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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 3 months

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I Have No Mother, Only A Brother

Warnings and Information: Not a new story, just a more masterlist-friendly format since I'm unable to make the edits I want to the original written last year so things fit a little more in-line with the rest of the series visually speaking. Reference/allusion to canon-typical violence, injury, death and loss. Bad health conditions for civilians as a result of a Separatist blockade. Clone OC backstories and how they died. Several characters are not explicitly named as of this installment, just like in NTMY,B. Narrative and stylistic use of italics. No Mando'a here. Use of Star Wars and real-world swearing. Canvas doesn't like the Kaminoans, he's rather scared of them.

Word-count: 3,027

"Isn't it a little sad?" the nat-born child who's been asking so many questions starts up again after five minutes, the allotted break time as asked. The little one's parents sigh wearily. Here we go. There's beckoning hands, straining arms.

"Is what sad, little mite?" The trooper only resituated their hold on the child with a twisted ankle they'd been carrying for several klics now. They still had a long way to go before they reached the Republic camp where these starving people on a far-flung planet had been subjected to horrid war crimes by the Separatists. No; let me hold them a little longer, it's fine. They weigh far less than a supply crate, this is easy for me.

"Well… is it true that you don't have a mommy like people say?" This little one was born just before or near the very start of the Clone Wars, supposedly, and part of a humanoid species, so they're different from human nat-born children and develop differently… but the level of intellect and insight is still surprising.

"It is," the trooper starts, mentally shaking away the thought that he'd have to dumb this down for the toddler who was meeting Clones in the flesh for the first time now. "We don't have any mothers, except for Kamino. That's where we come from." Don't think of the long-necks. Don't think of the long-necks. Don't think of the long-necks; think of your brothers!

"So isn't it sad?" they ask again, cuddling sweetly against the stiff and impossibly firm surface of plastoid that encircles the trooper's body with a great pout on their face. That can't be comfortable for the kid. The trooper wishes he could take off the helmet so the little one can see the sympathetic smile, touched by the concern and sadness a nat-born child has for a man without a mother. But he's offered to carry this child until they get to the camp and the hospital tent where a medic-brother can splint the bad foot. There's not a great way to carry his own helmet should he remove it; other hands are busy with helping men, women and children too emaciated and weak to make this trek unsupported, or are leading the livestock with firm hands, or like the little mite's mother, carrying even littler children. An infant.

There are so many infants. The General has cut their cloak into long strips so the brothers who have volunteered themselves to carry a suffering family's baby have something to buffer and soften the swaddling arms in plastoid armor. The three brothers who carry the five orphans of the village are quiet. They move so gingerly and are so tender to allow these little ones to sleep as long as they can; the best sleep these little ones have had since losing their mothers.

"I guess many would see it that way. But it's hard to be sad about it when I have so many brothers to keep me company." The little one looks up at the trooper in awe and excitement. Brothers. They had something in common! The baby swaddled to the woman's chest with a meager blanket is a little boy, apparently. Born just before the Separatist's blockade and occupation.

"How many brothers? Hundreds?" That'd been the popular guess when he and his brothers showed up with several Generals to offer aid and support to one of these many villages clustered near one another in this sector of the planet.

"More than that."

"A thousand?"

"Haha. More than that, little one."

"Ah… a million? O-or the one that's bigger than that! That many brothers?"

"That'd be "billion". A billion is bigger than a million."

"You have a billion brothers?!"

"Probably. Even I don't know. There's not enough time to meet all of them when we're helping people like you, ya little mite." Some he'd never get to because they were already gone. Some were already lost to this war well before he stepped off Kamino. Some shortly after.

Cocky nerf-herder though he was, brave Gunnar… he'd been the first. Selfless. He wasn't immediately fond of the Force-wielders. The Jedi. Not like the other Shinies.

"We're their canon fodder, they don't care about us. Throw enough brothers at the problem until it goes away and then don't so much as mourn us!"

It changed when their General was cradling the body of a badly-injured brother while they were waiting for the team medic to find their position. Their General held the dying trooper and promised the medic-brother was on their way, "just hold on, son. Yes, he's coming. H-he's going to take care of you. You were very brave out there trying to keep your brothers safe."

When the battlefield medic trooper had finally reached their position and could take over for the General in taking care of this brother, he'd succumbed to his injuries only seconds later. Their General got up and left, stoic and unspeaking, and Gunnar had enough and wanted to give the General a damn tongue-lashing. But when Gunnar found the General, back pressed into the dark trunk of those towering trees and weeping silently, he suddenly realized he had their first General all wrong.

"I think I had 'em all wrong… guess some of those Jedi really do give a banthashit about us. Found the General mourning that brother who died as soon as the medic got here. They're imperfect, brother. These… peacekeepers aren't sure how to be warriors. Not all of 'em. They're tryin'."

Cryfar had been the second to perish. Oh sweet, well-meaning Cryfar.

To their batch, it was an in-joke that it was a miracle this son of Kamino had made it as far as he had. Either one too many blows to the head during a session of hand-sparring in one of the training centers, or something went awry with his jar, but the kid could not get his left-and-right or his phrasings sorted out when he got overexcited.

Which was often.

"Hahaha! Just wait til I send those Seppies runnin'! This war'll be a cryfar from-" The entire batch groaned, Gunnar the loudest before taking a breath to explain why the other, older brothers were laughing at the excitable Shiny with a glowering look over his shoulder. The seasoned troops stopped, recognizing the look.

"It's "a far cry from", brother. It's okay. They don't mean to be mean to ya, I'm sure… You just get excitable. Not your fault. Remember to be careful, right?"

"R-right! I'll be careful!"

"Watch out for the pits, too."

"Sure thing!"

Faro had been third. Pushed the other two brothers out of the way of danger time and time again. They'd lost Gunnar, and they'd lost Cryfar. Faro was not going to lose these brothers too.

He was gruff and stoic much in the same way like Gunnar without the impulsive streak, but about just as much patience as Gunnar had. ("You were going to kriffing lecture the General? No of course this Jedi cares about the Clones if you just paid attention to them for five min- That's the stupidest- If you would stop being so gun-ho about certain things for five minutes the COs would finally let you in the gunner's mount like you've been asking and- What's that look for!?")

Every time he'd saved their skins he'd simply sigh sharply at them before asking if these two bucket-heads really expected him to save them every time. So that last time… he looked at those yet-unnamed brothers and fondly murmured he'd do it each and every time in a heartbeat, staring up into the great and endless starfield above him with the remnants of a BX-series droid commando scattered around him.

"It's just gonna be the two of you now, brothers. I-I don't think I can watch out for you anymore. Clanker bastard got me real good with that fluke shot… but I'd do it all again in… a d-damn… heartbeat."

He was thrown from a speeder-bike after getting shot and narrowly avoided plunging into a deep chasm. Two sets of ration packs fell out of the supply crate and were exposed to direct sunlight for several hours before anyone noticed and put those back in with the others. He and another brother both felt a little sick after dinner and each said he'd be turning in early to try to sleep it off.

"Guess it's just not agreeing with me, or something. I'm sure it's nothing… I'll see you in the morning, yeah? Love ya, brother."

"Love ya too, Fluke. Goodnight.

"G'morning Fluke, you feelin' any better? Want me to get the medic to… Fluke, c'mon brother, this isn't funny; talk to me. You really feeling that bad? Y-you're cold! Wh-why are you so… FLUKE!!"

"Do you get along with all of your brothers?" The Clone unit escorting this village's survivors were getting closer to the refugee camp, so it was time to squeeze in some last questions and they'd been quiet for a while now. Canvas just chuckled. He'd been carrying this little one for a while now, watching as they turned one of his most precious possessions in their hands over and over again. The whittled nest of endangered birds from his first campaign. They'd taken great care not to drop it. Carver would've appreciated hearing that such a crude replication still held up to approval; he'd gotten so much better and thought all his old stuff was junk (save for the General's Mudhorn and this nest-set owned by Canvas).

"Some better than others, but I get along with most of them, yes. All siblings have their squabbles; even us Clones. Maybe one day you'll drive your parents crazy by arguing with your little brother once he's big enough." The toddler grinned brightly up at the dusty helmet peering down at him and once again smoothed their hand over Fluke's scuff. Then Faro's. Cryfar's after that. Lastly, Gunnar's. Canvas's brothers all within easy reach, surrounding the scuff mark across the chest plate this little nat-born child was leaning against. Surrounded by the memory of his brothers, those who never judged him for not yet having a Name and respected his wishes not to Be Named yet.

