HAREM GIRL
A Harem Girl’s Story
by
Mariyah Saalih
A Smashwords Edition
Paperback edition available from the publisher:
iUniverse, Inc (www.iuniverse.com)
HAREM GIRL
A Harem Girl’s Story
All Rights Reserved © 2004 by Anthony Eccles
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher
Although many of the events depicted in this novel are based on historical writings and actual happenings and places, some of the events and journeys and all characters are fictional, and any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Edited by Donna Jeffrey and Charis de Jonge.
COVER PICTURE
The Slave Market c 1867 by Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824–1904).
By permission of the Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute.
Describing a similar scene in Cairo, W. J. Muller wrote:
"The slave market was one of my favorite haunts. In the center of this court, the slaves are exposed for sale and in general to the number of thirty or forty. I did not see the dejection and sorrow I was led to imagine, watching the Master remove the entire covering of a female and expose her to the gaze of a bystander."
*****
ISBN-13: 978-0-595-76117-3
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MY JOURNEY BEGINS
To find a beginning I must go back to when I was fourteen, when I was neither a child nor an adult. I had stopped playing children’s games such as pick-up-stones, dressing up in my mother’s too-big clothes, and climbing into the forked branches of the old olive tree. Boys had become exciting to me, they made me blush and feel uneasy, and I had my showings—but in my mind, I was not yet a woman. At that point, I had no plans for my life—what fourteen-year-old does? Certainly, I had romantic thoughts, love and marriage, and other dreams young girls have, even so, being a slave girl in a harem was not one of them. I was not seeking change; I was content in life to follow the path that unfolded before me—I still believed in happy endings.
My real name is Mariyah, Mariyah El-Abiad, but they have always called me Marie. Marie was a fair compromise—a Muslim name shortened to a French name. Neither a Muslim cleric nor Catholic priest could be offended.
My mother was the daughter of a senior French consular official and my father a Tunisian Government minister responsible for purchasing military supplies. I considered myself a fortunate woman to be born in Tunisia to a Tunisian father of Arab and Berber descent and a French mother. Although my Catholic mother embraced Islam within her marriage she never fully adopted all the customs and teachings, and insisted that I, unlike most women, be given that rarest of gifts—an education. It was my mother, by means unknown to me, who enrolled me in the private French Consulate School, although by the rules of admission I was not entitled to attend. I learned to read and write both Arabic and French and received instruction in the arts. My drawing and sketching skills were amateurish, but adequate for illustrating the short stories and poems that I loved to write. It was here that I met Jacqueline, the French Consul’s daughter, my best friend and constant companion.
I shall remain forever indebted to my mother for what she gave me.
Two younger brothers, Mamoud and Amenzu, at this time more of a nuisance and of no significance to an older sister, completed my family. I loved them all dearly, my brothers included.
Looking back, I see my mother as a loving sensuous woman. At the time, I did not fully realize or understand the depth of her sensuality or the release she sought. Now, upon reflection it all falls into place. I can see her, now in my minds eye, cooking my father’s favorite meal, Moroccan tajine, singing or humming a song, moving more slowly and gracefully than usual—being aware of herself. These were signs that she was looking towards a special evening. Dressed in one of her French gowns, tight fitting at the waist, attractively low cut at the front, my mother would lean over unnecessarily low and close to serve my father, the fragrance of her closeness lingering in the air, suggesting things to come.
Often I peeked through the kitchen window after my father had come home from work, and on more than one occasion I saw him standing behind my mother as she went about her preparations, his hands feeling her through layers of clothing, while he nuzzled her neck and mussed her hair. She sometimes feigned rejection of his advances, pushing him away with a backwards thrust of her bottom, and then, as though forgiving him for his boldness, she would turn her face to his and peck him on his cheek.
He was her little chou-chou and I was encouraged about married life.
I was fifteen years old when I caught a glimpse of the book on the bedside table, open at a colorful illustration showing a turbaned man and a naked woman in a close embrace. It was quickly, yet casually picked up by my mother, closed and placed in a drawer—followed by a slight blush and forced conversation. We went about our bed-making chores, she hoping that I had not seen what I saw, I with my curiosity aroused.
A few weeks after this incident my parents took a short sojourn to the Tell Atlas mountains, and my friend Jacqueline stayed overnight with me. We had been close friends for many years, sharing the bonds of age, the French language, and the same school.
After dinner, we excused ourselves from the watchful eye of the housekeeper, and the bothersome squabbling of my brothers, and went to my bedroom, but only after I retrieved the book from the drawer in my mother’s bedside table. It was an illustrated copy of Burton’s Tales of the Arabian Nights, 1001 Nights. Since it was written in English, I could not read it; however, Jacqueline could, having lived with her parents in London before her father's promotion to French Consul General in Tunisia.
We lay side by side on the bed, leafing through the pages, pausing at the pictures, while Jacqueline translated the captions from English to French, and we posed, practiced and re-enacted each romantic scene, taking turns being the man and then the woman.
New awareness and sensations swept through our bodies—newly formed bodies—barely out of puberty. New awareness and sensations we could not control, feelings Jacqueline and I had not yet learned to take further. We were two cats in heat.
And we giggled as we danced with each other in that scandalous European way, to imaginary music played in an imaginary crystal ballroom with a make-believe handsome prince in our arms.
Jacqueline showed me how to kiss the French way, with mouth open and tongue searching tongue, she saying beyond her years, “French girls kiss this way to show a man they have desire for him.”
She taught me to wink at the French boys as we passed by them at school. “If you open your mouth while you wink the power of love will compel them to come to you and kiss you on your lips,” she said.
