Journal of a Saudi Arabian Woman

Today, I nearly died. I am still sore from the experience (in agony would be a more suitable description). It hurts to sit here and write but I must remember this day. My children, once I bear them, must know the truth about this society. They must see the wrong in our culture. My one hope is that they can go to the West, that they can get out of this restricting nation. Especially my daughters. My life will be worth something if my daughters can actually think for themselves, lead their own lives. They must get out. I will die a bit each day that my children remain in this wretched land, this land called Saudi Arabia.
For others reading this, outsiders to my family, I will introduce myself. (I hope this journal is read by many. I wish to impact all, if possible.) My name is Zafira, which means “victorious” or “successful”. I am nineteen years old. I would explain my appearance to you, but it would be worth nothing, for I am almost constantly covered in this black cloth which hides all of me. No man can witness my beauty unless he is my husband.
Oh, marriage! The thought causes my stomach to churn and bile to rise up in my throat and wash over my tongue! That is the reason I nearly died today, that dreaded union of man and woman. It should be something sacred but it has been corrupted beyond the point of repair in this country. No, my daughters will not go through this abominable experience! They will go to the West, I swear it. My sons will not turn out as monsters. They will respect women and see their beauty. If this does not happen, my life will be worth nothing.
I suppose that I must tell my story, if this journal is to accomplish anything at all. It will be painful, but for my children and their children, I will retell the horrid events of this day.
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Eight days ago I woke up and life was normal. The sun was shining and I got dressed, putting on my abaya over my clothes. I went downstairs to see my father’s second wife, Rana, eating some of the breakfast she had prepared. My family is what people in the West would call “middle-class”. We are not nobility but we are not poor. I ate and Rana and I made light conversation. I feel mild pity for her each time I see or think about her, because she is a couple years younger than me. This, however, did not stop my father from marrying her. He has two other wives, Mufida and Cantara. After breakfast I helped clean up and then my father came home from an outing. He had spent the previous day and night with Cantara. He told me to finish up and come join him in the other room. This was very peculiar as my father usually remains silent when I am around. I am an only child, born of he and Cantara, so one would think my father would regularly speak to me, but he is usually too preoccupied with his women.
I sat across from him in the room, thoroughly curious. He then informed me that I was becoming old, and that I needed to marry. He said he had found a good man for me who came from a good family. This man belonged slightly above us in the social ladder. I was shocked. I could not speak against my father, because whatever he says is the truth, even if it is false. I thanked him. He told me that the wedding was in eight days. I thanked him again, and he dismissed me. I went to my room and sat on my bed. Tears came to my eyes after a few moments when the pure shock had worn off. I did not know what I would do. I had heard that the women in the West possess the choice of who they marry. I suppose, somewhere in my heart, I had believed that I would be granted that same privilege, and if not that, then I would be given the ability to refuse marriage altogether. It turned out that I could not.
Many thoughts came to my mind; plans developed from those thoughts and most were completely irrational. I could kill myself. I pondered how to do this. I could use a kitchen knife to slit my throat in the middle of the night when no one was awake. Then I realized how cowardly suicide was, and I immediately shunned the notion. I thought of running away, going to the West. But I had no money and a man would have to accompany me if I travelled anywhere, so that plan would not work out. I thought of just going through with the wedding and doing as I was told. Almost every woman must go through this ritual in their lives. I should be no different. Yet, I could not get over the sickening feeling that came to the pit of my stomach every time I considered such submission. A new thought came to my mind, a desire I never believed I could possess. I decided to murder him.
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Before my story continues, I must explain some things. My hatred for our culture in Saudi Arabia did not spring up the moment my father told me of my betrothal. It was born years ago. I believe around the time I was twelve years old, I came to see the differences in our culture and those in the rest of the world. I saw how oppressed women are in my country. I grew to hate the abaya that covered us all. It was not a total hatred for it, though, because in wearing this cloth, the very men who oppress us do not receive the pleasure of openly viewing a woman’s beauty. (The day I realized that irony, I could hardly stop laughing.) I despise Saudi Arabia and its culture due to years of my eyes being opened to the way we, women, are treated. Most women merely accept their fate. I pity them.
