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

possible
in Jeddah. Happily, our villa was located on a coveted spot
frequented by the Royal Family.
    We played backgammon as we watched our son,
surrounded by Filipino maids, paddle in the warm blue waters that
teemed with exotic fish. Even we females were allowed to swim,
though we kept our abaayas tight around us until we were up to our
necks in water. One of the servants relieved me of the abaaya held
high with my hand so that I could swim and splash with abandon. I
was as free as it was possible for a woman to be in Saudi
Arabia.
    It was the end of March, not a hot month of
the year, so we did not linger long after the midday sun. I told
the servants to gather our laughing baby and rinse him under the
specially made portable hot shower. We watched him as he gurgled
and kicked his short, fat legs. Our smiles were broad with pride;
Kareem squeezed my hand and said he felt guilty for feeling such
happiness. I accused him later of bringing us, and all Saudis, bad
luck by voicing his joy with life.
    Most Arabs believe in the evil eye; never do
we speak aloud of our joy with life or of the beauty of our
children. Quite possibly, some evil spirit will hear and steal the
object of our joy or cause us some grief by taking away a loved
one. To ward off this evil eye, our babies are protected by blue
beads pinned to their clothing. As enlightened as we were, our son
was no exception.
    Moments later, we recoiled in horror as Asad
ran toward us with the words, “King Faisal is dead! Murdered by one
of the family!” Struck dumb, we sat quivering as Asad told us the
scanty details he had learned from a royal cousin.
    At the root of our uncle’s death was a
dispute about the opening of a television station that had occurred
nearly ten years before. King Faisal had always stood firm for the
progress of modernization for our backward land. Kareem said he had
heard him say once that whether we Saudis liked it or not, he was
going to pull us, kicking and screaming, into the twentieth
century.
    The problems he faced with the extremely
religious citizens were a continuation of vexing situations
encountered by our very first ruler and Faisal’s father, Abdul
Aziz. These men of religion fought furiously against the opening of
the first radio station, and our first king overcame the objections
by ordering the Koran read over the airwaves. The religious ones
could find little fault in such a speedy method of spreading God’s
word. Years later, when Faisal strove to provide television
stations to our people, he, like his father before him, encountered
much opposition from the Ulema (the religious sheikhs).
    Tragically, members of the Royal Family
joined in such protests, and in September 1965, when I was but a
child, one of our cousins was shot and killed by the police as he
led a demonstration against a television station a few miles
outside Riyadh. The renegade prince, with his followers in tow, had
stormed the station. This episode ended in a rifle battle with the
police, and he was killed. Nearly ten years had passed, but hate
had bubbled in the younger brother of the prince until he had now
retaliated by shooting and killing his uncle, the king.
    Kareem and Asad flew to Riyadh. Sara and I,
along with various female royal cousins, congregated within the
confines of a family walled palace. We all wailed and shouted our
grief to each other. There were few female cousins who did not love
King Faisal, for he was our sole chance for change and ultimate
freedom. He alone had the prestige with both the religious men and
royal factions of our land to further the cause of women. He felt
our chains as his own, and beseeched our fathers to stand behind
him in his quest for social change. Once I myself heard him say
that even though there are separate roles for men and women, as
directed by God, no sex should rule with unquestioned supremacy
over the other. With a quiet voice he said that he would know
little happiness until each citizen of his land, both male and
female, was the master of his or her own fate. He believed that
only through the education of our women would our cause be
enforced, for our ignorance has surely kept us in darkness.
Certainly, no ruler since Faisal has championed our plight. Looking
back, our short but heady climb to freedom began its slippery
descent the moment his life exploded with the bullets of deceit
from his own family. Sadly, we women knew that our one chance for
freedom was buried with King Faisal.
    Each