Princess Sultana's Daughters

at the King
Abdul Aziz International Airport at Jeddah, and I was pleased when
Kareem instructed the American pilot to take us through the Haj, or
Pilgrim’s Terminal, which is a surrealistic tent city that covers
370 acres of land. The Pilgrim’s Terminal is for incoming pilgrims
from other lands, but our royal status made it possible for us to
land wherever we might wish.
    A few years before Kareem had taken Abdullah
to the grand opening of the terminal, but neither of my daughters
had yet been inside the spectacular building.
    Forgetting my earlier vow to remain silent
until my feet touched the streets of Makkah, I felt an unexplained
need for my daughters to discover a source of pride in their
heritage, even if that pride was linked implicitly with economic
wealth.
    Initially, I spoke in a quiet voice, which I
knew would not be offensive to God. I explained to my daughters
that the terminal had won an international award for its unique
design and advanced engineering innovation. I felt a surge of pride
in the infrastructure that Saudi Arabians had created in one short
generation. No longer feeling the shame of my ancestors’ wrenching
poverty, which had haunted me in my younger days, the old passions
left me and my sense of the past was sharpened. What had once
seemed bleak and shameful was now lovely and of great value. I
thought to myself: from a forbidding land where scarcely fifty
years ago warring tribes had fought over camels and goats, we
Saudis have arrived as an economic force. My own family had led
lawless tribesmen from a stark desert land to become one of the
wealthiest peoples and nations on earth.
    While Western minds have always claimed that
only the oil paved our way to prosperity, I paid that analysis
little heed, for oil had been discovered in other lands, and the
ordinary citizens of those countries had never enjoyed the
substantial life-style experienced by all Saudis. The secret lay in
the wisdom of the men who controlled the proceeds from our
resources. While I have always found much fault with the men of my
family, particularly regarding their stance on women’s issues, on
this one subject I recognized and commended their clever and
insightful leadership.
    Thinking the opportunity was ripe to instill
ancestral pride into those I had given life, I became enthusiastic
and began to speak in a loud voice, reminding the children of past
events and the virtues of the ones who came before us: the courage,
endurance, self-reliance, and intelligence of our bedouin
ancestors. Recalling the impoverished life lived by my parents, and
then the extravagant life enjoyed by their children and
grandchildren, a reversal that was nothing short of miraculous, I
became animated, telling family tales with dramatic intensity and
convincing realism.
    Thinking myself quite the storyteller,
remembering happy moments spent at the feet of my own mother and
older aunties, I was immersed in the drama of the founding of our
country when, suddenly, I realized that I had no audience.
    Sara, Asad, and Kareem shared pained looks,
but as I had quite forgotten the purpose of our journey, their
expressions of disbelief at my conduct made no impact on my
mind.
    I glanced at our young ones and was keenly
disappointed to see their lack of interest. I knew at that moment
that poverty not endured does not affect the privileged, and that
the younger Al Sa’ud generation had fallen under the enfeebling
influence of great wealth.
    Plainly, the children were bored at the
thought of the bedouin seed from which they had sprung.
    Abdullah was playing a game of backgammon
with Sara’s oldest son, while the smallest children were cavorting
with some small cars and trucks Assad had brought back from his
last trip to London.
    Recalling the face of my loving mother and
her poignant stories of the wonderful grandparents I had never
known, my palms itched with the desire to slap the unresponsive
faces of the descendants of those tender souls who had been dead
for so very long. I looked around for someone to pounce upon, and
just as I reached over to pinch the skin on Abdullah’s arm, my eyes
met Sara’s, and she mouthed the word Ihram .
    Once again, I had failed to remember where I
was going! Thinking, too late, I will perform my rituals once again
when I reach my home in Jeddah, my thoughts strayed back to the
past, and tears came without warning at the thought of the hardy
and brave ancestors we would see no more. Sara gave me a