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

uncovered, after
she was classified by God as a woman.
    Wafa was allowed few friends. What rare
friends she had soon drifted away since Wafa’s father made a habit
of boldly inquiring in her friends’ presence about their first
blood. Wafa’s mother, weary and exhausted from the rigid rules of
her husband, had made a decision late in life to silently defy his
demands. She assisted her daughter in sneaking out of the home and
told her husband the child was sleeping or studying the Koran when
inquiries of Wafa’s whereabouts were voiced. I imagined myself bold
and rebellious, but Wafa and Nadia made my stance for women seem
puny and powerless. They said that all I did was to provide
intelligent stimulation—that my answer to a problem was to talk it
to death—but that in reality my efforts to help women were useless.
After all, my life had not changed. I realized they were right.
    I will never forget one incident that
occurred in a downtown parking building, close to the souq area,
not far from the spot that foreigners call, “chop, chop square,”
since that is where our criminals lose their heads or their hands
on Fridays, our day of religion.
    I had hidden the passing of my first blood
from my father, since I was in no rush to swathe myself in the
black garb of our women. Unfortunately, Nura and Ahmed decided that
I had postponed the inevitable long enough. Nura told me that if I
did not tell my father immediately, she would. So I gathered my
friends around me, including Randa, and we made the mission to
purchase my new “life’s uniform,” black scarf on black veil on
black abaaya.
    Omar drove us to the entrance of the souq
area, and we four young women disembarked, agreeing to meet him in
two hours at the same spot. Omar always accompanied us into the
souqs to keep special watch on the women of the family, but that
day he had an important errand to run and took the opportunity
while we were shopping. Besides, Father’s new wife was accompanying
his daughter, and Omar was reassured by Randa’s acquiescent
presence. He had seen no indication that Randa was slowly awaking
after the long, dull sleep of submission.
    We milled about the stores, hands examining
the various scarves, veils, and abaayas. I wanted something
special, a way of being an original in the ocean of black-garbed
women. I cursed myself for not having an abaaya made in Italy, from
the finest Italian silk, with an artist’s intricate designs, so
that when I breezed past, people would know there was an individual
under the black covering, a woman with style and class. Everyone
was veiled except me, and as we made our way to the heart of the
souqs to continue our search, I noticed that Wafa and Nadia, heads
together, were whispering and giggling. Randa and I stepped up our
pace and I asked them what was so amusing. Nadia looked toward me
and spoke through her veil. She said they were remembering a man
they had met on their last trip to the souqs. A man? I looked back
at Randa. We were both confused at their meaning.
    It took us only an hour to find a suitable
abaaya, veil, and scarf; the selection seemed rather limited.
    Life changed quickly. I had entered the souq
area as an individual bursting with life, my face expressing my
emotions to the world. I left the shopping area covered from head
to toe, a faceless creature in black. I must admit that the first
few moments of veiling were exciting. I found the veil a novelty
and looked back with interest as Saudi teenage boys stared at me,
now a mysterious figure in black. I knew they were wishing for a
bit of breeze to blow the veil away from my face so that they might
catch a glimpse of my forbidden skin. For a moment, I felt myself a
thing of beauty, a work so lovely that I must be covered to protect
men from their uncontrollable desires.
    The novelty of wearing the veil and abaaya
was fleeting, though. When we walked out of the cool souq area into
the blazing hot sun, I gasped for breath and sucked furiously
through the sheer black fabric. The air tasted stale and dry as it
filtered through the thin gauzy cloth. I had purchased the sheerest
veil available, yet I felt I was seeing life through a thick
screen. How could women see through veils made of a thicker fabric?
The sky was no longer blue, the glow of the sun had dimmed; my
heart plunged to my stomach when I realized that from that moment,
outside my own home I would not experience life as it really is in
all its color. The world