by Jean Sasson
Asad had been forced to fire the young drivers and to employ older Muslim men from Egypt who would respect the Muslim way: to ignore the willful women of the house.
Just that morning, Sara had overheard her daughter speaking with a female friend on the telephone. The two girls were discussing in great detail the pleasing physique of the girl’s eldest brother. It seemed to Sara that Nashwa had a crush on this boy, and now my sister had to reconsider or regulate her daughter’s visits to that home.
Sara’s face was drawn with worry over the outcome of Nashwa’s loose morals and unbecoming conduct, saying she had often heard that one of nature’s oversights was that beauty and virtue often arrive in separate packages. Nashwa, my sister said, was an innocent-faced beauty who was sadly lacking in virtue.
I had to agree that my difficulties with Amani paled in comparison with my sister’s problems with Nashwa. There was some consolation in the knowledge that Amani’s piety had the approval of the religious authorities, while Nashwa’s activities could embroil Sara and Asad in that never-ending web of the Saudi religious and legal system.
I was once again overtaken by the thought that Nashwa was my true child, while Amani must be attached by blood to Sara. I thought to ask Sara about the matter, but had a moment of anxiety that an actual exchange of daughters might result from my baseless speculation. I reminded myself that in my country it is better to wrestle with a persistent religious fanatic than with a young girl habituated to sexual stimulus.
In an effort to raise my sister’s spirits, I told her that too often when dealing with our children, we parents see little but the defects. I thought to mention some of Nashwa’s good traits, but could find nothing to say.
Sara and I were still for a time, looking at each other. We knew instinctively that we understood each other perfectly.
With her daughter in mind, my sister began to ponder the progress of civilization. Our children had been sheltered from all worldly concerns, lavished with creature comforts, provided with intelligent pursuits and moral guidance, yet the careful organization of their lives had made little impact on their development.
Sara said she had come to the conclusion that human character was linked to nothing more than genetics, and that her children might as well have grown like weeds instead of meticulously tended plants. “Besides,” she said with a laugh, “the radicals of one age become the reactionaries of the next, so who knows the eventual outcome of our offspring?”
Since it always lightens one’s burdens to be reminded of another’s troubles, even if that person is one greatly loved, I began to feel more cheerful than I had in days.
I laughed and agreed with my sister, saying that the seeds we planted had not all flowered. Thinking that all of life is in God’s hands anyway, I promised myself I would worry no longer.
Sara went to inquire about her youngest children, who were playing in our palace playground, which is located next to Amani’s zoo, while I promised to bathe and dress myself for a visit to Fayza. Neither Sara nor I had seen the poor girl since she was forced to return to the kingdom, though we had heard, with some surprise, that she had recovered and was now seeing close friends and relatives.
Enjoying uncommon peace for the first time in days, I was unprepared for a shocking telephone call from my husband. His voice was alarmingly intense. “Sultana, go to the safe and locate Abdullah’s passport.”
“Why?” I asked.
Kareem told me to shut up and do as he said.
Thinking the worst, I dropped the telephone receiver to the floor and ran rapidly into my husband’s home office, which is located on the first floor in our home. My hands refused to cooperate with my memory, and it required three attempts to open the combination safe.
My husband kept his passport in his office safe, while mine and the children’s were kept at home.
My fingers riffled through the various documents and papers.
Abdullah’s passport was missing!
I was then struck with the horrible realization that I could account for only two out of four passports. Looking closely, I saw that Maha’s passport had disappeared along with that of her brother.
What was going on? How had this happened? No one, other than Kareem and I, knew the combination of this particular safe.
“No!” I said to myself when I could not find the special papers of permission Kareem had signed for the women of his family to travel outside the kingdom without the company of a male member of our family.
I was confused. Was Maha traveling alone? Or did she and her brother flee the kingdom together?
The private telephone in Kareem’s office began to ring.
My husband had tired of waiting. When I picked up the receiver, he shouted, “Sultana! What is going on?”