The second thing that I need to make clear is that, yes, I do know how much blasphemy I have written in this journal. As a Saudi Arabian, I am a Muslim. I get down on my knees and pray five times a day when the muezzin calls. I publicly follow all the rules. Secretly, I do not appreciate any belief system that encourages the repression of women. I wonder if Muhammad fabricated his visions and revelations out of fantasy. Although, I believe that men have interpreted his words and the Qur’an in a most incorrect manner. I do not think that treating women like this is truly part of the Islamic faith. It has just become so because man wishes for power. I just want you-the future reader of this journal-to understand that, while I agree with most principles stated in the Qur’an and of the Islamic faith, I firmly disagree with the present interpretation which gives men so much authority and dominance. I do not believe, then, that I have been making blasphemous statements. Allah forgive me if I am wrong.
Now that I have explained these things, I will go on with my story.
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There were two different ways I would murder him. Two different paths of action presented themselves to me. Directly after the ceremony, when he took me away and we were alone, I could pull a knife from the folds of my abaya and let him bleed to death. The second option was to seek him out and kill him before the wedding. I was not sure how I would do the second one. After thinking up these plans, I became exhausted and went to sleep with tears in my eyes.
Over the next few days, I went about my normal routine. In my mind, a battle was taking place. One part of me attempted to convince myself that I was not getting married, that it had just been a dream. The other part was plotting, slowly refining the plan. Another miniscule section of my brain told me that giving in without a struggle was the best course of action. However, that prospect was drowned out by my fury. I simply could not just accept my fate as so many others do. It was not right and I needed to fight it, to my death if need be.
My father, when he was around, did not bring the marriage up in conversation except when speaking of the plans, which were few. For the most part, all I had to do was show up, then follow my new master into the new phase of my life. My father did mention his name, Emir Abdul-Hakam. I thought to myself that I could now find and murder him before the ceremony, since I knew his name. I again wondered if that was what I would do in the end. I knew that it would be truly difficult to actually carry out either of my plans, because it is against my nature to harbor such pure disgust for any fellow human being. I figured that I would draw the knife, get into the position to kill, and then I would not be able to do it anymore. I was worried about that happening, because then I would be dealing with consequences that were not worth it if I did not commit the act and achieve my goal.
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I decided to wait until after my wedding. This would be much easier. I would not have to endure the hassle of getting away to find Emir at his home or elsewhere, for that would be nearly impossible. I would have no man to accompany me. The days went by so slowly. I believed that I would enjoy those last days of freedom, but they were miserable. I was constantly wondering if I could murder my future husband, or if I should do so at all. My behavior and attitude around my home were slightly different, which my family noticed, but thankfully I could blame this odd change on pre-wedding nervousness. I finally decided that I would try my best to forget about my plan until the opportunity arose to employ it. Anxiety was overwhelming me and I needed to block my wedding from my mind. I was not entirely successful. There were still moments, about every ten minutes, to be honest, when I would experience a stab of fear and apprehension. When this happened, I would try my best to wrench my thoughts into going a different direction.
The wedding day finally came. I had my ceremony with all the women, and Emir had his. He and my father signed all the marital papers so it was legal and Emir, now my husband, met up with me and we went to his home. My hands would not cease their trembling, no matter how tightly I clenched them. I had placed a kitchen knife in the folds of my clothing earlier that day, in preparation, when no one was looking. I had felt extremely obvious all day with it hidden there, thinking everyone would see it, but no one noticed. Maybe I was not completely out of Allah’s favor, I had thought. Part of me wondered if it was his will for this to happen.