"Nuh-uh. I love my little brother! I never wanna argue with him when he's big enough." The little one's parents just smiled quietly in the lengthening shadows as the sun sunk behind the hills. They knew it wouldn't end up staying that way, but the sentiment was too sweet to correct. One day the screaming matches would come, and the accusations that they weren't sharing toys would rattle their eardrums, and a million other things. A welcome future to look forward to because the Republic answered their desperate plea for help and promised the inhabitants necessary aid.

"He'll tell you how lucky he feels one day that you love him so much." Canvas replied sagely, eyes staring ahead into that middle-ground where the light of the camp crept over the last ridge. That red splatter he was looking for was flying high over the center of the camp. Good. They'd gotten the medical tent set up.

"One last question for the nice trooper before your father carries you to the medical tent, little one. Better make it count before he has to return to his commanding officers." the child's mother warned in a sweet voice. Oh he hated the way the little one frowned, Maker help him. His hold firmed up one last time.

"I can carry the little one to the tent. It's no trouble."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes ma'am. It's no trouble." Canvas nodded affirmingly.

"Thank you… ah, I don't believe we ever asked you your name, I am sorry."

"Canvas. My brothers named me." he says with pride. How one came to Be Named by a brother happened in a variety of ways. Sometimes it was mockery. Sometimes it came from a joke. Even done completely unintentionally. But often it was done with love as they helped one another find an identity. More than a string of two letters and four numbers, brother.

No mothers to name us, only brothers.

"Your brothers named you?" the talkative toddler inquires, brightening up as Canvas continues to carry them through the camp. There was time for more questions after all.

"They sure did."

"And do you like your name?"

"I love my name." That name was a gift from his brothers. All of them. Its poetic origin meant too much to do anything but love it.

"Which brother gave you your name? Was it one of them?" The little freckled fingers touched each scuff mark reverentially. (Maker, to think his own fingers were ever that little for a short time.)

"One of my commanding officers." They pass by a commanding officer with these words, entirely a funny little coincidence. But it's not Canvas's, this officer bears a different color.

"Umm… Who has the funniest name? A-are there any?"

"I have a brother named Scruffy." It's safe to make fun of Scruffy's name. Scruffy makes fun of his own name all the time because he knows the circumstances behind Being Named (accidentally) were silly.

"Whoops, hair's gotten an inch past the standard cut… Think I'm starting to look a little-"

"Ahem."

"A-a little, uh, unkempt! I was gonna say unkempt!"

"Sure-sure…"

Just three tents away from medical.

"Who made you the bird nest again?" Canvas takes the whittled treasure back, tucking it away in his utility belt alongside the wooden worry stone.

"My brother Carver." he reminds the toddler. Two more tents. Something's cooking nearby. It smells good. Really good. The families making their way to the camp will have their first good meal in a long time tonight. There's neatly stacked crates in front of the medical tent. That has to be Cairn's doing, but Canvas doesn't see any sign of the brother in the flesh.

"So if he made you the bird nest, are birds your favorite animal?"

"One of 'em, yeah." Canvas chuckles, nodding down at the child and then back up at the brother with the shattered cross painted on his plastoid. "Kid's in need of a splint, think you can help the little one out, brother?"

"Sure can, Canvas. Set up on the second cot for me, and grab yourselves a hydro pack each. You marched a long way in if you came from the southwest. No one's getting dehydrated on my watch."

"Thank you, brother." Canvas nodded gratefully as he nabbed two foil pouches of filtered, treated water from a crate. He opened one and gave it to the child after gingerly lowering them to the second cot as indicated, and finally shucked the dusty helmet, hearing that familiar hiss as the vacuum broke. Much better. Was getting stuffy in there. "Hope you're ready for a talker."

"Always." the medic laughs. It's promising. "I like the talkers now and then. You sit down and rest your feet."

"But I should really go report in to the Cap-"

"Medic's orders, brother." Oh very well. Canvas just concedes; it'll be easier than trying to sweet-talk a brother who takes the mantra of "brother looks out for brother" so deeply to heart that he makes it a specified pathway beyond just his creation as a soldier. (Don't think of the long-necks… think of your brothers.) You're a fool to make these brothers upset with you. He takes a seat on an upturned crate put out for visitors to the med-tent, balancing his bucket on his knees as he cracks open his hydro pack and takes a deep swallow of water. He regrets it, but he'll be scolded for spitting it out.

Ugh. These are not the chemicals he's used to in Kamino's filtration and emergency desalinification systems. What planet treated this water? Coruscant? It's so bitter and heavy on his tongue… There's no touch of sweetness in the water like that of a bolster of emergency supplies from Naboo that had been sent by Senator Amidala. It's sour and tangy in such an unpleasant way.

But that's not worth fussing about when he gets to listen to the little one start peppering the medic-brother with questions now as he prepared to set the bad foot in a splint so it will heal correctly and quickly with proper support.

"Do Clones have a favorite brother?" Woof, what a loaded question to ask a medic.

"Hah, get a load'a this kid, asking the tricky questions. Some do! Some brothers grow very close together, practically joined at the hip and I have to let the other brother stay so I can take care of the sick or injured one. Then there's Clones, like me, who love all their brothers equally. No favorites. Too many brothers to love and take care of for me personally to have favorites. But I know of a few who are someone's favorite brother."

The medic-brother looked at Canvas over his shoulder briefly to first make sure he hadn't slunk off before he was properly rested AMA, but even in that quick look, Canvas knew there was another meaning in those warm, smiling eyes. Seasoned troopers tended to hear if a fresh-faced brother needed some extra support and became a favorite; whether that was for life, or until the Shiny found their feet under themselves.

Canvas knew that applied to him in each sense; he was so grateful for it now. Grateful for those brothers who took care of him because they had a rather… unique mother. (Forget the long-necks.)

If Kamino was their mother, and all her sons were brothers, then they should take good care of one another.

We have no traditional mothers. Just a billion brothers.

[Clone OC Masterlist]

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#frostfics #I Have No Mother Only A Brother #*cleaned up version #star wars #tcw headcanons #tcw fanfiction #tcw ocs #clone oc: canvas #clone oc: gunnar/faro/cryfar/fluke #clone oc: scruffy #clone oc: carver #clone oc: cairn #clone oc: commander juke #clone oc: captain law #clone oc: medic riddance #jedi oc: caelen #*visual additions/changes plus formatting

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whatareyoureallyafraidof · 1 year

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A Sunday DM

Oh, boy! What a message to awaken to on a Sunday morning (well, OK, a Sunday early afternoon). As I read through this mess -- three times -- I was torn between simply ignoring it or wasting my time answering it. I decided I'd have to at least make an attempt (see below). ---------------------------------------------------- hairyforceone What? Well there are some things. The imbalance of sexualities causing millions of people physically impossible of finding a relationship. These are mostly men. I know that you hate men and you would rather see them dying out than have any empathy for them. (Because you are cruel beings) There are no women left for men. There are too many lesbians who take up all the women leaving nothing behind for heterosexual men. You transform the growing up generations into being more lesbian. Women seem to be more susceptible for these actions than men. This causes the imbalance. A lesbian couple means two men doomed to loneliness. And there are a shitload of lesbians. Now please educate me about how someone’s sexual identity cannot be changed by linking the RESEARCH where they identified WHAT gene or anything is what determines sexuality. Thank you. So the rising number of lesbians among women could be a result of a more open society OR the successful propaganda your kind have made. Luckily we have the opportunity to ask older women about their feelings whether or not now that they have the same freedom of choice as their younger counterparts if they want to live their inner lesbian feelings and leave their husbands or not. They were not under gender and sexual propaganda when they were young so asking them would clearly resolve the issue of today’s rising lesbian numbers regarding the loudness of the lgbtqabcdefg+-/# propaganda. The last question remains, why do you want to change the world? Why do you want to cause harm to millions of heterosexual men by making millions of women incompatible with them? Why? Really why? I want to know why are you so heartless for ignoring literally half of humanity’s problems? What is the benefit of doing this? ------------------------------------------------------- Well, HairyForceOne; let's set the record straight: I don't hate men. I am a man. I am, in fact, a Straight man -- a fact I've never hidden on this blog. I'm Straight, but not narrow. As I'm sure I've made clear on this blog, I believe everyone should be who they are, and -- within age and consensual limits -- love who they love. My "propaganda" is education. It's knowledge and understanding gained during my years on this planet. My "kind," as you refer to me, accepts people who are different. I don't hate people simply because they love differently, or pray differently, or look different, or even if they root for the Yankees. (OK, maybe the Yankee thing is an exception.) You sound as if you believe women owe you sex: "There are no women left for men." "There are too many lesbians who take up all the women leaving nothing behind for heterosexual men." "A lesbian couple means two men doomed to loneliness." "Why do you want to cause harm to millions of heterosexual men by making millions of women incompatible with them?" "I want to know why are you so heartless for ignoring literally half of humanity’s problems?" Let me be very clear here: WOMEN DON'T OWE YOU SHIT! They are not responsible for making sure you're not "doomed to loneliness." And, I'm pretty sure that your inability to get laid does not constitute "half of humanity's problems." This might be news to you, but women are real, live, actual people. They have their own thoughts, and beliefs, and dreams, and goals. They are not required to be at your beck and call, and serve your every whim. There aren't more lesbians today than in older generations. They, along with others in the LGBTQ+ community, simply have more freedom to express who they are. Today, they are more accepted for who they are -- unlike in the past when people would be arrested and jailed for going to a gay bar; or for having consensual sex with someone of the same sex. No one is transforming women into lesbians. They are who they are. Maybe they know it early in life; maybe it takes years to realize it; maybe they never realize/accept it. But, it's their life. Educate you? No. I know your type. I could attach a dozen links researching what determines sexuality, but you'd ignore every one. You'd dismiss my research because it would prove you wrong. Educate yourself, Hairy. There are plenty of search engines you can use. I'd recommend searching for reputable sites, with peer-reviewed data. But, I suspect -- if you do any research -- you'll only believe sites which confirm your own beliefs. Why do I want to change the world? Because I believe it can be changed! Because things can be better. Because we can be better. Too many people walk around hating others because of issues they have in their own mind. You can't get laid; so, obviously, that's the fault of lesbians. But it's not. It's your fault. Let me say that again, because it's important. IT'S. YOUR. FAULT! Look in the mirror. Your message screams "Women owe men sex." News flash, pal; they don't. Perhaps, instead of complaining about lesbians, you should improve yourself. Try becoming a person someone would want to have a relationship with. - Bud

