Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia

tell
him to do his “monkey walk.” Ali never noticed the pathetic look on
Sami’s face or the tears that trickled down his cheeks.
    When Ali found baby kittens, he would lock
them away from their mother and howl with glee as the mother cat
tried in vain to reach them. No one in the household dared to
chastise Ali, for our father saw no harm in Ali’s cruel ways.
    After a particularly moving talk from my
mother, I prayed about my feelings for Ali and decided to attempt
the “Saudi” way of manipulation instead of confrontation with my
brother. Besides, my mother used God’s wishes as her platform, and
using God is always an admirable formula for convincing children to
change their actions. Through my mother’s eyes, I finally saw that
my present course would lead me down a thorny path. My good
intentions were squashed within the week by Ali’s dastardly
behavior. My sisters and I found a tiny puppy that had evidently
become lost from its mother. The puppy was whimpering from hunger.
Overcome with excitement at our find, we rushed about collecting
doll bottles and warming goat’s milk. My sisters and I took turns
with feedings. Within days, the puppy was bouncing and fat. We
dressed him in rags and even trained him to sit in our baby
carriage.
    While it is true that most Muslims do not
favor dogs, it is a rare person who can harm a baby animal of any
species. Even our mother, a devout Muslim, smiled at the antics of
the puppy. One afternoon we were pushing Basem, which means
“smiling face” in Arabic, in a carriage. Ali happened to walk by
with his friends. Sensing his friends’ excitement over our puppy,
Ali decided the puppy should be his. My sisters and I screamed and
fought when he tried to take Basem from our arms. Our father heard
the commotion and came from his study. When Ali told him that he
wanted the puppy, our father instructed us to hand him over.
Nothing we said or did would change our father’s mind. Ali wanted
the puppy; Ali got the puppy.
    Tears streamed down our faces as Ali jauntily
walked away with Basem tucked under his arm. The possibility for
love of my brother was forever lost, and my hate solidified when I
was told Ali had soon tired of Basem’s whimpers and, on the way to
visit friends, had tossed the puppy out the window of the moving
car.
     

Chapter Three: My Sister Sara
    I felt wretched, for my favorite sister,
Sara, was crying in Mother’s arms. She is the ninth living daughter
of my parents, three years older than I. Only Ali’s birth separates
us. It was Sara’s sixteenth birthday, and she should have been
rejoicing, but Mother had just relayed distressing news from
Father.
    Sara had been veiling since her menses, two
years earlier. The veil stamped her as a non-person, and she soon
ceased to speak of her childhood dreams of great accomplishment.
She became distant from me, her younger sister who was as yet
unconcerned with the institution of veiling. The sharpening of
Sara’s distance left me longing for the remembered happiness of our
shared childhood. It suddenly became apparent to me that happiness
is realized only in the face of unhappiness, for I never knew we
were so happy until Sara’s unhappiness stared me in the face.
    Sara was lovely, much more beautiful than I
or my sisters. Her great beauty had become a curse, for many men
had heard of Sara’s beauty through their mothers and sisters and
now wished to marry her. Sara was tall and slim and her skin creamy
and white. Her huge brown eyes sparkled with the knowledge that all
who saw her admired her beauty. Her long black hair was the envy of
all her sisters. In spite of her natural beauty, Sara was genuinely
sweet and loved by all who knew her. Unfortunately, not only did
Sara acquire the curse that comes with great beauty, she was also
exceptionally bright. In our land, brilliance in a woman assures
her future misery, for there is nowhere to focus her genius.
    Sara wanted to study art in Italy and be the
first to open an art gallery in Jeddah. She had been working toward
that goal since she was twelve years old. Her room stayed cluttered
with books of all the great masters. Sara made my head swim with
descriptions of the magnificent art in Europe. Just before the
wedding announcement, when I was secretly plundering through her
room, I saw a list of the places she planned to visit in Florence,
Venice, and Milan. Sadly, I knew that Sara’s dreams would not come
true. While it is true that most marriages