“Ugh,” I thought at the time, and always winked with my mouth closed.
THE END OF CHILDHOOD
My father thought I was eligible at fourteen, my mother wanted to wait until I was eighteen, and in a compromise sixteen was agreed on. I was to be married at the age of sixteen, after my schooling was finished.
My mother had hoped for a love-marriage, but in Berber tradition, my parents chose my husband. I had no experience of men, I did not know the details of their being and therefore, even if it was proper and done that way, I could not draw up a list of qualities I wanted to find in my husband-to-be.
“Maman,” I said. “When he parts my wedding veil, allow my eyes to look into those of a young man. I want to be the first wife of a young man, like it was with you and Papa, not the second or third wife of an old one, no matter how generous his bride-price may be.”
“He will be a young man, and you will be a first wife. I promise you that,” replied my mother, with tears rolling down her cheeks.
My parents conferred with his parents, I was shown to his parents and he to mine, but the two of us never met while the negotiations were taking place. I had to rely on my mother’s judgment and assurance that I would find him attractive. They agreed on a bride-price and announced to all that a husband had been found for me. Despite my inquiry, they never told me the bride-price. Was I valuable, or given away for nothing? I would never know.
In strictest tradition, parents of the bride and groom ask them individually if they accept the marriage without the bride or groom first seeing each other, but my mother intervened. Shyly, I first saw him as a dinner guest and then more comfortably as a frequent visitor to our house. Jamaal al-Jubier was a handsome young Arabian with inviting Semitic features, nineteen years of age. I was encouraged to take walks with him, with my chaperone mother twenty paces behind us.
Much to my father’s relief, I accepted the marriage. To me it was a family obligation. I would marry a man—I know now in hindsight—I would grow to be fond of and care for, but never love.
In the weeks before the wedding, we cut and sewed clothes, hired musicians and singers, made arrangements with others, and sent invitations. My husband-to-be and I could now be together, and given time to better know each other.
Jamaal was a horse dealer representing his father’s Arabian stables—taking advantage of the closeness of Tunisia to Europe to sell his horses—I, a self proclaimed writer and artist. I thought he was good-looking, definitely well to do, and had no obvious shortcomings. On the other hand, he had no exciting or outstanding qualities worthy of note. Many a girl could marry him and be happy.
Over afternoon tea, my mother and I had the requisite pre-marriage mother to daughter talk. She spoke openly and sincerely about her marriage, the responsibilities of a married woman, and the bedroom duties of a wife.
“Never deny your husband’s needs. Give yourself to him, even when you are of a different mind. And when your womb desires his seed, do not wait for him to notice. Invite him to lie with you, lead him to bed. Do not be bashful, for he will feel honored by your asking. Surprise him. Invite him when he is least expecting it, perhaps at an unusual time or place, not always in bed at night.
“A woman’s breasts are irresistibly alluring to a man. Show them to entice and seduce, but do so privately with grace and discretion. And never forget, a woman is not a bowl of roses. Bathe frequently and give nature a helping hand with fragrances.
“Celebrate your love for him often, for the Prophet taught us that any woman, who dies in a state where her husband is pleased with her, shall enter Jannah.”
In return for these well-taken snippets of advice, I asked the questions expected from an innocent girl, although confident that I knew the answers. “Does it hurt? How often will we do it? How will I know what to do? Will he want me in the ways shown in your book?”
She was visibly taken aback by the last question, and assured me that harems no longer existed, that her government had closed them—she always referred to “her government” when she meant the French government—and made slavery illegal. Besides, she said, the girls in the book were slave concubines; they had no say in the matter and had to bend to their master’s ways.
“Nevertheless,” I countered, “the man would only want to do those things if it was in his nature and gave him pleasure.”
“Well, your father is not like that,” was her defensive reply that told me otherwise.
My wedding was a joyous occasion, even if a little bewildering to me, for I was, in truth, unprepared for this abrupt end of childhood. Nevertheless, it was welcomed. I looked forward to married life, and the challenge of making a home for my husband and myself. My mother and father, perhaps intentionally or otherwise, had taught me well, and I became eager and excited by the prospect.
In Berber ceremonies, the bride and groom retire to consummate the marriage, and only when they returned to the gathering and showed the bloodied bed cottons was the bride-price paid and celebrations commenced. My mother would have none of that! Nevertheless, I entered my marriage bed a virgin—there was blood and new smells.
We bought our own house in Tunis, the capital city of Tunisia, and settled down to married life with the unconfined enthusiasm of youth, happily caught up in the optimistic exuberance that comes with the first flush of marriage.
Two years later, Jamaal’s father died. Islamic custom called Jamaal home to look after his mother and two sisters, and manage the Arabian stables. We packed our possessions, said a tearful goodbye to family and friends, and sailed for Arabia to live in his mother’s house in the Red Sea port of Jeddah.
ARABIA
I dearly missed my family and Tunisia. I missed the scent of jasmine on the warm night air, almond blossoms in the spring, and red bougainvillea spilling over white walls. I missed the olive groves, date palms, forested hills and mountains, the Tells, the Madjerda River valley—and rainy days. That was my Tunisia.
Arabia—scorched by the oppressive heat of endless summers—desolate, unforgivably dry, tiresomely barren…and not mine.
My marriage started to unravel two years or so after we settled in Jeddah. Unquestionably, homesickness contributed to my growing unhappiness, although perhaps more troubling was an innermost feeling that I had never found love in my marriage, despite assurances from my mother and father that after marriage we would come to love each other. It was not my husband’s fault; he kept his promises, and I held no complaint. I blamed myself. My young girl’s dreams of idyllic romance and happy endings were unrealistic—one of life’s disappointing realities.