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tanadrin · 2 years

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it’s sort of like--okay, I saw a post on reddit being made fun of, where somebody had asked something like, “Can someone explain to me how a man and a man in a relationship together is supposed to be complementary?”

What they meant was to denigrate the idea of a same-sex relationship. And they thought they had a pretty airtight argument against it: a man and a man are the same! They’re not complimentary! Surely that invalidates the whole concept! This is, from an outside perspective, just an absolutely bonkers argument. A total non-sequitur. Who said relationships have to be complementary? What does that even mean? Why on earth, if you were trying to argue that homosexuality was immoral or unnatural, would you approach it from such an arcane angle as complementarity?

It makes perfect sense if you’re steeped inside a particular kind of discourse that’s been waging a losing battle against the advance of concepts like “equal rights” and “not being a huge dick to people for no reason” for centuries. If you’re a conservative Christian, it’s sometimes unfashionable to argue in a public-facing way that men should rule in marriage because God says so, or because women are inherently inferior, or because Eve sinned first or God is a man. Against more appealing concerns in the marketplace of ideas like “what if we gave everyone equal rights in society and equal standing in important social relationships like romantic pairings” it’s been a losing tactic for a long time. Various tactical retreats have resulted in the conservative discourse trying to recast traditional gender roles in various ways, and one way that seems to work okay some of time time is a notion of complementarity, where men and women bring different things to the table and while this looks like traditional gender roles, really it’s somehow egalitarian, or better than egalitarian (because the whole notion of “equality” implies boring liberal sameness don’tchaknow; two things obviously can’t be equal unless they are identical in every respect!). So the fundamental justification for not only gender roles but heterosexual romance as a concept gets recast in this awkward and arcane way which is necessary only if you somehow need to simultaneously uphold one very narrow conception of gender roles, and satisfy a certain instinct for fair play that is in contradiction with other important elements of your hierarchical and authoritarian worldview.

But if you try to trot out this gotcha in any context where you’re not just hosting a circlejerk with people who already think like you, you look like a crazy person, because you have so badly failed to understand the psychology or the worldview of the people you disagree with, you can’t even properly ask a question in bad faith.

This is very frustrating to me! If you’re going to try to make an argument, even one in support of a dumb worldview, you should--again, at least outside the context of a good old circlejerk, and hey, everybody loves a good circlejerk from time to time! not knocking the venerable institution of a circlejerk--at least be able to put together a coherent argument. It’s no fun when someone can’t even string a coherent set of ideas together.

And I feel the same way about a lot of the stuff transphobes put out. “This just grosses me out” and “holy book says no” are at least consistent, though they’re not really arguments. They don’t make persuasive truth claims that anybody outside your narrow community of preference-sharers or co-religionists can really engage with. But “trans people are crazy and should be therapied into being cis” is actually more annoying, in that it’s a terrible argument that just gets worse the more you try to develop it.

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forensicated · 6 months

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Smiffina Episodes - Episode 251

David drops Kerry at work and asks her if she's made her mind up. All they want her to do is patrol near a warehouse where they're going to do a job and if the police are called she has to be the first on the scene so they get chance to go away. He kisses her and tells her he loves her.

In Adam's office, he and Gina are furious that the sniper story and alleged cover up has gotten into the paper. The report mentions that the sniper shot a man who had been accquited on the assault of the blind girl but doesn't mention that Andrea lost the evidence in the first place that likely lead to that result. Funny that. Okaro is concerned that one of his officers is either feeding information to the sniper, or worse, is the sniper themselves. The situation becomes more complicated when it looks like he could be innocent of assaulting the girl. Later Kerry speaks to Andrea and tells her that she should look to Gabriel as the potential sniper.

A disheartened Kerry sits in Gina's office and choses her job over the Radford - at least to Gina. She plays wordgames to make sure she doesn't actually admit to Gina that she hasn't finished things with David. Gina reminds her that from now on she has to completely avoid all members of the Radford Family or it's curtains for her job.

Waiting for calls, Yvonne asks Kerry to stop whinging at her. Their first call ends up with a woman who has had a - now very angry - drunk locked in her garage for the last 12 hours after months of trouble from the pub at the bottom of her road. The drunks first move - before running off - is to vomit on Kerry. The woman is angry Kerry doesn't follow, made even angrier when Kerry insults her. The woman tells her she doesn't like her attitude. "Do I look like I care?"

Kerry is suspicous of Gabriel as he mocks her for the vomit incidence. She takes the chance to accuse him of crawling out of the same sewer as the murdered man and digs away, essentially accusing him of being the sniper without actually mentioning it. "If that's what you think, you better stay out of my way" warns Gabriel.

Gina questions Kerry about a lorry coming in from the continent - the job that Irene and David want Kerry involved in. She asks her if David or Irene have any involvement in it. Kerry says they wouldn't have told her if they did. Later Kerry tells Yvonne that she joined to make a difference and wanted to feel valued. She hasn't found what she wanted from the MET and still feels like an outsider, like she doesn't belong.

After work she heads to the club and finds David with a Kerry lookalike... and it looks like they're very good friends. She tells Irene who comforts her with strong alcohol, telling Kerry that she's never seen him happier than when he's with her and that the girl she saw was just an 'old slapper who won't leave him alone'. Irene tells her to trust her, he loves Kerry and only Kerry. "Trust me, I'm on your side." she says, pouring her another large measure.

Kerry tells Irene that she'd decided to leave the police force for David but since she's seen David with another girl she isn't so sure. Irene tells her that they're the same - they're women in men's worlds and they struggle twice as hard to show they have what it takes. She tells her that she sees Kerry as part of the family and that they want to have her around - everything she feels the MET doesn't give. In an attempt to seal the deal, Irene removes one of her rings and hands it to Kerry. She weaves her a story about her childhood and how it's the first thing that she ever stole. It represents her knowing she had the power to finally break free and show what she was really made of and she thinks that that is what Kerry can do. She asks her to give David a second chance - Kerry smiles and slides the ring onto her hand.

Eventually David appears, Kerry giving him a bollocking. He assures her that the girl has gone and will never be coming back. He points out he knew Kerry was coming to the club and if he was really seeing someone else he'd never have had them to come over to the club - he'd have gotten them to stay away. He apologises and tells her it'll never happen again because he doesn't want to lose her. Kerry folds, but tells him that it's his final chance. Irene returns and asks if everything is okay - Kerry tells her it's sorted. She agrees to be in on the job - and tells them that the police have intelligence about the warehouse. Irene decides to call it off, but Kerry suggests there is another way. They only know about the drugs and not the raid. Why not take the lorry out before it gets to the warehouse? Irene smiled - and officially welcomes her to the family.

Smithy barely appears in this ep and it's not involved at all in Kerry/Smiffina stuff - but it's worth a post just because The Eyebrow is in full swing again ❤

#episode 251 #smithy #dale smith #alex walkinshaw #roberta taylor #gina gold #kerry young #beth cordingly #lynda bellingham #irene radford #the bill

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changeling-fae · 3 months

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SURPRISE ASK ATTACK. Tell me one of your Tav/Durge's secrets! Also their favorite color. Also, if they ultimate power for one day, what would they do with it?

