Princess (6 page)

Sara was lovely, much more beautiful than I or my sisters. Her great beauty had become a curse, for many men had heard of Sara’s beauty through their mothers and sisters and now wished to marry her. Sara was tall and slim and her skin creamy and white. Her huge brown eyes sparkled with the knowledge that all who saw her admired her beauty. Her long black hair was the envy of all her sisters. In spite of her natural beauty, Sara was genuinely sweet and loved by all who knew her. Unfortunately, not only did Sara acquire the curse that comes with great beauty, she was also exceptionally bright. In our land, brilliance in a woman assures her future misery, for there is nowhere to focus her genius.

Sara wanted to study art in Italy and be the first to open an art gallery in Jeddah. She had been working toward that goal since she was twelve years old. Her room stayed cluttered with books of all the great masters. Sara made my head swim with descriptions of the magnificent art in Europe. Just before the wedding announcement, when I was secretly plundering through her room, I saw a list of the places she planned to visit in Florence, Venice, and Milan. Sadly, I knew that Sara’s dreams would not come true. While it is true that most marriages in my land are guided by the hands of the older females of the families, in our family, Father was the decision maker in all matters. Long ago, he had decided that his most beautiful daughter would marry a man of great prominence and wealth.

Now, the particular man he had chosen to marry his most desirable daughter was a member of a leading merchant family in Jeddah that had decided financial influence with our family. The groom was chosen solely because of past and future business deals. He was sixty-two years old; Sara would be his third wife. Although she had never met the old man, he had heard of her great beauty from his female relatives and was eager for the wedding date to be set. Mother had tried to intervene on Sara’s behalf, but Father, as was his way, responded without emotion to his daughter’s tears. And now Sara had heard she was to wed. Mother ordered me to leave the room, but her back was turned; I tricked her by making noises with my feet and slamming the door. I slid inside the open closet door and wept silent tears as my sister cursed our father, our land, our culture. She cried so hard that I lost many of her words, but I heard her cry out that she was sure to be sacrificed like a lamb.

My mother wept too, but she had no words of comfort for Sara, for she knew her husband had the full right to dispose of their daughters in any marriage he liked. Six of their ten daughters were already married to men not of their choosing. Mother understood that the four remaining daughters would follow that darkness; there was no power on earth that could stop it.

Mother heard my squirming in the closet. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head when she saw me, but made no effort to make me move. She told me to bring cold towels, and then she turned her attention back to Sara. When I returned, she placed the towels on Sara’s head and soothed her to sleep. She sat and watched her young daughter for many minutes, and finally, she rose wearily to her feet. With a long, sad sigh, she took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen. Although it was not mealtime, and the cook was napping, Mother prepared for me a plate of cake and a glass of cold milk. I was thirteen, but small for my age; she cuddled me in her lap for a long time.

Unfortunately, Sara’s tears served only to harden Father’s heart. I overheard her entreaties to him. She became so unbalanced in her grief that she accused our father of hating women. She spat out a verse of Buddha: “Victory breeds hatred, for the conquered are unhappy....” Father, his back rigid with anger, turned and walked away. Sara wailed at his back that she would have been better off unborn, since her pain so overweighed her happiness. With an ugly voice, Father responded by saying that her wedding date would be moved up to avoid stretching out her pain of anticipation.

Father normally came to our villa once every fourth night. Men of the Muslim faith, with four wives, rotate their evenings so that each wife and family is given an equal amount of time. It is a serious situation when a man refuses to go to his wife and children, a form of punishment. Our villa was in such an uproar with Sara’s suffering that Father instructed Mother, who was his first and therefore his head wife, to inform his other three wives that he would rotate among their villas, but not ours. Before he left the villa, Father curtly told Mother to cure her daughter of her feverish resentments and to guide her peacefully to her destiny, which in his words was that of a “dutiful wife and good mother.” I barely recall the weddings of my other sisters. I vaguely remember tears, but I was so young and the emotional trauma of marriage to a stranger had not yet penetrated my thoughts. But I can close my eyes today and bring to mind every detail of the events that occurred the months before Sara’s wedding, the wedding itself, and the sad events that unfolded in the weeks afterward.