I told Kareem of my unsettling discovery.
“And the dollars?”
I had not thought to look for the large amount of money we kept in dollars in our safe for the purpose of fleeing the kingdom should a religious revolution ever grip our land. It was money we hoped we would never be forced to use to bribe safe exit from our country.
I opened the large drawer at the top of the safe. It was as Kareem had expected. The money was no longer there! As our fears of unrest in Arab lands had grown, the money had increased. Abdullah had taken over a million dollars in cash from his parents’ safe. Had my son lost all his good sense?
“The dollars have disappeared,” I glumly reported.
“Go, see if Maha is at school. I am on the way to the airport.”
I cried out, “Hurry!” I knew that my son was on his way to Lebanon. But how was Maha involved in this? Surely Abdullah was not taking his sister with him to that dangerous land. I was giddy with fear and confusion.
“I will try to call you from the car. Now. Do as I say. Find Maha!”
I fetched a simple dress and hastily pulled it over my head. Reaching for my abaaya, veil, and shayla, I threw on my outer garments as I ran through the house, calling out for my sister Sara to accompany me to Maha’s school. I yelled at Connie to find Mousa, the youngest of our Egyptian drivers, a man who, I knew from past experience, could be urged to break the city speed limit.
Maha’s school was fifteen minutes by automobile from our palace, but we arrived in ten minutes. Along the route, I told Sara what little I knew of the situation.
The seventeen girls in Maha’s history class were taking notes while listening to a male instructor, who appeared on a large television screen in the center of the room. The lesson was being given via video, since it is forbidden in Saudi Arabia for a male professor to come into personal contact with female students.
Maha’s face turned crimson red as I burst into her classroom, calling her name. Seeking the face of my child, I hovered over her desk and said, “Maha! You are here!”
Maha pushed my arms from her neck, exclaiming, “Where did you think I was?”
I told the headmistress that I needed my daughter to return to our home. Without a hint of curiosity about my unusual behavior, she calmly instructed Maha to gather her books. She asked if Maha would be away for longer than a week. Since I did not know, I said that she would. The supervisor said in that case she would have Maha’s instructors save my daughter’s lessons for her return.
“Mother! What is going on?” Maha wanted to know as we settled ourselves in the car.
“I feared that you were with Abdullah.”
“Abdullah?”
Maha, only seventeen years old at the time, was a junior at a girls’ high school. My son, at age nineteen, was supposed to be at his university, an institution that girls did not attend. Maha looked at me in astonishment. “Mother, you are behaving like a crazy person.” She looked at Sara for confirmation. “Auntie, what is wrong?”
Sara explained the mystery of the passports, saying that we could not understand why Abdullah had taken hers.
My sister’s eyes met mine across the head of my daughter. Sara’s thoughts matched m
ine perfectly.
“Fayza!” We uttered her name in unison.
I told the driver to take us to the home of Fouad and Samia. “Quickly!”
Abdullah’s plans ran clear through my mind. My son had taken Maha’s passport for Jafer’s wife, Fayza! Abdullah had plotted her rescue. It was Fayza who was traveling on Maha’s passport. Fayza was going to Lebanon with my son, not Maha! With her face veiled, it is possible for a Saudi woman to travel abroad using the passport of another.
When Maha understood the significance of her brother’s deed, she pleaded for us to return to our home.
“Mother! Let them go!”
It was a difficult moment. If I made no move to notify Fayza’s parents, I was an accomplice to my son’s unwelcome intrusion into another man’s private affairs. If I was the cause of Fayza’s continued separation from the man she loved enough to wed, I could never again claim to battle for the rights of women in my land.
Sara and I stared at each other for many moments. Sara’s eyes were clear and penetrating, and I knew that my sister was reliving the horrible sexual abuse she had endured in her own first marriage. Had our mother not revolted against our father, risking a divorce and possible permanent separation from her own precious children, Sara would have remained in sexual bondage to a man she hated, never knowing the wonderful love she now shared with Asad.
