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

pilot
changed his flight plans. He had flown for our family for many
years and knew us as a happy couple. He had no reason to doubt my
orders.
    Once we arrived in Dubai, I told the pilot to
stay at his usual hotel, the Dubai Sheraton. I would call him
tomorrow or the day after to advise him of my plans. I told him he
should consider himself off duty, for Kareem had said he would not
need him or the plane for several days. We owned three Lear jets;
one was always on standby for Kareem’s use.
    The children were ecstatic at the unexpected
sight of their mother. The headmaster of the British summer camp
shook his head in sympathy when I reported that their grandmother
was gravely ill. I would be taking the children, that very night,
back with me to Riyadh. He hurried off to his office to locate
their passports.
    When I shook the man’s hand in farewell, I
mentioned that I could not locate the servants who had accompanied
the children to Dubai. They had not answered the telephone in their
room; I imagined they were eating their dinner meal. Would he call
them in the morning and tell them I would have the pilot, Joel,
waiting for them at the Dubai Sheraton? They should go immediately
and present the pilot with this note. With that, I handed the
headmaster an envelope addressed to the American pilot.
    Inside the note, I apologized for using him
in such a deceptive manner; I added a postscript to Kareem
describing my duplicity of the pilot. I knew Kareem would have a
flash of anger at the pilot, but it would pass when he considered
the circumstances. The pilot, Joel, was a favorite of Kareem’s. He
was sure not to lose his job.
    The children and I climbed into the waiting
limousine, which sped to the airport; a direct flight to London was
departing within the hour. I would use whatever lie I could muster
to obtain four seats on the plane.
    As it turned out, I did not have to damage my
soul with God further. The flight was almost empty; most people
were returning to the Gulf at the end of the hot summer, not
departing. The children were sleepy and asked few questions; I told
them they would be surprised at the end of the journey.
    As the children slept, I nervously turned the
pages of a magazine. Nothing on the pages penetrated my thoughts; I
was considering my next move with great care. The remainder of my
life would depend upon the events of the next few weeks. Slowly,
the feeling overcame me that someone with a purpose was staring
directly at me. Had my flight from Kareem already been
discovered?
    I looked across the aisle. An Arab woman of
thirty or so years of age was staring hard at me. She cradled a
sleeping three-or four-year-old girl in her arms. I was relieved to
see that my mental intruder was a woman, and a mother, for Saudi
men would never put such a one in their employ. Her piercing glower
was a puzzle, so I stood, threaded my way around the serving cart,
and sat in the empty seat beside her. I asked her what her trouble
was; had I offended her in some manner?
    Her granite face came to life and she
practically spat her words at me: “I was at the airport when you
arrived; you, and your brood.” She glanced with contempt at my
children, “you practically ran over me and my child as you checked
in at the ticket counter!” She looked with black malice into my
eyes when she emphasized my nationality in her next insulting
sentence: “You Saudis think you can buy the world!”
    My warped day had sapped my strength; I
surprised myself even more than I surprised the woman when I burst
into tears. Through my sobs, I patted her shoulder and told her I
was sorry. I had a great tragedy in my life and catching this
flight was of utmost importance. With tears streaming down my face,
I returned to my seat.
    The woman was of a sympathetic nature, for
she was unable to remain far from my side after my show of emotion.
She carefully placed her daughter in the seat and knelt in the
aisle beside me. My body stiffened and I turned away, but she
maneuvered her face close to mine and said, “Please, I apologize.
I, too, have had a great tragedy. If I tell you what happened to my
daughter in your country, more than likely at the hands of some of
your countrymen, you will understand my great bitterness.”
    Having absorbed more horror than most people
endure in a lifetime, I felt no desire to carry yet another image
of injustice in my comprehension. Unable to trust my voice, I
mouthed the words “I am sorry.” She seemed to