There were glimmers of love, but they always retreated under the unrelenting dark shadow cast by my inability to conceive a child. The air was poisoned, killing off what little love there may have been, giving it no chance to blossom, and I found myself more and more excluded from my husband and his family. To me I was a huge failure as a woman, and I brooded about the futility of being a wife and making a home if there were to be no children. The other women of the household saw me as a lacking foreigner, I was different, and they were inclined and willing to tell me so, and I saw myself as incomplete, damaged merchandise kept high on a shelf, taken down and dusted off, so to speak, only occasionally.
Jamaal, at the urging of his mother, took a second wife, and when she bore him a son, it clearly placed blame for my barrenness. My estrangement and disenchantment was sealed.
And, as though all that was not enough humiliation for me, she again swelled resplendently with child.
Uplifting good fortune is the other side of depressing adversity, and for me it came from horses. Whether it was because Jamaal felt sorry for my not being wanted around the house, or because he sought a more harmonious household, I do not know. However, to my utter delight, and that of everyone else, he found something of great consequence and importance for me to do outside of the home—he broke with tradition, and took me with him to the stables most days. There he spent time with me and patiently taught me about the care of horses and camels and how to train and ride them. I became an accomplished equestrian—and stable-hand!—something unheard of for a woman in this country, particularly a married woman. They were skills that pleased me immensely, and Jamaal seemed happy and enthused to have found something for me.
Although in our household I had become a secondary wife, my knowledge of the French language was a great help to my husband since much of the trading was with French horse fanciers and my marriage woes were no barrier to my accompanying Jamaal on many of his travels as an unacknowledged business partner.
When we met with Arabian customers I always wore Western style clothes and socialized in the European manner. They appreciated and enjoyed the exotic and unusual foreign atmosphere that I brought to our dealings. In return, the way of life of the Arab Sheiks we met captivated me. Exceptionally beautiful women often accompanied them—and I use the word women lightly, as many were young girls. I was astonished and shocked, yet intrigued, when I learned that most of the girls were slaves normally secreted away in their owner’s harem, despite my mother’s assurances about the noble actions of “her government”.
Being a woman, I had the opportunity to be with these girls and hear their stories of intrigue, enticing dress, seduction, and busy nights. It sounded exciting and exotic—a life entirely different from what mine had become. I day-dreamed about it—how I might take a peek into, or even experience, the life of a girl in a slave harem, reasoning that there I could find what I thought was missing from my life—the attentions of a man and the prospect of loving. It brought back images from my mother’s bedside book.
Entering a harem would not be difficult, a slave trader would willingly assist and profit if you offered up yourself, but it would be a one-way journey, for life. To just visit or stay for a short while in such a place and then return home was impossible. I tucked the thought of it away in the back of my mind.
Nevertheless, I desperately wanted to enter into the world of love between a man and a woman where I could release my repressed womanliness and confirm my femininity. How exciting it would be to once again have a man desire and choose me, to become calm and sweet under his hand and little by little defer to his wishes. I missed the bed-company of a husband and the things he did, and I was weary of waiting to be a woman again.
The unexpected unfolded before me one evening during a conversation with Ahmad, a young sheik who was a worldly and well-traveled trader in carpets, spices and medicines.
Jamaal had purchased from him two expensive carpets for the house, and in gratitude, Sheik Ahmad invited us to dine with him that evening in his home in the inland town of Al-Ta’if.
We sat on cushions around a small carpet spread on the floor, my husband and I, Sheik Ahmad and his companion Kassim, an exceptionally pretty brown-skinned Asian girl. She was dressed in silk chalwars and choli—traditional harem trousers and bolero jacket—just as I had imagined harem dress to be, and adding to this exotic aura was a small jewel nestled in her navel. It caught the light and drew attention to her narrow waist and the smooth swell of her hips.
During the meal, I noticed more than once my husband’s eyes paying attention to the young Kassim, and her shy downcast eyes told me that she, too, was aware of his scrutiny. After our meal, my husband rose and asked permission for us to walk about the grounds at which point Sheik Ahmad leaned over and whispered in Kassim’s ear and then insisted that she accompany Jamaal on his walk and show him the gardens. They left the room together, leaving me sitting on the floor, not invited to join them.
I started our conversation quite bluntly, possibly rudely, by asking, “Sheik Ahmad, is Kassim your slave?”
“No. She is a traveling companion. I brought her back with me after a voyage to India. She is under my care until I make other arrangements for her. She wants to be placed in a harem.”
“An agreeable way of putting it,” I thought, because I knew “will be sold into a harem,” was more to the truth. I was far from naïve about harems by now—my travels and discussions had thoroughly enlightened me. However, burying my darker thoughts, I took advantage of this opportunity to tell him of my ambition.
“I would like that for myself; to be placed in a harem,” I ventured.
Ahmad looked at me, amazed and amused. “Your husband would not allow it. A slave harem is not the place for another man’s wife. Furthermore, I can assure you it is not a place for a free-spirited woman like you, one who is worldly and knowledgeable about many things and other cultures,” he replied.
“Yes, I am sure what you say is true,” I countered. “Nevertheless, I would like to simply visit such a place and stay for a short time. Could you arrange that in any way? I think my husband may agree. He has both a new wife and child and one more child to arrive shortly and my presence distresses his other wife. It is important that peace and harmony exist for her at this time, or the baby will be born sickly and irritable. Jamaal is aware of this fact and is concerned about it and may welcome my absence from the house while his second child is born.”
