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

his shouts and moans, the servants thought I was
killing him. No one came to Ali’s rescue, though.
    I don’t know what came over me, perhaps the
sound of the big bully groaning and begging for sympathy, but I
flushed his headdress down the toilet. The igaal would not flush,
even as I frantically pushed it with the plunger. The sodden cord
became stuck in the toilet! When Ali saw what I had done, he lunged
for me. We were struggling on the floor when I got the best of him
by pulling and twisting his broken toe. Mother, hearing Ali’s
screams of agony, intervened and saved him from my years of pent-up
wrath.
    I knew I was in big trouble. I rationalized
that my situation could not be any worse, so when Mother and Omar
took Ali to the clinic to get his broken toe wrapped, I crept into
his room and gathered up his secret hoard of “treasures” that were
forbidden by both our religion and our country.
    These “treasures” were the usual objects that
all young boys collect the world over, but their possession is a
serious offense under the law of religion in Arabia. Long before, I
had located Ali’s
    collection of Playboy and other similar
magazines. Recently, I had discovered a new collection of photo
slides. Curious, I had taken them to my bedroom; perplexed, I
viewed them on the slide projector. Naked men and women were doing
all kinds of strange things; one group of pictures even showed
animals with women. Ali had obviously lent them to other boys on
occasion, for he had clearly printed his name on every forbidden
article.
    I was too innocent at the time to know
exactly what it all meant, but I knew these “treasures” were bad
because he had always kept his secret cache stacked in the same old
tattered box, labeled “school notes.” I was very familiar with his
belongings, having sorted through his stuff for years. I carefully
removed every magazine along with the photo slides. I also found
seven miniature bottles of alcohol that Ali had brought home after
a weekend trip to Bahrain. I smiled at my plan as I shoved
everything in a paper bag.
    In Saudi Arabia, mosques are built in every
neighborhood, for the government has placed top priority on
providing a mosque within walking distance of every Muslim male.
With prayers to be offered five times a day, it is more convenient
to complete all the prayers if a man is a short distance from the
mosque. Even though prayers can be given at any location so long as
the person faces Makkah, it is thought that access to a mosque is
preferable.
    Living in one of the wealthiest districts, we
were served by a huge mosque, made of white opalescent marble.
Since it was about two o’clock in the afternoon, I knew the noon
prayers were over; it would be safe to carry out my plan without
being seen. Even the men of religion nap in the hot climate of
Arabia. I opened the mosque door with dread, and peeked in
carefully before entering. Not yet veiled, I thought perhaps my
presence would invite little curiosity. I already had my story
ready in the event I was caught. If questioned, I would say I was
hunting my new kitten that had wandered onto the mosque grounds.
Surprisingly, the mosque was cool and inviting. I had never been
inside the huge building, but I had followed my father and Ali to
prayer many times. From the age of six, Ali had been encouraged to
perform the five daily prayers. I felt my breath sharpen as I
recalled the hurt I had felt as I watched my father hold Ali’s hand
and lead him proudly through the grand entrance of the
mosque—always leaving me, a lowly female, at the side of the road
to stare after them in sorrow and anger.
    Even though Prophet Mohammed did not forbid
women to pray publicly in the mosques, he did state that it was
best for them to pray in the privacy of their homes. Due to this,
women are forbidden entry into neighborhood mosques in my country,
although on certain holidays they are allowed in the mosques in
Makkah and Madinah. No one was around. I hurriedly walked across
the marble floor; the clicking of my sandals sounded loud and
strange. I placed the bag containing Ali’s forbidden articles on
the stairwell leading to the balcony that contains the loudspeakers
that broadcast Prophet Mohammed’s words throughout our cities five
times a day. Just thinking of the intensity of the appeals of the
muezzin, the criers who call the faithful to pray, I began to feel
guilty about my misadventure. Then I remembered Ali’s superior
smirk as he