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  Mother was going to the ones lost and losing the ones she had known. She was leaving us. Mercifully, Mother suffered little at her death. I like to think that God saw she had passed the harsh trials of life as a person of godliness and felt no need to wound her further with the pain of passing.

  Her daughters surrounded every inch of the deathbed—she lay cloaked with the love of her own flesh and blood. Her eyes lingered on each of us, no words were spoken, but we felt her farewells. When her gaze rested upon my face, I saw her worries gather as a storm, for she knew that I, unbending to the wind, would find life harder than most.

  Mother’s body was washed and prepared for her return to earth by the older aunties of our family. I saw her as they wrapped the white linen shroud around her thin body, worn down by childbearing and disease. Her face was peaceful, now free of earthly worries. I thought Mother appeared younger in death than in life. It was difficult for me to believe that she had given birth to sixteen children, of whom eleven had survived.

  Our immediate family, along with all of Father’s wives and their children, gathered in our home; a verse from the Koran was read to offer comfort. Mother’s shroud-wrapped body was then placed in the backseat of a black limousine and driven away by Omar. Our custom forbids females at the burial site, but my sisters and I showed an unyielding front to our father; he relented on the promise that we would not wail or pull out our hair. And so it was that our entire family followed the car of death, a sad but silent caravan, into the desert.

  In Islam, to show grief at a loved one’s passing indicates displeasure with the will of God. Besides, our family comes from the Najd region of Saudi Arabia, and our people do not publicly mourn the passing of loved ones.

  A freshly dug grave in the endless desert of our land had already been prepared by the Sudanese servants. The body of our mother was tenderly lowered, and the white cloth covering her face was removed by Ali, her only earthly son. My sisters huddled far from Mother’s final resting place, but my eyes could not leave the gravesite. I was the last child born of her body; I would stay with her earthly cloak until the final moment. I flinched as I watched the slaves push the red sands of the Empty Quarter over her face and body.

  As I watched the sands cover the body of one I so adored, I suddenly remembered a beautiful verse by the great Lebanese philosopher Kahlil Gibran: “Mayhap a funeral among men is a wedding feast among the angels.” I imagined my mother at the side of her mother and father, with her own little ones gathered in her arms. Certain at that moment that I would, another day, feel the loving touch of Mother, I ceased weeping and walked toward my sisters, shocking them with my smile of joy and serenity. I quoted the powerful verse God had sent to erase my pain, and my sisters nodded in perfect understanding at the wise Kahlil Gibran’s words. We were leaving Mother behind in the empty vastness of the desert, yet I knew it no longer mattered that there was no stone placed to mark her presence there, or that no religious services were held to speak of the simple woman who had been a flame of love during her time on earth. Her reward was that she was now with her other loved ones, waiting there for us.

  Ali seemed at a loss, for once, and I knew his pain was keen also. Father had little to say and avoided our villa from the day of Mother’s death. He sent us messages through his second wife, who had now replaced Mother as the head of his wives. Within the month, we learned through Ali that Father was preparing to wed again, for four wives are common with the very wealthy and the very poor bedouin in my land. The Koran says that each wife must be treated as the others. The affluent of Saudi Arabia have no difficulty in providing equality for their wives. The poorest bedouin have only to erect four tents and provide simple fare. For these reasons, you find many of the richest and the poorest Muslims with four wives. It is only the middle-class Saudi who has to find contentment with one woman, for it is impossible for him to find the funds to provide middle-class standards for four separate families.

  Father was planning to marry one of the royal cousins, Randa, a girl with whom I had played childhood games in what seemed like another lifetime. Father’s new bride was fifteen, only one year older than I, his youngest child of my mother. Four months after the burial of my mother, I attended the wedding of my father. I was surly, and refused to join in the festivities—I was awash with pent-up emotions of animosity. After the birth of sixteen children and many years of obedient servitude, I knew that the memory of my mother had been effortlessly disregarded by my father.

  Not only was I furious at my father, I felt overwhelming hatred toward my former playmate Randa, who was now going to be the fourth wife, filling the void created by my mother’s death. The wedding was grand, the bride was young and beautiful. My anger toward Randa collapsed as my father led her from the huge ballroom to the marriage bed. My eyes widened as they saw her worried face. Her lips trembled with fear! As a roaring flame is instantaneously extinguished, the sight of Randa’s obvious

  despair quieted and transformed my passion from black hate to tender commiseration. I felt ashamed of my hostility, for I saw that she was as the rest of us, helpless in the face of towering, dominating Saudi manhood.

  Father traveled with his virginal bride on an extended honeymoon to Paris and Monte Carlo. In my propitious change of emotion, I waited for Randa’s return, and as I lingered, I vowed to awaken Father’s new wife to a path of purpose: freedom for women in our land. Not only would I provide Randa with new challenges and dreams of power, I knew I would wound Father in the political and spiritual awakening of his young wife. I could not forgive him for so easily forgetting the wonderful woman who was my mother.