His first response was immediate. “It would be impossible. It is forbidden for an outsider to enter the interior of another man’s slave harem, and if by subterfuge you gained entry and were discovered, you could never leave. You would be enslaved and forced to remain there, and then the only way out for you would be to either bear the master a son or be put to death.”
My barrenness left me with death, however, Sheik Ahmad did offer some comfort. “You are too pretty and valuable to be put to death, instead you would probably be sold to another master if discovered. Salim the Turk pays a good price for girls like you, a very good price I should venture.” He said this with a hint of brisk enthusiasm that I did not share, while he unashamedly looked me over from head to toe—a barely perceptible smile on his face taking away any comfort his earlier words had given me about not being put to death.
However, the idea of my entering a harem had obviously taken root; his mind was working, and I could tell that he found something intriguing about it.
After a long pause, he spoke again. “Perhaps there is a way for you that would pose no danger of entrapment or death.” He went on to tell me that “On a recent visit to the town of Makram I saw an unusually attractive fair-haired slave girl belonging to Sheik Ali al-Saalih. He is a long-time friend of mine, and he offered her in service to me for a few months. In return, I agreed to send Sheik Ali an interesting girl for his enjoyment, and this was what I had in mind for Kassim before she is…placed in a harem.”
He looked at me as if wondering if I had grasped the implication in what he had said, and whether to go on or not. Then he continued. “What if I sent you instead of Kassim? It would be for just four months; you could then come back here and return to your husband. You would of course have to perform the duties of a harem slave girl while you were there, the nature of which you are surely well aware of.”
I stared back at his slight smile, neither shocked nor uncomfortable.
After another long and thoughtful pause he continued. “A harem slave girl is kept for the sole purpose of gratifying one man, the master. A harem girl’s duty is to allure, entice, and arouse him using the five senses: sight, sound, smell, taste and touch, and then to offer herself to him in any way he desires so that he can spend the lusts aroused within him. Most harem girls are slaves; their thoughts and actions are completely subservient to those of their master. They accord him his every wish, and I may add, denial, aversion or deficiency in service is rarely taken lightly by the master.”
He spoke as though reading from a ferman, and I remember well those words.
“If harems are closed to all except the master how was it possible for you to see this girl of your choice?”
“Ah, a good question. Grand harem baths have a screened wall or window behind which there is a darkened room. From there the master and his eunuchs sometimes watch the women bathe, unseen by them. My friend Sheik Ali invited me to sit with him late one afternoon and that was when I was attracted by the unusual fairness of this girl of his.”
I had listened, fascinated. Then I spoke, quite calmly, saying, “I want to take this chance. Please talk to Jamaal about it.”
My husband and Kassim returned and I could tell that in this short time, more than a walk had taken place—wives can tell these things. His flushed face glowed with guilt. He was ill at ease and quickly agreed when Ahmad suggested they retire and smoke awhile together. There he listened to Ahmad’s words and then came and spoke to me.
“Marie, are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his dark eyes firmly on mine.
“Yes. Please let me do it,” I replied.
Perhaps he was ready to be free of me for a while. He was content with his new wife and son, and maybe he saw this as a chance to bring quiet harmony to the household for the occasion of the birth of his second child—who knows? Whatever the reason it suited him and he agreed to the plan with one condition.
“We will return to Jeddah. I will think this over for a few days to be sure it is what I want for you. It is a most unconventional proposal and I need to give more time to thoughtful consideration before I send a message to Sheik Ahmad with my decision, one way or the other.”
Even though it was clear that the decision would be his, and his alone, his giving of thoughtful consideration delighted me. At least it wasn’t outright rejection of the idea.
Sheik Ahmad would be delighted also if this plan worked. He could finish the other business he had in mind for Kassim, a profitable one no doubt, and then devote his attention to another journey to India or other distant places he had mentioned.
BEYOND DECEIT
I tell myself I never lied to Jamaal. Silence and secrets cannot tell lies, can they? What I did, or rather did not do, was merely a sin of omission, a silent obstruction of the truth.
Three days after we returned to Jeddah, Jamaal wrote his reply to Ahmad:
I am pleased to inform you that I have given permission for my first wife Mariyah to assume the position of French tutor to the children of Sheik Al-Madr and I accept his most generous offer.
I accept also your word that Sheik Al-Madr is an honorable man and that Mariyah’s position will be one that will bring with it great respect and honor, and be held in high esteem by all who may hear of it.
French tutor? Sheik Al-Madr? What had Ahmad told Jamaal when they retired to smoke together? It certainly wasn’t the truth—but whatever it was, I could see that it served my purpose well and I delighted in the skill of the deception. At this point, I had time to change my mind, or say something in shocked amazement; I did not—and became a willing conspirator.
As the messenger rode away with the letter, an unnerving hollowness in the pit of my stomach replaced my earlier jubilation.
There was ample time to make arrangements, as the exchange was to take place after the holy month of Ramadan. Four months later, in the second month of the Arabian year, the month of Safar, I would return to Al-Ta’if and then to my home and husband in Jeddah.
I needed new clothes for my new role as a sheik’s slave girl. It was out of question to seek advice from anyone in the household, and for a while, the task stymied me until I had sudden inspiration—I would talk to the brothel keeper. Ask her where she buys clothes for her girls—an idea I promptly acted on, much to my own surprise.
Being the month of Ramadan, I could not shop between sunrise and sunset, so after the sundown prayers I recruited the houseboy to escort me on my mission.
