My grandfather had also refused to allow Mama to continue her education past the fourth grade because Egyptian schools were mixed. Once she turned ten, my grandfather would not allow her to learn in the presence of boys.
So Mama left her life of comfort and even opulence in Alexandria to marry a Saudi man with no education and a menial job, to live in a walk-up apartment without regular running water or a telephone. My mother, however, refused to live like a typical Saudi woman. She refused to stay shut up in the apartment. She would go out alone, without her guardian or a mahram. She refused to have no means of employment, so she sewed, which had been her childhood hobby. She sewed dresses for my sister and me, and she made clothes for her friends and acquaintances, earning her own small income independent of my father. It was our mother who took us to get vaccinated at the health clinic, who decided where we could go, what we could do, and what was safe. And it was our mother who was determined that each of her children should receive an education. She was the one who went by herself to enroll us in school, first primary school, then middle school, and then secondary school. She even registered my younger brother in the boys’ school, something almost unheard of for a woman.
I remember how the school guard at the boys’ primary school stopped her at the gate and barred her from entering, but Mama refused to move until the deputy administrator came out to see her. Again and again, he tried to dismiss her and send her on her way, his tongue clucking against the roof of his mouth, repeating that my father had to be present to register my brother. But my mother refused to leave, and finally, the deputy administrator relented. Almost twenty-five years later, he came to my mother’s funeral and told my brother that Mama was the reason why he received an education. Hearing this story for the first time, my brother broke down in tears. My mother’s persistence is the reason all three of her children graduated from university at the top of our classes. Today, my sister is a medical doctor, my brother a petroleum geoscientist, and I have a bachelor’s degree in computer science.
In other ways, my mother did become a more typical Saudi woman. She gave up the colorful head scarves and bright clothes that she had worn in Egypt, covering herself in the shapeless black abaya. And she tolerated another aspect of being a Saudi wife: my father was free to beat her. Not all Saudi wives are beaten; as far as I know, none of my aunts were. But that did not matter in our home. For decades, until 2012, Saudi Arabia had no domestic violence codes to protect women or children. And that meant parents could also beat their children.
I considered Abouya’s bamboo cane the sixth person in our home. The cane was a familiar sight in almost any house in Mecca; very few of my friends were fortunate enough not to know its sting. Abouya replaced his bamboo cane every autumn, to coincide with the beginning of the new academic year. As we covered our new school notebooks in paper wrapping, he covered his new cane in brightly colored chrome tape, and hung it up menacingly for all to see. He didn’t beat us because we were lazy at school; the three of us always ranked among the top students, not only in our classes and our school but in all the schools in Mecca. I had a box of certificates and trophies, yet I was beaten regularly, for reasons that I still do not understand. If one of us knew we were about to be beaten, at first we used to hide the cane, but the trick never worked on Abouya. If he couldn’t find the cane, he would use the water hose from the bathroom. We soon learned that the lashes from the hard, thick rubber hose were far more painful than those of the bamboo.
When Mama beat us, she used her bare hands. She slapped us and pinched the inside of our thighs, and when we outran her or managed to scramble away, she threw anything within easy reach: a slipper, a plate, even her sharp, pointed sewing scissors. I have two scars on my forehead and a third under my left eye that will forever remind me of my mother’s furious beatings. When a photographer suggested to me that we hide those three scars using Photoshop, I refused. He couldn’t understand why, and told me gently, “You’re strange. Women usually want me to hide every flaw on their face, and you’re asking me to do the opposite!” In fact, to this day he can’t comprehend why I am so adamant. But my view is that while there are some scars that we might wish to hide because the spiritual or mental pain they represent is far greater than the physical pain caused to us at the time of injury, there are also some scars that we want to see whenever we look in the mirror. Because these scars serve as a valuable reminder of our past. My scars teach me that I am stronger than what caused them.
Whenever I look at the scars on my face, I feel a renewed sense of resolve that my children should have a happy life, full of love and encouragement, free from screaming, scolding, and neglect. That they should never endure a single act of physical violence.
One of my favorite Arab fairy tales is about a young prince who took lessons from a tutor. Those lessons were designed to prepare him for his future as king by educating him in literature, wisdom, and governmental affairs. One day, at the start of his lessons, without cause or warning, the tutor slapped the small prince hard across the face. Years passed. The prince grew up and became king. On the day he ascended the throne, the newly crowned king asked for his old tutor to be brought before him. Angrily, the king asked the tutor, “Do you remember the day you slapped me without reason?” He continued, “I’ve never forgotten that day. Now, I will take my revenge. But first, tell me, why did you do such a thing?”
“Your Majesty,” the tutor replied. “I knew that one day you would become king, and I wanted you to taste injustice when you were young. For he who has already tasted injustice will never force others to suffer the same.” The story ends with the coda that the king remembered that slap whenever his power might have led him to rule with oppression, and instead he always ruled with justice. It is too soon to say how many of my generation may have learned to despise injustice as a consequence of the beatings, verbal abuse, and general cruelty that we suffered as children. But I know that I have, and I know that I will carry that lesson with me always.