Princess Sultana's Circle

tent.
    As decreed by the Koran,
this Bedouin chief apparently provided each of his wives with her
own tent, in the same manner that city Arabs build individual
villas or palaces for each wife.
    As we were escorted inside,
Faten said with a flourish, “As the most favored wife of Sheik
Fahd. I welcome you to my tent.”
    As we entered the flapping
goat-hair door of Faten’s tent, I looked around with undisguised
interest. The interior was dark and stuffy, just as I remembered
the Bedouin tents of my childhood. In the center of the room there
was a coffee hearth surrounded by piles of white ashes from
previous fires. Numerous gaudy tints caught my eyes. Cushions of
various orange, blue, and red hues were piled against mattresses,
and brightly colored quilts, pots and pans, food items, and folded
clothes were heaped up everywhere.
    Everything appeared
unclean, and the tent carried the foul aroma of disease. Saddest of
all was the sight of the small children. The cries of several fussy
babies filled the room, and shy, grubby toddlers peeked around from
behind their mothers. I watched sadly as one unhappy little boy,
who looked to be four or five years old, used his hands to pull
himself along the floor. When one of the women saw that his pitiful
crippled condition drew my attention, she volunteered the
information that, when he was only an infant, his mother had
accidentally dropped him from a camel.
    I tried to take him in my
arms, but in his fear, he began to scream. One of the women, who I
assumed was his mother, slapped his shrunken legs until he dragged
himself to a corner of the tent where he lay whimpering.
    I was brokenhearted at this
child’s plight. Unlike people of other cultures, Arabs, and in
particular, Bedouin Arabs, are uncaring about their handicapped.
While healthy children are considered wealth and prestige for a
family, an unhealthy child is a dreaded shame. It was doubtful that
this child would ever receive medical attention. The little boy
would likely live out his miserably short life crippled, unloved
and undernourished.
    I desperately wanted to
scoop the little boy up and take him away with me, but such a
reaction is unheard of in my country. In such a case as neglect,
children are never taken away from their families, no matter the
circumstances.
    When one of the women
roughly nudged my arm, I accepted the tea cup offered me. It was
crusted with the filth of much previous use. A second woman with
the scarred hands of a woman who had raised many tents poured hot
tea into my cup. There was nothing to do but to drink from this
cup; otherwise, our hostess would be gravely offended.
    Once she was satisfied that
her guests had been served, Faten removed her veil. She was proud
to show us that she was, indeed, very pretty, and very young, no
more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, close to Maha’s
age.
    The other Bedouin women
removed their veils, too. These women looked much older and more
worn out than Faten. It was no wonder that she was the favorite
wife, for she had not yet been ravaged by repeated childbirth and
the harsh desert life.
    Faten pranced before us as
she showed off the various trinkets that she said were special
gifts from the Sheik. “He no longer visits his other wives,” she
said with a broad grin as she pointed out three other Bedouin women
in attendance. Those three women exchanged subtle looks of
irritation, while my sisters and I sat in silent unease. When one
of the older women insisted that my sisters and I also remove our
veils, we did so.
    Faten gawked in surprise at
Sara’s beauty. Obviously, she was accustomed to being the village
celebrity, but no woman could match Sara’s breathtaking loveliness.
If my dear sister lived in a country where women were not forced to
cover their faces, she would be famous for her magnificent
beauty.
    The other women fluttered
around Sara and began to touch her face and hair. One of them told
Faten that if Sheik Fahd were ever to see such a one as Sara, that
he was sure to abandon her bed in frustration. The other three
wives of the Sheik quickly agreed.
    The visibly spoiled Faten
became jealous and began to command the other women to retrieve
this item or that item. Her voice was far too impolite and loud,
and as a token of resistance, the women pretended not to understand
Faten’s instructions.
    The words exchanged became
so harsh and the looks so fierce, that I feared we were about to
witness an altercation between these