A somewhat puzzled madam directed us to a local seamstress whom, she derogatorily informed me, “specializes in clothes for dancing girls. She may be of help to you.”
A wizened old woman, her back bent from years of sewing, answered my call. I told the aged seamstress what I wanted—three sets of clothes to create the scene of a young slave girl in a Sultan’s harem. I needed them to “romance my husband and rekindle his flagging ardor,” I said.
With a knowing smile, she assured me that I had come to the right place.
While regaling me with promises that her clothes were of the highest quality and lowest price, she took my measurements and showed me samples of materials. Draping the flimsy cloth over her bared arm and hand, she showed me how much they revealed and how much they concealed. I chose dusty blue chiffon, and white gossamer silk—materials that were sheer and diaphanous—and a striking jade-green polished Bursa silk from Turkey that relied on its weight, shimmer, and clinging drape for effect. Following her advice, I ordered three chalwars with matching cholis, some with laces and others with buttons to close them, all to be finished with embroidery and gold thread.
I paid her in advance—“a generous amount,” I thought, in view of her assertion about her low prices. After I had half-heartedly protested the price she offered to make short sheer skirts, small caps, and niqaab veils from leftover materials, and I agreed with her that sewing these delicate materials was exacting and time consuming, and the cloth itself expensive, and settled on a slightly lower price. A visit to the souk for two pair of slippers completed my shopping.
Two weeks later, I sent the boy to pick up my parcel.
In my bedroom, behind bolted doors, I excitedly opened the parcel of clothes and unrolled the cotton cloth that protected and helped preserve the shape and appearance of the delicate items. As though again a young girl I let my imagination roam as I tried on each costume, imagining with girlish vanity that I was a haseki parading myself before a handsome Sultan, who might choose to bed me. After putting on each ensemble I crawled to my imaginary Sultan, seductively undressed before him, and then kneeling upright and naked, offered my breasts and Mount of Venus to his eyes. Twice in my mind, he waved me away. After the third costume found favor he summoned me to lie on his bed, and I imagined him mounting me. I let my mind and fingers conclude my play.
EXCHANGED — in the month of Shawwal
We arrived just after noon at Sheik Ahmad al-Sabur’s home in the town of Al-Ta’if, where the exchange was to take place. Jamaal would return to Jeddah that afternoon and I would spend the next two days with Sheik Ahmad as his honored guest before being escorted to my destination—the harem of Sheik Ali.
That evening, our first order of business was to make up a story about how I became a slave, and to give me a harem name. Ahmad recounted the history and traditional sources of slave girls and we agreed that to have been captured and sold into slavery by Moroccan corsairs would best fit my background, and require the least amount of fiction to support. I was to be a nonbeliever at the time of my capture and enslavement, a requirement to conform to Islamic law that forbids enslavement of believers, though I had recently studied Islam in preparation for conversion, something that Sheik Ahmad said I would find of benefit in the harem, without offering any explanation. That was to be my story and Sapphira was to be my name. Sapphira had an exotic and precious ring to it—I liked it, and I could weave a story around it, although I had hoped for a more mysteriously sounding name but could not think of one at the time.
We spent time rehearsing possible scenarios, he asking me questions to see if I could answer convincingly, trying to catch me off guard with clever questions that could bring my story into doubt. We found a weakness—my lack of experience and knowledge of the “ways of the harem”. Therefore, I agreed to have him present me as a newly acquired girl not yet instructed.
A servant brought in a wrought iron stand. At first, I thought it was a candlestick, but it was a small iron anvil mounted on a tall stand. On a short side arm, several silver bangles of different sizes swung back and forth. Ahmad selected one, squeezed it tightly around my upper arm and raised it so that the silver band rested on the anvil. A small lead rivet, passed through the clasp and hammered over tightly closed the bangle around my arm and prevented its removal.
Two girls served us that evening. Dressed in heavily embroidered silk salwar-kameezes they opened my mind and eyes to what lay ahead for me. Unbuttoned at the top, the kameezes showed more than a glimpse of their curves. I felt uncomfortable with this sensual display, and I sensed that all three of us shared this feeling, more so after Ahmad spoke.
“Let me show them to you,” he said, beckoning the girls to stand before him.
With a brief hand sign from him, they took off their kameezes and stood before us, naked to the waist, eyes cast downwards. Another sign, a circling of his hand, and the girls turned around to show a strikingly thick braid of black hair that fell down their backs almost to their waists.
“Aren’t they pretty? I have a sharp eye, don’t you think?” he continued, proudly. “They come from the northern part of India. It is surprising what you can find beneath the rags of low caste peasants. My spotters in the port of Cochin found them for me and of course I paid them a generous finder’s fee for their efforts. I gave the girls’ desperately poor parents a small amount of money to relieve their poverty for a while along with a big promise to look after their daughters. Told them I would place them as maids to daughters of royalty I knew. They were impressed.
“For the sail back to Jeddah, I cleverly dressed them as boys, hiding their long hair under Sikh turbans. You never know when the British navy might board you. Brought them up from Jeddah on a cart piled high with carpets, each of them rolled up in one to hide them from the prying eyes of ordinary people,” he said, sitting straight-backed and turning his head slowly from side to side as though trying to affirm to all how superior he was and how clever in deviousness.
“And you can imagine my surprise when my physician reported that they were virgins—easily quadrupling their value—and you can also imagine their surprise when I had them smoothed and started their tantra instruction. I paid an old Indian merchant friend of mine to teach them a few words of Arabic and tell them in their own language that they had been sold by their parents to be slaves, not maids, and would be instructed in the erotic arts before being sold to a man.”