Ooh, thank you! 💖

Hm, I’ll do both Nym and Casira (my current only Durge’s I have). 😂

Nym, her big secret (to herself more than anything) which doubles as a source of shame for her is she’s attracted to dangerous men. She’s a victim of abuse but she is sexually attracted to men who can hurt her and she pushes and rejects those self reflections away. She’s not very good at self reflection, her instinct is to lash out, and she needs like a century of therapy. It’s a bit like a subconscious Russian roulette; come on, give her reason to hurt back. (Her relationship with women is a lot healthier).

Her favorite color is white actually, she likes the purity it represents. Her father (the not Bhaal father) was a szarkai drow and faithful to Eilistraee so it reminds her of him as well.

If she had ultimate power for a day? Revive her father (again, not Bhaal father), no doubts. She would bring him back and that’s all that would matter. Now if she can bring herself to reunite with him afterward would be a different question, she would hate that she made him ashamed of what she’s become.

For Casira, one of her secrets, hmm, when she was with the cult, she’d sneak off and feed stray animals and she’d give money to beggars. But she had to be overly cautious, just because she knew that the people and animals she helped could be hurt as a result. Encouragement to hurt them.

Her favorite color is China blue (not sure what that would be in a China-less fantasy based realm, lol). But it makes her feel calm, like watching the ocean waves.

If she had ultimate power for a day, she’d probably look into a way that restored her prior incarnation before Bhaal got his metaphorical hands on her corpse and desecrated it into what she is now. Maybe find a way to remove her violent urges (because I think that should stay).

Edit: she might also try and find a way to bring Orin back with the intention of finding a way to give her a second chance at life.

Thanks for the question! 💖

#ask meme #sorta lol #bg3 durge #oc: nymurra auvry’val #oc: casira #cw: abuse mention

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bestmedspas · 1 year

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5 Things to Consider When Looking for a Med Spa

Unlike a traditional day spa, a medical spa offers a variety of non-surgical aesthetic medical services under the supervision of a licensed physician. These types of spas offer more advanced treatments than a traditional spa, and are a great option for women and men who want to look and feel their best without surgery. Read more great facts on body health, click here.

5 Things to Consider When Looking for a Med Spa One of the most important things to look for when searching for a med spa is the experience and reputation of the staff members. The best med spas have a strong team of senior staff and aestheticians that are accredited to perform these specialized treatments. This will ensure that you get the best possible care and experience for your money. For more useful reference, have a peek here https://www.physiciansplan.com/blog/tips-to-prepare-for-laser-hair-removal.

A good med spa will also have a staff that understands the unique needs of each client and provides personalized treatment plans to meet their individual requirements. They should be committed to providing genuine care to their clients and should be readily available to address any questions or concerns that customers have.

The best med spas will offer a wide range of treatments to meet different aesthetic and medical needs, including anti-aging facials, laser skin resurfacing, injectable wrinkle fillers, and eyelid surgery. These treatments are often very effective, and can make people look and feel younger.

It is a good idea to ask if the medical spa offers any special discounts for a bundle of treatments. This can save you money and make it easier for you to afford the treatments that you need.

Another important thing to look for is the type of equipment that they use. It should be safe, clean, and professional. This will help you feel more comfortable and confident about your treatment.

You should also look for a medical spa that uses advanced technology, such as ScarletRF, Jetpeel, and PRP treatments. These can provide additional treatments beyond basic facials and massages, and are much more effective than other invasive methods of rejuvenating the skin.

A medical spa is a hybrid between a traditional day spa and a clinic, where the focus is on relaxation and results rather than just a pampered experience. They are staffed by experienced professionals, and are overseen by a licensed doctor or nurse. Please view this site https://en.wikipedia.org/wikipedia/en/A/Special:Search?title=Med-spa&redirect=no for further details.

The most common aesthetic treatments offered at a medical spa are Botox, dermal fillers, and laser skin resurfacing. These treatments can also be used to treat conditions such as acne, hair loss, and aging.

Many med spas are equipped with computerized imaging systems that allow for a more thorough analysis of the patient’s skin. This can help physicians and dermatologists to better evaluate the condition of a patient’s skin and develop a customized treatment plan.

These treatment plans can be extremely helpful for those who have certain health issues, such as chronic pain or fibromyalgia. These programs can help a person deal with their problems and feel more comfortable, so they can return to their regular activities with greater ease.

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nyortor · 1 year

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Some Of The Most Vital Concepts About Tea Burn Ingredients

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dailybusinessfacts · 2 years

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How To Keep Your Team Together?

Working in a group may be helpful as well as hard. If the team members do not get along, sharing tasks might be less than ideal. In most team situations, there is a leader and one or two additional members who share the team’s task. This can rise to animosity among the worker bees, as well as a feeling of exclusion among the other team members. Keep your team together that collaborate effectively can boost workplace productivity and foster a more unified corporate culture. Here are seven pointers to help your company’s staff collaborate effectively.

Here are ways to keep your team together.

1. Communicate

Keep your team together, communication is one of the most crucial aspects of effective teamwork. Team members will be able to communicate their feelings in a way that prevents a building of concealed anger or distrust if lines of communication are kept open, honest, and polite. Encourage team members to ask each other questions and pay attention to each other. This aids in the development of better team dynamics and partnerships.

Due of the scarcity of in-person engagement, it’s possible for teams to become weak and ineffective. Maintaining a generally happy tone in team interactions is one preventative approach; start with something cheery. “Think about putting yourself in a positive place before going to work,” West Duffy said. These days, aligning outcomes and expectations is also a top priority.

One-off, unexpected contacts, including praise and thankfulness, are frequently responsible for keeping projects on track: someone comes into an office to explain a minor issue, another verifies a slight course adjustment over lunch. Remote employment leaves no room for these crucial adjustments. As a result, leaders must be very explicit about expectations, and employees must feel free to ask clarifying questions without fear of being judged.

2. Promote Creativity

Brainstorming should be viewed as an opportunity to spit forth ideas without passing judgment. Later, the greatest ideas can be selected.

3. Create a Culture That Appreciates and Bonds Your Team

Little things do make a difference. Bring the group out to lunch or supper. Encourage them to have a friendly competition amongst themselves (it could be work-related or something fun like a contest to see who can make the most delicious dessert), and have them come up with a name for themselves (the team) – it may seem silly, but you’d be surprised how often silliness can help a team bond.

There are other suggestions, but the basic line is that you want them to keep your team together and view themselves as a unit rather than as separate contributors who meet on a regular basis. When you create a culture that values the whole team, each individual benefits – and your company benefits as well.

4. Gender Diversity

This may seem like an odd idea for forming a successful team, but women’s social abilities are often superior to men’s. One method to prioritize social skills, which have a direct influence on team performance, is to include women. According to studies, firms with female board members outperform those with just male board members in terms of stock price performance. Gender diversity is one of the best way to keep your team together.

5. Trust-Building Exercises

And it’s been proven that teams who look more trustworthy do better than those that don’t. Trust is a two-way street, and one rotten apple may sour the whole crop. Trust and support are important aspect to keep your team together.

6. Roles Must Be Defined

Because no actual leaders emerged from the current Occupy Wall Street political movement, it was deemed a failure. When the movement began, one of the central ideas was that no one would lead and that everyone would work on the same level. While this democratic method was admirable, the lack of a leader resulted in uncertainty and a lack of collaboration. In order for a team to keep your team together, responsibilities must be clearly defined so that everyone understands what they are accountable for. As a result, team cohesiveness and productivity improve.

7. Respect Individuality

For the team to work as a whole, each team member must offer his or her strengths. To keep your team together, respect each team member.

8. Employ the Right Fit For a Particular Position

The final piece of advice concerns the composition of your team. Know what you’re searching for in team members and keep seeking until you discover the right people. If one individual is unfit for the task, the entire team dynamic might be thrown off. To keep your team together, with a variety of personalities and talents can be difficult, but following these recommendations will help you maximize team performance and will aid you in the future when forming teams for your organization.

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 11 months

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I Have No Mother, Only A Brother

Warnings & Information: A sequel piece to my Nice To Meet You, Brother “drabble”. Expanding more on dear little Canvas’s story when I originally didn’t plan to when I first got inspired. Inspired by a quote I saw on Pinterest from something Karen Traviss wrote regarding how Clones cried out to their brothers for help on the battlefield since they don’t have mothers? Can I find that post now, six plus hours later? No, of course not.