I held the family reputation of the difficult child, the daughter who most tried my parents’ patience. Willful and reckless, I created havoc in our household. I was the one who poured sand into the motor of Ali’s new Mercedes; I pinched money out of my father’s wallet; I buried Ali’s gold coin collection in the backyard; I released green snakes and ugly lizards from jars into the family pool as Ali lay sleeping on his float.

Sara was the perfect daughter, with her quiet obedience, and had earned perfect scores on her schoolwork. Even though I loved her madly, I thought Sara weak. But she surprised us all during the weeks prior to her wedding. Apparently she carried a hidden strength for bravery, for she called our father’s office on a daily basis and left messages for him that she was not going to marry. She even called the office of the man she was scheduled to marry and left a hard message with his Indian secretary that she thought he was an old, disgusting man, and that he should marry women, not girls. The Indian secretary obviously thought better of giving such a message to his employer, for seas did not part and mountains failed to erupt. Determined, Sara called back and asked to speak to the man himself! He was not in his office. Sara was informed that he would be in Paris for a few weeks. Father, wearying of Sara’s behavior, had our telephones disconnected.

Sara was confined to her room.

My sister’s reality loomed ahead. The day of the wedding arrived. The weeks of fretful mourning had done nothing to diminish Sara’s beauty. If anything, she appeared more beautiful, almost translucent, a heavenly creature not made for this world. Because of weight loss, her dark eyes dominated her face, and her features seemed chiseled. There was no end to Sara’s eyes, and I could see into her soul through her enormous black pupils. I saw fear there.

Our older sisters, various female cousins, and aunties arrived early on the morning of the wedding to prepare the bride for the groom. My unwanted presence escaped the attention of the women, for I sat like a stone in the comer of the large dressing room that had been converted into a preparation room for the bride. No less than fifteen women were attending to the various wedding details. The first ceremony, the halawa, was performed by our mother and her oldest auntie. All of Sara’s body hair had to be removed, except her eyebrows and head hair. A special mixture of sugar, rosewater, and lemon juice that would be spread over her body was now boiling over a low fire in the kitchen. When the sweet paste dried on her body, it would be removed, and Sara’s body hair would be ripped off with the sticky mixture. The aroma was sweet-smelling, but Sara’s yelps of pain made me shudder in fear.

The henna was prepared for the final rinse through Sara’s luxuriant curls; her hair would now shine with beautiful high-lights. Her nails were painted bright red, the color of blood, I reflected, gloomily. The pale pink, lacy wedding gown hung from the doorway. The requisite diamond necklace with matching bracelet and earrings were gathered in a pile on the dressing table. Although sent over weeks ago as a gift from the groom, the jewels remained unnoticed and untouched by Sara.

When a Saudi bride is happy, the preparation room is filled with the sounds of laughter and eager anticipation. For Sara’s wedding, the mood was somber; her attendants might as well have been preparing her body for the grave. Everyone spoke in whispers. There was no response from Sara. I found her oddly subdued in view of her spirited reactions during the past few weeks. Later, I understood her trancelike state.

Father, concerned that Sara would humiliate the family name by voicing her objections, or even insulting the groom, had instructed one of the Pakistani palace doctors to inject her with powerful tranquilizers throughout the day. Later we discovered that the same doctor had given the groom the tranquilizers in the form of pills for Sara. The groom was told that Sara was highly nervous with excitement over the wedding, and the medicine was prescribed for a queasy stomach. Since the groom had never met Sara, in the coming days he must have assumed that she was an unusually quiet and docile young woman. But, then again, many old men in my country marry young girls; I am sure they are accustomed to the terror of their young brides.

The beating of drums signaled the arrival of guests. At last, the women were finished with Sara. The delicate dress was slipped over her head, the zipper was raised, and the pink slippers were placed on her feet. My mother fastened the diamond necklace around her neck. I loudly announced that the necklace might as well be a noose. One of my aunties thumped me on my head and another twisted my ear, but there was no sound from Sara. We all gazed at her in awed silence. We knew no bride could be more beautiful.

