Princess Sultana's Circle (27 page)

Kareem shook his head
wearily. “We’ve got no one to blame but ourselves, Sultana. What
have we done to endear ourselves to the religious leaders? Nothing!
What have we done to reassure the business community? Nothing! Our
fathers do not listen to their sons. A few concessions here and
there would do no harm. It would make our position stronger. But,
no. Our fathers are deaf. They can hear nothing but the ghost of
their own father, a man who thought of himself as the hammer, and
his subjects as the nails.”

I nodded in agreement.
Everyone knew that Grandfather Abdul Aziz, the Bedouin warrior who
had created the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in 1932, had ruled his
family and the citizens of his country with a firm hand.

Kareem slapped his hands
together before leaning back in his chair. “It’s hopeless,
Sultana.”

Tears of sadness began to
roll down my face.

Kareem searched his pockets
for a handkerchief. He pleaded, “Sultana, please do not
cry.”

I buried my nose in
Kareem’s handkerchief. I knew that everything he had said was true,
and that one day I would lose the only life I had ever known. This,
because the elders of our family were too stubborn and too foolish
to understand change is often necessary just to maintain the
situation one has. And why couldn’t the Al Sa’uds better control
the current climate of nepotism, corruption, and wasteful outlay
that so enraged the citizens of Saudi Arabia? Every person in the
Al Sa’ud clan was already rich and powerful beyond
imagination.

Even if they never made
another Saudi Riyal, the members of my family could still live a
hundred lifetimes in unbelievable splendor.

My tears continued to
flow.

Kareem whispered, “Sultana,
darling, please stop crying.”

Much to Kareem’s relief, I
finally managed to control my tears, but nothing could relieve my
fear of what our future would hold.

Chapter
Fifteen

Wadi al Jafi

Three weeks later our
palace in Riyadh was bustling with excited servants as they rushed
past each other. They were now finishing the chores necessary to
launch our family’s excursion into the desert. Many of them were to
accompany us to the desert, a rare diversion from their routine
lives.

Combined with the
boisterous activities of the servants were the shouts of
rambunctious workmen who sweated profusely as they loaded furniture
and heavy equipment onto large moving vans.

Although everyone was
delighted at the prospect of spending time in the desert, members
of my family are never willing to forgo our opulent life style.
Accustomed to luxurious living, we have no desire to emulate the
harsh living conditions endured by our desert ancestors.

Now, along with Black
Bedouin tents and custom-made furniture, workmen were loading
Persian carpets, silk cushions, luxurious linens, fine china,
crystal glassware, silver cutlery, as well as the more mundane pots
and pans. Specially designed traveling bathroom equipment,
including bathtubs, toilets, and basins, waited to be packed. Once
these items were loaded, the designer trunks containing our
wardrobes would be packed last for easy access.

Five gas-powered generators
had already been loaded into a separate truck. They would power the
two solidly packed large freezers, and the three refrigerators
waiting to be loaded. Two gas stoves and gas cylinders stood beside
them.

Our Filipino gardeners were
in charge of packing fresh food, including fruits and vegetables
imported from Egypt, Jordan, and Italy.

Over one thousand bottles
of Evian mineral water waited to be lifted into a separate truck.
Two large tanker trucks stood ready for our departure, filled with
water for cooking and bathing.

In the background, I could
hear the bleats and squawks of sheep and chickens, recently
delivered from the animal bazaar. After an hour of standing in the
hot sun on the truck bed, these poor creatures were becoming
impatient and noisy. There were some camels, too, some for riding,
while some unlucky others would be prepared as a desert
feast.

I made a mental note to
keep the sensitive Amani as far away as possible from the area
where these beasts would be slaughtered. She would be devastated if
she witnessed the killing of any animal.

The previous week, Kareem
had arranged for twenty-five new air-conditioned four-wheel drive
vehicles to be delivered to our palace to transport our large
party.

Loud and angry words rang
out across the garden. One of our three Egyptian cooks was shouting
obscenities at one of the kitchen apprentices.

Hawkers, the men who train
and tend to Kareem’s prized falcons, were walking around the garden
with their hooded charges perched on their upraised hands,
protected by a leather glove, called Dasma Al Tair, because the
falcon’s hooked claws are capable of ripping flesh to the bone.
With their powerful eyes, long and pointed wings, strong hooked
bills, and long curved talons, falcons will easily bring down
desert rabbits, wild pigeons and the hubara, a large migratory bird
also known as a bustard. The falcons were outfitted with a leather
burqa, or hood. Specially made hawk stands, called wakar al tair,
were placed around the garden. The Arabian Peninsula is one of the
last places on earth where men hunt with falcons. The winter season
was not yet quite over, so our husbands planned to hunt while in
the desert.

In the midst of all this
activity, Maha and I looked at each other in mutual understanding
before we burst out laughing. The combination of all these colorful
sights and clamorous noises made our garden appear as exotic as a
bustling bazaar.

Even Amani began to smile,
even though she was caught up in giving special instructions to a
dispirited Filipino maid regarding the feeding and grooming of her
numerous pets during her absence. This maid had just learned that
she was one of the ten unlucky employees designated by Kareem to
remain behind at our palace in Riyadh.

Although I never tire of
watching such sights, I had yet to take my morning bath, so I
walked back inside the palace. Considering the uncomfortable heat
of the sun outside, I told one of the housemaids to pack an extra
supply of sun cream.

After taking a bath and
softening my skin with a thick lotion, I dressed in an
ankle-length, light blue cotton dress. We Saudis dress in the
desert as we do in the city, the men covered up from the intense
sun by thobes, and the women by long dresses.