Searching for something to say, I blurted out, “It must be difficult for you to instruct them with their small understanding of Arabic.”
His answer sent a chill through me. “A camel whip speaks all languages.”
Quickly changing the subject, I asked, innocently, “Sheik Ahmad, what is tantra?”
“Tantra is an ancient Indian teaching of spiritual and physical love. A girl knowledgeable in the tantric ways makes for an exciting night companion. We believers of the true faith have purged it of false faith and holiness and given it earthly practice, and for added measure, I include some Persian and Greek customs so that my slave girls are three ways ready. Yes,” he said proudly, while again moving his head haughtily from side to side, “when one of Sheik Ahmad’s girls goes to auction she is ready to serve her new owner whatever his lustful intentions may be.”
He was obviously a trader in more than pepper-spice, carpets and medicines—and supremely proud of it.
“Knowing that you write, I assume that you also read,” he continued.
“Yes, I can read.”
“Good. I shall lend you some pages, a translation of some of the Asian tantric writings describing often demanded and unusual favors. They may be of help to you in your venture, but you must remember to bring them back with you. My precious secrets must not fall into the hands of other traders.”
After thanking him kindly and seeking pause from the conversation, I asked, “Where is Kassim?”
“Sold,” he replied, firmly, confirming my earlier suspicion that she was a slave and he an uncaring slave trader. Without offering further explanation, he quickly changed the subject. “Are you,” he asked, pointing his beard with long strokes of his fingers, “groomed in the style of the harem?”
“Oh yes,” I replied, passing my fingers through my long shiny hair and then tossing it back over my shoulder, although I knew what he was alluding to, and had foolishly thought I could avoid it somehow by ignoring it.
“No, that is not what I meant. Have you been smoothed?”
“No, I am not groomed in that way,” I admitted, blushing badly.
“You must be bared before you are presented to Sheik Ali or our ruse will be exposed. Tomorrow I will have you smoothed.”
“Is it necessary? Could you not tell him….”
“No. As I said, it will be done tomorrow or too many questions will be asked".
Smoothing was an ancient practice, dating back to the time of the Egyptian Pharaohs (1). It later spread across North Africa, from Persia in the east to Morocco in the west, and north to Turkey and Rome. Today, it is still a common practice, particularly among brides and younger married women, although rarely spoken of. My husband’s second wife entered our household bride-smooth and kept herself that way. I knew he found the sleek silkiness attractive, however, he never asked me to groom myself in that fashion, and I didn’t encourage his asking.
In a slave harem, smoothing was de rigueur.
Next day Ahmad took me to his barber’s shop where I had a private early afternoon appointment.
Once I was inside the shabby establishment the barber bolted the door shut, and closed the latticed shutters over the window openings to keep out unwanted eyes, yet allow in light enough for him to go about his business.
Ahmad told me to remove my garments and sit in the padded barber chair, an ancient assembly of creaking wood and squeaking leather. In a show of modesty the barber, but not Ahmad, turned his back while I undressed—a needless gesture considering what he was about to do and see.
A small pillow, wrapped in a towel and placed under my hips, raised my thighs and belly into prominent view when the barber slowly lowered the back of the chair. Then, to my further embarrassment, he eased my thighs apart, wide enough so that my legs hung off each side of the chair.
Towels soaked in hot water and placed over my lower belly and between my thighs restored some semblance of modesty, and thoroughly softened and moistened the area before they enthusiastically worked in a generous dribbling of hot wax and sticky pine rosin over my mons and deeply between my thighs. Strips of loosely woven muslin embedded in more layers of wax formed up a thick pad that was left to cool and harden, pulling at the hair with every slight movement—a harbinger of things to come.
“She’s mine. The pleasure is to be mine,” said Ahmad, pushing aside the barber. Ahmad worked his fingers under the lip of the wax pad, his other hand pressing down flat on my stomach. With one smooth stroke, he tore away the hardened pad, taking with it the offending hair. The barber’s hand, placed firmly over my mouth, muffled my cries as a fierce stinging swept down my groin. Ahmad, smug with satisfaction, waved aloft the expended pad like some sort of animal pelt trophy, while the barber plucked out a few hairs that had slipped from the grip of the wax. My underarms received the same painful attention.
My ordeal, however, was not yet over.
Ahmad left the room, and then quietly reappeared proudly holding high a yellow striped jar, a raised snake motif coiling around the neck. “You will have me to thank for this balm,” he said, before instructing the barber to spread the foul smelling cream over my denuded areas. “You’re a lucky woman; it is a great improvement over the old ways. I am kind and generous to you.”
A slight tingling sensation swelled to a maddening burn as a triangle of fire spread over my groin, pushing away any inclination I may have had to thank Ahmad for his ‘kindness’. I could not hold back my tears or find comfort regardless of how much I squirmed and changed position. Unconcerned with my suffering, Ahmad insisted on leaving the balm to do its work—for a full hour—otherwise, he said, it would be an expensive waste of money.
Over the foul smell of the balm, I occasionally caught a whiff of the pleasant aroma of coffee and tobacco and heard the two men laughing and chatting, interrupting their talk to briefly come to me and inspect their handiwork, apply fresh balm, but not to ask about my comfort or offer consoling words.
After an excruciatingly uncomfortable hour, the barber scraped off expired balm and wiped clean the bared mound and hollows with a cloth. The burning sensation died down.
In a large polished metal mirror, I saw myself as others would see me. My new appearance intrigued me, and although my skin still bore a reddish rash from its ordeal, I was peculiarly pleased and could see reason why men preferred their women groomed in this manner. I felt young, alluring, and confident that I could seduce my sheik when the time came.
