Princess Sultana's Daughters Read Free Page A

not been in touch with the book’s
author since learning of its sale to William Morrow, a large and
respected American publishing house, I was unaware that the book,
Princess, was a huge success and had sold to numerous countries.
The one before me is quite obviously the German edition.
    I have a short moment of elation followed by
sheer terror. I feel the blood rush to my face. I am numb and can
barely hear my father’s voice. He explains that Ali had been
curious when he saw the book in the Frankfurt airport and had gone
to a great deal of trouble and expense to have the book translated
because he saw that our family name was written on the cover.
    At the time, Ali had an irritating thought
that some obscure, disgruntled princess within the Al Sa’ud family
had divulged the gossipy secrets of her life. Once Ali had read the
book and clearly recognized himself from our childhood dramas, the
truth was revealed. He canceled the remainder of his holiday and
hastily returned to Riyadh in a fury.
    Father has had copies of the translated
version made for the meeting.
    He nods at Ali, giving a small signal with
his hand. My brother grapples with a bulky pile of paper at his
side and proceeds to hand each person a bundle secured with a large
rubber band.
    Confused, Kareem nudges me, raising his
eyebrows and rolling his eyes.
    Until the last possible second, I express my
denial, returning an expression of bewilderment. Shrugging my
shoulders, I stare, unblinking and unseeing, at the papers in my
hand.
    In a soaring voice Father shouts out my name,
“Sultana!”
    I feel my body jump into the air.
    Father begins to speak rapidly, spitting out
words as I imagine a machine gun expels bullets. “Sultana, do you
recall the marriage and divorce of your sister Sara? The wickedness
of your childhood friends? The death of your mother? Your trip to
Egypt? Your marriage to Kareem? The birth of your son?
Sultana?”
    I have stopped breathing.
    Relentless, my father continues to accuse.
“Sultana, if you have difficulty in recalling these momentous
events, then I suggest that you read this book!”
    Father throws the book at my feet.
    Unable to move, I stare, mute, at the book on
the floor.
    My father orders, “Sultana, pick it up!”
Kareem grabs the book and stares at the cover. He gasps—a deep,
ragged breath—and then turns to me. “What is this, Sultana?”
    I am paralyzed with fear. My heart stops
beating. I sit and listen, longing for the life-giving thump.
    Quite out of control, Kareem drops the book
to the floor, grabs my shoulders, and shakes me like a rag.
    I again feel the familiar heartbeat, though I
have a childlike thought—a moment of sorrow that I did not die on
the spot and so burden my husband’s conscience with lifelong guilt.
I hear the muscles of my neck snapping from the force of Kareem’s
strength.
    My father yells, “Sultana! Answer your
husband!”
    Suddenly the years evaporate. I am a child
again, at my father’s mercy. How I long for my mother to be alive,
for nothing less than maternal fervor can save me from this vicious
encounter!
    I feel a whimper forming in my throat.
    I have told myself many times in the past
that there can be no freedom without courage, yet my courage fails
me when I need it the most. I had known that if members of my
immediate family read the book, my secret would be discovered.
Foolishly, I had felt protected by the fact that in my family, only
Sara reads books. Even if gossip of the book had spread throughout
the city, I assumed that my family would take little note of it,
unless mention was made of a particular incident they would recall
from our youth.
    Now, ironically, my brother, a man who scorns
the mention of women’s rights, had read the book that focused
attention on the abuse of women in my land. My demon of a brother,
Ali, had foiled my precious anonymity.
    Timidly, I look around the room at my father,
my sisters and brother. Together, as if they had practiced,