  Chapter Eight: Girlfriends

  Upon their return from their honeymoon, Father and Randa moved into our villa. Even though Mother was no longer with the living, her younger children continued to reside in Father’s villa and his new wife was expected to assume the duties of a mother. Since I was the youngest child, only one year behind Randa, the custom seemed ludicrous in our situation. However, there is no room for maneuvering or change to fit the individual conditions in Saudi Arabia, so Randa was installed in our home, a child masquerading as a woman and mistress of our large household.

  Randa returned from her honeymoon quiet, almost broken. She rarely talked, never smiled, and moved slowly through the villa, as though she might cause some injury or harm. Father seemed pleased with his new possession, for he spent many hours cloistered in his living quarters with his youthful bride.

  After the third week of Father’s undivided attention to Randa, Ali cracked a joke about Father’s sexual prowess. I asked my brother what he thought of Randa’s feelings in the matter—to be wed to one so much older, one she did not know or love. Ali’s vacant expression told me all too clearly not only that the thought had never entered his head but that such a consideration would not find fertile ground in his narrow realm of understanding. He well reminded me that nothing would ever penetrate that dark sea of egotistic matter that constitutes the mind of a Saudi man.

  Randa and I held different philosophies. She believed: “What is written on your forehead, your eyes will see.” I think: “The picture in your mind will be photographed by your life.” In addition, Randa was painfully shy and timid, whereas I greet life with a certain fierceness.

  I noticed Randa’s eyes as they followed the hands of the clock; she began to fidget a few hours prior to Father’s usual arrival times for lunch and for the evening meal. She had orders from my father to eat her meals before his arrival and then to shower and prepare herself for him. At noon each day Randa would order the cook to serve her lunch. She would eat sparingly and then retire to her quarters. My father generally arrived at the villa around one o’clock, had his lunch, and then went to his new wife. He would leave the villa around five o’clock and return to his offices. (In Saudi Arabia, many business workdays are divided into two shifts: from nine A.M. until one P.M. and, after a four-hour afternoon break, from five P.M. until eight P.M.)

 
Observing Randa’s pinched look, I thought of asking Father about the teachings of the Koran—the instructions from God that each Muslim was supposed to divide his days and evenings among four wives. Since the day he had wed Randa, his three older wives had been virtually ignored. After consideration, I thought better of my boldness. And so the evenings were a repeat of the lunch break. Randa would call for her dinner around eight o’clock, eat, and go to her rooms for her bath and preparation for her husband. I generally would not see her again until after my father left for work the next morning. She had orders to wait in the bedroom until he had left.

  The anxiety of watching Randa’s bleak life unfold spurred me on to mischief. I had two girlfriends who frightened even me with their boldness; their liveliness might encourage Randa to become more assertive. Little did I know what forces I would unleash by forming a girl’s club, with Randa, my two indomitable friends, and myself as the sole members.

  We called our club “Lively Lips,” for we had as our goal to talk ourselves into bravery to battle the silent acceptance of the role of women in our society. We solemnly vowed to uphold the following goals:

  1. At every opportunity, let the spirit of women’s rights move our lips and guide our tongues.

  2. Each member should strive to bring in one new member per month.

  3. Our first goal would be to stop marriages of young women to old men.

  We young women of Arabia recognized that the men of our land would never pursue social change for our sex, that we would have to force change. As long as Saudi women accepted their authority, men would rule. We surmised that it was the responsibility of each individual woman to ferment desire for control of her life and other female lives within her small circle. Our women are so beaten down by centuries of mistreatment that our movement had to begin with an awakening of the spirit. My two friends, Nadia and Wafa, were not of the Royal Family, but were children of prominent families in the city of Riyadh.

  Nadia’s father owned a huge contracting company. Because of his willingness to give large kickbacks to various princes, his company was awarded large government building contracts. He employed thousands of foreign workers from Sri Lanka, the Philippines, and Yemen. Nadia’s father was almost as wealthy as the royals; he easily supported three wives and fourteen children. Nadia was seventeen, the middle of seven daughters. She had watched with dismay as her three older sisters were married off for the purposes of family connections and convenience. Surprisingly, all three marriages had suited her sisters and they were happy, with good husbands. Nadia said that kind of luck would never continue. She felt with increasing pessimism that she would end up with an old, ugly, and cruel husband.

  Nadia was indeed more fortunate than most Saudi women; her father had determined that she could continue her education. He had told her she did not have to marry until she was twenty-one. This imposed deadline stirred Nadia into action. She declared that since she had only four more years of freedom left, she was going to taste every aspect of life during that time to provide dreams for the remainder of a dull life married to an old man. Wafa’s father was a leading mutawa and his extremism had driven his daughter to extremes of her own. Her father had only one wife, Wafa’s mother, but he was a cruel and vicious man. Wafa swore she wanted nothing to do with a religion that appointed such men as her father as a leader. Wafa believed in God and thought Mohammed had been his messenger, but she thought that somehow Mohammed’s messages had been conveyed incorrectly by his followers, for no God would wish such grief on women, half of the world’s people.

