Princess Page 2

  AREA: 864,866 sq. miles

  INDEPENDENCE: 23 September 1932 (unification)

  CLIMATE: Harsh, dry desert with great extremes of temperature

  POPULATION ESTIMATE: 28,686,633 (including 5,576,076 non-nationals workers)

  GOVERNMENT TYPE: Absolute Monarchy (Al Sa’ud family)

  POLITICAL PARTIES AND LEADERS: None allowed

  CONSTITUTION: Governed according to Shari’a (Islamic Law)

  LEGAL SYSTEM: Based on Islamic law, although several secular codes have been introduced. Commercial disputes are handled by special committees.

  RELIGION: Muslim 100% (Does not allow other religions to be practiced)

  LANGUAGE: Arabic (English often used in business transactions)

  LIFE EXPECTANCY AT BIRTH: male: 66.11 years; female: 69.51 years

  CURRENCY: 1 Saudi Riyal (SR) = 100 halalah

  EXCHANGE RATES: Saudi Riyals (SR) per US $1–3.7450 (fixed rate since June 1986)

  ECONOMY: Oil based economy with strong government controls over major economic activities. Saudi Arabia has the largest reserves of petroleum in the world. The country ranks as the largest exporter of petroleum, and plays a leading role in OPEC.

  BOOKS BY Jean Sasson

  Non-Fiction:

  The Rape of Kuwait

  Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia

  Princess Sultana’s Daughters

  Princess Sultana’s Circle

  Mayada, Daughter of Iraq

  Love in a Torn Land: A Kurdish Woman’s Story

  Growing up Bin Laden: Osama’s Wife and Son Reveal their Secret World

  For the Love of a Son: One Afghan Woman’s Quest for her Stolen Child

  Historical Fiction:

  Ester’s Child

  To learn more about author Jean Sasson and the subjects of her books, log on to: www.jeansasson.com

  The story of Princess Sultana is true. While the words are those of the author, the story is that of the Princess. The shocking human tragedies described here are factual.

  Readers should know that names have been changed and various events slightly altered to protect the well-being of recognizable individuals.

  In telling this true story, it is not the intention of the author or of the Princess to demean the Islamic religion.

  Introduction

  In a land where kings still rule, I am a princess. You must know me only as Sultana. I cannot reveal my true name for fear harm will come to me and my family for what I am about to tell you. I am a Saudi princess, a member of the Royal Family of the House of Al Sa’ud, the current rulers of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. As a woman in a land ruled by men, I cannot speak directly to you. I have requested an American friend and writer, Jean Sasson, to listen to me and then to tell my story. I was born free, yet today I am in chains. Invisible, they were loosely draped and passed unnoticed until the age of understanding reduced my life to a narrow segment of fear. No memories are left to me of my first four years. I suppose I laughed and played as all young children do, blissfully unaware that my value, due to the absence of a male organ, was of no significance in the land of my birth.

  To understand my life, you must know those who came before me. We present-day Al Sa’uds date back six generations to the days of the early emirs of the Nadj, the bedouin lands now part of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. These first Al Sa’uds were men whose dreams carried them no farther than the conquest of nearby desert lands and the adventures of night raids on neighboring tribes.

  In 1891, disaster struck when the Al Sa’ud clan was defeated in battle and forced to flee the Nadj. Abdul Aziz, who would one day be my grandfather, was a child at this time. He barely survived the hardships of that desert flight. Later, he would recall how he burned with shame as his father ordered him to crawl into a large bag that was then slung over the saddle horn of his camel. His sister, Nura, was cramped into another bag hanging from the other side of their father’s camel. Bitter that his youth prevented him from fighting to save his home, the angry young man peered from the bag as he swayed with the gait of the camel. It was a turning point in his young life, he would later recall, as he, humiliated by his family’s defeat, watched the haunting beauty of his homeland disappear from view.

