Princess Sultana's Daughters

the scrotum around the testicles.
    How barbarous were these old customs that
still lingered in our present day! In Saudi Arabia, much had been
accomplished to eradicate the tradition, and most women of my land
are no longer subjected to this terrible experience. The men of my
own family had forbade the pagan tradition, but still some families
of African descent who lived in Arabia were prepared to risk
punishment rather than forgo the rite, swearing that nothing other
than the reduction of female pleasure will preserve female
chastity.
    I had known that the practice of female
circumcision was thought to have begun along the Nile Valley, and I
had speculated in my mind that the barbaric ritual might end where
it had begun. Yet, many women in Egypt and throughout the continent
of Africa were still subjected to this most inhumane ritual.
    Over the years, as my own family no longer
practiced this rite, I had been successful in pushing the thought
of female mutilation from my mind.
    Now Fatma tugged on my arm. Her imploring
gesture brought me back into the present. With great sadness, I
recalled the face of the young girl, Alhaan, for she had visited
her grandmother in our villa on many occasions. She was a pretty
child and had seemed bright and happy. I created a vivid mental
image of the girl being led to the barber, undressed by her mother,
with small legs spread before the man with the sharp razor.
    I recoiled in horror. In disbelief, I
wondered how the mother of that girl could condone such evil
inflicted on her beautiful daughter? Yet, I knew that many mothers
were allowing such intolerable practices, for it is estimated by
world health organizations that female genital mutilation has
affected between 80 and 100 million women worldwide. So much pain
inflicted on little girls!
    With hope in her voice, Fatma examined my
face carefully and asked, “Mistress, can you save my
granddaughter?”
    I moved my head slowly and heavily. “What can
I do, Fatma, that you can not? I am not of your family. My
interference would be resented.”
    “You are a princess. My daughter, she has
respect for someone who is a princess.”
    I had learned long ago that those who have no
wealth believe that money has provided wisdom along with economic
freedom, but this was a matter of deeply ingrained culture.
Instinctively, I knew that Fatma’s daughter would not welcome my
intrusion.
    I waved my arms helplessly. “What can I do,
Fatma? Since I reached the age of understanding, I have wanted
female freedom from such practices.” My voice fell low, along with
my spirits. “Now, it seems that the world is becoming darker and
darker for those of our sex.”
    Fatma remained silent, and a sorrowful look
came into her black eyes.
    “If I could, I would help your granddaughter.
But I have no authority to voice my opinion.”
    Fatma looked disappointed but spoke words
without reproach. “I understand, mistress.” She stared at me from
half-closed lids. “But I beg you to come with me. To try.”
    Surprised at Fatma’s stubbornness, I felt my
resolve melting away. I felt a shiver run through my body and asked
in a weak voice, “Where does your daughter live?”
    Fatma’s thick lips exploded with her excited
reply, “Very close, not more than a short ride in an automobile. If
we leave now, we can arrive before Nasser comes home from
work.”
    I summoned all my courage and stood. I told
myself that in spite of almost certain failure, I must make an
effort. I knew that I would be forced to lie to my husband, or he
would forbid me to go. “Fatma, go and get your things. And say not
a word to anyone of this matter.”
    “Yes, mistress! I know it is God’s will that
you help me!”
    I watched her as she hurried away, moving
faster than I could ever remember. Despite our vastly different
worlds, the two of us had become comrades fighting for the same
cause. By the time I combed out my hair, applied lipstick, and
located my handbag, I had decided to tell Kareem that Fatma had
just that morning learned her daughter was ill with a rare female
disorder. But her daughter had refused treatment, saying that if it
was God’s will that she die, she would not reverse his decision by
accepting treatment from any man. Fatma had pleaded with me to go
and convince her daughter that she must fight to live for the sake
of her own children. To be more convincing, I would complain that I
did not want to go, but how could I forgive myself if the woman
died