of our feast was given to the poor. We soon left to travel a short distance to our palace in Jeddah where we would continue to celebrate. From this time own our children were now entitled to place the honored title of Hajji before their first names, for they had fulfilled the fifth pillar of Islam. I felt a smile cross my face, knowing that we had pleased God by doing Haj.

  Now, I prayed for God to please me by releasing my daughter Amani from the fundamentalist leanings that seemed to grip her soul. I knew that mental instability could lend sanctity to the most extreme doctrine. I did not want my daughter sacrificed to the militant ideals, so common to many religions, which I had struggled diligently against from the moment of understanding.

  It was not to be. Whether I had pleased God or not, his decision concerning my daughter failed to please me.

  The trip to Makkah would later prove to be both a blessing and a misfortune for my family. While Kareem and I grew closer than we had been since the first few years of our marriage, and Maha and Abdullah sought to live the lives of responsible citizens, Amani became a gloomy recluse.

  Extremist

  My deepest fears were realized. Let us imagine a desert country lying in absolute darkness with many living things swarming blindly about in it.

  —BUDDHA

  Haj was completed and summer was upon us. The hot desert air had disturbed us little during our pilgrimage to Makkah, for our minds were on other, more important matters connected to our spiritual oneness with God.

  From Makkah we traveled to our palace in Jeddah, thinking to return to Riyadh the following day. It was not to be. While I was organizing the palace staff for our departure, Kareem entered the room and said that he had canceled our flight, for he had been informed by the air traffic controllers that there was a particularly turbulent sandstorm moving from the Rub Al Khali desert toward the city of Riyadh. Even without the effects of a sandstorm, nearly four thousand tons of sand routinely settle on Riyadh every month. Wanting to avoid the terrible sandstorm that would soon assault our capital, dumping sand that stings the eyes, fills the pores, and covers everything, I was pleased that we would remain in Jeddah despite the fact that Jeddah’s humidity is more oppressive than the dry desert heat of Riyadh.