My decision was the result of the intolerance and sever restraints suffered by the women of my land. Wanting to live up to the best, and not the worst in my ancestry, I instructed Mousa, “Take us home.”
Maha laughed and kissed me time and again, crushing me against the seat of the automobile.
Sara’s eyes grew luminous. My sister smiled and squeezed my hand, saying, “Sultana, do not worry, you have made the correct decision.”
Mousa’s eyes grew unnaturally wide, and his mouth opened and closed, reminding me of a bird that had become overheated in the desert sun. His face grew darker in color, and I could see that he violently disagreed with this turn of events.
I spoke in French, a language he did not understand. “Look at the driver’s face,” I told my sister and my child. “He does not approve.”
“What man in this country would approve a woman’s right to choose her husband?” Maha wanted to know. “Tell me one! And...and...I will wed him!”
I looked back upon the events of that day and felt a rush of recognition. My heavy spirit had at last achieved tranquility, for I understood that my daughter shared the blood of one who was enlightened, yet had no knowledge of his liberation.
“Abdullah,” I answered quietly. “Your brother. My son. Abdullah is such a man.”
In happy silence I stared at my daughter’s face, but was imprisoned in my past. I saw the form of my firstborn as he lay in his mother’s arms. The emotions I felt on the day of his birth returned to me in a flash, such a rush of joy that by its nature must be brief. I had wondered then if my newborn son would uphold and thereby reinforce the harsh rules pertaining to females in my land. I had prayed that such would not be the case, but that he would influence our country’s history in an agreeable manner and help to bring change to the rigid social customs of Saudi Arabia.
It was difficult to judge Abdullah’s actions calmly, but in an honest appraisal of his activities, I knew that my deepest desire had been realized. A male child born of my womb would remodel the land of my birth.
How brave was my bold son!
No longer caring about Mousa’s reaction, I spoke in Arabic, reminding Sara and Maha that the men of Kareem’s generation had once sounded the voice of reason when it came to their women, but that this voice had been silenced by their clash with the militant men of religion. Grieving over the timid men of our age, I no longer looked to them for relief.
But hope was not lost, so long as we women of Arabia gave birth to men such as Abdullah.
I told Maha and Sara what I knew to be the truth, that my beloved son was a prince who would one day use all his power and influence to enhance the status of Saudi women.
Renewed by my son’s brave act, I talked of nothing else the remainder of the trip home, scandalizing Mousa with my frank discussion of complete freedom for all women, even for his own wife, whom he forced to live with his parents in a small village in Egypt while he worked in Saudi Arabia.
Kareem was impatiently awaiting my return. He did not seem surprised that I expressed great happiness, and I imagined that he supposed my change of mood was linked to the safe recovery of our daughter. Never did he know that my happiness was linked to our son and the fact that Abdullah had turned his back upon injustice, and his face to a free life for all people.
Maha was a bit frightened by the intensity of her father’s blazing eyes, and she mentioned some small task that required her time.
Sara gathered her children and went home to Asad, whispering in my ear that I should call her as soon as possible.
I could hear Amani’s voice in the background, rising and falling with the sounds of her deeply felt communication with God.
Finally, I was alone with my husband.
I thought that Kareem’s face was hardened by the oppressive weight of his discovery, and I was unprepared for his ruthless accusations.
He declared his feelings without questioning his wife. “Sultana, your scent is on Fayza’s flight.”
For a short moment, I was silenced by his insinuation. As one whose anger runs to extremes, I appeared at my worst when I struck out at Kareem’s arm with my fist.
Well acquainted with my passions, Kareem was prepared. He sidestepped, avoiding the blow.
Over the years, Kareem had disciplined his reactions so that he appeared moderate, always making me appear the worse in our conflicts. Today was no exception. “Sultana. This is no time to fight. Our son and Fayza have fled the kingdom.” My husband grabbed me. “You must tell me their travel plans.”
