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

joyfully anointed Cairo as my favorite city of all
time. That attachment to Cairo has never wavered. The excitement of
this city inflamed me with a passion I had never known before, and
which I cannot fully explain to this day. Men and women of every
color and dress roamed the streets, searching for adventure and
opportunity. I recognized that my life before had been dry, without
stimulation, for I saw that Cairo was the opposite of our Arabian
cities, which were, to my young eyes, sterile and lifeless. I found
the grinding poverty unsettling, yet it was not discouraging, for I
saw in it a profound force of life. Poverty can turn a person into
a flaming torch for change and revolution, without which mankind
would come to a standstill. I thought again of Saudi Arabia and
knew that some degree of poverty or need should seep into our lives
and force us to renew our spiritual life.
    Yes, there are many classes of people in my
land, from those various levels of the wealthy Royal Family down to
that of lowly salaried workers. But no one, including foreign
workers, is with- out the basic necessities of life. Our government
ensures the well-being of all Saudis. Each male citizen is assured
of a home, health care, education, a business where he can earn a
living, interest-free loans, and even money for food, should the
need arise. Our female citizens are provided for by the men of
their families, whether it be father, husband, brother, or cousin.
As a result of this satisfaction of basic needs, the spark of life
generated by material desire is hopelessly lacking in my land.
Because of this, I despaired that the pages of history would ever
turn on my land. We Saudis are too rich, too settled in our apathy
for change. As we drove through the bustling city of Cairo, I
mentioned this idea to my family, but I saw that only Sara listened
and understood the essence of my thoughts. The sun was now setting
and the sky turned to gold behind the sharp outline of the
pyramids. The generous, slow-moving Nile was breathing life
throughout the city and into the desert. Watching it, I felt life
rush through my veins.
    Ali and Hadi were furious that Sara and I—two
unmarried females—had been allowed to go into the nightclub. Hadi
spoke long and seriously to Ali about the deterioration of our
family’s values. He declared with smug satisfaction that his
sisters had all been married by the age of fourteen, and that they
were guarded carefully by the men of his family. He said that, as a
man of religion, he had to protest to our father when we returned
from the trip. Sara and I, bold in our distance from Riyadh, made
faces and told him he had not yet become a religious man. We told
him, in slang we had learned from watching American movies, “to
save it.” Hadi devoured the dancers with his eyes, and made crude
remarks about their body parts, yet he swore to Ali that they were
nothing but whores, and that if he had his way, they would be
stoned. Hadi was a pompous ass. Even Ali tired of his
holier-than-thou attitude and began to thump his fingers on the
table with impatience and to look around the room. After Hadi’s
comments and attitude, I was staggered by his actions the following
day.
    Ahmed hired a limousine driver to take Nura,
Sara, and me shopping. Ahmed went to meet a businessman. The
caretaker, who doubled as a driver, took the two Filipinos and the
three children to the pool at the Mena House Hotel. When we left
the apartment, Ali and Hadi were lounging about, exhausted from the
previous late night.
    The sweltering heat of the city soon tired
Sara, and I offered to go back to the apartment and keep her
company until Nura finished her shopping. Nura agreed, and sent the
driver to drop us off. He would return to collect Nura
afterward.
    When we entered the apartment, we heard
muffled screams. Sara and I followed the noise to Hadi and Ali’s
room. The door was unlocked and we suddenly realized what was
happening before our eyes. Hadi was raping a young girl, no more
than eight years old, and Ali was holding her. Blood was
everywhere. Our brother and Hadi were laughing. At the sight of
this traumatic scene, Sara became hysterical and began to scream
and run. Ali’s face became a mask of fury as he shoved me from the
room, knocking me to the floor. I ran after Sara. We huddled in our
room.
    When I could no longer endure the sounds of
terror that continued to filter up to our floor, I crept back down
the stairwell. I was