A huge tent had been erected in the backyard for the ceremony. The garden was inundated in flowers sent from Holland. With thousands of overhanging colored lights, the grounds were spectacular. Taking in the splendor, I forgot for a few moments the grimness of the situation.

The tent was already overflowing with guests. Women from the Royal Family, literally weighed down by diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, were sharing a social event with commoners, a rare occasion. Lower classes of Saudi women are allowed to view our weddings so long as they remain veiled and do not socialize with the royals. One of my friends told me that sometimes men veil and join these women so that they can view our forbidden faces. Supposedly, all the male guests were being entertained at a major hotel in the city, enjoying the same socializing as these women guests: talking, dancing, and eating.

At weddings in Saudi Arabia, men celebrate at one location and women at another. The only men allowed at the women’s celebration are the groom, his father, the father of the bride, and a religious man to perform the short ceremony. In this case, the groom’s father was deceased, so only our father would accompany the groom when the time arrived for him to claim his bride.

Suddenly the slaves and servants began to uncover the food. There was a rush toward the feast. The veiled ones were the first to assault the food; these poor women were cramming food under their veils and into their mouths. Other guests began to sample smoked salmon from Norway, Russian caviar, quail eggs, and other gourmet delicacies. Four large tables swayed with the weight of the food: appetizers were on the left, main courses in the middle, desserts to the right, and off to the side were the liquid refreshments. No alcohol was visible, of course. But many of the royal women carried small jeweled flasks in their purses. Now and then, giggling, they would retire to the washrooms for a small sip.

Belly dancers from Egypt moved to the center of the tent. The crowd of women of all ages quieted and watched the dancers’ movements with mixed interest. This was my favorite part of the wedding, but most of the women seemed uncomfortable with the erotic display. We Saudis take ourselves too seriously and look at fun and laughter with suspicion. But I was startled when one of my older aunties leaped into the crowd and joined in the swaying of the belly dancers. She was amazingly skilled, but I heard the mumble of disapproval from several of my relatives.

Once again, the sound of drums filled the air, and I knew it was time for Sara to appear. All the guests looked to the villa entrance in expectation. It was not long before the doors opened wide and Sara, accompanied by our mother on one side and an aunt on the other, was escorted to the dais.

Since I last saw my sister, a cloudlike pink veil had been draped over her face, held in place by a pink pearl tiara. The sheer veil served only to enhance her remarkable beauty. There was a low hum as the guests whispered their approval of her appropriately tortured demeanor. After all, a young virgin bride should look the part: frightened to the core of her being.

Dozens of female relatives followed behind, filling the air with the desert sounds of excitement and celebration: the high-pitched trill that the women produced by flicking their tongues on the roofs of their mouths. Other women joined in with shrill cries. Sara stumbled but was kept upright by our mother. Soon, my father and the groom made their appearance. I knew the groom was older than my father, but I was decidedly revolted by my first sight of him. He looked ancient to my young eyes, and I thought he most resembled a weasel. I cringed at the thought of him physically touching my shy and sensitive sister.

The groom wore a leering smirk as he lifted my sister’s veil. She was too drugged to react, and stood motionless, facing her new master. The real marriage ceremony had been performed weeks prior to the wedding; no women had been present. Only men had participated in that ceremony, for it was the signing of dowry agreements and exchange of legal papers. Today, the few words would be spoken that would complete the marriage rite. The religious man looked at Father as he spoke the token words that Sara was now married to the groom in exchange for the agreed-upon dowry. Then he glanced at the groom who, in response, replied that he accepted Sara as his wife and that she, from this time forward, would be under his care and protection. None of the men looked at Sara at any time during the ceremony. Reading passages from the Koran, the man of religion then blessed my sister’s marriage. All at once, the women began to shriek and make the sound of ululating with their tongues. Sara was married. The men looked on, pleased and smiling. As Sara stood motionless, the groom removed a small pouch from the pocket of his thobe (full-length, shirt-like garment worn by Saudi men) and tossed gold coins to the guests. I shivered as I watched him smugly accept their congratulations at his marriage to such a beautiful woman. He took my sister by the arm and hurriedly began to lead her away.