Princess Sultana's Daughters

a child I was fascinated by the
Arabian explorers: Philby, Thesiger, Burton, Doughty, Thomas, and
of course Lawrence. I devoured their adventures. And, quite
determined to view what I had read about, I convinced my parents to
send me to Egypt. It wasn’t Arabia, but it was a start, anyway. To
my misfortune, I arrived just as the Suez Crisis occurred. But I
was hooked.”
    His eyes took on a faraway look. “I went back
years later...set up a small practice in Cairo...learned a bit of
Arabic”—he paused, looking at Kareem—“and found out more than I
wanted to know about the way you fellows treat your women.”
    Kareem’s love of his daughter proved stronger
than his love of honor. To my relief, he remained quiet, his face
free of all expression.
    The doctor looked pleased. He seemed to be
thinking, here is an Arab who would not spout nonsense about the
need to lock females in purdah.
    “Will our daughter recover? Fully recover?”
Kareem asked.
    The worry in his voice told the doctor of his
love for Maha. I moved to the edge of my seat. I could hear my
heart pounding in my ears.
    The doctor clasped his hands together,
rubbing them as if he were lubricating his palms. Looking from
Kareem to me, he heaped drama upon an already dramatic situation.
His face remained blank as he answered, “Will your daughter
recover? Fully recover? I have spoken with her for one hour only.
Therefore, it is difficult to summarize her case completely.”
Looking upon my stricken face, he added, “But, her case seems quite
typical. I have treated a good number of Arab ladies who suffered
from hysterics, women who were visiting our city. Generally
speaking, given time and proper care, I would say that your
daughter’s prognosis is favorable.”
    I wept in my husband’s arms.
    Maha’s physician left us alone in his
office.
    *
    For three months I remained in London while
Maha underwent psychiatric evaluation and treatment. Once we
understood that our daughter would require lengthy care, that a
cure could not be achieved in a matter of days, Kareem traveled
back and forth to Riyadh, making a point to be in London on
Tuesdays and Thursdays, the two days of the week when we were
allowed to visit with our child.
    During our visits we offered Maha peace, but
she preferred to fight. It was as if a thousand terrors denied her
ability to speak calmly and reasonably. Nothing we could say or do
pleased her. Following the physician’s instructions, Kareem and I
refused to argue with our child. At those moments Maha argued with
herself, even going so far as to speak in two voices! Maha’s doctor
assured us that eventually Maha’s mental state would improve beyond
our expectations.
    How we prayed for that moment to arrive!
    The intense visits wore poorly on Kareem. I
saw my husband age before my eyes. I said to him one evening, “If
nothing else, I have learned that aging has nothing to do with the
accumulation of years. Aging is the inevitable defeat of parents by
their young.”
    A small twinkle came into Kareem’s eyes, the
first sign of joy I had seen in many days. He claimed, in all
seriousness, that it could not be so. “If that were the case,
Sultana, your long-suffering father would appear the oldest living
man on the planet.”
    Pleased that my husband had showed a glimmer
of life, I let the reference pass and leaned fondly on his
shoulder, relieved that our family tragedy had brought us closer
together rather than pushing us further apart. At that moment I
reminded myself that no person leads an irreproachable life, and I
forgave my husband for the trauma I had endured in his futile quest
for a second wife. The event had taken place years before, and we
had repaired our damaged relationship, but until now, I had not
forgiven my husband for his desire to take another woman into our
home. Full of emotions I had assumed I’d lost forever, I
congratulated myself on the worth of the man I had wed.
    *
    In time, Kareem and I witnessed a miracle.
Maha’s doctor was, as I had expected, a man of genius and
perseverance, a devoted physician whose natural abilities soothed
my daughter’s frightful demons. In happy obscurity, while locked in
the drabbest of offices in the dreariest of hospital wards, he
combined his medical knowl- edge with his experience in the world
of Arab women and gained my daughter’s trust. With this trust, the
physician opened her wounds, and torrents of jealousy, hate, and
anger spilled from Maha’s trembling