Good amount of angsty feels and some allusions to canon-typical violence/death with Clone OC backstories + how they died. Allusions to bad health conditions as a result of Sep. blockade. No big name-drops for what Jedi or Captains/Commander Canvas and his fallen brothers serve under just like in NTMY,B. Canvas doesn’t like the Kaminoans, he’s rather scared of them. My usual use of italics. No Mand’o-speaking Clones here. Swearing.

[Additional warnings to be added as necessary if you feel I’ve missed something while posting this around/after 1 AM.]

There are so many infants. The Generals have cut their cloaks into long strips so the brothers who have volunteered themselves to carry a suffering family's baby have something to buffer and soften the swaddling arms in plastoid armor. The three brothers who carry the five orphans of the village are quiet. They move so gingerly and are so tender to allow these little ones to sleep as long as they can; the best sleep these little ones have had since losing their mothers.

"More than that."

"A thousand?"

"Haha. More than that, little one."

"Ah… a million? O-or the one that's bigger than that! That many brothers?"

"That'd be "billion". A billion is bigger than a million."

"You have a billion brothers?!"

Cocky nerf-herder though he was, brave Gunnar… he'd been the first. Selfless. He wasn't immediately fond of the Force-wielders. The Jedi. Not like the other Shinies. “We're their canon fodder, they don't care about us. Throw enough brothers at the problem until it goes away and then don't so much as mourn us!” It changed when their General was cradling the body of a badly-injured brother while they were waiting for the team medic to find their position. Their first General held the dying trooper and promised the medic-brother was on their way, “just hold on, son. Yes, he's coming. H-he's going to take care of you. You were very brave out there trying to keep your brothers safe.” When the battlefield medic trooper had finally reached their position and could take over for the General in taking care of this brother, he'd succumbed to his injuries only seconds later. Their General got up and left, stoic and unspeaking, and Gunnar had enough and wanted to give the General a damn tongue-lashing. But when Gunnar found the General, back pressed into the dark trunk of those towering trees and weeping silently, he suddenly realized he had their first General all wrong.

Cryfar had been the second to perish. Oh sweet, well-meaning Cryfar. To their batch, it was an in-joke that it was a miracle this son of Kamino had made it as far as he had. Either one too many blows to the head during a session of hand-sparring in one of the training centers, or something went awry with his jar, but the kid could not get his left-and-right or his phrasings sorted out when he got overexcited. Which was often. "Hahaha! Just wait til I send those Seppies runnin'! This war'll be a cryfar from-" The entire batch groaned, Gunnar the loudest before taking a breath to explain why the other, older brothers were laughing at the excitable Shiny with a glowering look over his shoulder. The seasoned troops stopped, recognizing the look. "It's "a far cry from", brother. It's okay. They don't mean to be mean to ya, I'm sure… You just get excitable. Not your fault. Remember to be careful, right?"

"R-right! I'll be careful!"

"Watch out for the pits, too."

"Sure thing!"

Faro had been third. Pushed the other two brothers out of the way of danger time and time again. They'd lost Gunnar, and they'd lost Cryfar. Faro was not going to lose these brothers too. He was gruff and stoic much in the same way like Gunnar without the impulsive streak, but about just as much patience as Gunnar had. ("You were going to kriffing lecture the General? No of course this Jedi cares about the Clones if you just paid attention to them for five min- That's the stupidest- If you would stop being so gun-ho about certain things for five minutes the COs would finally let you in the gunner's mount like you've been asking and- What's that look for!?") Every time he'd saved their skins he'd simply sigh sharply at them before asking if these two bucket-heads really expected him to save them every time. So that last time… he looked at those yet-unnamed brothers and fondly murmured he'd do it each and every time in a heartbeat, staring up into the great and endless starfield above him with the remnants of a BX-series droid commando scattered around him. "It's just gonna be the two of you now, brothers. I-I don't think I can watch out for you anymore. Clanker bastard got me real good with that fluke shot… but I'd do it all again in… a d-damn… heartbeat."

Fluke took the name from Faro's dying words as a way to remember him. Maybe he shouldn't have. The word became a curse, an omen. It seemed to seal his fate. He shouldn't have survived that droid commando encounter, it was just a lucky chance that Faro accidentally strayed a little too far from his post and found his brothers getting attacked when he did. He was thrown from a speeder-bike after getting shot and narrowly avoided plunging into a deep chasm. Two sets of ration packs fell out of the supply crate and were exposed to direct sunlight for several hours before anyone noticed and put those back in with the others. He and another brother both felt a little sick after dinner and each said he'd be turning in early to try to sleep it off. "Guess it's just not agreeing with me, or something. I'm sure it's nothing… I'll see you in the morning, yeah? Love ya, brother."

"Love ya too, Fluke. Goodnight. ….. G'morning Fluke, you feelin' any better? Want me to get the medic to… Fluke, c'mon brother, this isn't funny; talk to me. You really feeling that bad? Y-you're cold! Wh-why are you so… FLUKE!!"

"I can carry the little one to the tent. It's no trouble."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes ma'am. It's no trouble." Canvas nodded affirmingly.

"Thank you… ah, I don't believe we ever asked you your name, I am sorry."

No mothers to name us, only brothers.

"Your brothers named you?" the talkative toddler inquires, brightening up as Canvas continues to carry them through the camp. There was time for more questions after all.

"They sure did."

"And do you like your name?"

"I love my name." That name was a gift from his brothers. All of them. Its poetic origin meant too much to do anything but love it.

"Which brother gave you your name? Was it one of them?" The little freckled fingers touched each scuff mark reverentially. (Maker, to think his own fingers were ever that little for a short time.)

"One of my commanding officers." They pass by a commanding officer with these words, entirely a funny little coincidence. But it's not Canvas's, this officer bears a different color.

"Umm… Who has the funniest name? A-are there any?"

"Whoops, hair's gotten an inch past the standard cut… Think I'm starting to look a little-"

"Ahem."

"A-a little, uh, unkempt! I was gonna say unkempt!"

"Sure-sure…"

Just three tents away from medical.

"Who made you the bird nest again?" Canvas takes the whittled treasure back, tucking it away in his utility belt alongside the wooden worry stone.

"So if he made you the bird nest, are birds your favorite animal?"

"Sure can, Canvas. Set up on the second cot for me, and grab yourselves a hydro pack each. You marched a long way in if you came from the southwest. No one's getting dehydrated on my watch."

"Always." the medic laughs. It's promising. "I like the talkers now and then. You sit down and rest your feet."

"But I should really go report in to the Cap-"

"Do Clones have a favorite brother?" Woof, what a loaded question to ask a medic.

Canvas knew that applied to him in each sense; he was so grateful for it now. Grateful for those brothers who took care of him because they had a rather… unique mother. (Forget the long-necks.)

If Kamino was their mother, and all her sons were brothers, then they should take good care of one another.

We have no traditional mothers. Just a billion brothers.

[FIRST INSTALLMENT] [NEXT INSTALLMENT]

#frostfics #I Have No Mother Only A Brother #star wars #clone oc: Canvas #clone oc: Gunnar/Faro/Cryfar/Fluke #clone oc: Scruffy #clone oc: Cairn #clone oc: Carver #tcw headcanons #tcw drabble #swtcw #sw tcw #tcw

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stirlingmoss · 2 years

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Chapter Seven Lessons from Those We Love

Kareem has always admonished me about Maha’s animosity toward the male sex, as I raised our son and two daughters in an atmosphere where I habitually questioned the customs of our own country. Each of my three children interpreted the same lesson lectured by their mother in a different way. From the time they were small children, I have never stopped advocating that every Saudi, male or female, must have state protection to live with freedom and dignity, and that no man should be held in higher esteem than a female.

My eldest child, Abdullah, fully absorbed my lesson of equality. As a result, my son clearly has a high regard for women; that is to say, he respects females in the same manner he respects males. This concern for others, whether male or female, has helped to make him into a wonderful son, a loving husband, and a wise father.

Maha, my eldest daughter, listened carefully to her mother’s opinions but did not blindly accept my view that change must come to our country. Instead, she looked around her to see how females were schooled in comparison with males. Too often she saw evidence that her female friends were mistreated by their fathers and brothers. Maha came to the conclusion, as far as the government and most Saudi men were concerned, that females in her country counted for little. Since Maha is female, this did not sit well with her. As a teenager, she believed that if she focused all her energies on fighting for the rights of women she would succeed in making Saudi Arabia a favorable living space for females. But the people of my country are not prepared for a girl like Maha, so failure was inevitable. She was saddened to learn of the lost lives of her girlfriends, who were forced to stop their schooling, or were married against their will—girls who suffered in so many ways due to what she considered to be antiquated and unfair practices. Finally, after meeting with disappointment after disappointment, a dejected Maha threw aside the female prison garb of Saudi Arabian traditions and fled to live freely in Europe.