“You have me to thank for the balm,” Ahmad confided on our way back to his house. “I discovered that mehndi and I am the only purveyor of it. For many years, I brought back from the Orient an ointment to remove warts. I had one here on the side of my face,” he said, parting his beard and pointing to a small bare patch. “The wart disappeared and so did the hair—neither grew back—and this gave me the idea for a profitable new use for the ointment. I had to disguise its humble origin, so I added tiger bile to give it a strong overpowering smell, and put it in an expensive looking pot. Extremely clever of me to uncover new money hidden away in an old remedy, don’t you think? My Chinese apothecary must think Arabs have many warts,” he chuckled (2), “and for you, lucky girl, no monthly plucking or threading.”
“Yes, you are clever, but you didn’t ask me beforehand or tell me that my baring would last forever. I can’t go home looking like this. It is not done to tutors you know! What will I tell my husband?”
“I don’t know. You will think of something,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
On our return to Ahmad’s house, he showed me into a small room with a quarter-bath set in the floor in one corner, instructing me before leaving to “Wash thoroughly, at least twice. The smell of tiger bile is not easily washed away.”
I emerged from the soothing water, wrapped a towel around me, and was startled to find Ahmad standing in the doorway. “How long had he been standing there, watching me?” I wondered.
“Follow me. I will escort you to your room,” he said, bending down to scoop up my clothes from the side of the bath before I could reach them. Instead of clothes, I held the small towel about me, as best I could, and followed him.
Passing through the archway leading to the courtyard he reached out and unhooked the first key from a row of large iron keys hanging by the side of the door, before continuing briskly to my room. He stood aside to let me pass into the room, then, to my unease, followed in behind me and turned the key in the lock.
“Lie on the bed,” he instructed, snatching the towel from my grip.
I fought back like a cornered lioness, kicking and scratching at his face and arms. I landed a good blow to the side of his face and another to his ear. He lifted away and left the room, turning the key in the lock.
I lay there panting, thanking my brothers for unwanted lessons in fighting, and wondering what to do next and how to get out of this entrapment.
It wasn't long before he turned open the lock and strode back into the room, anger radiating from his eyes, lengths of rope dripping from his hand.
Calming down, he allowed a moment of silence to fill the room.
"I was of two minds as to whether to put a whip to you or brand you for your insolence. Once again, you are a lucky girl. How can I possibly send you to your new master freshly streaked or marked?" He paused for a moment. "Isn't that for him to do?
"Instead," he said, his voice rising and quickening, "I will show you what a disrespectful slave girl is good for."
By this time I had shuffled away to the far corner of the bed which was far too small to stop him from grabbing an ankle and sliding me back to the middle at the same time swinging his leg over the corner of the bed trapping my leg beneath him. I pummeled away at his back with my fists and free foot, without effect whatsoever, while he circled a rope around my ankle and tied it to the corner of the bed. Catching and yanking the other leg, he splayed me out, and not satisfied with my vulnerability did the same to my arms pulling them over tightly and fastening my hands to the head rail behind my head.
A moment of calm again invaded the room as he contemplated his spread victim before lunging onto me with brutal viciousness, bruising me and almost tearing me apart with his lustful lurching and thrusting while I stared vacantly at the ceiling and yielded without further fight.
Thoroughly spent and softened, he untied my hands, leaving me to sit up and untie my feet, and as though nothing unusual or untoward had happened, smiled thinly, smoothed down his djellaba and said, “Dinner will be served at the sound of the bell—take a bath before then.”
I was sickened to my stomach and absolutely in no mood to eat anything, particularly with him. However, as the afternoon passed by my moral strength returned. From my tumultuous mind emerged the clear realization that leaving at this instance to return to Jeddah would be impossible and unwise. I could not be certain what Jamaal or his family would think about my raping at the hands of Ahmad. In this country, the reasoning of men and women towards a dishonored woman is unpredictable. Some blame the woman regardless of the circumstances, others understand and console, and I think Jamaal would understand—but not his wife and sisters. Would they not see me as a foolish woman, deservingly sullied, and further belittle and ostracize me?
Furthermore, I had no horse or camel to ride on, and even if I did, traveling alone to Jeddah would be impossibly dangerous.
Not surprisingly, I decided I had to keep this part of my life to myself, bury it in my mind as best I could, and reclaim my dignity. I would not be cowed by him or by his despicable doing. For the time being I would act as though nothing had happened, and quietly wait for the right time and place—for I was not above taking revenge.
A graceful bare breasted dancer entertained us that evening. Ahmad had hired her to teach her art to the two Indian girls, but on this occasion, she was showing her skills for our enjoyment.
While serving “Tea from China” in delicate porcelain finger bowls one of the Indian girls nervously stumbled when her foot caught the edge of a carpet, sharply clinking the bowls together and spilling some tea. Sheik Ahmad examined the fragile bowls for damage and then apologized for the careless manner in which they served us. “I can assure you that their poor ways will be corrected before they are sold,” he said coldly, before proudly informing me that he had “a hard earned reputation to preserve, as a purveyor of only the best and well-instructed slave girls.”
At the close of the evening, Ahmad escorted me and the Indian girls back to the courtyard. As he led the way through the open archway, I casually reached out and took my room key from its hook. I walked to my room, and he disappeared into another room on the other side of the courtyard with the two Indian girls. I turned the key in the lock, and settled down for the night.
