Princess (13 page)

Marci shared the stories of her people so vividly that I felt myself a part of her history, her land, her rich culture. I knew I had underestimated Marci and other Filipinos, for, until then, I had given them little thought other than to consider them simple folk lacking in ambition. How
wrong I was!

Several weeks later Marci expanded her courage to talk about her friend Madeline. By telling me about Madeline, she opened up the question of the moral values of my land. Through Marci, I first learned that women from Third World countries were held as sex slaves in my own country, Saudi Arabia. Marci and Madeline had been childhood friends. As poor as Marci’s family was, Madeline’s was poorer. Madeline and her seven siblings used to beg on the highway that connected their province to Manila. Occasionally, a big car transporting foreigners would stop and huge white hands would drop a few coins into their outstretched palms. While Marci attended school, Madeline foraged for food.

At an early age, Madeline had a dream and a plan to bring that dream to reality. When she was eighteen, she sewed a dress from Marci’s old school coat and traveled to Manila. There she located an agency that employed Filipinos to work abroad; Madeline applied for a maid’s position. She was so petite and pretty that the Lebanese owner slyly hinted that he could get her a job in a Manila brothel; there she could earn a substantial amount beyond the imagination of a maid! Madeline, although raised in poor circumstances, was a devout Catholic; her negative reaction convinced the Lebanese that she would not sell her body. Sighing with regret, the man told her to fill out the application and wait.

The Lebanese told her that he had just received a contract to supply more than three thousand Filipino workers to the Persian Gulf area, and that Madeline would be given priority in the maid positions since the rich Arabs always requested pretty maids. He winked and patted her on the buttocks as she left his office.

Madeline was both excited and frightened when she received confirmation of a maid’s position in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. About the same time, Marci’s plans of attending nursing school fell through, and she decided to follow in Madeline’s footsteps and search for a job outside the Philippines. When Madeline left for Saudi Arabia, Marci had joked that she would not be far behind. The good friends hugged their farewells and promised to write.

Four months later, when Marci learned that she too was to work in Saudi Arabia, she still had not heard from Madeline. Once there, she did not know where to find her friend, other than in the city of Riyadh. Since Marci was going to work for a family in the same city, she was determined to locate her friend. I recall the night Marci arrived in our home. Mother was responsible for the running of the household and the placement of the servants. I remembered that Marci seemed a frightened little thing, immediately clinging to the eldest of our Filipino maids.

Since we had more than twenty servants in the villa, Marci was given little notice. As an inexperienced servant, only nineteen years old, she was assigned to clean the rooms of the two youngest daughters of the house, Sara and me. I had given her scant attention during the sixteen months she had patiently and quietly followed me through the villa, asking if I required anything.

Marci surprised me by confessing that other Filipino servants thought her blessed in her job since neither Sara nor I ever struck her or raised our voices in disapproval. My eyes flashed, and I asked Marci if people were struck in our home. I breathed a sigh of relief when she told me no, not in our villa. She did say that Ali was known to be difficult, always speaking in a loud and insulting tone. But his only violent action had been to kick Omar in the shin several times. I laughed, feeling little sympathy for Omar.

Marci whispered as she told me the gossip of the servants. She said that Father’s second wife, a woman from one of the neighboring Gulf states, pinched and beat her female servants daily. One poor girl from Pakistan had a brain injury from being knocked down the stairs. Told that she did not work fast enough, she rushed down to the washroom with a basket of dirty sheets and towels. When she accidentally bumped into Father’s wife, the woman became so enraged that she punched the maid in the stomach, sending her tumbling down the stairs. As the girl lay moaning, the older woman ran down the stairs to kick and scream at the girl to finish her chores. When the girl did not move, she was accused of pretense. Eventually, the girl had to be taken to a doctor; she was still not normal, constantly holding her head in her hands and giggling.

Under orders from Father’s wife, the palace doctor filled out a form stating that the girl had fallen and suffered a concussion. As soon as she could travel, she was to be sent back to Pakistan. She was denied her past two months’ salary and sent to her parents with only SR 50 ($15.00).

Why did I act so surprised, Marci wanted to know. Most maids were mistreated in my country; our villa was a rare exception. I reminded her that I had been in many of my friends’ homes, and while I had to admit that little consideration was given to servants, I had never witnessed an actual beating. I had seen some of my friends verbally abuse their maids, but I had paid it little heed since no one had ever been physically assaulted.

Marci sighed wearily, and said that physical and sexual abuse were generally hidden. She reminded me that I live only yards from a palace that hid the sufferings of many young girls, and yet I had no knowledge of them. She softly told me to keep my eyes open, to observe how women from other lands were treated in my country. I nodded sadly in agreement.

Through this conversation, Marci became more aware of my empathetic nature. She decided to take me into her confidence and tell me the full story of her friend Madeline. I remember our conversation as well as if it were yesterday. Our exchanges are clear in my mind. I can see her earnest face before me now.

“
Ma’am, I want you to know about my closest friend, Madeline. You are a princess. Perhaps the day will come that you can help us poor Filipino women.”

I was alone on that morning and felt boredom creeping into my day, so I nodded, eager for a morning of revealing gossip, even from a Filipino. I settled myself on my bed; Marci dutifully stuffed pillows behind my head, just the way she knew I liked them.

I told her, “Before you begin your tale, go and get me a bowl of fresh fruit and a glass of laban. (Laban is a buttermilk-like drink common in the Middle East.) After she returned with a tray of fruit and my cold beverage, I stuck my feet out from under the covers and told Marci to rub them while she told me about this Madeline friend of hers.

