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

None of the
men looked at Sara at any time during the ceremony. Reading
passages from the Koran, the man of religion then blessed my
sister’s marriage. All at once, the women began to shriek and make
the sound of ululating with their tongues. Sara was married. The
men looked on, pleased and smiling. As Sara stood motionless, the
groom removed a small pouch from the pocket of his thobe
(full-length, shirt-like garment worn by Saudi men) and tossed gold
coins to the guests. I shivered as I watched him smugly accept
their congratulations at his marriage to such a beautiful woman. He
took my sister by the arm and hurriedly began to lead her away.
    Sara’s eyes locked onto mine as she passed my
way; I knew someone should help her, but I felt certain no one
would. Quite suddenly, I remembered Sara’s words to Father:
“Victory breeds hatred, for the conquered are unhappy.” In my
grieving mind, I found no consolation in the knowledge that the
groom would never know happiness in such a bitterly unjust union.
There could not be punishment enough for him.
     

Chapter Four: Divorce
    Father forbade us from visiting Sara for the
first three months of her marriage. She needed time to adjust to
her new life and responsibilities, he said, and the sight of her
family would serve only to inflame her desire to return to a
useless life of dreams. Our vocal distress over her bondage drew
nothing more than passionless nods. Sara, in Father’s view, was
doing what women are born to do: serve and pleasure the male and
produce his children.
    Sara had taken nothing from her room. Perhaps
she understood that the presence of her books and other objects of
delight would only make her present actuality more bleak. To me, it
was as if Sara were dead; her absence left a black, gaping hole in
my life. I mourned her passing by spending long hours in her room
with her possessions. I began to take an interest in Sara’s hobbies
and felt myself assuming parts of her personality. I read her
diary, and her dreams felt as if they were my own; I wept with the
fury of one who questions the wisdom of a God who allows evil to
conquer the innocent.
    My mother instructed that Sara’s door be
locked after she found me in Sara’s bed, in her nightdress, reading
her art books. We did not have to suffer through Father’s imposed
three-month waiting period to see Sara. Five weeks after her
wedding, she attempted suicide.
    I was in the garden, talking with some of the
animals in our newly constructed private zoo, when suddenly Omar
tripped completely out of his sandals in his haste to enter the
front gate. His skin, which was usually deep bronze, looked pasty
white. He brushed off his thobe and beat the sand out of his
sandals on the side of the wall. He told me to run and find my
mother. Mother had a certain sense about her children, and when she
saw Omar, she asked him what was wrong with Sara.
    No Arab will tell a relative the truth when a
family member is sick, dying, or dead. We are people who simply
cannot handle being the bearer of bad tidings. If a child dies, the
unlucky person who receives the task of notifying the family will
begin by saying the child is not feeling well. After questioning,
the person will acknowledge that a trip to the doctor is necessary
and then later admit that the child is in the hospital. After
intense pleas from the family members for additional information,
the messenger will finally say the illness is serious and the
family had best prepare for a journey to the bedside of the loved
one. Later, the person will painfully admit that the loved one’s
life is in grave danger. It might take a period of several hours to
discover the exact degree of seriousness. But no one will ever
admit to the death of a loved one. The furthest an Arab will go in
delivering bad news is to prepare the family for worse news from
the doctor.
    Omar told my mother that Sara had eaten some
rotten meat and was now hospitalized in a private clinic in Jeddah.
Father was sending Mother on a private plane within the hour.
Mother tightened her lips and turned in a rush to gather her abaaya
(cloak) and veil.
    I screamed and clung to Mother so that she
relented and allowed me to go—with the promise that I would not
make a scene in the clinic if Sara was desperately ill. I promised
and ran to Sara’s room, pounding and kicking at the locked door
until one of the servants found the key. I wanted to take Sara’s
favorite art book to her.
    Omar drove us