Princess Sultana's Daughters

by Jean Sasson

  Abdullah’s eyes flashed with understanding, and I was gratified to see that my son appreciated the reasoning behind my words.

  Kareem soon arrived with the odor of alcohol spread about him, which brought on a sudden and prolonged prayer from Amani for God to look past her father’s sinful acts and restore Kareem to the status of heaven’s most favored. In the context of her plea, Amani began to describe the burning agony of hell that awaited members of her family.

  Already in a foul mood, I quickly wearied of Amani’s enthusiastic fanaticism. I was incensed that she would take it to the point where she spoke critically of her family. Face-to-face, I told her in no uncertain terms that I had not yet received notification that God had appointed my daughter to the sacred role of frightening mankind into decency.

  I reached across to pinch the skin on her face, but Kareem grabbed my hand and held it tight to his chest, ordering Amani to leave our presence, suggesting that she complete her prayers in the privacy of her room.

  Kareem then became noisy in the irritating manner of a drunkard, saying that he had often observed my inability to control my destructive temper, and he thought the time had come to teach me a useful lesson.

  We looked at each other for a time. Kareem stood still, waiting for my response. His lips were curled with contempt, and it was easy to see that he was in a rare mood to fight.

  I quickly scanned the room for a weapon with which to bang my husband’s head, for I am a woman who meets threats with violence, but Kareem knows me well and placed himself between me and the brass pot I had decided to use against him.

  The will to battle left my body in a rush, for there are times when I can think reasonably, and Kareem is twice my size. Without a weapon, I am at a notable disadvantage and once disarmed can be quickly overcome. Besides, it was best not to escalate our disagreement into a brawl, for past experience had taught me the impossibility of winning an argument with a drunken Kareem. But my thoughts were filled with scorn, and I had difficulty remembering why I had ever loved Kareem in the first place.

  Wishing to avoid a useless confrontation, I knew that I must recapture the favored position.

  I laughed, and said to Kareem, “Look at you! You resemble an elephant who is threatening an ant!” I then smiled at my husband and said that I was more than pleased he had returned early, that I yearned for his companionship at a time of great sorrow.

  Kareem was not at his mental prime and was easily bested. Bewildered for a short moment by my change in tactics, he eased into my trap and became overly remorseful for his unthinking words, patting my shoulder, offering apologies, and wonderin why his dear wife was distressed.

  I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly nine o’clock. Half insane with the knowledge that the innocent child, Alhaan, would soon undergo female mutilation, I instantly forgot all thoughts of myself, and with tremendous sadness told my husband that there is no loveliness in life for women and that in my mind it would be advantageous for all females to die.

  Kareem could not fathom the reasoning behind my dark ideas. He asked, was my life not perfect? Was there anything I desired that my husband did not provide?

  Knowing that my main source of distress is the social injustice directed toward women, he reminded me that together we had ensured that in our home, our daughters felt little of the prejudice that exists against females in our land. What more could one man do, he wondered, than to guard those he loved.

  Kareem smiled sweetly and tenderly brushed my lips with his fingers.

  I had a quick thought that Kareem was endowed with a winsome charm that atoned for his less admirable traits.

  Unsure how to address the ambiguous issue of my general dissatisfaction with the status of women, Kareem announced that it was my inescapable destiny to be born in Saudi Arabia, and in the end women must accept the limits imposed by our culture. My husband reminded me that God knew all things, and His purpose in planting my feet in Saudi soil had not been made known to those bound on earth.

  My emotions in a whirl, I once again felt dislike for Kareem, regretting that all men could not be turned into women and live in our limited and often cruel world long enough to attain under- standing. I wanted to rage at my husband’s distance from my knowledge of the pain that women endure.

  How can woman bind man to the grief that walks the earth and settles at the feet of each woman by turn? Sensing the futility of longing for men to suffer women’s position in society, while women enjoyed the status of male rank, I told myself that I was too keyed up to be capable of a normal conversation and suggested to my husband that we go to sleep early, then rise refreshed to a day of new thoughts.

