Princess: Stepping Out of the Shadows, стр. 7

times that few women were veiled during the time before Islam. However, a limited number of women (those from the wealthy classes) would wear the veil in order to elevate themselves to a status of high desirability, as no man would be able to keep his senses if he were to view her beauty. When these veiled, heavily cloaked and perfumed women passed through the streets, all would stand in awe and wonder, believing that the most beautiful creature was within reach. Those covered figures created endless dreams of desire for the men, who savoured the thought that one day they too would win a woman so beautiful that she must hide her beauty or chance creating a human stampede.

Additionally, some upper-class women wed to chieftains or rulers would veil to distinguish themselves from the common people.

Suddenly my eyes are drawn to a single figure. It is a man whose appearance startles me because even from a distance he holds a remarkable resemblance to my handsome husband, Kareem. He has the same golden-brown skin, black eyes, chiselled jaw and open smile. I am entranced, for I am a woman who greatly loves her husband, even after years of marriage and the challenge of birthing and nurturing three children.

My concentration stays with this man as he abandons the fair to walk a short distance down a narrow, winding walkway between stucco houses that are rectangles of sun-dried brick cemented with mud. The roofs are mixtures of mud and palm leaves. The shabby construction of private homes proves that this is a poor village, for even in those days the wealthy constructed homes with interior courts, creating shelters for their families that were citadels of privacy.

The man who physically resembles Kareem walks on a street that is floored with hard sand. He moves past four or five homes until he reaches a modest dwelling comparable to all others. To my eyes, it is as though the home has no roof and I can watch his movements and actions. The humble dwelling has only four rooms; the floor, as the street, is hard-packed dirt. The handsome man passes through the main sitting room to enter a second chamber, which is a sleeping area with two cots. He boldly approaches a woman who is tenderly focusing on an infant. Believing I am going to see an affectionate scene, out of modesty I start to take my mind elsewhere. But then I catch sight of an incident that causes me to cringe in shock. The handsome man physically strikes the woman with his hand. She screams, then grabs and shields her baby. Her husband bellows in fury, striking her again and again. The face I found handsome is no longer appealing, as he blushes red with rage. His disagreeable character shows on his face, as he grimaces in heated irritation at his wife and child.

I gasp when the baby cries pitifully. I then understand that her father is incensed because the tiny one is a female. This is no surprise since until Islam in Arabia female babies were typically undesirable, not only to the fathers but often to the mothers and even the community. But it is clear to me that this mother loves her baby. She cups her hand over the infant’s mouth to silence the child, for the infant’s loud sobs are making the man even more furious. I stare in horrified disbelief when the man roughly tugs the infant from the mother’s arms and rushes out of their home and away from the small village to carry the crying baby to a sandy area.

After the child is taken, the young mother collapses to the floor and remains there, unmoving, as stiff as a long-dead corpse.

My eyes return to the father. He tosses the helpless baby to the ground and begins feverishly to dig a hole. The sand seems to be fighting against his brutish plan, for as he hollows out what will become the grave the sand slides back into the cavity.

I am aghast as I watch the grisly scene, but remember that the pages of time have been turned back and I am not an actual witness to the murder about to be committed. Tears well in my eyes, as I feel I am a spectator to a terrified baby who is sensing the horror fast becoming her reality. With eyes tightly closed, she is shrieking and flailing her little arms.

Her father’s heart is unmoved. He quickly prepares the burial place and cruelly pushes his kicking infant into the small hole, shoving and kicking the sand until the grave is fully covered.

I see movement under the sand! A baby girl buried alive!

The horror! The terror!

I become paralysed by the revulsion of the moment, for I know that in the time before Islam society was addicted to female infanticide. Unwanted infant daughters were often slain by live burials, repeated thousands of times during that age of ignorance. Although I know the barbarity I have witnessed happened centuries before, the scene feels as real to me as if it were occurring at that moment.

In anger and sorrow, I watch as the murderer strolls back into his village, seemingly without concern for the agony he has wrought. The moment his terrified child was covered in sand, choking to death, he thought of her no more. He speaks with a few men along the way, who appear to congratulate him on ridding his family of a daughter who, in their eyes, will only create endless problems.

Men celebrate with their kinsmen and friends while infant daughters inhale sand until death claims their sweet, innocent little lives and mourning mothers weep in sorrow.

My wanderings fail to bring me the happiness I desire; instead, I reel from extreme misery. From my studies of Islam and of the enhancements brought to female lives, I have always known that the days of ignorance were the most dangerous time in human history to be a female, whether an infant, a girl