Jean P Sasson - [Princess 02] (24 page)

Fatma's eyes flashed with anger, and her huge bosom heaved with indignation. "My own daughter demands that I stay out of her family matters!" She looked at me aghast and asked, "Can you imagine that? To have no say in my own granddaughter's life?"

Feeling utterly bewildered, I asked, "What has Nasser done to his child? To your granddaughter?"

Surely, I thought to myself, if the mother of the child has no objections, the harm to the child must not exist.

"That Nasser! He is from a small village. What does he know?"

I drew back in surprise as Fatma spat upon our newly carpeted floor.

Fatma was talking in every direction, cursing Nasser, crying out for her daughter, and begging God to help her grandchild.

I lost my patience and, raising my voice, demanded to know. "Fatma! Tell me, now! What happened to your granddaughter?"

Disconsolate and at a loss, Fatma tightly squeezed my hand and said, "Tonight. To night they will make Alhaan into a woman. They have an appointment with the barber at nine o'clock. This ritual I do not believe is necessary. None of my daughters were so treated. It is that Nasser! Can you help me, mistress, please .

The past surged up in my mind. How well I remembered the horrible story told to me by my oldest sister, Nura, when she too had been made into a woman.

Kareem and I had not yet wed, and I was young, only sixteen years old. My mother had recently died, and Nura, as the eldest daughter, was instructed to answer my questions regarding female circumcision. I had not known until that time that Nura and our two sisters closest to her in age had endured the horrific rite, and as a result had been subjected to lifelong pain and suffering.

In Saudi Arabia's not so distant past, circumcision of women had not been infrequent, with each tribe following a different custom. Just this past year, I had read a book my son had purchased while in London. The book was titled The Empty Quarter; by St. John Philby, a respected British desert explorer. With assistance from my grandfather, Abdul Aziz Al Saud, the founder and first king of Saudi Arabia, St. John Philby had carried out extensive explorations in Arabia in the 1930s.

I had taken the book from my son's room and derived great pleasure from reading this man's history of the Arab tribes that make up the population of Saudi Arabia, until I came across a section of the book that told of the Englishman's findings concerning female circumcision. I had imagined the brutalization of my own sisters and had cringed and cried out when reading about a conversation Philby had documented with the Arab men of the desert:

But his strong subject was sex, and he loved to poke fun at Salib by dilating on Manasir practice in the matter of female circumcision. "Take it from me," he said, "they let their women come to puberty with clitoris intact, and when a girl is to be married, they make a feast for her circumcision a month or two before the wedding. It is only then that they circumcise them and not at birth as do the other tribes-Qahtan and Murra, Bani Hajir, ay, and 'Ajman. Thus their women grow up more lustful than others, and fine women they are too and that hot! But then they remove everything, making them as smooth as smooth, to cool their ardor without reducing their desire. . . . The girls are dealt with in their tents by women who know their business, and get a dollar or so for the job. They are expert with the scissors, the razor, and the needle, which are all used for the operation."

I could not help wondering at this information. It struck me as strange that men thought of complete women as lustful, yet condoned the barbaric procedures performed on these women in order to "cool their ardor." From my own readings, I had learned that female circumcision caused women to dread any intimacy with their husbands, and I came to the conclusion that there is no rational thought or pattern when it comes to the mutilation of females.

My grandfather, Abdul Aziz Al Sa'ud, was a man who was ahead of his time, and he looked for better ways in all matters. Coming from the Najd, he did not believe in the circumcision of women, or in the flaying circumcision of men, which was as terrifying as female circumcision.

In the flaying circumcision of men, the skin is removed from the navel down to the inside of a man's legs. On witnessing such brutality, our first king forbade the practice. But in spite of my grandfather's decree, the old ways died slowly, and people were willing to risk punishment to carry on with what they had been taught by the ones who came before them.

While some tribes forbade circumcision of their women altogether, others excised the hood of the clitoris only. The cutting of the hood of the clitoris is the least common method, and is the only procedure that is analogous to male circumcision.

