Princess Sultana's Daughters: A Saudi Arabian Woman's Intimate Revelations About Sex, Love, Marriage-- and the Fate of Her Beautiful Daughters--Behind the Veil by Jean Sasson

Author:Jean Sasson [Sasson, Jean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Royalty, Women's Studies, Social Science
ISBN: 9780613709200
Google: XC6ZPwAACAAJ
Publisher: Turtleback Books
Published: 2001-03-01T21:16:20+00:00

72 | P a g e

PRINCESS SULTANA’S DAUGHTERS

away from the door, but my pointed shoe heel caught in the hem of my long dress. I was struggling to free myself when Amani flung the door open and stood staring down at her obviously guilty mother.

I was unnerved by my daughter's accusing face, for her piercing eyes and tight lips made it plain that she clearly understood the situation.

Unable to acknowledge my despicable deed, I began to rub my fingers against some red threads that were worked into the hal carpet, and with what I hoped was a lilt to my voice, I began to lie with the intensity of one who knows her listeners see through her lie.

"Amani! I thought you were in your room!" I exclaimed.

I returned my gaze to the carpet, seriously studying the red threads. "Darlings, have either of you noticed the red stains on this carpet?"

Neither of my daughters responded.

With a frown, I gave the red threads a few more rubs, and with my shoe heel stil caught in my dress, I stood up hunched over and limped down the corridor. Short on explanation, I mumbled, "The servants have become quite lax. I fear that the stain is permanent."

Amani, unable to al ow me the pleasure of believing that my smal lie had been convincing, spoke to my back. "Mummy. This carpet is not stained. Those are red roses woven into the pattern!"

Maha could not restrain herself, and I heard her as she began to giggle.

Amani caled out, "Mummy, if you wish to hear my words, you are most welcome. Please, come into the room where I am speaking." The door leading into the garden room slammed with a thunderous clap.

Tears formed in my eyes, and I rushed to my bedroom. I could not bear to look at my beautiful daughter, for since we had returned from Makkah, she had begun to clothe herself from head to toe in black, even going so far as to wear thick black hosiery and long black gloves. In the privacy of our home, only her face remained uncovered, as my child wrapped her beautiful black hair in a stiff black head covering that reminded me of something a goat-herding Yemeni woman might wear. When Amani ventured outside our palace wal s, she added a veil of thick black fabric that hindered her vision, even though the religious officials of Jeddah were much more relaxed in pursuing women with unveiled faces than were those of Riyadh. Our desert capital is known throughout the Muslim world for its diligent morals commit tees, which are composed solely of angry faced men who harass innocent women on the city streets.

Nothing I could say or do could persuade my daughter to dress more comfortably than in the heavy black cloak, veil, and headdress that strike most Muslim believers in other Islamic lands as nothing less than ridiculous.

I could not control my sobs. At great risk to my happiness, I had battled most of my

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