Amani, my third child, appears to have been nurtured by the most conservative clerics rather than her free-thinking mother. She calls for every female to live under the strict rule of a male. She claims to enjoy bestowing on her husband the crown of dictator. While Amani’s husband is a most benevolent dictator, and living under his rule is not so difficult, I have often asked my daughter if she would yearn for freedom if her husband were a man who took joy from beating her, or keeping her from her family, or taking a second or third wife, or demanding divorce with full custody of her son, little Khalid. Although Kareem and I would shield our daughter from such a fate, other young women in the kingdom have no such protection. But nothing I say penetrates the thickness of Amani’s “anti–freedom for women” view.

As I mentioned earlier, my son is a man who believes that all women should be treated as equal to men. His devotion to his wife Zain and daughter Little Sultana has proven his worth when it comes to female freedom.

In fact, an afternoon tea with my daughter-in-law Zain would bring positive change to our entire family through a circular route when we were inadvertently led to a Saudi woman named Laila.

When Maha and I entered Zain’s home, she met us at the door, exclaiming joy at our arrival.

***

But before telling you about Laila and her impact upon our entire family, I would first like to introduce Zain, as she has so endeared herself to our family. My daughter-in-law is a very unusual Saudi royal woman and now a very important member of our small family. She is pretty, kindly, and unique in a most surprising way—she has been blessed by God with a magnificent singing voice. We were taken aback the first time we heard Zain break into song because we had never heard such an extraordinary voice in our lives.

I will never forget that day. Kareem and I had unexpectedly traveled to Jeddah for something which I no longer recall and while there had decided to visit our newly married son. On our arrival Abdullah explained that Zain had not yet prepared herself for the day, so Kareem and he were sitting with me in the sunroom, facing the blue waters of the Red Sea, when all of a sudden an extremely strong and beautiful voice burst from within the closed doors of the wing where the palace bedrooms were located.

A puzzled Kareem asked his son, “Who is that singing?” Abdullah blushed and said, “I would rather not say, Father.”

My heart missed a beat, for I feared that my son had foolishly taken a concubine into his home, something many of the young princes do after they marry the woman of their dreams, little knowing that the only woman who really matters will be so wounded that the marriage will suffer.

“You must tell us, Abdullah,” I urged.

“Abdullah,” Kareem said in a firm voice, “you must identify this strange woman in your home.”

Abdullah stared at his father with what I believed was an amused expression, as one side of his lip curled in a smile. For a moment, I thought marriage might have turned my dutiful son into a rude man.

“Finally, he spoke. “I will ask if I have permission to tell you,” he said, then walked away, his freshly washed and ironed long white thobe rustling with each step.

Kareem and I exchanged looks of astonishment. What was going on with our son? Who was this strange woman who had taken up residence in our son’s palace? Where was Zain?

Although the minutes felt like hours, Abdullah soon returned with his embarrassed bride. Always prepared for Saudi men, even my own son, to behave in unbecoming ways, I truly dreaded that my son was about to tell me something I did not wish to hear.

Abdullah’s serious face broke into a smile when he saw our alarm. “Mother, Father, I would like you to acknowledge the owner of the most beautiful voice in the world, your daughter-in-law.”

I took a deep breath and rose to my feet, hugging my son and his wife, while exclaiming, “Where did you learn to sing, Zain?”

“I have never received lessons,” Zain explained. “One day when I was a little girl I started singing and over the years my voice has grown stronger.” The dear girl was embarrassed and modest. “I only sing when I believe I am alone.” She glanced up at Abdullah.

“And I sing for my husband, of course.”

Abdullah smiled proudly and I could easily see that my worries had been for nothing. My son and his wife were showing me that they had the greatest of affection for each other. “Then you are one of the rare people who are born with a phenomenal voice.”

My husband was overly excited. This is because Kareem is a fan of opera music. He later told me that he truly believed his daughter-in-law could easily win a leading role at the Teatro alla Scala, the famous opera house in Milan, one of the principal opera houses not just in Italy but also the world. Of course, no Saudi family would ever allow one of its daughters to participate in such a public role, but it is nice to think about the day when such a thing will be possible for Saudi females.

Since that day we have made requests for Zain to entertain us, but she is shy about doing so, although there are times when Abdullah will put on background music and encourage Zain to entertain the family. Her unique talent is unknown to the world, as she reveals her pleasing voice only to our family.

Even her brothers are unaware of her exquisite talent, as Zain says she lived as a shadow to her six brothers in her youth; the family was too busy pursuing boyish diversions to notice the sister’s voice.

Zain appears unimpressed by her ability; she says that her husband and children hold most of her heart and singing is nothing more than a pleasant pastime. Thankfully, she makes sincere efforts to be an important part of our family life in a way that has created tremendous love from our side. Physically, she is tall and slender with very pale skin and dark eyes that glow with kindness. She has a bright smile and has endeared herself to us from the beginning of her marriage to Abdullah. I know that my son is very pleased with his wife and therefore his family is equally pleased.

Although Zain was raised in a family more conservative than our own, she appears to feel no bitterness that her parents made it known that her life was felt to be less important than that of her brothers. She remembers many melancholy moments while growing up feeling undervalued, but, unlike most females thus mistreated, she holds no animus toward her family, or our culture and country. Thanks be to God that Zain was educated through high school and she has some interest in the world outside her own life, for my son would become bored with an uneducated wife concerned only with her hair, jewelry, fashions, and furnishings. Zain is very different from most of our royal cousins, as she is unified with her husband in caring about the plight of others.

Sadly, due to the way women in Saudi Arabia are viewed by men, most females have little opportunity to participate in public life—even those women who are keenly interested in bettering our situation.

As far as the royal women are concerned, none have worries when it comes to the necessities of life. I have discovered that most of my royal cousins care only for the valuable possessions that their tremendous wealth can provide. I recognize that life is empty and dull when one thinks only of oneself and I am so very relieved that this selfish attitude does not apply to Maha, Amani, Sara, Little Sultana, Zain, or me.

Zain’s marriage to my son came about as a stroke of terrific luck. Although we had heard of Zain’s family, we knew nothing personal about Zain until my sister Sara attended the wedding of one of Zain’s aunties, whose husband had divorced her to marry a beautiful singer from Egypt. That exciting singer was the talk of the wedding, Sara said, and she felt so sorry for the abandoned wife, who was marrying yet another royal cousin well known for his tremendous love for any woman he could snare. Sara’s soft heart felt so bad for the females of the family that she spent extra time chatting with all the women of that branch. While most of the women were nice enough, once Sara had had an opportunity to enjoy a brief conversation with Zain, she was impressed with her appearance and her quiet dignity. Sara returned from the wedding, reporting directly to me that she had met an exceptional young woman. She held my shoulder and stared into my eyes, telling me, “Sultana, I know with my whole heart that your son will have an attraction for the pretty Zain.”

Abdullah was at a turning point in his life and he had mentioned that he would like to meet someone special and settle into domestic life with a wife and children. Since males and females still do not mingle socially in Saudi Arabia, there is no easy way for those of a marriageable age to come into contact with very many members of the opposite sex.

After Abdullah made his wishes known to me, I began to carefully observe royal female cousins of a certain age whenever I attended social functions. I had not met with success, as I am a mother who wants only the best for her son. No woman I met was educated enough, or nice enough, or beautiful enough, for my only son. Of course, Amani had four or five extremely religious friends who she claimed were perfect for Abdullah, but none of us could trust Amani’s recommendations. Abdullah was not of the mind to marry someone who would be harping at him to pray every moment of the day; he has an easy, caring disposition, and is a believer and a genuinely good man.

After Sara’s recommendation, she and I invited Zain’s mother to Sara’s home for a visit. This arrangement is not unusual in the royal family, for all females tend to love matchmaking.

Zain’s mother was initially reserved; in my country, mothers of eligible daughters generally behave in this manner in order to indicate that their daughter has so many suitors that their social calendar is booked for weeks. Knowing this, I did not fret when it took a week for Zain’s mother to accept our invitation.

The week passed quickly, and I was struck by admiration and delight rather rapidly after meeting Zain. Although I had no in-depth knowledge of her character, I agreed with Sara that Zain was beautiful but, most important, she was interesting. I know from my experiences in life that an interesting personality is one of the most important ingredients when it comes to forming a lasting marriage. Beauty alone does not hold attention for very long, as there must be a peg of unique personality traits from which to hang a marriage.

The family approved the idea of my showing a picture of Zain to my son. At first Abdullah pulled back, for he was nervous about such a commitment, but after studying her image for many long moments, he brought a big smile to my face when he said, “Mother, I see something interesting in her face that has touched me and created a desire to meet this woman.”

