by Jean Sasson
Abdullah glared at his sister and cuttingly remarked that perhaps Jafer felt Fayza’s feminine perfection was worth the quitting of heaven.
Caring deeply for both Jafer and Fayza, Maha became hostile to anyone who criticized the lovers, declaring that no man or government should have authority over true love.
Abdullah and I pleaded with Kareem to make contact with Jafer, to give him a warning to flee. I told Kareem that Fayza’s male relatives needed more time to accept the crucial fact that Fayza now belonged with another. Their extreme anger could not prevail; time would ease their rage.
It was not to be. My husband infuriated me, remaining true to the Saudi male policy of accepting any injustice, if that injustice involved a man’s obsession with his women or the family honor. Thinking to incite him to action, I insulted Kareem, telling him that I was disappointed to discover I had wed a man who failed to probe the deeper complexities of life, who instead was a dull, unfeeling type that tended to remain on the surface of things.
As I left my husband standing openmouthed in amazement at my attack, I could not resist one final barb. “Kareem, how can you have no conflict between logic and feeling? Are you not human?”
Silently I retreated, but secretly I had Abdullah take action. At my urging, he searched Kareem’s office and found the information that had been provided by the investigative services looking for Jafer and Fayza.
Triumphant, we were careful to hide ourselves from Kareem and Amani, making our telephone call during the long evening prayer, knowing that Kareem was in the mosque and Amani locked in her room, facing Makkah, saying her prayers.
With shaking fingers, Abdullah punched the number of the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada, where Jafer and Fayza were known to be registered.
As I watched the brooding face of my beautiful son patiently waiting for the hotel operator to ring the room, I was possessed by the fever a mother has for her children, wishing for Abdullah’s pain to leave his body and enter mine.
Jafer answered the telephone!
Abdullah tortured himself trying to find the right words to make Jafer understand that he was in great danger. His friend was dismayed at their rapid discovery but felt secure in his married state. “What can they do now?” he asked Abdullah.
When Abdullah repeated the question to me, I grabbed the telephone from my son’s hand. “They can do plenty, Jafer,” I yelled. “Fouad’s honor has been attacked, his only daughter has vanished with a man not thought suitable! Do not be a fool! You are an Arab, you are aware what reactions such anguish will bring to an Arab father!”
Jafer tried to soothe my fears, claiming that their love would see them through any persecution.
Fayza came to the telephone, speaking softly into the receiver, which Jafer still held in his hand. Fayza’s sultry voice told of the wonderful love that had prevailed, in spite of the substantial obstacles placed in its path by the laws of our land.
“Fayza, you are still a youth of twenty and have loosened yourself from our ancient traditions. Your father cannot do this. Fouad is a man of desert mentality, and he can only flow down the main stream. In his mind, you have committed a shocking offense. Leave that place! Meet with the men of your family at a later date.”
My pleas for the lovers to vanish made no impact. How weak my words must have seemed to their brave spirits. Courageous, Jafer vowed he would face the fury of Fayza’s family.
I returned the telephone to my son, thinking that I had done all I could.
I thought, is it a glory or a disaster that they have no suspicion yet of the extent of their tragedy? I realized the narrow limits of their lovers’ vision. Jafer and Fayza were blinded, believing that the strength of their great love could conquer the challenge of her furious and disapproving family.
Fretting in silence, I could only hope that Jafer and Fayza would be able to delay destiny for a while.
It was four days before Fouad returned to the kingdom.
His voice low and uneasy, Kareem called me from his offices and reported that Fouad and his sons had returned from America.
My throat closed around the words I could not ask.
After a dry pause, Kareem added that Fouad had returned with his daughter but without her husband.
My voice returned. “Is Jafer dead?” I asked, wondering already how we would break the cruel news to Abdullah.
“No. Jafer is not dead,” Kareem answered, his voice causing me to doubt his words even as he spoke them.
