Princess: Stepping Out of the Shadows, стр. 63

I steadied myself by leaning against the wall and taking several deep breaths. Zain and the babies must be all right! My son would never recover if he lost his wife or the babies.

I felt tears forming in my eyes, but pushed back to keep from collapsing, steeling myself for the coming crisis before rushing to get ready. I quickly selected a comfortable dress with long sleeves and a hem that reached my ankles. I knew the dress was suitable to wear at the hospital, where we were sure to see Zain’s family. I hurriedly washed my face and combed my hair, twisting my tangled curls into a big bun at the nape of my neck. At the last minute, I remembered to stuff an abaaya and scarf in my large black bag, thinking that I would throw them over my clothes once we arrived at the hospital.

As I hastily made my way out of the palace, I could not help but wonder whether perhaps I could soon forget about ever again wearing the hated black robe. My cousin the Crown Prince and Sheikh Abdullah al-Mutlaq, a cleric who is a member of the Council of Senior Scholars, both recently announced that Saudi women no longer had to wear the abaaya robe. Sheikh al-Mutlaq expanded his comments when he said, ‘More than 90 per cent of pious Muslim women in the Muslim world do not wear an abaaya. So we should not force women to wear it, although all Saudi women should dress modestly.’

However, there is a law that requires the abaaya for women in my country and until that law is rescinded many women – particularly in Riyadh – will not feel comfortable tossing their abaaya. Our city has always been the most conservative of the large cities in the kingdom. Even now there are still many very active clerics roaming the souks and streets of our capital, looking for what they believe are wayward women to verbally, or even physically, assault. The stern faces and laser stares emanating from the black eyes of Riyadh-based clerics have long reflected their unyielding and hard hearts, for most truly believe that women are the source of all evil and the cause for all the problems of the world.

We know that the radical clerics are boiling with anger by all the high-spirited conversations about women being allowed to drive and women discarding their abaaya, so our female common sense has nudged our behaviour.

Truthfully, Saudi women will most likely always dress modestly because it is an ingrained part of our culture. Still, most will be pleased to stop veiling themselves and will put these items and the black robes in the back of the closet, perhaps to bring them out in our old age and show our grandchildren what grandmother was once forced to wear!

I felt a touch of envy for the women who live in Jeddah, for I had heard that in that more modern-minded coastal city brave women are burning their veils and the hated black robe in their garbage bins and taunting the clerics who dare question them about their hair and bodies not being covered by the usual black attire.

But for now, my mind must be focused on my son and his family. While walking rapidly down the long hallway to the back entrance to our palace, I replayed in my mind what Abdullah had confided the week before when I had invited his family over for a barbecue party by the pool.

‘Mother, I wish that I could say yes, but we cannot. Zain has gained an unusual amount of weight this past month. With the babies due in a little less than two months, her physician says she should get a lot of bed rest.’

‘Of course!’ I said with a loud voice. ‘Of course she will have substantial weight gain, son! Your wife is carrying two babies at once!’

Abdullah shrugged. ‘Mother, the doctor appeared to be worried. He mentioned the swelling of her ankles – he is concerned about the possibility of uremic poisoning.’

I gasped, for like most women who have borne children, I had been told to be alert for any unusual weight gain during the last three months of my pregnancies. Uremic poisoning, I knew, could threaten the lives of Zain and both babies. Now I was wondering if this emergency two months prior to Zain’s due date was connected to uremic poisoning.

Kareem ordered our driver to go as fast as the speed limit, but no faster. He knew that if we were pulled over, the officer would begin to flatter and fawn once he understood that he had stopped a member of the royal family. This kind of behaviour would only delay us. I suppose that some royals have received speeding tickets in the kingdom, but I have yet to hear of such a case.

The journey to the hospital generally takes thirty minutes in the daylight hours when traffic is heavy, but we arrived at the hospital in only twenty minutes due to the early morning hour, when there were fewer vehicles on the road. However, that short period of time felt like hours to me, as I anxiously willed myself to be beside my child and his wife.

Finally, we were pulling into the hospital grounds. ‘I feel as though I just left this place, Kareem,’ I said with a despairing tone.

Kareem stroked my hand. ‘Thanks be to God that you are no longer a patient, that you are now healthy. Our son is going to need us.’

Our driver pulled in at the entranceway to the building that housed the obstetrics and gynaecology department. Abdullah had arranged for one of the hospital administrators to be waiting at the front door for our arrival. Abdullah’s attention to the matter saved us many minutes, for the hospital is huge and we are not that familiar with the area where babies are born.

The administrator timidly identified himself and told us that he was from