Princess Sultana's Daughters

attracted
to members of the opposite sex, and twice Asad had discovered her
meeting Saudi teenage boys in a music shop at a shopping center in
the city.
    Tears streamed down Sara’s face as she
confided in me that her daughter flirted outrageously with every
male who entered their palace grounds. In a voice filled with
disbelief, she said that the week before, Nashwa had begun an
explicit sexual conversation with two of the younger Filipino
drivers. One of Nashwa’s brothers had overheard the conversation,
and when confronted, Nashwa boldly acknowledged her action, stating
that she had to do something to interrupt the monotony of
life in Saudi Arabia.
    Asad had been forced to fire the young
drivers and to employ older Muslim men from Egypt who would respect
the Muslim way: to ignore the willful women of the house.
    Just that morning, Sara had overheard her
daughter speaking with a female friend on the telephone. The two
girls were discussing in great detail the pleasing physique of the
girl’s eldest brother. It seemed to Sara that Nashwa had a crush on
this boy, and now my sister had to reconsider or regulate her
daughter’s visits to that home.
    Sara’s face was drawn with worry over the
outcome of Nashwa’s loose morals and unbecoming conduct, saying she
had often heard that one of nature’s oversights was that beauty and
virtue often arrive in separate packages. Nashwa, my sister said,
was an innocent-faced beauty who was sadly lacking in virtue.
    I had to agree that my difficulties with
Amani paled in comparison with my sister’s problems with Nashwa.
There was some consolation in the knowledge that Amani’s piety had
the approval of the religious authorities, while Nashwa’s
activities could embroil Sara and Asad in that never-ending web of
the Saudi religious and legal system.
    I was once again overtaken by the thought
that Nashwa was my true child, while Amani must be attached by
blood to Sara. I thought to ask Sara about the matter, but had a
moment of anxiety that an actual exchange of daughters might result
from my baseless speculation. I reminded myself that in my country
it is better to wrestle with a persistent religious fanatic than
with a young girl habituated to sexual stimulus.
    In an effort to raise my sister’s spirits, I
told her that too often when dealing with our children, we parents
see little but the defects. I thought to mention some of Nashwa’s
good traits, but could find nothing to say.
    Sara and I were still for a time, looking at
each other. We knew instinctively that we understood each other
perfectly.
    With her daughter in mind, my sister began to
ponder the progress of civilization. Our children had been
sheltered from all worldly concerns, lavished with creature
comforts, provided with intelligent pursuits and moral guidance,
yet the careful organization of their lives had made little impact
on their development.
    Sara said she had come to the conclusion that
human character was linked to nothing more than genetics, and that
her children might as well have grown like weeds instead of
meticulously tended plants. “Besides,” she said with a laugh, “the
radicals of one age become the reactionaries of the next, so who
knows the eventual outcome of our offspring?”
    Since it always lightens one’s burdens to be
reminded of another’s troubles, even if that person is one greatly
loved, I began to feel more cheerful than I had in days.
    I laughed and agreed with my sister, saying
that the seeds we planted had not all flowered. Thinking that all
of life is in God’s hands anyway, I promised myself I would worry
no longer.
    Sara went to inquire about her youngest
children, who were playing in our palace playground, which is
located next to Amani’s zoo, while I promised to bathe and dress
myself for a visit to Fayza. Neither Sara nor I had seen the poor
girl since she was forced to return to the kingdom, though we had
heard, with some surprise, that she had recovered and was now
seeing close friends and relatives.
    Enjoying uncommon peace for the first time in
days, I was unprepared for a shocking telephone call from my
husband. His voice was alarmingly intense. “Sultana, go to the safe
and locate Abdullah’s passport.”
    “Why?” I asked.
    Kareem told me to shut up and do as he
said.
    Thinking the worst, I dropped the telephone
receiver to the floor and ran rapidly into my husband’s home
office, which is located on the first floor in our home. My hands
refused