  After two years of nomadic desert travel, the family of Al Sa’uds found refuge in the country of Kuwait. The life of a refugee was so distasteful to Abdul Aziz that he vowed from an early age to recapture the desert sands he had once called home. So it was that in September 1901, twenty-five-year-old Abdul Aziz returned to our land. On January 16, 1902, after months of hardship, he and his men soundly defeated his enemies, the Rasheeds.

  In the years to follow, to ensure the loyalty of the desert tribes, Abdul Aziz married more than three hundred women, who in time produced more than fifty sons and eighty daughters. The sons of his favorite wives held the honor of favored status; these sons, now grown, are at the very center of power in our land. No wife of Abdul Aziz was more loved than Hassa Sudairi. The sons of Hassa now head the combined forces of Al Sa’uds to rule the kingdom forged by their father. Fahd, one of these sons, is now our king. Many sons and daughters married cousins of the prominent sections of our family such as the Al Turkis, Jiluwis, and Al Kabirs. The present-day princes from these unions are among influential Al Sa’uds. Today, in 1991, our extended family consists of nearly twenty-one thousand members. Of this number, approximately one thousand are princes or princesses who are direct descendants of the great leader, King Abdul Aziz.

  I, Sultana, am one of these direct descendants. My first vivid memory is one of violence. When I was four years old, I was slapped across the face by my usually gentle mother. Why? I had imitated my father in his prayers. Instead of praying to Makkah, I prayed to my six-year-old brother, Ali. I thought he was a god. How was I to know he was not? Thirty-two years later, I remember the sting of that slap and the beginning of questions in my mind: If my brother was not a god, why was he treated like one? In a family of ten daughters and one son, fear ruled our home: fear that cruel death would claim the one living male child; fear that no other sons would follow; fear that God had cursed our home with daughters. My mother feared each pregnancy, praying for a son, dreading a daughter. She bore one daughter after another—until there were ten in all.

  My mother’s worst fear came true when my father took another, younger wife for the purpose of giving him more precious sons. The new wife of promise presented him with three sons, all stillborn, before he divorced her. Finally, though, with the fourth wife, my father became wealthy with sons. But my elder brother would always be the firstborn, and, as such, he ruled supreme. Like my sisters, I pretended to revere my brother, but I hated him as only the oppressed can hate.

  When my mother was twelve years old, she was married to my father. He was twenty. It was 1946, the year after the great world war that interrupted oil production had ended. Oil, the vital force of Saudi Arabia today, had not yet brought great wealth to my father’s family, the Al Sa’uds, but its impact on the family was felt in small ways. The leaders of great nations had begun to pay homage to our king. The British prime minister, Winston Churchill, had presented King Abdul Aziz with a luxurious Rolls Royce. Bright green, with a throne-like backseat, the automobile sparkled like a jewel in the sun. Something about the automobile, as grand as it was, obviously disappointed the king, for upon inspection, he gave it to one of his favorite brothers, Abdullah.

  Abdullah, who was my father’s uncle and close friend, offered him this automobile for his honeymoon trip to Jeddah. He accepted, much to the delight of my mother, who had never ridden in an automobile. In 1946—and dating back untold centuries—the camel was the usual mode of transportation in the Middle East. Three decades would pass before the average Saudi rode with comfort in an automobile, rather than astride a camel. Now, on their honeymoon, for seven days and nights, my parents happily crossed the desert trail to Jeddah. Unfortunately, in my father’s haste to depart Riyadh, he had fo
rgotten his tent; because of this oversight and the presence of several slaves, their marriage remained unconsummated until they arrived in Jeddah.

  That dusty, exhausting trip was one of my mother’s happiest memories. Forever after, she divided her life into “the time before the trip” and “the time after the trip.” Once she told me that the trip had been the end of her youth, for she was too young to understand what lay ahead of her at the end of the long journey. Her parents had died in a fever epidemic, leaving her orphaned at the age of eight. She had been married at the age of twelve to an intense man filled with dark cruelties. She was ill-equipped to do little more in life than his bidding.

