Princess Sultana's Daughters

“Quickly!”
    Abdullah’s plans ran clear through my mind.
My son had taken Maha’s passport for Jafer’s wife, Fayza! Abdullah
had plotted her rescue. It was Fayza who was traveling on Maha’s
passport. Fayza was going to Lebanon with my son, not Maha! With
her face veiled, it is possible for a Saudi woman to travel abroad
using the passport of another.
    When Maha understood the significance of her
brother’s deed, she pleaded for us to return to our home.
    “Mother! Let them go!”
    It was a difficult moment. If I made no move
to notify Fayza’s parents, I was an accomplice to my son’s
unwelcome intrusion into another man’s private affairs. If I was
the cause of Fayza’s continued separation from the man she loved
enough to wed, I could never again claim to battle for the rights
of women in my land.
    Sara and I stared at each other for many
moments. Sara’s eyes were clear and penetrating, and I knew that my
sister was reliving the horrible sexual abuse she had endured in
her own first marriage. Had our mother not revolted against our
father, risking a divorce and possible permanent separation from
her own precious children, Sara would have remained in sexual
bondage to a man she hated, never knowing the wonderful love she
now shared with Asad.
    My decision was the result of the intolerance
and sever restraints suffered by the women of my land. Wanting to
live up to the best, and not the worst in my ancestry, I instructed
Mousa, “Take us home.”
    Maha laughed and kissed me time and again,
crushing me against the seat of the automobile.
    Sara’s eyes grew luminous. My sister smiled
and squeezed my hand, saying, “Sultana, do not worry, you have made
the correct decision.”
    Mousa’s eyes grew unnaturally wide, and his
mouth opened and closed, reminding me of a bird that had become
overheated in the desert sun. His face grew darker in color, and I
could see that he violently disagreed with this turn of events.
    I spoke in French, a language he did not
understand. “Look at the driver’s face,” I told my sister and my
child. “He does not approve.”
    “What man in this country would approve a
woman’s right to choose her husband?” Maha wanted to know. “Tell me
one! And...and...I will wed him!”
    I looked back upon the events of that day and
felt a rush of recognition. My heavy spirit had at last achieved
tranquility, for I understood that my daughter shared the blood of
one who was enlightened, yet had no knowledge of his
liberation.
    “Abdullah,” I answered quietly. “Your
brother. My son. Abdullah is such a man.”
    In happy silence I stared at my daughter’s
face, but was imprisoned in my past. I saw the form of my firstborn
as he lay in his mother’s arms. The emotions I felt on the day of
his birth returned to me in a flash, such a rush of joy that by its
nature must be brief. I had wondered then if my newborn son would
uphold and thereby reinforce the harsh rules pertaining to females
in my land. I had prayed that such would not be the case, but that
he would influence our country’s history in an agreeable manner and
help to bring change to the rigid social customs of Saudi
Arabia.
    It was difficult to judge Abdullah’s actions
calmly, but in an honest appraisal of his activities, I knew that
my deepest desire had been realized. A male child born of my womb
would remodel the land of my birth.
    How brave was my bold son!
    No longer caring about Mousa’s reaction, I
spoke in Arabic, reminding Sara and Maha that the men of Kareem’s
generation had once sounded the voice of reason when it came to
their women, but that this voice had been silenced by their clash
with the militant men of religion. Grieving over the timid men of
our age, I no longer looked to them for relief.
    But hope was not lost, so long as we women of
Arabia gave birth to men such as Abdullah.
    I told Maha and Sara what I knew to be the
truth, that my beloved son was a prince who would one day use all
his power and influence to enhance the status of Saudi women.
    Renewed by my son’s brave act, I talked of
nothing else the remainder of the trip home, scandalizing Mousa
with my frank discussion of complete freedom for all women, even
for his own wife, whom he forced to live with his parents in a
small village in Egypt while he worked in Saudi Arabia.
    Kareem was impatiently awaiting my return. He
did not seem surprised that I expressed great happiness, and I
imagined that he supposed my change of mood