|
I
slapped at my aunties and screamed when the hair on my
private parts was so rudely removed. Yelping in pain, I
asked where such a savage custom had begun. My oldest auntie
slapped my face for such impudence. She looked hard into my
eyes and announced that I, Sultana, was a stupid child, and
that as a daughter of the Muslim faith I should know that
the Prophet recommended, for the sake of cleanliness, that
all pubic and armpit hair should be removed every forty
days. I, willful as ever, shouted that the practice no
longer made sense; after all, modern Muslims are equipped
with hot water and soap to wash away our dirt. We no longer
had to use the sand of the desert for such purposes!
My
auntie, knowing the futility of arguing with me, continued
with her duties. I shocked all present when I loudly
proclaimed that if the Prophet could speak in this new age
of modern amenities, I knew he would end such a silly
tradition. Certainly, I announced loudly, this one issue
alone proved that we Saudis were like uninspired mules; we
trod the same weary track as the mule before us even if it
led us to plunge over a cliff. Only when we evolved as
spirited stallions, with a strong will of our own, would we
progress and leave the era of those primitive behind us.
My
relatives exchanged worried glances, for they lived in dread
of my rebellious spirit and felt comfortable only with
complacent women. My contentment with the one chosen for my
husband was considered nothing less than miraculous, but
until the final ceremony was complete, none of my relatives
would breathe easy.
My
dress was made of the brightest red lace I could find. I was
a bold bride, and I took great delight in scandalizing my
family, who had begged me to wear a soft peach or pale pink
instead. As was my way, I refused to relent. I knew I was
right. Even my sisters finally admitted that my skin and
eyes were flattered by the bright color.
|
