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

Kareem
would come to claim me. Nura proudly announced that people were
already whispering that this was the wedding of the decade. There
are no announcements of engagements and weddings in Saudi Arabia;
these matters are considered extremely private. But gossip of
monies spent and grand occasions staged travels throughout the
land, with each section of the Royal Family striving to outspend
the other.
    I slapped at my aunties and screamed when the
hair on my private parts was so rudely removed. Yelping in pain, I
asked where such a savage custom had begun. My oldest auntie
slapped my face for such impudence. She looked hard into my eyes
and announced that I, Sultana, was a stupid child, and that as a
daughter of the Muslim faith I should know that the Prophet
recommended, for the sake of cleanliness, that all pubic and armpit
hair should be removed every forty days. I, willful as ever,
shouted that the practice no longer made sense; after all, modern
Muslims are equipped with hot water and soap to wash away our dirt.
We no longer had to use the sand of the desert for such
purposes!
    My auntie, knowing the futility of arguing
with me, continued with her duties. I shocked all present when I
loudly proclaimed that if the Prophet could speak in this new age
of modern amenities, I knew he would end such a silly tradition.
Certainly, I announced loudly, this one issue alone proved that we
Saudis were like uninspired mules; we trod the same weary track as
the mule before us even if it led us to plunge off a cliff. Only
when we evolved as spirited stallions, with a strong will of our
own, would we progress and leave the era of those primitive behind
us.
    My relatives exchanged worried glances, for
they lived in dread of my rebellious spirit and felt comfortable
only with complacent women. My contentment with the one chosen for
my husband was considered nothing less than miraculous, but until
the final ceremony was complete, none of my relatives would breathe
easy.
    My dress was made of the brightest red lace I
could find. I was a bold bride, and I took great delight in
scandalizing my family, who had begged me to wear a soft peach or
pale pink instead. As was my way, I refused to relent. I knew I was
right. Even my sisters finally admitted that my skin and eyes were
flattered by the bright color.
    I was in a happy daze when Sara and Nura
lowered the dress over my head and shoulders and fastened the
delicate buttons around my waist.
    A moment of sadness came as Nura draped
Kareem’s gift of rubies and diamonds around my neck. I could not
escape the image of my mother on the sad day of Sara’s wedding when
I had sat as a child on the floor and watched her fasten the
unwanted jewels around the neck of Sara. It had been only two short
years ago, yet it seemed another life, another Sultana. I shed my
gloom and smiled when I realized Mother must be watching me from a
great distance with a satisfied glow in her eyes. I could barely
breathe in the tight bodice as I leaned down to pick up a bouquet
of spring flowers made entirely of precious stones, especially
designed for the occasion by Sara.
    Looking into my sisters’ smiling faces, I
announced, “I am ready.”
    It was time for my new beginning, another
life.
    The beating of the drums drowned out the
orchestra imported from Egypt. With Nura on one side and Sara on
the other, I made my proud appearance to the expectant guests,
waiting impatiently in the garden.
    As with all Saudi weddings, the official
ceremony had been conducted earlier. With Kareem and his family in
one part of the palace and I and my family in another, the
religious sheikh had gone from room to room, asking us if we
accepted the other. Kareem and I had not been allowed to say our
words of promise in the other’s presence.
    For four days and nights our family had been
celebrating. The celebration would continue another three days and
nights after our appearance before our female guests. Tonight’s
ceremony was merely a stage created for the lovers to bask in the
beauty of observance of youth and hope. Our night of glory.
    I had not seen Kareem since the day of our
first meeting. Our courtship had continued, nonetheless, by long
hours of playful telephone conversation. Now I watched Kareem,
escorted by his father, walk slowly toward the pavilion. He was so
handsome, and he was going to be my husband.
    For some odd reason, I was fascinated with
the beating of his heart. I watched the tremor of movement in