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

fifteen. She knew few other details and left
my bedside to gossip with the other nurses in the hallway.
    I begged Kareem to uncover the story. He
hesitated, saying that this was not a matter of our concern. After
much pleading and the shedding of tears on my part, he promised to
inquire into the matter.
    Sara lightened my day when she brought me
bright news of her evolving romance. Asad had spoken with Father
and had received the expected positive answer. Sara and Asad were
going to marry within three months. I was thrilled for my sister,
who had known so little happiness.
    Then she divulged other news that made my
stomach sink with fear. She and Asad had made plans to meet in
Bahrain the following weekend. When I protested, Sara said she was
traveling to meet Asad, with or without my assistance. She planned
to advise Father that she was still at our palace, helping me in my
new role of motherhood. She would tell Noorah that she was back at
Father’s home. She said no one would guess otherwise.
    I asked how she could travel without Father’s
permission, for I knew he kept all the family passports locked in
his safe at the office. Besides, she would require a letter of
permission from Father or she would never gain entry onto the
plane. I cringed when Sara told me she had borrowed a passport and
a permission letter from a girlfriend who had planned a trip to
Bahrain to visit relatives, but had had to cancel when one of the
relatives became ill.
    Since Saudi women veil, and the security
guards at the airport would never dare ask to see a woman’s face,
many Saudi women borrow each other’s passports for such occasions.
The letter of permission was the added difficulty; but they too are
swapped, along with the passports. Sara would return the good deed
at a later date by planning a trip to a nearby country and
canceling at the last minute, then lending her credentials to the
same friend. It was a detailed, underground operation that none of
our men ever figured out. I had always been amused at the ease with
which women tricked the airport officials, but now that it was my
sister, I was shaken with worry.
    In an effort to discourage Sara from any
reckless acts, I related the story of the young girl waiting to be
stoned to death. Sara, as I, was distraught, but her plans remained
solid. With increasing trepidation, I agreed to be her cover. She
burst out laughing at the thought of meeting Asad without
supervision. He had arranged to borrow a friend’s apartment in
Manama, the capital of the tiny country of Bahrain.
    Sara, in her mood of anticipation, lifted my
son from his silken cocoon. With joyful eyes, she absorbed his
perfection, and said that she too would soon know the joys of
motherhood, for she and Asad longed for the six little ones
predicted with such certainty by Huda.
    I displayed the happy countenance expected by
my sister, but fear settled in my belly like frozen fire.
    Kareem returned early in the evening with
information about the condemned girl. He said she was known to be
wanton and had become pregnant after having sex with numerous
teenage boys.
    Kareem was disgusted with her behavior. He
said that in her disdain for the laws of our land, she had
humiliated the honor of her family name; there was no other course
possible for her family to take.
    I asked my husband of the punishment for the
young males who had participated, but he had no answer. I suggested
that they had more than likely received a stern lecture in lieu of
a death sentence; in the world of Arabs, blame for unsanctioned sex
is placed wholly on the shoulders of the female. Kareem stunned me
with his calm acceptance of the planned execution of a child, no
matter what the crime. In spite of my appeals for him to make some
effort to intervene with the king, who could often attain success
with a father bent on violent punishment, Kareem dismissed my cries
of alarm with unconcealed irritation and insisted that the subject
be dropped.
    I was withdrawn and sullen when he bade me
farewell. He lavished our son with kisses and promises of a perfect
life while I sat dull and unresponsive.
    I was preparing to depart the hospital when
the British nurse entered my suite in a white glow of anger. She
brought heavy tidings of the condemned girl. She possessed an
uncanny memory and recalled every painful detail, in perfect
clarity, that she had been told by the physician from India. The
condemned girl had given birth to a baby daughter in the