Looking back, I burn with shame as I recall my selfish, childish manner. I was intrigued by the thought of a tragic story, yet not content to sit still and listen until all my desires were met! Older and wiser, now I can only look back with regret at the habits I picked up from my Saudi culture. No Saudi I know has ever shown the slightest interest in a servant’s life: the number of family members, their dreams and aspirations. People from the Third World were there to serve us wealthy Saudis, nothing more. Even my mother, who was kind and loving, rarely expressed an interest in servants’ personal problems; though I do attribute that to Mother’s overwhelming responsibilities of running a huge household, and also satisfying my demanding father. I had no such excuse. I cringe as I now acknowledge that Marci and the other servants were little more than robots to me, there to do my bidding. And to think that Marci and the household servants thought me kind, for I alone questioned them about their lives. It is a hard remembrance for one who considers herself sensitive.

Pensive, her face without expression, Marci began to rub my feet and started her story.

“
Ma’am, before I left my country, I begged that Lebanese man for the address of Madeline’s employer. He said no, he was not allowed. I told a lie, Ma’am. I said that I had items to take to my friend from her mother. After I begged, he finally agreed, and gave me a phone number and the area of Riyadh that Madeline worked.”

“
Is her employer a prince?”

“
No, Ma’am. He lives in the district called Al Malaz, about thirty minutes by car from here.”

Our palace was in the Al Nasiriyah area, a prestigious location inhabited by many royals, the most wealthy residential district of Riyadh. I had been in the area of Al Malaz once a long time ago and recalled many nice palaces of the upper business society of Saudis.

I knew Marci was forbidden to leave the palace grounds, other than special monthly shopping trips organized by Omar for the female servants. Since our servants, like most domestics in Saudi Arabia, worked a brutal seven-day week, fifty-two weeks a year, I wondered how she could slip away to visit her friend.

I voiced my interest. “How did you manage a trip to Al Malaz?” Marci hesitated for a short moment. “Well, Ma’am, you know the Filipino driver Antoine?”

We had four drivers, two Filipinos and two Egyptians. I was generally driven by Omar or the other Egyptian. The Filipinos were used for grocery shopping and the running of errands.

“
Antoine? The young one who always is smiling?”

“
Yes, Ma’am, that one. He and I like to see each other and he agreed to take me to find my friend.”

“
Marci! You have a sweetheart!” I burst out laughing.

“
And Omar. How did you avoid getting into a problem with Omar?”

“
We waited until Omar went with the family to Taif and we took our opportunity.” Marci smiled at my look of pleasure.

She knew nothing gave me more joy than a successful trick pulled on the men of the household. “First, I called the telephone number given to me in the Philippines. No one would give me permission to speak with Madeline. I said I had a message from Madeline’s mother. After a lot of hard work of convincing, I was told the location and description of the villa. Antoine drove to the area and located the place to deliver a letter to Madeline. A Yemeni took the letter from Antoine. Two weeks later I received a call from my friend. I could barely hear Madeline, for she whispered, afraid she would be discovered using the telephone. She told me she was in a very bad situation, to please come and help her. Over the telephone, we made a plan.”

I put aside my food and gave Marci my full attention. I told her to stop rubbing my feet. I felt the danger of their meeting and my interest in this brave Filipino, whom I did not know, grew.

“
Two months passed. We knew the hot summer months would give us an opportunity to meet. We were afraid Madeline would be taken to Europe with her employer, but she was told to remain in Riyadh. When you and the family, along with Omar, left the city, I hid in the backseat of the black Mercedes and Antoine took me to Madeline.”

Marci, her voice cracking with her first show of emotion, described Madeline’s dilemma: “I sat in the car while Antoine rang the bell of the villa. While I was waiting, I could not help but notice the condition of the villa wall. The paint was peeling, the gate was rusty, the few bits of greenery hanging over the villa wall were dying from lack of water. I could tell it was a bad place. I knew my friend was in a dangerous situation if she worked in such a home.

“
I felt depressed even before I was allowed inside. Antoine had to ring the bell four or five times before we heard activity as someone came to answer our call. Everything happened just as Madeline had said. It was creepy! An old Yemeni man dressed in a plaid wrap-around skirt opened the gate. He looked as though he had been sleeping; his ugly face told us he was none too happy at being awakened from a nap.

“
Antoine and I both became frightened and I heard the shaking of Antoine’s voice when he asked, please, to speak to Miss Madeline from the Philippines. The Yemeni could hardly speak English, but Antoine has a little knowledge of Arabic. Together they managed to understand each other enough for the Yemeni to refuse us entry. He waved us away with his hand and began to close the door when I leaped from the backseat and began to cry.

Through my tears, I told him that Madeline was my sister. I had just arrived in Riyadh and was working at the palace of one of the royal princes. I thought that might frighten him, but his expression remained the same. I waved an envelope at him that had just arrived from the Philippines. Our mother was gravely ill. I had to speak with Madeline for a few moments to deliver a last message from our dying mother.

“
I prayed to God not to punish me for such lies! I think God heard me, for the Yemeni seemed to change his mind when he heard the Arab word for mother. I saw that he was thinking. He looked first at Antoine and then at me, and finally told us to wait a moment. He closed the gate and we heard the flip-flop of his sandals as he made his way back toward the villa.

“
We knew the Yemeni was going inside to question Madeline and ask her to describe her sister. I looked at Antoine with a weak smile. It seemed our plan might work.”

Marci paused, remembering that day. “Ma’am, that was a frightening Yemeni. He had a mean look and carried a curved knife at his waist. Antoine and I almost got in the car and drove back to the palace. But the thought of my poor friend gave me a feeling of power.

“
Madeline had told me that two Yemenis guarded the villa. They watched the females of the house. None of the female servants were ever allowed to leave their place of work. Madeline had told me over the telephone that the young Yemeni was without a good heart and would not allow anyone in the gate, even a dying mother herself. Madeline thought we might succeed with the old Yemeni.