  Because he follows a set pattern of fighting and then sleep after alcoholic drinking, Kareem agreed and willingly prepared himself for bed, while I located the children and gave instructions for them to eat their evening meal without us and to be available with bags packed to depart Cairo in the morning.

  By the time I returned to our quarters, my husband had begun to breathe the deep, peaceful rhythms of one already at rest.

  With my mind in conflict between my own rebellious thoughts and Elham’s traditional beliefs, I considered what Kareem had said, that I was a woman at odds with my fate. Yet, in spite of my second-class status, I knew that I could never yield to meek acceptance of female circumcision.

  Before falling into a troubled and unsatisfying sleep, I vowed to myself that my fury over the fate of girls such as Alhaan would outlive the barbaric custom that had aroused it.

  Monte Carlo

  “To call women the weaker sex is a libel; it is man’s injustice to women. You will guard your wife’s honor and be not her master, but her true friend. Let not either of you regard another as the object of his or her lust.”

  —MAHATMA GANDHI

  Fatma’s face was distorted with an effort to appear cheery as she bade us a good morning. She had been hard at work in the kitchen when the family awakened and seemed distraught at our abrupt announcement that we were departing Cairo and traveling to Monte Carlo that very morning. There, on the French Riviera, we would join three of my sisters and their families who were on holiday in the small principality of Monaco.

  I had already imagined the scene of her granddaughter’s circumcision and knew that the tragic evening did not lend itself to words. Still, I maneuvered a quiet moment away from my family to inquire about Alhaan’s safety.

  With clasped hands and a steely glint in her eyes that reflected her lingering anger, Fatma said that the child had not fared well. On her son-in-law’s instruction, the barber had removed all of the girl’s clitoris, along with her labia minora. Fatma said that special compresses had to be made to stop the flow of blood.

  Feeling undeserved guilt that I had been unable to prevent Alhaan’s brutalization, I asked in alarm, “Do you fear further complications?”

  Fatma tried to relax her expression when she saw that my eyes were filling with tears and realized that I was becoming distraught.

  “Mistress”—she hugged my neck as she spoke—”the deed is done. Now we must live with it. You did all that you could. I bless you for your love of another who is not of your own blood. Take comfort from my belief that Alhaan will recover.”

  I could find no words to speak. Fatma turned me loose and her eyes met mine. Our gazes stayed fixed on one another for a long time. Neither of us looked away or moved, and I felt a great love surging from Fatma to me.

  Fatma moistened her lips before she continued. “Princess Sultana, you entered my dreams last evening, and now I feel that I must convey the message of the dream.”

  I held my breath, afraid of what I might be told, thinking that I had never fared well in supernatural predictions.

  Fatma gazed at me with sad affection. “Mistress, you are surrounded with life’s possessions, yet you appear empty. This discontent comes from having the heart of a child in the body of a woman. Such a combination will bring great difficulties to one’s soul. Nei
ther you nor any other child of God can resolve all of mankind’s problems. I was told to tell you that it is not shameful to bow to reality and that you should allow the lust for conflict to cool in your veins.”

  My mother’s face appeared to me as a dark dream of disconnected memories. There was no doubt in my mind that my mother was using the form of the earthbound Fatma to communicate with her youngest child. Fatma’s words were just the sort of advice my mother had often given me in the days of my childhood. When I was young, her words of wisdom were unclear and seemed to have no connection to me. Now that I was an adult, that was no longer the case.

  I had known then, even as a child, that when my mother understood that she was dying, her only regret in passing from earth was that she was leaving my un-tempered character without a firm guide. Her fears had been that I would react to adult controversy in the same hasty manner I had confronted problems when I was a child, when I had no goal but success, embroiling myself in one conflict after another.

  My beloved mother was communicating with me!