I was quiet, waiting for the news I was not sure I wanted to hear.
“Sultana, I am coming home. Together, we will tell Abdullah what has happened.”
“What happened?” I screamed, thinking that I could not bear to wait for Kareem to make the twenty-five-minute drive from his office to our home.
I heard a click and the line went dead. I told myself that my husband’s news must be dreadful, for Kareem, like most Arabs, had a habit of putting aside unpleasant truths until the last possible moment.
Fouad had told my husband little, only that there had been a minor scuffle in Jafer and Fayza’s hotel room, and that Jafer had been left unconscious but without serious injury.
Fayza? Naturally, his daughter had been traumatized by the incident and was now at their palace under sedation. Without the influence of Jafer, Fouad believed his daughter would quickly return to her senses.
I looked at Kareem and announced with certainty, “Jafer is dead!”
“Nonsense. They were in America.”
Two weeks later we received a telephone call from Jafer, who had returned to Lebanon, and we finally learned the truth of the matter.
Jafer’s words to me were, “All is lost.” He paused. “Except for my skin, which is safe.”
“Abdullah!” I called out. “It is Jafer! Come quickly!”
Kareem, Maha, and I circled Abdullah as he spent long moments quietly listening to his dearest friend, comforting the caller with reassurances. “What could you do? You had no choice.”
With a start, I heard my son say, “I am coming!” stating that he would soon be on his way to Lebanon, that nothing could keep him from his friend’s side.
I grabbed Abdullah’s arms and began to shake my head no, vigorously.
My feet left the floor as Kareem yanked me from my son’s face.
Abdullah put the telephone on hold. With tears running down his face, my son buried his head in his hands and began to weep bitter tears. His words were muffled, difficult to understand.“Jafer is ruined! He is ruined!”
“What is this about Lebanon?” I inquired, too agitated at the thought of Abdullah traveling to that country to consider Jafer’s condition.
“Hush, Sultana,” Kareem ordered.
Abdullah finally calmed himself and explained how Fouad and his sons had taken Fayza from Jafer.
The telephone call had awakened them in the night. Fayza’s father and brothers were in the lobby. “Could they come up, please?” Fouad’s tone was civil; Jafer was encouraged and felt no fear of physical assault.
When Jafer opened the door, he felt pleased and smiled.
Fouad and his sons took no time to talk. Provoked by Jafer’s smiling face, which he now feared they had mistaken for a smirk, Fayza’s brothers set upon him. Caught by surprise, Jafer was no match for four men.
Jafer said he was hit on the head with a heavy object, and blackness overcame him.
Hours later, when he revived, his new bride and her male relatives were gone.
Jafer said he knew all was lost once they had stolen Fayza away from him. He was well aware that it is illegal in Saudi Arabia for a Saudi girl to marry a man who is not a Saudi national. He could receive no legal assistance in claiming Fayza as his own, despite their married state, for their union was not recognized in Saudi Arabia. Had Jafer been a Saudi and Fayza a Palestinian, there would have been no difficulty, for Saudi men can marry whom they wish.
In spite of that knowledge, Jafer flew to London, making a desp
erate attempt to reenter the kingdom, but was told that his resident’s visa was no longer valid.
Jafer, having feared Kareem’s scorn, now overcame his fear and asked to speak to my husband. He wondered if Kareem, with his princely status, could help?
Kareem said he could but would not. Now that he knew Jafer was alive, he had no intention of placing him in a position that would ensure his murder. Kareem warned Jafer that Fouad and his sons would certainly kill him if he returned to the kingdom.
Kareem had never said so, but I knew he would never forgive Jafer for his deception. My husband had suffered acute embarrassment because a trusted employee had conquered and stolen the beloved only daughter of his long-time friend and partner. Only his intense love for Abdullah had kept him silent.
Never one to promise more than he could give, Kareem recommended that Jafer try to find a life for himself in Lebanon, now that it seemed the country was finally returning to peace.
