September 8th, 2005
who's to blame?
Ahmed hired a limousine driver to take Nura, Sara, and me shopping. Ahmed went to meet a businessman. The caretaker, who doubled as a driver, took the two Filipinos and the three children to the pool at the Mena House Hotel. When we left the apartment, Ali and Hadi were lounging about, exhausted from the previous late night.
The sweltering heat of the city soon tired Sara, and I offered to go back to the apartment and keep her company until Nura finished her shopping. Nura agreed, and sent the driver to drop us off. He would return to collect Nura afterward.
When we entered the apartment, we heard muffled screams. Sara and I followed the noise to Hadi and Ali's room. The door was unlocked and we suddenly realized what was happening before our eyes. Hadi was raping a young girl, no more than eight years old, and Ali was holding her. Blood was everywhere. Our brother and Hadi were laughing.
At the sight of this traumatic scene, Sara became hysterical and began to scream and run. Ali's face became a mask of fury as he shoved me from the room, knocking me to the floor. I ran after Sara. We huddled in our room.
When I could no longer endure the sounds of terror that continued to filter up to our floor, I crept back down the stairwell. I was desperately trying to think of a course of action when the doorbell rang. I saw Ali answer the door to an Egyptian woman, about forty years of age. He handed the woman fifteen Egyptian pounds and asked her if she had more daughters. She said she did and that she would return tomorrow. Hadi ushered out the weeping child. The mother, showing no emotion, took the child, who was limping, tears streaming down her face, by the hand and closed the door behind her.
Ahmed did not seem surprised when Nura, angry, told him the story. He pursed his lips and said he would find out the details. Later, he told Nura that the mother herself had sold her child, and that there was nothing he could do.
Even though caught in this shameful act, Hadi and Ali acted as though nothing had happened. When I sneered at Hadi and asked him how he could be a religious man, he laughed full in my face. I turned to Ali and told him that I was going to tell Father he was attacking young girls, and he laughed even harder than Hadi. He leaned toward me and said, "Tell him. I do not mind!" He said that Father had given him the name of a man to contact for the same type of service. He smiled and said young girls were more fun, and besides, Father always did the same sort of thing when he came to Cairo.
I felt as though I had been electrocuted; my brain felt burned, my mouth hung open, and I stared blankly at my brother. I had my first thoughts that all - all - men are wicked. I wanted to destroy my memory of that day and lapse once again into the innocence of the mists of my childhood. I walked softly away. I came to dread what I might discover next in the cruel world of men.
I still cherished Cairo as a city of enlightenment, but the decay brought by poverty caused me to rethink my earlier notions. Later in the week, I saw the Egyptian mother knocking on doors in the building, with another young girl in tow. I wanted to question her, to discover how a mother could sell her young. She saw my determined look of inquiry and hurried away.
Sara and I talked with Nura for long hours about the phenomenon, and Nura sighed and said that Ahmed told her it was a way of life in much of the world. When I shouted indignantly that I would rather starve than sell my young, Nura agreed, but said it was easy to say such things when the pangs of hunger were not in your stomach.
*excerpt from Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia by Jean P. Sasson
The sweltering heat of the city soon tired Sara, and I offered to go back to the apartment and keep her company until Nura finished her shopping. Nura agreed, and sent the driver to drop us off. He would return to collect Nura afterward.
When we entered the apartment, we heard muffled screams. Sara and I followed the noise to Hadi and Ali's room. The door was unlocked and we suddenly realized what was happening before our eyes. Hadi was raping a young girl, no more than eight years old, and Ali was holding her. Blood was everywhere. Our brother and Hadi were laughing.
At the sight of this traumatic scene, Sara became hysterical and began to scream and run. Ali's face became a mask of fury as he shoved me from the room, knocking me to the floor. I ran after Sara. We huddled in our room.
When I could no longer endure the sounds of terror that continued to filter up to our floor, I crept back down the stairwell. I was desperately trying to think of a course of action when the doorbell rang. I saw Ali answer the door to an Egyptian woman, about forty years of age. He handed the woman fifteen Egyptian pounds and asked her if she had more daughters. She said she did and that she would return tomorrow. Hadi ushered out the weeping child. The mother, showing no emotion, took the child, who was limping, tears streaming down her face, by the hand and closed the door behind her.
Ahmed did not seem surprised when Nura, angry, told him the story. He pursed his lips and said he would find out the details. Later, he told Nura that the mother herself had sold her child, and that there was nothing he could do.
Even though caught in this shameful act, Hadi and Ali acted as though nothing had happened. When I sneered at Hadi and asked him how he could be a religious man, he laughed full in my face. I turned to Ali and told him that I was going to tell Father he was attacking young girls, and he laughed even harder than Hadi. He leaned toward me and said, "Tell him. I do not mind!" He said that Father had given him the name of a man to contact for the same type of service. He smiled and said young girls were more fun, and besides, Father always did the same sort of thing when he came to Cairo.
I felt as though I had been electrocuted; my brain felt burned, my mouth hung open, and I stared blankly at my brother. I had my first thoughts that all - all - men are wicked. I wanted to destroy my memory of that day and lapse once again into the innocence of the mists of my childhood. I walked softly away. I came to dread what I might discover next in the cruel world of men.
I still cherished Cairo as a city of enlightenment, but the decay brought by poverty caused me to rethink my earlier notions. Later in the week, I saw the Egyptian mother knocking on doors in the building, with another young girl in tow. I wanted to question her, to discover how a mother could sell her young. She saw my determined look of inquiry and hurried away.
Sara and I talked with Nura for long hours about the phenomenon, and Nura sighed and said that Ahmed told her it was a way of life in much of the world. When I shouted indignantly that I would rather starve than sell my young, Nura agreed, but said it was easy to say such things when the pangs of hunger were not in your stomach.
*excerpt from Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia by Jean P. Sasson
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