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

that
alcohol should be legalized, they banded their energies and soon
became fabulously wealthy trucking illegal alcohol from Jordan.
    When border guards became suspicious of the
cargo, they were paid off. The only obstacles to the illegal
importation of alcohol are the ever-roving bands of the committees
for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. These
committees were formed by the mutawas, religious men who tremble in
anger at the effrontery of members of the Saudi Royal Family who,
above all others, are presumed to uphold Islamic law, yet prove
time and again that they consider themselves above the teachings of
the Prophet.
    One of these committees soon was Muneer’s
undoing and unwittingly provided the solution to my obtrusive
mother-in-law. It was a Saturday, our first day of the week
(Muslims celebrate their religion on Fridays), a day none of
Kareem’s family will ever forget.
    Kareem sullenly walked through the doorway,
weary from a hot, trying day at his office, and came upon his
mother and wife in a rough shoving match. When she saw her son,
Noorah widened the twilight war with her new daughter-in-law by
sobbing and loudly proclaiming to Kareem that I, Sultana, was
filled with disrespect for his mother, and that for no apparent
reason, I had started the brawl with her.
    As she fled the scene she pinched me on the
forearm, and I, in a widening mood of anger, rushed after her and
would have taken a swing at her but for Kareem’s intervention.
Noorah looked hard at me and turned to Kareem. She hinted darkly
that I was an unfit wife, and that if he investigated my
activities, he would be prompted to divorce me.
    Any other day Kareem might have laughed at
our ridiculous and infantile display, for women with little but
time on their hands tend to maneuver themselves into numerous
squabbles. But on that day he had been informed by his London
broker that over the previous week he had lost more than a million
dollars in the stock market. In his black mood, he rushed to meet
violence with a vengeance. Since no Arab man will ever contradict
his mother, Kareem slapped me three times across the face. They
were slaps meant to insult, since they accomplished little more
than to redden my jaw.
    My strong character was formed by age five. I
have the tendency to be nervous at the sight of trouble looming. As
the danger draws near, I become less nervous. When the peril is at
hand, I swell with fierceness. As I grapple with my assailant, I am
without fear and fight to the finish with little thought of
injury.
    The battle was on. I swung at Kareem with a
rare and priceless vase that just happened to be nearby. He saved
his face by a quick move to the left. The vase shattered as it
struck a Monet painting worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. The
vase and the water lily painting were destroyed. In a fine fury, I
grabbed an expensive Oriental ivory sculpture and threw it at
Kareem’s head.
    The crashing and banging, along with our
shouts, alerted the household. Women and servants burst suddenly
upon us with loud cries. By this time, Kareem realized I was going
to destroy the room, which was filled with his father’s beloved
treasures. To stop me, he punched me in the jaw. Inky darkness
surrounded me.
    When I opened my eyes, Marci was standing
above me, dripping cold water on my face from a soaking cloth. I
heard loud voices in the background and assumed that the excitement
over my fight with Kareem was continuing.
    Marci said no, the new disturbance concerned
Muneer. Kareem’s father had been summoned by King Faisal regarding
a container of alcohol that had leaked the illegal substance in a
trail down the streets of Riyadh. The Egyptian driver had stopped
at a shop for a sandwich and the pervasive smell of alcohol had
caused a crowd to gather. Detained by a member of one of the
committees to prevent vice, he, in his fear, had volunteered the
name of Muneer and one other prince. The head of the Religious
Council had been alerted and he had contacted the king. The king
was in a rare rage.
    Kareem and his father left the villa to
return to the king’s palace. The drivers were sent in search of
Muneer. I nursed my swollen jaw and plotted a new plan of revenge
on Noorah. I could hear her cries of grief; I gathered myself and
walked down the circular staircase, sniffing the air for her sobs.
I, a woman far removed from sainthood, wanted to see and feel the
full pleasure of her distress. I followed her cries to