  Wafa needed to look no farther than her own home. Her mother was never allowed out of the house; she was a virtual prisoner, enslaved by a man of God. There were six children, five of whom were adult sons. Wafa had been a late surprise to her parents, and her father was so disappointed that he had a girl-child, he had virtually ignored her except to give her orders. She was ordered to stay in the home and learn to sew and cook. From the age of seven, Wafa was forced to wear an abaaya and to cover her hair. Each morning from the time she was nine, her father would ask her if she had seen her first blood. He was alarmed that his daughter would venture out, face uncovered, after she was classified by God as a woman.

  Wafa was allowed few friends. What rare friends she had soon drifted away since Wafa’s father made a habit of boldly inquiring in her friends’ presence about their first blood. Wafa’s mother, weary and exhausted from the rigid rules of her husband, had made a decision late in life to silently defy his demands. She assisted her daughter in sneaking out of the home and told her husband the child was sleeping or studying the Koran when inquiries of Wafa’s whereabouts were voiced. I imagined myself bold and rebellious, but Wafa and Nadia made my stance for women seem puny and powerless. They said that all I did was to provide intelligent stimulation—that my answer to a problem was to talk it to death—but that in reality my efforts to help women were useless. After all, my life had not changed. I realized they were right.

  I will never forget one incident that occurred in a downtown parking building, close to the souq area, not far from the spot that foreigners call, “chop, chop square,” since that is where our criminals lose their heads or their hands on Fridays, our day of religion.

  I had hidden the passing of my first blood from my father, since I was in no rush to swathe myself in the black garb of our women. Unfortunately, Nura and Ahmed decided that I had postponed the inevitable long enough. Nura told me that if I did not tell my father immediately, she would. So I gathered my friends around me, including Randa, and we made the mission to purchase my new “life’s uniform,” black scarf on black veil on black abaaya.

  Omar drove us to the entrance of the souq area, and we four young women disembarked, agreeing to meet him in two hours at the same spot. Omar always accompanied us into the souqs to keep special watch on the women of the family, but that day he had an important errand to run and took the opportunity while we were shopping. Besides, Father’s new wife was accompanying his daughter, and Omar was reassured by Randa’s acquiescent presence. He had seen no indication that Randa was slowly awaking after the long, dull sleep of submission.

  We milled about the stores, hands examining the various scarves, veils, and abaayas. I wanted something special, a way of being an original in the ocean of black-garbed women. I cursed myself for not having an abaaya made in Italy, from the finest Italian silk, with an artist’s intricate designs, so that when I breezed past, people would know there was an individual under the black covering, a woman with style and class. Everyone was veiled except me, and as we made our way to the heart of the souqs to continue our search, I noticed that Wafa and Nadia, heads together, were whispering and giggling. Randa and I stepped up our pace and I asked them what was so amusing. Nadia looked toward me and spoke through her veil. She said they were remembering a man they had met on their last trip to the souqs. A man? I looked back at Randa. We were both confused at their meaning.

  It took us only an hour to find a suitable abaaya, veil, and scarf; the selection seemed rather limited.

  Life changed quickly. I had entered the souq area as an individual bursting with life, my face expressing my emotions to the world. I left the shopping area covered from head to toe, a faceless creature in black. I must admit that the first few moments of veiling were exciting. I found the veil a novelty and looked back with interest as Saudi teenage boys stared at me, now a mysterious figure in black. I knew they were wishing for a bit of breeze to blow the veil away from my face so that they might catch a glimpse of my forbidden skin. For a moment, I felt myself a thing of beauty, a work so lovely that I must be covered to protect men from their uncontrollable desires.

  The novelty of wearing the veil and abaaya was fleeting, though. When we walked out of the cool souq area into the blazing hot sun, I gasped for breath and sucked furiously through the sheer black fabric. The air tasted stale and dry as it filtered through the thin gauzy cloth. I had purchased the sheerest veil available, yet I f
elt I was seeing life through a thick screen. How could women see through veils made of a thicker fabric? The sky was no longer blue, the glow of the sun had dimmed; my heart plunged to my stomach when I realized that from that moment, outside my own home I would not experience life as it really is in all its color. The world suddenly seemed a dull place. And dangerous, too! I groped and stumbled along the pitted, cracked sidewalk, fearful of breaking an ankle or leg.

  My friends burst out laughing at the awkwardness of my moves and my futile efforts to adjust my veil. I stumbled over several children of a bedouin woman, and looked in envy at the freedom of her veil. Bedouin women wear veils that fit across their noses, leaving their eyes free to examine their surroundings. Oh, how I wished to be a bedouin! I would cover my face gladly if I could only leave my eyes free to see the infinite changes of life around me. We arrived early at the meeting place designated by Omar. Randa glanced at her watch; we had nearly an hour before he was due. She suggested that we go back into the souq area since it was too hot in the boiling sun. Nadia and Wafa asked us if we wanted to have some fun. I said sure, without hesitation. Randa balanced from foot to foot, looking for Omar; I could tell she was uncomfortable with the very word fun. I, with my marvelous powers of persuasion, convinced Randa to go along with Nadia and Wafa. I was curious, never having broken any of the rules laid down for females. Poor Randa was simply accommodating to a stronger will.

  The two girls exchanged smiles and told us to follow them. They made their way to a parking lot beneath a new office building not far from the souq area. Men who worked in the building and nearby shops parked there.