It was not long before the quiet stillness of the desert night carried their cries through the window and into my tense consciousness. He was no doubt “correcting their ways”. How was he doing this? What was he doing to them that made then cry out like that? Surely, it was only Ahmad’s way and not the way of others.
I spent a fitful night thinking about, and regretting, how foolish I had been to allow my blind curiosity to launch me on this journey. In the closed and secret world of the harem, would I find myself trapped and helplessly passed around an endless circle of masters, perhaps never to return? Used, and then discarded? And would my new master take pleasure in bending me to his ways, and be so demanding as to find reason to put a camel whip to me? What would happen if I displeased him, would he punish me harshly and cause the desert night to hear my cries?
My visions of romantic interludes with an enraptured sheik rapidly evaporated—and with Kassim gone, plans could not be undone. My course was set; the door had closed behind me.
Someone rattling and pushing against the door awakened me just before dawn. I heard only retreating footsteps when I asked, “Who is there?” Thanks be to Allah, I had the key safe beside me.
Before formally concluding the exchange, Sheik Ahmad handed me a letter of introduction to deliver to my new master and after I halfheartedly thanked him, I handed over his key. “Here is your key. I borrowed it last night,” I triumphantly explained, before turning my back to him, and climbing onto the back of my kneeling camel.
As our entourage prepared to depart, my escort, a dark bearded man, pointed to a fair-haired girl Ahmad was leading away. “She is the slave Nadya, for whom you have been exchanged,” said the man, who, I later learned, was Mustafa the chief eunuch of my new master’s harem.
KASRE EL NOUZHA
We traveled by camel from Al-Ta’if to my master’s house in Makram, securely escorted for the overnight journey by Mustafa, the chief eunuch, and four armed guards. I carried with me a side bag of personal belongings: writing instruments, sketchbook, notepaper, clothes the seamstress in Jeddah had made for me, Ahmad’s tantra notes, and his letter of introduction.
A camel, with its awkward rocking gait made for a tiring journey. I much preferred to ride a horse than a camel. I could move in the saddle to the stride of a horse, but not a camel. This cumbersome beast compellingly swayed me back and forth, hour after hour, and the monotony of the hot shimmering desert sands provided no distraction. Insidiously, the motion sickened me so much that it overcame my excitement, and when it was time to stop and make camp, I was thankful.
Before darkness fell, after I had rested and enjoyed a cooling drink, I reached into my side bag and took out the letter Ahmad had given me. Taking care that no one saw me, I tilted it to catch the last glow of sunlight, and read:
In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
My Tunisian slave Sapphira, who bears this letter to you, has recently studied the Qur’an and is ready to embrace Islam. I ask that you treat her accordingly and reward her for her good diligence.
I plead for your forgiveness and understanding for sending you a less experienced girl than you have sent me. In your wisdom, do not confuse her lack of skill with a reluctance to please. Her exotic beauty, freshness of spirit, and her eagerness to learn, I am sure, will be more than offsetting. I encourage you to find comfort with her to the full, with the expectation that I shall be fortunate to take back, to my benefit, a girl imbued with your teachings.
I have recently acquired two unspoiled Pearls of Allah. Both are beautifully formed and eager to serve a new master. They answer well to commands. Because our long-standing friendship is something I value highly, I offer you first choice and a favorable price. I will be proud to bring them to you so your eyes may judge their virtues. Sapphira will vouch for your good fortune in being offered these pearls of the Orient. Please advise within the month of your intentions in the matter of my offer as others are anxious for their company.
Peace be upon you and your brother and Allah’s mercy and blessings.
I passed the letter to Mustafa for safe delivery.
We rested briefly during the night snatching a few welcomed moments of sleep. A small fire kept the night chill at bay, and to catch the damp Mustafa spread a piece of muslin over me supported by poles at each corner. I appreciated his caring, but the efficacy of the cover was lacking and I awoke before dawn, cold and clammy, and moved to join the others around the embers of the fire. Nevertheless, I thanked him profusely, thinking it better to encourage his friendship rather than make complaint.
At daybreak, we quenched our thirst with hot mint tea and ate some dried fruit and khobz, freshly baked on the hot stones of the night fire, before we mounted our rides for the final leg of the journey.
Our traveling took us from the central desert plateau through a broad divide in the western coastal mountain range, and down to the shores of the Red Sea.
As we emerged from the low mountains our entourage halted, and with a broad wave of his hand Mustafa announced, “Makram.” There in the distance, close to the shore of the sea, was a large spread of buildings—a fair-sized town laid out at the foot of a rocky promontory that jutted out from the coastal hills like a pointing finger, before tumbling into the sea. Along the promontory, lines of green trees traced sharply against the golden brown of the dry hillsides. Mustafa pointed out a large white building set high against the south face of the promontory that would give those looking out long views of the sea to the west, the desert to the east, and the town beneath. Two tall towers, capped with gilded domes, soared over the high surrounding wall, shimmering in the heat of the late morning sun. “That is Sheik Ali’s palace, your destination.”
I was both surprised and threatened by the enormity of the palace having expected nothing more than a large house and started to imagine how luxurious and colorful, or dark and foreboding, his Kasre el Nouzha might be within its walls. And the occupants—what were they doing at this moment, what did they look like, what were they wearing?
As our approach shortened I saw water—that rarest and most precious desert commodity—cascading from cracks and ledges in the rock face above the palace, the flow carefully diverted into a huge overflowing cistern. From there it streamed into irrigation ditches to nourish the long rows of fruit trees I had seen earlier from a distance, before it drained through the stony ground, to find, no doubt, a subterranean passage to the sea.