“How sad,” I said. “It is the end of a magnificent love story. And now Jafer stands alone against an overwhelming power.”
Standing quietly to the side of the room, my son was an unforgettable figure clad in his white thobe. He was straight and tall and suddenly looked a man. His face was sad, and with dramatic intensity, Abdullah said no, that was not the case. Jafer would never be alone, for he would not forsake his friend. He was going to visit him in Lebanon.
Kareem and I refused our son permission to travel to that country, but Abdullah seemed not to care and said that he would go nevertheless.
Such a trip would invite a thousand calamities! I was miserable as I prepared myself for bed, plotting to stop my son from his sentimental journey.
I should have known I would fail, for it is impossible to rule a son in blossoming manhood. Such youthful vitality does not easily accept defeat.
Abdullah
We will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish.
—KAHLIL GIBRAN
After the distressing incident with Jafer and Fayza, I under-went a persistent and depressing change, retreating into myself. My son, Abdullah, plotted his trip to Lebanon with such inspired devotion that I came to believe him when he said nothing would hinder the potentially perilous journey.
Kareem cautioned restraint, for he said our son’s ardor would cool when the difficulties of travel to Lebanon became more apparent. I grew cross with my husband, and with a voice raised in disbelief asked how he could remain so calm while those to whom we had given life tortured my mind with grief.
With a mysterious half smile, Kareem reminded me that Abdullah’s passport was locked in our safe. It would be impossible for our son to leave the kingdom.
For these reasons, my resistance to Abdullah’s plan was sporadic, unorganized, and ineffectual. In a matter of days, my once close relationship with my son became one of strained silences.
Everyone who lived in our palace fumed and despaired. While Abdullah packed his suitcases, his sister Amani mourned to see how little she could do to improve the morals of her brother and oldersister. Spurred on by her faith, Amani began to spy on our employees. Horrified by what she called the looseness of our staff of sixty servants—for there are many secret romantic encounters among those who serve us—Amani set out with blunt directness to convert our Christian and Hindu servants into the superior Muslim faith.
After a hundred quarrels with my daughter over her inconsiderate and indiscriminate coercion of those who practice a religion different from our own, I finally acknowledged that I had met my match in Amani, who continued to outdistance her mother in sheer perseverance.
I spent many hours in the solitude of my room, mulling over the lives of my children.
When my three offspring were infants, they gave my life great joy and meaning. In the days of their early childhood, only Maha generated chaos, and I had no reason to anticipate peril at every turn. In those pleasurable times, moments of parental happiness vastly overshadowed the dark intervals of my fear and worry over the fates of these small beings to whom I had given life.
Now that my children were nearing adulthood, I came to the frightful conclusion that the only prerequisite to contented motherhood seemed to be a precarious dependence upon chance, for nothing I said or did altered my children’s unpredictable behavior.
As one who has enormous difficulty adjusting to failure, I took to my bed, complaining to Kareem that nothing in my life was progressing as I had hoped. My psychological decline came at a time when Kareem’s business was quickly expanding. As his free moments were limited, he was ill equipped to console and liberate my soul from melancholy, that mental interloper that had intruded and dismantled my joyful pursuit of happiness.
I felt increasingly alone. Suppressing every display of emotion other than self-pity, I began to sleep poorly and to overeat, gaining unwanted pounds. Continually ignored by those whom I was attempting to manipulate, I became progressively bad-tempered with my family and the servants. I even acquired a disgusting habit of twisting, pulling, and biting on my hair. The length of my hair became shorter, and the thickness became thinner, until Kareem, after noticing my habit, sarcastically commented that he thought I had employed a new and more enthusiastic hairdresser when in reality I was behaving like a child by pulling it out.
I was quick to snap an ugly retort, unfairly accusing Kareem of loving none but himself, which was why I, alone, had to keep watch over our children.