With his words, I knew that my son was approaching marriage with the correct attitude, to find a wife who would interest him in the years after the initial physical attraction had calmed.

Both families then decided that it was appropriate for Abdullah and Zain to enjoy a supervised meeting at Sara’s home.

The meeting surpassed my son’s expectations. Although I chatted amiably with Zain’s female relatives, I kept a sharp eye on my son. Zain was shy and Abdullah was confident, which is not that unusual in most cultures of the world. The words they quietly exchanged with each other I have never known, but after the social meeting ended Abdullah asked to speak with Kareem and me together, and said, “Please, this is the right woman for me. Do arrange the details, so that we can marry.”

And so we did. We were pleased that neither Zain nor her mother feigned disinterest. So many mothers and daughters carry on with this charade, thinking that if they pretend to be less keen they will receive an increase in the dowry offer, although in this case both families are of the royal family and Zain’s family was not in need of money. The truth was that Zain was attracted to Abdullah, just as my son was attracted to her.

And so a happy day came to pass when my son married his cousin, Zain Al Sa’ud, in an unpretentious but meaningful wedding ceremony held in a modern hotel in Jeddah. As with most Saudi weddings, women came together at the hotel ballroom, while men celebrated under magnificent white party tents set up a few miles outside Jeddah on the way to Mecca, our holy city.

The event was perfect and, although I wept, they were tears of joy and not sadness. The words are trite, but they are meaningful, for I knew that I was not losing my son—I was gaining a daughter.

And so Kareem and I increased our family numbers with the lovely Zain, an important family member who would soon provide us with greatly anticipated grandchildren. I am so thankful that I have always experienced a friendly relationship with my son’s wife. I know that she is a wonderful wife to Abdullah as well as a devoted mother to her children. If I were given the opportunity to select from all the princesses of Saudi Arabia, I could not find a more lovely friend and wife for my son.

But not all Saudi women are as fortunate as Zain. The number of Saudi girls who never marry is increasing. My own daughter, Maha, is one of these women.

***

And so it came to be that it was through Zain and Little Sultana that Maha met Laila, a young Saudi woman whose personality appeared very similar to my own daughter’s. As we were exchanging proper greetings with Zain, Little Sultana merrily skipped into the room, her long hair bouncing. I instantly noticed that it had been arranged in an unusual style of coiled curls held in place by tiny animal-shaped diamonds. I was exclaiming over her hairstyle when Maha stooped to examine Little Sultana’s new hairdo. She questioned Zain: “Who styled Little Sultana’s hair? It’s very elegant.”

“Mother led me to this new hairdresser. Her name is Laila.”

“Is she Lebanese?” Maha asked. Her question was sensible, as it has been our experience that Lebanese women are the best hairdressers and makeup artists, as there are a number who have set up shop in Saudi Arabia hoping to make their fortune should some Saudi princess discover their talents and employ them as personal coiffeurs, perhaps to live in a palace and accompany a princess who travels all over the world to visit and stay in her various palaces.

When I was a young girl, hair salons and beauty parlors were prohibited by the Saudi religious police, who maintained that it was against Islam for a woman to enhance her beauty and that women should be happy with the way God made them. In those days it was not unusual to spot groups of unruly mutawa s creating chaos by storming establishments for women. Often those mean-eyed men would detain all the women in the shop, customers who desired a beauty treatment and workers who were earning money to support their families by bringing joy to women who wanted nothing more than to have their hair styled, their eyebrows plucked, and their nails polished.

But we are blessed that ideas are changing in Saudi Arabia, and nowadays it is not uncommon for women to spend an afternoon at a beauty salon.

Little Sultana unexpectedly responded to the question Maha had addressed to her mother, Zain: “No, Auntie Maha. Laila is one of us.”

I smiled proudly at my adorable granddaughter, knowing what she meant. “Really? She is Saudi?”

“Yes, a Saudi girl.”

“Well, well, the world is changing,” I announced happily, for it was most unusual for a Saudi girl to work serving others. While Saudi girls often seek careers and routinely work as teachers, doctors, and dentists (specializing in women and children), few families will allow a daughter to take on a job where she must serve others, by becoming, for example, a nurse, hairdresser, or housekeeper.

“However, in the past year, new jobs had opened up in shops for women, such as the lingerie shops, and in high-end beauty establishments, although this was the first time I had heard of a Saudi hairdresser.

Zain looked approvingly at her daughter. “Sultana is right. This Saudi girl is one of us, and she has a big following in the royal family. Laila is quite inventive with her comb.” Zain made a cute expression with her wide eyes and perky lips, then continued. “She even made Auntie Medina’s thin locks seem full.

I could not see one speck of scalp under her latest hairstyle.”

“No! Really?” Maha retorted.

Females in the royal family familiar with Medina felt bad for her as, since childhood, our cousin has been afflicted with “lightweight,” thinning hair that scarcely masks her wrinkled scalp. Not having ample hair is a big problem for any woman, but more so in our Arab society. Although when we are in public our hair is concealed under a headscarf, in private this is not the case. At female gatherings most display their locks proudly, as there is much attention given to a woman’s hair. Hair is worn long and in a variety of elaborate styles, so as to receive compliments and attention.

But poor Medina is always reluctant to remove her headscarf, for obvious reasons. People can be cruel in my culture, and it was not unusual for the younger children to stare, point, and laugh at the nearly bald Medina, even when their mothers were twisting their ears, pinching their arms, or threatening some other such violence.

Medina had consulted a variety of doctors in the Arab world and in Europe, but none could solve the problem. One British physician claimed that she was born with an autoimmune disorder and that she must accept her fate. A patronizing Egyptian physician said the condition was triggered by the stress of living the life of a Saudi woman. A group of physicians brought into the kingdom from Syria for special consultation debated whether or not she was unconsciously pulling on her hair.

We admired Medina because her determination to solve her hair problem has never flagged. Lately, we had heard that she had hired three female hair therapists to rub her scalp for four hours each day with heated coconut oil to increase circulation to her scalp and also to plump up her hair follicles with coconut nutrients.

Does this Laila have a special trick to help ladies with seriously thinning hair?” Maha inquired.

Little Sultana bounced from one foot to the other, bursting to speak. When Zain nodded and smiled, my granddaughter laughed and retorted, “Yes, Miss Laila said it was simple, and all one had to do is remember CCBB.”

Mystified, I asked, “CCBB? What does that mean, darling?”

“Yes. Tell us the secret of the lettering, Little Sultana,” Maha said with a grin.

Little Sultana glanced at her mother with a bewildered expression. “Mummy?”

Zain laughed aloud. “You precious girl, you can remember.” Zain then reminded her, “Cool . . .”

“I know, I know.” Little Sultana announced the words clearly: “Cool Cut and Brush the Boar!”

“What?” Maha laughed.

Zain told us. “It’s a simple way for those with thinning hair to encourage growth and stop thinning.

Laila says that one with thinning hair must remember the words cool, cut, brush, and boar, meaning cool your hair, don’t heat it. Cut your hair and don’t try to wear it long. And finally, brush against your natural part with a boar bristle brush.”

“How clever,” Maha murmured. “This Laila sounds very intelligent.”

“She is that,” Zain replied. “She is a Saudi girl who has lived a life with many knotty problems, like so many Saudi females. But she has fought oppression and followed her dream of owning her business and living as freely as a woman can live in this country. Laila is a winner.”

I looked at Maha and saw her eyes shining with curiosity. Weeks later I recalled Maha’s words as the four of us wandered down the hallway and into the sitting area. “Zain, I would like to go with you and Little Sultana to your next appointment with this Laila.”

***

Over the next few weeks, Maha surprised us when she postponed her return trip to Europe several times.

One day when she believed that I would be away in Jeddah with her father, she sent one of our drivers to bring the hairdresser Laila to our home, as she had invited the girl to spend several days at our palace.

Maha was unaware that I had not left the palace to accompany Kareem to Jeddah but instead was in my bedroom apartments suffering from a stomach bug I had contracted.

The sounds of women’s lively voices and loud laughter drifted to my hearing, and for a moment I believed I was in a mirage of happy women, as I was not expecting visitors and thought for sure everything was a result of my imagination. When I overheard Maha’s distinct voice, I realized that she was most likely chatting and laughing with some of our housemaids, as my daughter has always enjoyed discovering the lives of those living with and working for us. Wishing that my daughter was a girl who was not quite so boisterous, I turned over to lie on my stomach and covered my head with a pillow.

A few hours later, after hearing a second voice unfamiliar to me, my curiosity drove me to get out of bed and freshen myself and make an appearance to see who was visiting with my child.