  After a brief stay in Jeddah, my parents returned to Riyadh, for it was there that the patriarchal family of the Al Sa’uds continued their dynasty.

  My father was a merciless man; as a predictable result, my mother was a melancholy woman. Their tragic union eventually produced sixteen children, of whom eleven survived perilous childhoods. Today, their ten female offspring live their lives controlled by the men to whom they are married. Their only surviving son, a prominent Saudi prince and businessman with four wives and numerous mistresses, leads a life of great promise and pleasure.

  From my reading, I know that most civilized successors of early cultures smile at the primitive ignorance of their ancestors. As civilization advances, the fear of freedom for the individual is overcome through enlightenment. Human society eagerly rushes to embrace knowledge and change. Astonishingly, the land of my ancestors is little changed from that of a thousand years ago. Yes, modern buildings spring up, the latest health care is available to all, but consideration for women and for the quality of their lives still receives a shrug of indifference.

  It is wrong, however, to blame our Muslim faith for the lowly position of women in our society. Although the Koran does state that women are secondary to men, much in the same way the Bible authorizes men to rule over women, our Prophet Mohammed taught only kindness and fairness toward those of my sex. The men who came behind Prophet Mohammed have chosen to follow the customs and traditions of the Dark Ages rather than to follow Mohammed’s words and example. Our Prophet scorned the practice of infanticide, a common custom in his day of ridding the family of unwanted females. Prophet Mohammed’s very words ring with his concern at the possibility of abuse and indifference toward females: “Whoever hath a daughter, and doth not bury her alive, or scold her, or prefer his male children to her, may God bring him into Paradise.”

  Yet there is nothing men will not do, there is nothing they have not done, in this land to ensure the birth of male, not female, offspring. The worth of a child born in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is still measured by the absence or the presence of a male organ.

  The men of my country feel they are what they have had to become. In Saudi Arabia, the pride of a man’s honor evolves from his women, so he must enforce his authority and supervision over the sexuality of his women or face public disgrace. Convinced that women have no control over their own sexual desires, it then becomes essential that the dominant male carefully guard the sexuality of the female. This absolute control over the female has nothing to do with love, only with fear of the male’s tarnished honor.

  The authority of a Saudi male is unlimited; his wife and children survive only if he desires. In our homes, he is the state. This complex situation begins with the rearing of our young boys. From an early age, the male child is taught that women are of little value: They exist only for his comfort and convenience. The child witnesses the disdain shown his mother and sisters by his father; this open contempt leads to his scorn of all females, and makes it impossible for him to enjoy friendship with anyone of the opposite sex. Taught only the role of master to slave, it is little wonder that by the time he is old enough to take a mate, he considers her his chattel, not his partner.

  And so it comes to be that women in my land are ignored by their fathers, scorned by their brothers, and abused by their husbands. This cycle is difficult to break, for the men who impose this life upon their women ensure their own marital unhappiness. For what man can be truly content surrounded by such misery? It is evident that the men of my land are searching for gratification by taking one wife after the other, followed by mistress after mistress. Little do these men know that their happiness can be found in their own home, with one woman of equality. By treating women as slaves, as property, men have made themselves as unhappy as the women they rule, and have made love and true companionship unattainable to both sexes.

  The history of our women is buried behind the black veil of secrecy. Neither our births nor our deaths are made official in any public record. Although births of male children are documented in family or tribal records, none are maintained anywhere for females. The common emotion expressed at the birth of a female is either sorrow or shame. Although hospital births and government record keeping are increasing, the majority of rural births take place at home. No country census is maintained by the government of Saudi Arabia.

  I have often asked myself, does this mean that we women of the desert do not exist, if our coming and our passing goes unrecorded? If no one knows of my existence, does that mean I do not exist? This fact, more than the injustices of my life, has prompted me to take this very real risk in order to tell my story. The women of my country may be hidden by the veil and firmly controlled by our stern patriarchal society, but change will have to come, for we are a sex that is weary of the restraints of customs. We yearn for our personal freedom.

