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

by Father’s office since he had
forgotten to collect our travel papers. In Saudi Arabia, a man must
write a letter granting permission for the females in his family to
travel. Without the papers, we might be stopped at the customs
office and prevented from boarding the plane. Father also sent our
passports since, as he told Mother, it might be necessary for us to
take Sara to London for treatment. Rotten meat? London? I knew what
was rotten, and it was Father’s story. I thought my sister must
surely be dead.
    We flew to Jeddah in a small private plane.
The ride was smooth, but the atmosphere inside the cabin was
clouded with tension. My mother said little and kept her eyes shut
for most of the flight. Only a few years before, she had taken her
first automobile ride. Now I saw her lips moving and I knew that
double prayers were being spirited to God: Mother was praying first
for Sara to be alive, and second for the plane to take us safely to
Sara.
    The pilot and co-pilot were American and I
was immediately attracted to their open, friendly manner. They
asked me if I wanted to sit in the cockpit. Mother nodded a
reluctant permission to my frenzied foot stamping and arm flapping.
I had never sat in the cockpit before. Ali always sat in the
cockpit.
    At first I was frightened at the sight of the
open sky, and the plane felt like a toy between us and the hard
earth. I gave a small cry of alarm and backed up. John, the larger
of the two Americans, gave me a reassuring smile, and patiently
explained the functions of the various buttons and gadgets. To my
surprise, I found myself leaning over his shoulder, completely at
ease. For one of the few occasions in my young life, I felt calm
and comfortable in the presence of men. Sadly, I was fearful of my
father, and I detested Ali and my half-brothers. It was a strange
feeling, yet I felt intoxicated with the knowledge that men, whom I
had been brought up to think of as gods, could be so ordinary and
non-threatening. This was something new to think about. When I
looked out the window of the airplane, I understood what grips the
heart of the eagle as it soars overhead, and I experienced a
wonderful sense of freedom. My thoughts drifted to Sara and the
shocking realization that birds and beasts were freer than my
sister. I made a vow to myself that I would be the master of my
life, no matter what actions I would have to take or pain I would
have to endure.
    I joined my mother for the landing of the
plane; she gathered me into her loving arms and held me tenderly as
the plane taxied to the terminal. She was veiled, but I knew her
every expression, and I heard her breathe a long, tortured sigh. I
said good-bye to the kindly Americans. I hoped they would fly us
back to Riyadh, for I felt a camaraderie with the two men who had
lent such importance to a child’s foolish and feverish
questions.
    Arriving at the clinic, we heard wails and
crying as we walked through the long corridor. Mother stepped up
her pace and gripped my hand so tightly I wanted to complain. Sara
was alive, but barely. We were distraught to discover that she had
tried to take her life by placing her head in the gas oven. She was
very quiet, deathly pale. Her husband was not there, but he had
sent over his mother. Now, in a loud voice, the old woman began to
scold Sara harshly for embarrassing her son and his family. She was
a mean old hag. I wanted to scratch her face and see her run, but I
remembered my promise to Mother. Instead I stood, barely breathing
from anger, patting Sara’s smooth, still hands.
    Mother threw her veil over her head and faced
the old woman. She had fretted over many possibilities, but the
discovery that her daughter had attempted suicide was unexpected
and devastating. When she turned in a cold fury to the husband’s
mother, I wanted to stamp and cheer. She stopped the woman cold
when she asked what her son had done to make a young girl want to
take her life. She ordered her to leave Sara’s bedside, for this
was no place for the ungodly. The old woman left without replacing
her veil. We could hear her voice rise in anger as she cried out to
God for sympathy.
    Mother turned to me and saw my admiring
smile. I was awed by her anger, and for a brief, shining moment, I
felt God would not desert us. Sara would be saved. But I knew
Mother’s life would be one of misery when Father heard of her
words. Knowing Father, he would be angry, not sympathetic, toward
Sara for her desperate act, and