Gently impatient, Kareem got a distant look in his eyes, and I felt as if he left me without leaving the room. When his spirit returned, he said that he had been trying to remember a comforting verse he had once read about the rearing of spirited children. Kareem recited, “You may give your children love, but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts.”
“Kahlil Gibran,” I said.
“What?”
“That verse, it is from The Prophet. And it was I who read that particular verse to you while we were awaiting the birth of our firstborn.”
Kareem’s stern face softened as a smile parted his lips, and I wondered if he was remembering the happy moments so long ago that we had spent with our infant son.
That was not the case, for he complimented me by saying, “Sultana, you are an amazing creature. How can you remember such a thing?”
Kareem had always marveled at my memory, for once I’d read or heard something, my recall never failed in accuracy.
I was pleased with his recognition, but the causes of mydiscontent were too deep and varied to be so easily dissolved. In a collision with my children, my mad passion had blinded me to my husband’s clear and logical mind. With no one else to battle, I continued to snarl at my husband. In contempt I compared Kareem with Nero, the mad fiddler of Rome, blind to disaster even when his kingdom was aflame.
Angered by my repeated insults, Kareem thought better of his solicitous sympathy and left me alone to consider his parting observation, which was not comforting. His spiteful words were, “Sultana, you have it all. Yet, you fear everything and understand nothing. I predict that you will, one day, be committed to an institution built especially for the insane.”
I hissed like a snake and Kareem left, not to return for two days.
Shortly after our heated exchange, I was unconsciously twisting my hair with one hand while idly thumbing through one of my many foreign publications when I read an article in an Ameri- can magazine that told of a rare disease that strikes females only, causing women to pull their hair out until they become completely bald. Once bald, those unfortunate women then progress pulling out and eating their eyebrows, eyelashes, and body hair.
I let go of my hair. Did I have that disease? I ran to view my image in the mirror, and to search through my scalp for bald spots. My hair did seem thin. Now I was truly worried, for I had never cured myself of vanity and had no inclination to be bald! Besides, in the Muslim religion, it is forbidden for a woman to be bald.
Time proved that I did not have t
he disease, for unlike the women in the article, my attachment to beauty helped me to quickly cure myself of the habit.
Despite retaining my hair, I feared that I had lost my passion for life, and I told myself that if my debilitating depression was not conquered, my old age would be premature and triumphant. Feeling sorry for myself, I imagined that I would suffer a slow death through the gradual diminution of my senses.
I was saved from my self-destructive behavior by my dearest sister.
Sara, a contemplative genius, was sensitive to my dulled lust for life, and she began to spend many hours by my side, humoring me with her undivided attention. Sara understood my feelings perfectly and knew that worry over Abdullah and Amani now ruled my life.
My sister looked upon me with great pity when I tearfully told her, “Sara, if I had to live my life over again, I do not believe that I could survive it.”
Sara’s mouth curved upward in a half smile as she wryly observed, “Sultana, few of our family would survive if you were to live your life again.”
Our laughter filled the room.
My sister was so dear. Sara was not without problems of her own. She herself was burdened with an unruly child, yet she came to my aid at a time of great need. While four of my sister’s five children strove for perfection, Nashwa, Sara’s teenage daughter, born on the same day as Amani, relished controversy.
In strictest confidence, Sara told me to be thankful that Amani had attached herself to religion, for Sara had the opposite problem with Nashwa. Her daughter was wildly attracted to members of the opposite sex, and twice Asad had discovered her meeting Saudi teenage boys in a music shop at a shopping center in the city.
Tears streamed down Sara’s face as she confided in me that her daughter flirted outrageously with every male who entered their palace grounds. In a voice filled with disbelief, she said that the week before, Nashwa had begun an explicit sexual conversation with two of the younger Filipino drivers. One of Nashwa’s brothers had overheard the conversation, and when confronted, Nashwa boldly acknowledged her action, stating that she had to do something to interrupt the monotony of life in Saudi Arabia.