Emir stood before me, our bodies almost three feet apart, and he gently smiled. The thought that maybe this would not be so terrible flitted through my mind when I saw his innocent smile as he gazed upon my still covered body. That feeling did not stay for long, because the smile became contorted into a lustful grin. His eyes became wild and his hands shook. I feared for myself, wondering if he was going to hurt me. I realized then that the only chance I had was to follow through with my plan, to murder this man whose name means “to command.” I did not want to be commanded, I did not want to be his servant, his slave, for the remainder of my time on earth. I could not bear it.
My hand felt the knife underneath my garments. Emir took a step closer, growing still more excited, looking as if he were on the brink of insanity. He approached me until we were seven inches apart. I could now not only hear but feel his hot, unsteady breath. My fingers curled around the knife. Oddly, the trembling had gone from my hands and had traveled to my jaw, which quivered out of pure determination. My husband leaned over me. He placed his hands on my body, and I could restrain no longer. No man would touch me without my permission! I drew the knife and prepared to stab him. He felt my sudden movements and saw the weapon. His grin turned into a snarl. He moved as I drove the knife forward, so instead of stabbing him in the neck or heart, I plunged the knife into his arm. Emir growled and struck me across the face with the palm of his hand. My fury and resolve merely grew more potent when he did that. I nearly welcomed the stinging pain. I swiftly pulled the blade out of his arm and struck again, once more missing any part of his body that would cause fatal damage. It was buried in his arm, a bit lower than the first wound. I looked at his face, full of anger and disgust, eyes mad with it, hands clenched with it. He struck me again, then pulled the knife out of his extremity. He raised the knife above his head, muscles tensed, blood dripping down his injured arm. In that moment, I knew it was all over. I knew I was going to die. And I did not care.
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Emir growled, a sound emanating from the depths of his chest, sounding like an animal. He was ready to strike me with the blade, ready to own his vengeance. My body was rigid, yet my soul was prepared, almost wanting of this release. I had days before realized this might happen should I attempt such a desperate act. I was not very surprised. The man’s chest was heaving, his forehead was dripping with perspiration. I was waiting for the final blow. A few seconds went by, and the metal had so far not entered my body. I became confused. Emir suddenly jerked his arm, and I was sure the knife would in that moment pierce my flesh, but no, the knife flew into the wall five feet behind me.
“No woman will defy me!” he yelled.
I felt his spit hit my face and he slapped me once more, harder than before. He began to shout at me, his face very close to mine, his eyes burning, his arms ready to deliver another blow. My husband said that he would not give me death. That would be far too easy for me. I deserved punishment. He notified the mutawa of my actions and they sentenced me to a stoning. Emir made sure that I would be stoned until near death, but that I would be kept alive.
I did not fear the stoning. I had witnessed one before, and the woman had sobbed, loudly wailing. I decided to keep quiet, for I observed that the men were encouraged to throw more stones and throw them harder when the woman was loud and expressed her pain. I thought that if I tried to give no reaction to the agony, the men would lose interest. I was somewhat correct. The men did not thoroughly enjoy throwing stones at my body as much as the men who stoned the other woman did. However, most of them did not care enough to throw the stones with exceptionally less fervor. It was very painful, and hard to endure. I kept the physical pain from overtaking my mind. I did not look at the blood that ran down my arms, legs and face. Thankfully my abaya shielded me from that sight. I stared each man in the eyes. This made them a bit uneasy, but not enough to stop their gross actions. They took great pleasure from torturing a lesser being.
After a few hours, the stoning stopped by Emir’s orders. I had great blood loss and felt light-headed. I tasted blood in my mouth and my vision was cloudy. I truly was on the verge of death and was angry that they had stopped. I wanted this life to end. I almost admired Emir for his thinking about how I would wish for death and would not receive it. It was intelligent.
I was taken back to my husband’s home and there he made it perfectly clear that I would not lead a comfortable life with him for a long time, if ever. He hit me many times, though not so strongly as to finish me off. I then slept for a few hours. I awoke in the middle of the night and wrote all of these things down in this journal. I did not want to forget. Emir is asleep and does not know of this, and I pray he never will. I hope with all my heart that Allah will again find favor in me, in the future, and allow my children to lead better lives than the life that is ahead of me.