  I felt a warm glow throughout my body and felt calmer than I had in days. My memories were no longer obscure, and I keenly felt my mother’s divine presence.

  I had no explanation to give for the sudden whimpering I heard arise from my throat, or for the sobbing and incoherent woman who threw herself into Fatma’s strong arms, a woman who still felt as a child, longing with all her heart to have but one short moment with the one who had given her life.

  I cried out to a sympathetic Fatma, “How blessed are those who still have their mothers!”

  *

  When leaving the city of Cairo, I could not help thinking of the gloomy fate awaiting many young girls in the country of Egypt. I whispered to my son that such tragic events make Egyptian life less bright and cheerful than is fitting in such a country.

  Late that afternoon, our private plane landed at the Nice-Cote International Airport in southern France. The husbands of my three sisters had rented a large villa in the hills above Monaco, which they had assured Kareem was a short drive from the airport. Asad had arranged for three limousines to meet our plane and transport our family and baggage from the airport to the villa.

  Actually, at one time the villa had been a palace belonging to a French aristocrat and had over sixty rooms, so there was more than enough space for our combined families. None of my sisters was married to a man who had taken more than one wife, so our group of eight adults and sixteen children was unusually small for an Arab gathering of four families.

  There are three highways going from Nice to Monaco, but none of us wanted to travel the coastal road, or the Inferieure Corniche, which is generally traffic-packed. The Moyenne Corniche is the middle road, and the Grande Corniche is the high road.

  I expressed a desire to take the Moyenne, since I knew it was the best of the three and had wonderful views of the coastline.

  Kareem disagreed, saying that our daughters should choose the road we would travel.

  I pinched the flesh on his leg, indicating that his idea was not sound, but he continued to ask their opinions.

  As I knew they would, Maha and Amani began an immediate squabble, each of them insisting upon a different route.

  I whispered to Kareem, “I told you so.”

  Our daughters have never reached agreement on any issue, regardless of the subject, since the time they learned to speak. I admitted to myself that nothing in our lives had been simple since I had given birth to three children.

  The driver settled their argument by saying that a truck loaded with eggs had suffered a mishap, and the Moyenne was temporarily blocked. Since two of the three roads were congested with traffic, he suggested that we take the Grande.

  Like the baby she is, Amani pouted, but Maha and Abdullah were joyful, pointing out various interesting sights they had not remembered from our last trip to Monaco over three years before.

  The Grande Corniche was built by Napoleon, and he had his builders follow the route of the ancient Roman road. The drive took us along the southern slope of the Alpes Maritimes, and the scenery was spectacular.

  I mentioned that after the uninspired brown and beige shades of desert countries, the lush greenery of Europe was restful to my eyes.

  Amani took my comment as a slur upon the home of the Prophet, whereupon Kareem lost his patience and asked his daughter please to omit religious interpretations of the simplest social remark.

  I thought to myself that my own precious daughter was becoming thoroughly unlikable. My love for her flowed as strongly as ever, but there were moments when I suffered extreme distaste for Amani’s overbearing and holier-than-thou attitude.

  Pleased that my family’s confined journey was coming to an end, I was happy to see my sisters Sara, Tahani, and Nura, when our car pulled up the circular driveway to the front of the villa. How welcome it made me feel that the three of them had evidently been eagerly waiting by the door for our arrival.

  My pleasure was short-lived.

  “Reema has been hospitalized!” Nura announced as soon as we had completed our greetings and my three children had gone to seek out their cousins.

  “What?” I responded, trying to imagine what illness had struck the fifth sister in age in our family.

  “She has been injured,” Sara volunteered, while exchanging a meaningful look with Nura.

  “Yes?” My voice was so low that the sound barely left my throat. I had a sudden fear of an automobile accident, for traffic accidents are a main source of death in Saudi Arabia, where many young boys recklessly race their vehicles through the streets.