All my denials failed to convince Kareem that while our son might have inherited my talent for brilliant deception, I had no hand in his present action.
Like the town thief who is not believed when a loaf of bread is stolen, my past reached into the present, and a frightening avalanche of accusations flamed out against an innocent woman.
I was paying a dear price for my militant past.
I thought Kareem’s conduct as a husband might have been more loyal, and I told him so.
Kareem asked how he could believe me. He said he had married a woman who was half angel and half devil, and the devil in me often ruled the angel, and when it came to issues that concerned women’s lives, I could not speak without lying and could not act without treachery!
Angrier than I have ever been—for what human endures false censure with grace—I spat at Kareem’s feet and left the room, promising never again to enter a conversation with the man to whom I was wed.
Kareem thought it best to bury his doubts, for he was concerned that without my assistance, he might not succeed in finding his son or in returning Fouad’s daughter. Kareem said that if he were in the wrong he was sorry, and that I must save our son from committing an offense that would further entangle him in another man’s personal affairs.
Suspecting his true motives, I refused to answer his request for forgiveness, squeezing my eyes shut so I did not have to view his face, and motioning with my hand for him to go away.
As soon as the door slammed, my pleasure at revenge faded.
Where was my son? Was he safe?
For five days there was no peace in our home, for Kareem and I had no peaceful communication. Amani prayed and wept, while Maha sang love songs and celebrated Fayza’s escape.
*
Is anything in life more sweet than success?
With a singleness of purpose, Fayza evaded the snares that had been prepared for her and was reunited with the man she loved.
I could never have anticipated the reaction of Fouad and Samia to Fayza’s desperate flight. Prepared for Kareem to be forced to use his position as
protection for our only son, I was pleasantly surprised by Fouad’s meek acceptance of his daughter’s behavior.
On the fifth day after their disappearance, Abdullah called usfrom Cyprus, the small island nation located close to the shores of Lebanon. Abdullah had no fear of our reaction and declared firmly, against our protests, that he had administered justice, not vengeance, by bringing Jafer and Fayza together.
My breath left my body when Abdullah confided that Fayza had telephoned her parents an hour before, and that Fouad and Samia had left their anger behind them and wanted nothing morethan a second opportunity to welcome Jafer as their son. Fouad told his child that if she and Jafer would not turn their backs on her family, he promised he would not “step in the same raging river twice.”
How true it is that humanity refuses compromise during prosperity, and reaches out for arbitration when weak. Swayed by the fear of never seeing their beautiful daughter again, Fouad and Samia had come to the conclusion that they would accept her marriage to someone beneath them in wealth and status.
Being of a suspicious nature, I thought perhaps it was a trick to ensnare Jafer in a land where he had no rights. Once in Saudi Arabia, he could be imprisoned on the slightest pretense, if that was Fouad’s wish.
Fayza’s parents did not confirm my pessimism.
That day, Fouad and his family flew to Greece and met Jafer and Fayza in a golden land where men had been civilized from an early age. Thoughts more bitter than death were put to rest, and Jafer and Fayza at last found happiness in the family unit that had once challenged the legitimacy of their marriage.
Special permission was obtained for Fayza to wed a Muslim from another land, and a second, more festive wedding was held in a hotel in Cairo, Egypt.
Kareem and I traveled there with our two daughters to join our son for the occasion.
Jafer and Fayza insisted that male and female guests come together for a reception at the Mena House Hotel. Their great love even made a dour Kareem smile, although he was a prince ashamed that his son had interfered in his friend’s private life. Kareem’s tension was relieved when Fouad confessed that there could have been no other ending, for long before Abdullah had rescued Fayza, his daughter’s extreme misery had led him and his wife to the knowledge that she must be rejoined with Jafer. Fayza’s grief could not be ignored. Fouad assured my embarrassed husband that they, themselves, had been on the brink of parental surrender the day she had fled.