  From my earliest memories, aided by the secret diary I began to keep at the age of eleven, I will try to give you some portrayal of the life of a princess in the House of Al Sa’ud. I will attempt to uncover the buried lives of other Saudi women, the millions of ordinary women not born of the Royal Family.

  My passion for the truth is simple, for I am one of those women who were ignored by their fathers, scorned by their brothers, and abused by their husbands. I am not alone in this. There are many more, just like me, who have no opportunity to tell their stories. It is rare that truth escapes from a Saudi palace, for there is great secrecy in our society, but what I have spoken here and what the author has written here are true.

  Chapter One: Childhood

  Ali slapped me to the ground, but I declined to hand over the shiny red apple just given me by the Pakistani cook. Ali’s face began to swell with anger as I hovered over the apple and quickly began to take huge bites and swallow them whole. Refusing to give in to his male prerogative of superiority, I had committed a grave act and knew that I would soon suffer the consequences. Ali gave me two swift kicks and went running for our father’s driver, Omar, an Egyptian. My sisters feared Omar almost as much as they did Ali or my father. They disappeared into the villa, leaving me alone to face the combined wrath of the men of the house. Moments later, Omar, followed by Ali, rushed through the side gate. I knew they would be the victors, for my young life was already rich with precedent. I had learned at an early age that Ali’s every wish would be fulfilled. Nevertheless, I swallowed the last bite of the apple and looked in triumph at my brother. Struggling vainly in the grasp of Omar’s huge hands, I was lifted into the air and transported to my father’s study. Reluctantly, my father looked up from his black ledger and glanced with irritation at his seemingly ever-present, unwanted daughter while holding out his arms in invitation to that treasured jewel, his eldest son.

  Ali was allowed to speak, while I was forbidden to respond. Overwhelmed with desire for my father’s love and approval, my courage was suddenly reborn. I shouted out the truth of the incident. My father and brother were stunned into silence at my outburst, for females in my world are reconciled to a stern society that frowns upon the voicing of our opinions. All women learn at an early age to manipulate rather than to confront. The fires in the hearts of the once proud and fierce bedouin women have been extinguished; soft women who bear little resemblance to them remain in their stead.

  The fear curled in my belly wh
en I heard the shouting of my voice. My legs trembled under my body when my father arose from his chair, and I saw the movement of his arm but never felt the blow to my face.

  As punishment, Ali was given all my toys. To teach me that men were my masters, my father decreed that Ali would have the exclusive right to fill my plate at mealtimes. The triumphant Ali gave me the tiniest of portions and the worst cuts of meat. Each night, I went to sleep hungry, for Ali placed a guard at my door and ordered him to forbid me to receive food from my mother or my sisters. My brother taunted me by entering my room at midnight laden with plates steaming with the delicious smells of cooked chicken and hot rice.

  Finally Ali wearied of his torture, but from that time on, when he was only nine years old, he was my devoted enemy. Although I was only seven years old, as a result of “the apple incident,” I first became aware that I was a female who was shackled by males unburdened with consciences. I saw the broken spirits of my mother and sisters, but I remained faithful to optimism and never doubted that I would one day triumph and my pain would be compensated by true justice. With this determination, from an early age, I was the family troublemaker.

  There were pleasant times in my young life too. My happiest hours were spent at the home of my mother’s aunt. Widowed, too old for further notice and thus complications from men, she was now merry and filled with wonderful stories from her youth of the days of the tribal battles. She had witnessed the birth of our nation and mesmerized us with the tales of the valor of King Abdul Aziz and his followers. Sitting cross-legged on priceless Oriental carpets, my sisters and I nibbled on date pastries and almond cakes while immersed in the drama of the great victories of our kinsmen. My auntie inspired me to new pride in my family as she told of the Al Sa’uds’ bravery in battle.