Free Princess by Jean P. Sasson

afternoon, I knew the noon prayers were over; it would be safe to carry out my plan without being seen. Even the men of religion nap in the hot climate of Arabia. I opened the mosque door with dread, and peeked in carefully before entering. Not yet veiled, I thought perhaps my presence would invite little curiosity. I already had my story ready in the event I was caught. If questioned, I would say I was hunting my new kitten that had wandered onto the mosque grounds. Surprisingly, the mosque was cool and inviting. I had never been inside the huge building, but I had followed my father and Ali to prayer many times. From the age of six, Ali had been encouraged to perform the five daily prayers. I felt my breath sharpen as I recalled the hurt I had felt as I watched my father hold Ali’s hand and lead him proudly through the grand entrance of the mosque—always leaving me, a lowly female, at the side of the road to stare after them in sorrow and anger.
    Even though Prophet Mohammed did not forbid women to pray publicly in the mosques, he did state that it was best for them to pray in the privacy of their homes. Due to this, women are forbidden entry into neighborhood mosques in my country, although on certain holidays they are allowed in the mosques in Makkah and Madinah. No one was around. I hurriedly walked across the marble floor; the clicking of my sandals sounded loud and strange. I placed the bag containing Ali’s forbidden articles on the stairwell leading to the balcony that contains the loudspeakers that broadcast Prophet Mohammed’s words throughout our cities five times a day. Just thinking of the intensity of the appeals of the muezzin, the criers who call the faithful to pray, I began to feel guilty about my misadventure. Then I remembered Ali’s superior smirk as he told me that Father would have me flogged, and that he, Ali, would request the pleasure of beating me. I walked back home with a satisfied grin. Let Ali get out of this one, for once. That night, before Father came home from the office, three mutawas (religious men) arrived at our gate. I, and three of our Filipino servants peered through one of the upstairs windows as we watched them shout at Omar and gesture wildly at the heavens and then toward some books and magazines that they obviously held in distaste. I wanted to laugh, but kept my face straight and serious.
    All foreigners and most Saudis are frightened of the mutawas, for they have much power, and they watch everyone for signs of weakness. Even members of the Royal Family try to avoid their attention.
    Two weeks before, one of our Filipino maids had inflamed some mutawas by wearing a knee-length skirt in the souq. A group of religious men struck her with a stick and sprayed her uncovered legs with red paint. While the government of Saudi Arabia does not allow tourists to enter our country, there are many women who work as nurses, secretaries, or domestic help in our major cities. Many of these women feel the wrath of those who speak God’s word yet despise those of our sex. If a woman is so bold as to defy our traditions by exposing uncovered arms or legs, she runs the risk of being struck and sprayed with paint.
    This maid had soaked her legs in paint remover, but they were still red and raw-looking. She was convinced that somehow the religious police had traced her to her residence, and now they had come to take her to jail. She ran to hide under my bed. I wanted to tell her the nature of their visit, but my secret had to be guarded, even from the Filipino servants.
    Omar was absolutely pallid when he came into the villa screaming for Ali. I saw Ali scuffling down the hallway, gingerly walking with the top of his right foot high in the air while balancing on his heel. I followed and gathered with Mother and Ali in the sitting room, where Omar was on the phone, dialing Father in his office. The mutawas had left, entrusting Omar with samples of the incriminating contraband: one magazine,