  My sisters and I stood without speaking, awkwardly facing one another. I moved my weight from foot to foot, waiting for someone to enlighten me about my sister’s condition.

  Kareem and Asad stood to the side, watching but not speaking.

  When no one spoke, my stomach churned. Was my sister dead, and was there no one in my family with the nerve to tell me?

  Finally I asked weakly, “Is her injury serious?”

  “It appears that it is not life-threatening,” Nura stated.

  The Arab manner of avoiding bad news is maddening! I felt the urge to scream, for someone to tell me all that there was to know, to release me from the agony of attempting to force small bits of information from my reluctant sisters.

  “What has happened?” I demanded. “Anything is easier to accept than this torturing doubt!”

  My sisters looked at one another strangely. Surely, Reema was dead!

  “Let us go inside,” Asad suggested as he placed a tender hand on Sara’s arm. “I will have tea prepared.”

  I followed Sara into the villa, taking no notice of the rooms as we passed them by. I was thinking of poor Reema. The fifth daughter in our family had always inspired family sympathy. From the date of her birth, Reema had not been blessed with obvious skills or beauty. While my sister was not born with a face scarred or misaligned, there had been nothing in her appearance to bring forth envy from other young mothers.

  Nura had once confided that Reema was the only daughter whom our mother had felt no need to protect with the blue stone that was believed to ward off evil spirits, for who would wish the evil eye upon an infant so displeasing in appearance?

  In addition, as a young girl Reema had been cursed with a heavy figure that brought her cruel taunts from unfeeling children.

  Of my nine sisters, Sara is the most beautiful. Of the remainder of our female family members, four sisters are notably pretty, three are appealing, another is elegant and graceful, while Reema lacks a single mark of beauty. In a family of ten daughters, Reema was the unattractive sister who failed to excel in school or in games. Her one outstanding accomplishment was her ability to duplicate our mother’s cooking skills, improvising delectable Arabic and French dishes that did nothing to help her expanding figure.

  Living in a country where nothing is more admired than female beauty, Reema was not esteemed.

  Once we ha
d settled ourselves in the sitting room, Kareem and Asad left us to go and arrange tea. As the door was closing, I heard Asad speaking in a low voice to my husband, and knew that Kareem had discovered Reema’s fate before her own sister.

  “I must know the truth. Tell me. Is Reema dead?”

  “No,” Nura responded. Yet, my sister’s gloomy face reflected the seriousness of the situation.

  “She was attacked by Saleem,” Tahani finally said.

  I felt cold all over. “Truly?” I asked.

  With tremendous emotion, Nura added, “Our dear sister was viciously attacked by her own husband.”

  “Why would Saleem want to hurt Reema?” I wondered. “Surely, she gave him no motive!”

  Like many unattractive people, Reema had always been pleasing in character, striving to make all around her feel delightful and gay, as if her joyful countenance could outwit nature, eliciting admiration from those in her company.

  Saleem? My memory of Reema’s husband flashed through my mind. Saleem, like Reema, was not blessed with physical beauty. But he was known to be a most quiet and gentle man. As we often say in the Arab world, “Every pot has its cover.” Saleem was considered a perfect partner for Reema, and their union seemed to suit them. His violent action was completely unexpected and out of character.

  I put to Nura the most logical possibility, “Did Saleem lose his mind? Is that why he assaulted Reema?”

  I was not prepared for what I heard.

  Approximately a year before, Reema had confessed to her oldest sister, Nura, that a dark secret was consuming the light in her life. Reema said that her dear husband was undergoing a bizarre personality change that had begun with a strange restlessness and dissatisfaction. Suddenly the blackest melancholy overcame the formerly contented Saleem. Where he had once been well pleased with his home, he was now irritable, finding endless fault with his wife and four children. He no longer expressed an interest in his work, and for many days he would remain in bed until mid-afternoon. Saleem was caught in the tyranny of his own emotions, which prevented the entire family from living a normal life.