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

that he liked her so much, he
continued to rape her on a daily basis!”
    “Why did she not run away? Get someone to
help her?”
    “Ma’am, she did try. She begged the other
servants to assist her! The old cook and the ugly maid did not wish
to become involved, and perhaps lose their salaries. The pretty
maid hated Madeline, and said she was the reason she did not get
her gold necklace. The wife and old woman were not treated well
themselves by the master; they ignored her and said she was hired
to please the men of the house!”
    “I would have jumped out of a window and run
away!”
    “She tried to run away, many times. She was
caught and everyone in the house was ordered to guard her. Once,
while everyone was sleeping, she went to the roof and dropped notes
on the sidewalk begging for help. The notes were given to the
Yemenis by some Saudi neighbors and she was beaten!”
    “What happened after you found her?”
    Marci’s face was sad and resigned as she
continued. “I tried many things. I called our embassy in Jeddah. I
was told by the man that answered that they received many such
complaints but there was little they could do. Our country relies
on the monies sent from workers abroad; our government did not want
to antagonize the Saudi government by lodging formal complaints.
Where would the poor Filipino people be without money from
abroad?
    “Antoine checked with some of the drivers
about going to the police, but he was told the police would believe
any story told by the Saudi employer and Madeline might get into a
worse situation.”
    I cried out, “Marci! What could be
worse?”
    “Nothing, Ma’am. Nothing. I did not know what
to do. Antoine became frightened and said we could do nothing else.
I finally wrote Madeline’s mother and told her of the situation and
she went to the employment agency in Manila and was told to go
away. She went to our mayor in our town and he said he was
helpless. No one wanted to get involved.”
    “Where is your friend now?”
    “I received a letter from her only a month
ago. I am thankful she was sent back to the Philippines at the end
of her two-year contract. Two new Filipinos, younger than Madeline,
had replaced her. Can you believe, Ma’am, Madeline was angry at me?
She thought I had left her without trying to help.
    “Please believe that I did all that I could.
I wrote her a letter and explained all that happened. I have not
received a reply.”
    I could not say a word in defense of my
countrymen. I stared into Marci’s face, at a loss.
    She finally broke the silence. “And that,
Ma’am, is what happened to my friend in this country.”
    I could tell Marci was heartbroken for her
friend. I myself was stricken with sorrow. How does a person
respond to such a tale of horror? I could not. In shame at the men
of my country, I no longer felt superior to the young girl who,
only moments before was my servant, my inferior. Engulfed with
remorse, I buried my head in my pillow and dismissed Marci with a
flick of my hand. For many days, I was quiet and withdrawn; I
thought of the myriad accounts of abuse that torture the minds of
the people, both Saudis and foreigners, living in this land I call
my home.
    How many more Madelines are there, reaching
out to uncaring souls and discovering the nothingness that is
dressed in the official uniform of those paid to care? And the men
of the Philippines, Marci’s land, were little better than the men
of my country, for they fled from the face of personal involvement.
When I awoke from my unsettling sleep of mortification, I began to
interrogate my friends and ferret out their passivity regarding the
fate of their female servants. Through my tenacity, I was inundated
with firsthand accounts of unspeakable and vile acts committed by
men of my culture against women from all nations.
    I heard of Shakuntale from India, who at age
thirteen was sold by her family for a sum of SR 600 ($170). She was
worked by day and abused by night in much the same manner as the
unsuspecting Madeline. But Shakuntale had been bought. She was
property that would not be returned—Shakuntale could never go home
again. She was the property of her tormentors.
    I listened in horror as a mother laughingly
dismissed the plight of her Thai maid who was raped at will by the
son of the house. She said that her son needed sex, and that the
sanctity of Saudi women forced the family to provide him with his
own woman. Oriental women do not care whom they go to