Princess Sultana's Daughters

punishment, saying that the honor of his
family name had been ruined by the sexual misconduct of his
youngest daughter. With Nada’s execution, he dubiously reclaimed
the honor he had lost.
    My thoughts then drifted to the crushing
imprisonment of the best friend of my sister Tahani. Sameera was a
young woman whose parents had died in an automobile accident. She
fled to the United States with her lover when she felt threatened
by her uncle, who had become her legal guardian at the death of her
parents. A great tragedy occurred when Sameera’s uncle tricked her
into returning to Saudi Arabia. In a rage over her love affair, he
married his niece to a man not of her choice. When it was
discovered Sameera was no longer a virgin, she was confined to the
“woman’s room,” where she was still locked away even as my own
crisis unfolded.
    Even before the book was published, I had
realized that neither tale seemed credible, unless the book’s
readers would consider the barbarities that men inflict upon women.
Yet, something was telling me that those with genuine knowledge of
my land—its customs and traditions—would recognize the truth of my
words. Now, I wonder if Nada’s and Sameera’s tragic lives have yet
touched readers’ hearts.
    The memory of my unfortunate friends and
their sad fate renews my strength.
    With mounting exasperation I think that those
who desire freedom must be willing to pay for it with their lives.
The worst has happened. I have been discovered. Now what?
    It was a pivotal moment. Feeling my strength
return, I stand up and face my foes. I feel the warrior’s blood of
my grandfather, Abdul Aziz, surge through my body. From the time I
was a child, I have been most to be feared when I stand in real
danger.
    My courage gives me a hardened resolve.
Thinking back, I remember the face of a kind man who offered a
little girl succulent dates. I have a wild idea. Without
hesitating, I shout brave words over the din, “Take me to the
king!”
    The shouting stops. Incredulous, my father
repeats my words, “The king?”
    Ali makes an impatient tsking sound with his
tongue. “The king will not meet with you!”
    “Yes. He will! Take me to him. I wish to tell
the king the reasons why the book came to be. To tell him of the
tragic lives of the women he rules. I will confess, but only to the
king.”
    My father looks askance at his son, Ali.
Their eyes lock. It is as if I could read their minds. “One must be
honorable, but not too much!”
    “I insist upon confessing. To the king.” I
know this king well. He hates confrontation. Even so, he will
punish me for what I have done. I think to myself that I will need
someone from outside Saudi Arabia to keep my memory alive. I say,
“But before I go to the king, I must speak with someone at a
foreign newspaper to make my identity known. If I am to be
punished, I refuse to be forgotten. Let the world know how our
country deals with those who unveil the truth.”
    I walk toward the telephone that sits on a
small table next to the hallway door, thinking that I must notify
someone of my plight. I am desperate, trying to recall the
telephone number of an international newspaper that I had memorized
for just such an occasion.
    My sisters begin to wail, crying out to our
father that he must stop me.
    Kareem jumps to his feet, rushing to beat me
to the phone. My husband stands tall over me, blocking my path.
With a stern face, he holds out his arm and points to my chair as
if it were the executioner’s block.
    Despite the seriousness of the moment,
something about Kareem’s expression amuses me. I laugh aloud. My
husband can be a foolish man and still has not learned that to
silence me, he must bury me. That, I know, he can never do. My
knowledge of Kareem’s inability to commit violence has always given
me strength.
    Neither Kareem nor I move. Keenly feeling the
drama of the moment, I shout out, “When the beast is cornered, the
hunter is in danger.” The thought enters my mind to ram into his
stomach with my head, and I am considering this option just as my
oldest sister, Nura, takes center stage and quiets us all with her
calm voice.
    “Enough! This is not the manner to solve a
problem.” She pauses, glancing at Father and Ali. “All this
shouting! The servants will hear every word. Then we are in a true
dilemma.”
    Nura is the only female child of my father
who has gained his love. Father motions for everyone to be
quiet.
    Kareem leads me by the