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

fierce bedouin women
have been extinguished; soft women who bear little resemblance to
them remain in their stead.
    The fear curled in my belly when I heard the
shouting of my voice. My legs trembled under my body when my father
arose from his chair, and I saw the movement of his arm but never
felt the blow to my face.
    As punishment, Ali was given all my toys. To
teach me that men were my masters, my father decreed that Ali would
have the exclusive right to fill my plate at mealtimes. The
triumphant Ali gave me the tiniest of portions and the worst cuts
of meat. Each night, I went to sleep hungry, for Ali placed a guard
at my door and ordered him to forbid me to receive food from my
mother or my sisters. My brother taunted me by entering my room at
midnight laden with plates steaming with the delicious smells of
cooked chicken and hot rice.
    Finally Ali wearied of his torture, but from
that time on, when he was only nine years old, he was my devoted
enemy. Although I was only seven years old, as a result of “the
apple incident,” I first became aware that I was a female who was
shackled by males unburdened with consciences. I saw the broken
spirits of my mother and sisters, but I remained faithful to
optimism and never doubted that I would one day triumph and my pain
would be compensated by true justice. With this determination, from
an early age, I was the family troublemaker.
    There were pleasant times in my young life
too. My happiest hours were spent at the home of my mother’s aunt.
Widowed, too old for further notice and thus complications from
men, she was now merry and filled with wonderful stories from her
youth of the days of the tribal battles. She had witnessed the
birth of our nation and mesmerized us with the tales of the valor
of King Abdul Aziz and his followers. Sitting cross-legged on
priceless Oriental carpets, my sisters and I nibbled on date
pastries and almond cakes while immersed in the drama of the great
victories of our kinsmen. My auntie inspired me to new pride in my
family as she told of the Al Sa’uds’ bravery in battle.
    In 1891, my mother’s family had accompanied
the Al Sa’ud clan in their flight from Riyadh when they were
defeated by the Rasheed clan. Ten years later, male members of her
family returned with Abdul Aziz to recapture the land; my auntie’s
brother fought alongside Abdul Aziz. This show of loyalty ensured
their entry into the Royal Family by the marriages of their
daughters. The stage was set for my destiny as a princess.
    In my youth, my family was privileged, though
not yet wealthy. The income from oil production ensured that food
was plentiful and medical care available, which at that time in our
history seemed the greatest of luxuries.
    We lived in a large villa, made of concrete
blocks painted snowy white. Each year, the sandstorms turned the
white to cream, but father’s slaves would dutifully repaint the
sand-colored stones white. The thirty-feet-high block walls
surrounding our grounds were maintained in the same fashion. The
childhood home I took for granted was a mansion by Western
standards, yet, in looking back, it was a simple dwelling by
today’s Saudi royal expectations. As a child, I felt our family
home was too large for warm comfort. The long hallways were dark
and forbidding. Rooms of various shapes and sizes branched off,
concealing the secrets of our lives. Father and Ali lived in the
men’s quarters on the second floor. I used to peer into their
quarters with the curiosity of the child I was. Dark red velvet
curtains closed out the sunlight. A smell of Turkish tobacco and
whiskey embraced the heavy atmosphere. One timid look and then with
a rush I would return to the women’s quarters on the ground floor,
where my sisters and I occupied a large wing. The room I shared
with Sara faced the women’s private garden. Mother had the room
painted a bright yellow; as a result, it had the glow of life that
was so glaringly absent in the rest of the villa.
    The family servants and slaves lived in tiny,
airless rooms in a separate dwelling set apart at the back of the
garden. While our villa was air-conditioned, the servants’ quarters
were ill-equipped for enduring the hot desert climate. I remember
the foreign maids and drivers speaking of their dread of bedtime.
Their only relief from the heat was the breeze generated by small
electric fans. Father said that if he provided their quarters with
air-conditioning, they would sleep the whole