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

suddenly seemed a dull place. And
dangerous, too! I groped and stumbled along the pitted, cracked
sidewalk, fearful of breaking an ankle or leg.
    My friends burst out laughing at the
awkwardness of my moves and my futile efforts to adjust my veil. I
stumbled over several children of a bedouin woman, and looked in
envy at the freedom of her veil. Bedouin women wear veils that fit
across their noses, leaving their eyes free to examine their
surroundings. Oh, how I wished to be a bedouin! I would cover my
face gladly if I could only leave my eyes free to see the infinite
changes of life around me. We arrived early at the meeting place
designated by Omar. Randa glanced at her watch; we had nearly an
hour before he was due. She suggested that we go back into the souq
area since it was too hot in the boiling sun. Nadia and Wafa asked
us if we wanted to have some fun. I said sure, without hesitation.
Randa balanced from foot to foot, looking for Omar; I could tell
she was uncomfortable with the very word fun. I, with my marvelous
powers of persuasion, convinced Randa to go along with Nadia and
Wafa. I was curious, never having broken any of the rules laid down
for females. Poor Randa was simply accommodating to a stronger
will.
    The two girls exchanged smiles and told us to
follow them. They made their way to a parking lot beneath a new
office building not far from the souq area. Men who worked in the
building and nearby shops parked there.
    We four young women inched our way across the
busy intersection. Randa squealed and slapped my hand when I raised
my veil so that I could see the traffic. Too late, I realized that
I had exposed my face to every man on the street! The men appeared
stunned by their luck, for they had seen a woman’s face in a public
place! I instantly realized it was far better for me to be run down
by a speeding automobile than to commit such an act of
revealment.
    When we reached the parking lot elevators, I
staggered with shock at my friends’ action. Wafa and Nadia
approached a foreign man, a strikingly handsome Syrian. They asked
him if he wanted to have some fun. For a moment, he seemed ready to
bolt and run; he looked to his left and right and punched the
elevator button. Finally, he thought better of departing,
considering the rare opportunity to meet available and possibly
beautiful women in Saudi Arabia. He asked what kind of fun. Wafa
asked the Syrian if he had an automobile and a private apartment.
He said yes, he had an apartment and a roommate, a Lebanese. Nadia
asked if his friend was looking for a girlfriend, and the Syrian
grinned and said, yes, indeed, both of them were.
    Randa and I had recovered enough to move our
feet. We gathered up our abaayas and ran out of the parking lot in
fear for our lives. In the process I lost my scarf; when I turned
to pick it up, Randa ran straight into me. She fell backward and
lay sprawled in the sand, her forbidden legs exposed. When Wafa and
Nadia found us, we were breathing hard and leaning against a shop
window. They were hanging on to each other, laughing. They had
watched us earlier as I struggled to help Randa to her feet.
    We whispered our angry words. How could they
do such a stupid thing? Pick up foreign men! What kind of fun were
they planning, anyway? Didn’t they know that Randa would be stoned
and the three of us imprisoned, or worse? Fun was fun, but what
they were doing was suicide! Wafa and Nadia simply laughed and
shrugged their shoulders at our outburst. They knew that if they
were caught, they would be punished, but they didn’t care. To them,
their impending futures were so bleak, it was worth a risk.
Besides, they might meet a nice foreign man and marry him. Any man
was better than a Saudi man!
    I thought Randa was going to swoon. She ran
into the street, looking up and down for Omar. She knew there would
be no mercy from Father if she were caught in such a situation. She
was terrorized.
    Omar, wary and perceptive, asked us what had
happened. Randa fidgeted and started to speak, but I interrupted
and told Omar a story about seeing a youth steal a necklace from
the gold souq. He had been beaten by the shopkeeper and roughly
hauled off to jail by a policeman. My voice had a tremor as I told
Omar we were upset because he was so young and we knew he would
lose his hand for his act. I was relieved that Omar believed my
story. Randa inched her hand under my black cloak and gave me a
squeeze of gratitude.
    Later, I found out from