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sighed, “If only the dear
girl did not fear men so.”
    “ Whether she fears men, or
loves men, this will be a cruel night,” Tahani said
wearily.
    I looked behind Tahani and
saw that dear Reema, the fifth child of our mother, was discreetly
manipulating the medical device that captured her body’s waste. The
device was well-hidden under her dress, but the anxious Reema had
formed the habit of compulsively checking and rechecking the
appliance. After her husband Saleem’s brutal assault, Reema had
needed a colostomy, and would never regain control over all her
bodily functions.
    Angry at that memory of
still another woman’s suffering at the hands of a man, I asked
hotly, “How is it that we accept all this?”
    “ Shhh,” my sisters joined
in unison to stop me from drawing the attention of the women
standing close to us.
    “ It is my belief,” I said
through clenched teeth, “that we should be throwing stones at the
King’s palace, rather than attending this shameful
event.”
    “ Sultana,” Nura warned, “do
not create a scene.”
    I even surprised myself
with my impertinence, “It is you who should be causing a scene with
me, beloved sister.”
    Nura did not reply, but she
gave me a warning look.
    “ Every woman in Saudi
Arabia should gather as many stones as she can carry,” I repeated,
“and throw them at our men.”
    Eight of my nine sisters,
Nura, Reema, Tahani, Baher, Dunia, Nayam, Haifa and Soha, gasped as
one. Only Sara remained silent.
    I watched them as they
exchanged fretful expressions.
    Seeing the disappointment
etched on my face, and knowing that I was longing for a single
brave act from all of them, Sara stepped forward and took my
hand.
    High-pitched trills
suddenly erupted from behind closed doors. My sisters were saved
from further trauma from me as the wedding procession
began.
    Trembling with anger and
sorrow, I watched six beautiful dancers advance dramatically
through the open doors. The women were trained dancers from Egypt,
and were fitted out in elaborate costumes that displayed their
voluptuous bodies. When the dancers passed our way, I was startled
by their inviting winks.
    I looked at Sara with a
questioning eye, and she shrugged. I had heard that one of our
female cousins had taken an Egyptian dancer as a lesbian lover, and
wondered if the financial gain that dancer had enjoyed had put
ideas into the heads of her associates.
    Chanting female drummers,
dressed in colorful embroidered dresses, followed the dancers. I
recognized these women as Saudis from a tribe loyal to our
family.
    Twelve tiny girls between
the ages of three and six followed the drummers. They were the
flower girls who were beautifully dressed in pink satin dresses
with matching hair bows and shoes. They scattered petals plucked
from purple orchids. From the fragrance that drifted toward me, I
knew these petals to be especially scented with a sweet-smelling
incense. These children were members of our royal family, and their
endearing childish mannerisms brought many smiles from the watching
crowd.
    Once the dancers had
circled the throne-like platform, they proceeded to dance
themselves into a musical frenzy. This was the signal that the
bride was making her way through the hall. As a short woman, I
needed to stand on my toes to improve my view.
    Munira walked slowly down
the lengthy hall. She was dressed in a soft peach lace wedding
dress. Her gloomy face was lightly covered by a sheer peach veil.
Rhinestones sewn into the fabric of the veil reflected back off the
room’s lighting, achieving a dramatic twinkling effect that her
eyes could not project. The heavy train of her dress was carried by
young teenage cousins, who ranged in age from thirteen to nineteen.
These girls were adorned in hideous orange satin costumes surely
not of their choosing.
    Overwhelmed by the swirl of
misarranged colors of flowers and costumes, I thought this to be
the most unappealing wedding I had ever attended. Everything