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

($15.00).
    Why did I act so surprised, Marci wanted to
know. Most maids were mistreated in my country; our villa was a
rare exception. I reminded her that I had been in many of my
friends’ homes, and while I had to admit that little consideration
was given to servants, I had never witnessed an actual beating. I
had seen some of my friends verbally abuse their maids, but I had
paid it little heed since no one had ever been physically
assaulted.
    Marci sighed wearily, and said that physical
and sexual abuse were generally hidden. She reminded me that I live
only yards from a palace that hid the sufferings of many young
girls, and yet I had no knowledge of them. She softly told me to
keep my eyes open, to observe how women from other lands were
treated in my country. I nodded sadly in agreement.
    Through this conversation, Marci became more
aware of my empathetic nature. She decided to take me into her
confidence and tell me the full story of her friend Madeline. I
remember our conversation as well as if it were yesterday. Our
exchanges are clear in my mind. I can see her earnest face before
me now.
    “Ma’am, I want you to know about my closest
friend, Madeline. You are a princess. Perhaps the day will come
that you can help us poor Filipino women.”
    I was alone on that morning and felt boredom
creeping into my day, so I nodded, eager for a morning of revealing
gossip, even from a Filipino. I settled myself on my bed; Marci
dutifully stuffed pillows behind my head, just the way she knew I
liked them.
    I told her, “Before you begin your tale, go
and get me a bowl of fresh fruit and a glass of laban. (Laban is a
buttermilk-like drink common in the Middle East.) After she
returned with a tray of fruit and my cold beverage, I stuck my feet
out from under the covers and told Marci to rub them while she told
me about this Madeline friend of hers.
    Looking back, I burn with shame as I recall
my selfish, childish manner. I was intrigued by the thought of a
tragic story, yet not content to sit still and listen until all my
desires were met! Older and wiser, now I can only look back with
regret at the habits I picked up from my Saudi culture. No Saudi I
know has ever shown the slightest interest in a servant’s life: the
number of family members, their dreams and aspirations. People from
the Third World were there to serve us wealthy Saudis, nothing
more. Even my mother, who was kind and loving, rarely expressed an
interest in servants’ personal problems; though I do attribute that
to Mother’s overwhelming responsibilities of running a huge
household, and also satisfying my demanding father. I had no such
excuse. I cringe as I now acknowledge that Marci and the other
servants were little more than robots to me, there to do my
bidding. And to think that Marci and the household servants thought
me kind, for I alone questioned them about their lives. It is a
hard remembrance for one who considers herself sensitive.
    Pensive, her face without expression, Marci
began to rub my feet and started her story.
    “Ma’am, before I left my country, I begged
that Lebanese man for the address of Madeline’s employer. He said
no, he was not allowed. I told a lie, Ma’am. I said that I had
items to take to my friend from her mother. After I begged, he
finally agreed, and gave me a phone number and the area of Riyadh
that Madeline worked.”
    “Is her employer a prince?”
    “No, Ma’am. He lives in the district called
Al Malaz, about thirty minutes by car from here.”
    Our palace was in the Al Nasiriyah area, a
prestigious location inhabited by many royals, the most wealthy
residential district of Riyadh. I had been in the area of Al Malaz
once a long time ago and recalled many nice palaces of the upper
business society of Saudis.
    I knew Marci was forbidden to leave the
palace grounds, other than special monthly shopping trips organized
by Omar for the female servants. Since our servants, like most
domestics in Saudi Arabia, worked a brutal seven-day week,
fifty-two weeks a year, I wondered how she could slip away to visit
her friend.
    I voiced my interest. “How did you manage a
trip to Al Malaz?” Marci hesitated for a short moment. “Well,
Ma’am, you know the Filipino driver Antoine?”
    We had four drivers, two Filipinos and two
Egyptians. I was generally driven by Omar or the other Egyptian.
The Filipinos were used for grocery shopping and the running of
errands.
    “Antoine? The young one who always