Princess: Stepping Out of the Shadows, стр. 11
Those familiar with the history of Saudi Arabia know that one man changed the future of the entire region, and that one man was my grandfather.
Against overwhelming odds, he defeated and retook the Najd. But his dreams did not fade and end with its occupation. During those years of exile, he had dreamed of luring all the tribes to the idea of a nation, making Arabia into one country recognized by the world. If Arabia did not become an established nation, he knew that our land would one day be occupied by foreign powers, like all the Middle Eastern countries bordering Saudi Arabia. This idea he could not bear.
Grandfather’s dreams became a reality after fighting for two decades, using his military and diplomatic skills to defeat all who stood in his way. Without my grandfather, there would be no Saudi Arabia today. Arabia would still be a vast desert land filled with warring tribes, perhaps ruled by a foreign nation.
One man.
Many tribes.
One country.
My eyes have taken me on this wonderful journey to see my grandfather in his prime. He was all I had hoped for and more.
Now, sixty-five years after my grandfather’s death, I take joy in closely watching Saudi Arabia’s tall, handsome and intelligent Crown Prince. When he boldly makes announcements of the changes he will bring to our country and declares that he will make Saudi Arabia great again, I smile and look at Kareem.
‘My husband,’ I say, ‘he is no longer coming. He has come.’
Chapter Two
The Joys and Torments of Family
THE WORLD HAS turned many times since I lost my mother, but with each turn I love her more.
From my own readings of the advancement of civilization, I know that the world has grown old discussing a mother’s love for a child and a child’s love for their mother. My darling mother was the embodiment of the richest love for her eleven children, but most especially for me, her youngest and most challenging daughter. I was the perpetrator of many naughty deeds, but despite my conduct, or my latest transgression creating upheaval in our home, I always understood that I could run to my mother for protection, knowing she would still love me unconditionally. Her unquestioned motherly love instilled happiness and confidence into my young life.
But then, just when I needed her the most, my mother died.
I was a young child in the early years of school when they took her away from our home to put her body in the ground. In my despairing grief, I withdrew to such a dark place in my mind that my oldest sister, Nura, who endeavoured to console her younger siblings at the loss of our mother, feared that her baby sister Sultana would never smile again. Nura was so anxious that she kept a small diary of my daily behaviour. She shared this diary with me a few years ago, only a year before she, too, died, and upon reading her entries I came to know that my eldest sister did indeed carry the burden of parenting her siblings and assumed all the worries of a mother. In her diary she recorded her anxieties, writing words such as, ‘Sultana has not smiled. Sultana did not smile today. Will Sultana ever smile again?’ Indeed, my morose and unhappy demeanour lingered a frighteningly long time during that traumatic phase of our lives.
But eventually, it seems, things slowly began to improve, and I recall how Nura hugged me tightly as she placed her finger on the date in the diary when her little sister Sultana began to smile again. It had been precisely 201 days after Mother passed. Looking back, I recall the reason for my smile: my father had given me a half-eaten candy bar that my brother had carelessly discarded. To me, even this small token was better than being ignored.
My father’s mind was wrapped solely around his son, Ali. His every whim was catered for, his every need anticipated. He did not notice his daughters.
But I noticed that he did not notice.
Even now, more than forty years after Mother was buried in an unmarked grave, the conflicting emotions of grief and joy exist together in my heart and mind. While I know no greater joy than when I reminisce about the days I spent safely enveloped in my mother’s love, the intensity of the grief I experienced after her death has never left me and it always overshadows my happiest moments.
Truthfully, each year since my mother’s death I have felt her absence acutely and have deeply regretted that she has not been at my side to experience important moments in my life. My mother did not live to see her Sultana marry a man she loved and respected; she did not live to see her beloved daughter grow into a mature woman or become a mother herself, giving birth to three babies. My mother never knew that her Sultana, who was a poor student, devoted her life to elevating the lives of other females by ensuring they had access to education. And she did not live to see Saudi Arabia on the cusp of the greatest social change in our history. As much happiness as the promise of social change is now bringing to my heart, it would soar to the moon if I was able to celebrate with my mother, a woman who lived in a time when females had so few rights that their infant children could be taken from their arms should their husbands demand something even forbidden by our religion.
My darling mother would be astonished by the litany of rights now promised to Saudi women by one of her many nephews and my cousin, Crown Prince Muhammad bin Salman.
I try to conceive of her happiness at such wonderful news, but