Then, there were those poor women who belonged to tribes in Arabia that removed all of the clitoris, along with the labia minora. This is the most common method of female circumcision and is comparable to removing the head of a man's penis. My own mother paid no heed to the new ruling, and three of her daughters were subjected to the cruel practice of female circumcision. The remainder of the women in our family had been spared the rite of circumcision due to the intervention of a Western physician and the insistence of my father to my mother that circumcision of females was nothing more than a pagan practice that must be stopped. Strangely enough, it is the women in Muslim countries who insist upon the circumcision of their female offspring, fearing that their daughters will otherwise be scorned for being different, resulting in husbandless futures. On this one topic regarding female sexuality, educated men have advanced beyond their women.

There is another, more atrocious and dangerous method of female circumcision, named the pharaonic circumcision. I could scarcely imagine the pain experienced by the women who received the pharaonic circumcision. This process is the most extreme, and after the rite is completed, a girl is left without a clitoris, labia minora, or labia majora. If such a procedure were done on a male, it would involve amputation of the penis and 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 con done 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 cannot? 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 and I had made no effort. It was a weak scenario, but Kareem shied away from female problems and would more than likely grumble but make no move to stop me.

As it turned out, I was not forced to tell such a wild tale, for Abdullah said that his father had received a telephone call while I was speaking with Fatma. Kareem had asked Abdullah to tell me that he was going to join one of his royal cousins in a Cairo casino and would not be home until later that evening. I knew my husband wanted to put time and distance between himself and his son's earlier request to donate millions of dollars to a failing Lebanese economy, and I had a sense that his excuse to leave our home was as dishonest as the lie I had been prepared to tell. Kareem shares a common trait with most Arabs. My husband cannot say no, but would rather speak a small lie and disappear from the sight of the one who requires an answer.

"Good!" I muttered under my breath. Kareem's discomfort at being around his son had come at an opportune time.

After advising me of his father's message, Abdullah turned his attention back to the television set, and I saw that he was mesmerized, watching an Egyptian soap opera that was greatly favored by Arabs from many lands. I noticed that Amani's lips had formed a disapproving pout. My daughter was not pleased at her brother's selection, for that particular show was not allowed in Saudi Arabia because of its many scenes that hinted of sexual impropriety.

"Abdullah, I need you to drive me to the home of Fatma's daughter. Can you come?"

My son looked for any opportunity to drive the new white Mercedes Kareem had purchased and shipped into the country for our Cairo home. I knew from past experience that Kareem would have taken the older Mercedes into the busy district of downtown Cairo, since he greatly feared the taxi drivers in that teeming city

Abdullah flicked the remote button shutting off the television set and gallantly leapt to his feet. "I will get the car."

The Cairo streets were crowded with vehicles of every description, and the traffic was almost at a standstill. Pedestrians threaded in and out of the traffic. People hung onto the sides of buses already packed with humanity; they clung precariously to the doorways or windows as if it were the most natural way in the world to travel.

As our car inched through the city streets, I gazed in amazement at the mass of people who had descended on the city of the Pharaohs and shuddered, for it was easy to see that Cairo could not continue to exist as it was.

Abdullah interrupted my thoughts, asking me the point of our errand. 

I swore him to secrecy. When I told him of Fatma's source of sorrow, a flash of anger swept over my son's face.

Abdul ah said that he had heard of such things but had thought such tales were exaggerated. "Is it really true?" he asked. "Are such things done to young girls?"

I thought to tell him about his Auntie Nura but reconsidered, for it was such a private matter, and I knew my sister would be keenly ashamed if my son knew of her mutilation. Instead, I told him the history of female circumcision.

While my son was pleased that the custom was ending in our own land, he felt sickened that so many women still suffered unnecessary pain.

We were silent the rest of the trip, each of us awash in our own thoughts of the evening's business.

Fatma's daughter lived in a small alley that branched off from a main shopping road in the city of Cairo. Abdullah paid a shop owner for the privilege of parking our car on the sidewalk in front of his clothing shop and promised the happy man a generous bonus if he would ensure that no damage occurred while we were away.

Abdullah guided Fatma and me, hands on our backs, as we weaved through the pedestrian traffic and entered the alleyway that led to our destination. The alley was too small for automobiles, so we walked down the middle of the stone-paved street. Strong cooking odors drifted around us as we passed a number of cafe's specializing in Arabic dishes.