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
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
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