I then braided my long hair
before laying out my veil, head scarf and abaaya. When we left our
private grounds, I would be obliged to cover myself in these items
of clothing.

I fingered the silky
garments with a sense of dislike and dread. On trips abroad, I
always gratefully discard the despised black coverings, but in
Saudi Arabia, they were a hated part of my everyday life. After
looking at the world minus a black screen, and breathing fresh air
without a fabric filter, the veil always feels like the weight of
the world falling around my body, although it is made of thin,
gauzy cloth. I sighed deeply. I was a grown woman, but I was still
confused by the contradictions in my life. I pushed aside these
unpleasant thoughts before returning to the garden.

Those siblings and their
families who would accompany us on this trip had already arrived,
and when our drivers started up the engines, our large party began
to crowd around the vehicles.

My sisters, Sara, Nura,
Tahani, Dunia, and Haifa, rode with me in one vehicle, while our
husbands rode in two other vehicles. Our children banded together
into groups and commandeered their own jeeps.

After all the family
members were seated, the rest of our large party jumped into the
remaining vehicles.

Our much-anticipated trip
was beginning at last! Just thinking about the adventure ahead,
already I felt the presence of my ancestors’ blood flowing hot
through my veins.

I glanced about at my five
sisters. When our vehicle began to leave the palace grounds, each
of them began to secure their veils to cover their faces. Yet even
under the black cloaks and veils, each sister remained a distinct
individual, and I could easily discern one from the
other.

Nura had worn eyeglasses
for years, and the outline of her glasses were now visible through
the fabric of her veil. Tahani’s sunglasses were perched on top of
her nose, comically on the
outside
of her veil. A red personal stereo rested on top
of music-loving Haifa’s veil and scarf. I glanced down at the floor
and saw brightly colored Reebok sport shoes peeking out beneath
Dunia’s cloak. Sara was wearing leather sandals.

Feeling mischievous, and
always irritated by the ridiculous custom of veiling, I startled my
sisters by crying out, “Let’s make this a new day in our lives!
Let’s take off our veils and throw them in the dust!” With my arms
I reached back to remove my veil.

Sara gave a small scream as
she pulled my hands free of my veil.

Looking at me through his
rear-view mirror, our Egyptian driver burst out laughing. My
feelings regarding the black cloak and veil were well-known to him,
and he often seemed to take delight in my unconventional public
behavior.

Nura, the matriarch of the
family, lifted her veil and stared sternly at me. “Sultana! I
command you to stop! On this day, you will concentrate on our trip,
and not on your veil.”

“
Nura, you prove my point,”
I teased as I pointed at her exposed face. “Even you know that
words have little meaning when spoken from behind a
veil.”

That was true! The spoken
word and facial expression are bonded; one without the other is not
taken seriously.

“
Sultana!” Nura
warned.

Tahani began to giggle at
Nura’s expression of uneasiness so exposed under her lifted veil.
Everyone but Nura joined in her laughter.

“
Oh well,” I muttered, “I
suppose it will not hurt me to wear the veil for a few more
hours.”

Now understanding that I
had been teasing her all along, Nura leaned forward to pinch my
arm. I escaped by hiding behind Sara. We began giggling.

I said, “Do not worry,
Nura, Allah obviously wants me to wear this veil that I so detest
to the grave.”

Our mood of gaiety
continued as our caravan passed several modern towns set in scenic
oases of date palms. The plan was that we would set up camp at an
area between the Tuwayq Mountains and the Dahna Sands. There was a
wadi, a dry river bed, in that area, known as Wadi al Jafi, an old
Bedouin route.

The grinding of the gears
of our four-wheel drive and the lurch of the wheels began to settle
as fatigue on my body. I was eager for the journey to end, and our
desert adventure to begin. After a few hours of driving, we arrived
at an unbroken expanse of sand plains a short distance from the
oasis of Wadi al Jafi. Although there were local villages,
settlements, and other encampments close by, our tents would be
raised in an isolated area.

I liked the spot that
Kareem had selected. Solitude and stillness hung over us. Not even
birds sang in this treeless place. My sisters, including Nura, and
the other women gleefully mimicked me when I pulled my veil from my
face and my abaaya from my body.

The removal of our dark
outer coverings was not considered improper, since we were now in
the familiar arena of our immediate family and servants. It is
difficult to hide our faces from those who live on the grounds of
our palaces; therefore, out of practical necessity, the males hired
by our families soon grow accustomed to seeing the unveiled faces
of their employer’s wives and daughters.

The wide-open sky and the
desert breeze against my skin brought about a sense of well-being.
Feeling as free and happy as a child, I laughed as Sara’s younger
offspring began to give chase to Tahani’s small children. Sand flew
from under their bare feet. The little ones, too, felt the
attraction of desert freedom.

With happy anticipation, I
then sat in a group with my sisters and our oldest daughters as the
men employed by us struggled to erect the black goat-hair tents
that would house our families for the next two weeks. We were
content as we sipped hot, sugary tea while lounging on carpets
spread out on sand hardened in place by the relentless desert
winds.

Installing the huge tents
was no simple matter, even for those accustomed to this task, and
the havoc of toppling tent poles and collapsing roofs caused us to
burst into laughter more than once.

Watching the men grapple
with the stubborn tents made me particularly grateful for my
privileged station in life. Traditionally, every chore associated
with the black tent is the sole responsibility of the women. Women
first shear the goat hair and spin it into yarn, then weave it into
fabric for the walls and roofs of the tents. Even then, their work
is not finished, for from the same yarn, they must also weave floor
coverings and other furnishings for the tent interiors, such as
wall hangings, carpets, and partitions dividing the tent. These
“houses of hair” have been the homes to the people of the desert
since time eternal.