Voices remained forceful until I tapped on the door of Maha’s private sitting room, and then all became silent. Maha surely must have crept to the door, for I had heard nothing of her footsteps before she cracked open the door and peered in surprise at my eyes staring at her.

Knowing her mother well, and mindful that I would not go away until the mystery guest was known, Maha reluctantly opened the door. “Mother, I thought you were in Jeddah with Father.”

“No, I have a tummy bug, darling. I did not feel like travel.” I attempted to peek around my daughter’s large frame to identify her company, but she is a robust girl at least six inches taller than her mother and heavier by twenty kilos. In our family, Kareem, Abdullah, and Maha are large and strong, while Amani is more like me physically, small and light.

I stepped into the room to see a vibrant young woman with a huge smile sitting sipping from a cup.

I stood at a distance, but welcomed her with a smile, saying, “Please excuse me for not greeting you properly, but I would not wish to share this tummy bug with anyone.”

“You are most kind, Princess,” the young woman responded, as she stood and lowered her head in acknowledgment.

“Mother, I would like you to meet my friend, Laila, the talented hairdresser who looks after Zain’s and Little Sultana’s hair.”

“Assalam alaykum [Hello and peace be upon you]. So, you are the Laila who has so pleased my daughter-in-law, and my granddaughter.” I chuckled as I recalled the story told us by Zain. “And the amazingly talented hairdresser who has made my cousin Medina’s life so much more agreeable. We have fretted with Medina over her lack of hair since she was a child.”

Laila smiled. “You are most kind to say so, Princess.”

Maha insisted that we leave her apartments and go into our family sitting room, where she ordered light snacks, tea, and soft drinks from the palace kitchen. I sat at a distance from the girls, not wishing to spread my germs, but I selected a good seat so that I could see both clearly.

“Laila,” I said, “I would enjoy knowing your story. I hear that you are an unusual girl who has overcome the obstructions of Saudi Arabia, the system that works against women trying to fulfill their dreams.” I glanced at my daughter. “Maha might have told you that I lend support to females who have a strong desire to break out of the ordinary Saudi mold.”

“No, she did not mention that,” Laila replied.

Maha raised her eyebrows and shot me a pleading look. I knew that my daughter wished for me to vanish back into my bedroom and leave her to enjoy her company in peace, but I have always been a mother who takes a strong interest in the friends of her children and I have accepted that I will never curb this curiosity. So I leaned back into my chair and became comfortable, as I sipped hot green tea in the hope that it would settle my stomach.

“You seem so young, Laila. May I ask your age?”

“Yes, Princess. I was twenty-three years old nearly a year ago.”

“Are you in college?”

Maha protested, “Mother, please. You know that Laila owns her own shop and is working. How could she be in college?”

“Oh, sorry. You are right, daughter.”

“Do not worry, Maha. I am happy to tell your mother about my life,” Laila assured my daughter, who was growing impatient. Knowing Maha, I knew that she would soon grab her friend by the hand to flee from me.

“You are right, daughter.” I glanced at our guest. “Sorry, Laila, but I heard enough about you from Zain to arouse my interest.” I laughed. “I so love it when Saudi girls are able to escape from the clutches of men, who try to prevent women from following their dreams.”

“It was a man who helped me to realize my dream, Princess.”

I was not as surprised as some would think, as over the past few years a number of educated Saudi men have begun secretly helping their daughters to achieve education and then to find employment. To my disappointment, Saudi mothers and sisters are too often the main culprits when it comes to discouraging their daughters from achieving an education and realizing their ambitions. The women of Saudi Arabia who are interested only in marriage and motherhood are fast becoming the biggest obstacles to females who are aching to escape such bondage. It is as though some Saudi women fear female success and achievement almost as much as most Saudi males. If they are satisfied living under the strict guardianship of a man and are content to greet each day without education and work, they fail to understand that, for others, this life is little more than a prison sentence, something to be endured. In other words, it is no life at all.

I understood this discouraging phenomenon better than most, as my daughter Amani would have chained her sister Maha to the old ways had she the power to do so, while my son Abdullah, who is an enlightened young man, fights for his sister’s right to make her own choices.

Although I would like nothing better than for my Maha to share my feelings on marriage and children, I learned years ago that this was never going to happen. In the past, there were moments when I experienced great distress that this was so, but since my daughter is now an adult and lives in Europe I do not dwell on this situation. Kareem, I am sorry to say, has never accepted Maha’s lifestyle, but at least he does not create strain in the family, as my husband has a marvelous capacity for burying his head in the sand and pretending that it is nothing unusual that our daughter refuses any discussion regarding marriage and family.

Although I embrace the possibility of change, suddenly Saudi life seems rather topsy-turvy to me.

With the hint of change coming for females, some men are becoming our friends and supporters, while the women who should be helping us are opposing us.

I pushed for more information, much to the dismay of Maha.

“You have so impressed members of my family, Laila, that I would be honored to hear your story.

Will you share it with me, please?”

Maha feigned a deep sigh and nestled into the thick cushions of the sofa. “All right, Mother. Laila, just tell her what she wants to know, otherwise we will be here all day while Mother picks and probes.”

Laila looked in surprise at my daughter’s impertinence. Saudi children do not usually speak in such an insolent manner to their parents. I smiled at Maha, then Laila. “Do not worry, I have an unusual relationship with my children, Laila. I want to know exactly what they are thinking, even when they are irritated with their long-suffering mother.”

Laila looked at Maha. Her expressive eyes told me that she did not approve of Maha’s rude conduct with her mother. Perhaps this girl would be good for my daughter, I thought, and would remind her of her good fortune in having a mother who loved her beyond reason.

“I’m really an ordinary girl, Princess,” Laila declared. “Most of my friends in school are like me, with most of them wanting a say in their future rather than walking the stale path of sacrificing everything in life to serve a man and to bear his children.”

I nodded, aware that education has a way of freeing girls from the belief that only a man and his wishes are important.

“Like most Saudi girls, after graduation from high school, my parents, both my father and my mother, yearned for me to accept a marriage to a man I did not know. They had several men in mind from my father’s village, all too old for a girl of seventeen, and I did not want such a marriage. I fought against marriage. Just as they were about to force the situation, my mother relented to my pleas, but my father became more firm. He is a man who believes that women should be bonded to a man and to a house filled with little children. Otherwise, he says, a woman will cause disgrace to the family.

“I spent most of my days in bed with depression so severe that my mother became concerned that I might take my own life. Although she wanted me to marry and to produce grandchildren, her fear for my well-being overcame her desire to force her daughter to marry. But she was helpless, unable to overpower my father’s wishes.”

Laila paused for a long time, blinking back tears. Maha patted her hand in a soothing manner and looked angrily at me, as though I were responsible for the traditions and laws governing women’s lives in Saudi Arabia.

My daughter spoke through gritted teeth, “Sometimes I hate my own country.”

“It is all right, Maha,” Laila said. “I am sorry, but I become emotional remembering those difficult times when I was so close to everything I did not want. I was terrified that I was going to be forced to submit to a strange man who would take me away from my parents and compel me to give in to his every wish. Then, to my complete surprise, my oldest brother came to my rescue. Lucky for me, he works at Saudi Aramco in Dhahran.”

I smiled and nodded, reflecting for a moment on Aramco, which is the Saudi company that owns the world’s largest oil fields, the Ghawar Field and the Shaybah Field. It is currently the most valuable company in the world, according to financial experts, with a value as high as $10 trillion. The company traces its origins to the 1920s, when the United States government was seeking sources of oil from the Middle East. The Standard Oil Company of California struck oil seeking sources of oil from the Middle East. The Standard Oil Company of California struck oil on Bahrain in early 1932, and that event brought them to the mainland of Arabia the following year, when our government granted the Americans a concession to explore oil in our newly formed country. After four long years of failure, oil was found in Dhahran, at a well named Dammam No. 7, since it was the seventh site drilled.

The Americans built their own little gated city in Dhahran approximately eighty years ago, a city formed for the single purpose of administrating the Saudi oil business. It is an important place, where men and women are not kept separate from one another. Most modern-minded people in the world find it unbelievable that even in 2014, in most of Saudi Arabia, women are believed to be so lustful that they are kept separate from the men in all walks of public and even private life, but that is not the case in Dhahran Aramco. The little community was a good lesson for Saudi men, in my opinion.

I had lapsed into such deep thoughts that Laila had ceased to speak. The dear girl was respecting my silence. “Go on,” I encouraged her, then asked, “Does your brother live in the Aramco compound?”

“Yes, he does, Princess. It was there that he was exposed to a more modern view of life, with men and women working beside each other. My brother saw firsthand that women could be a productive part of society and that they do not spend their time and energy attempting to seduce every man they see, as so many of our men stupidly believe.

“The attitude shown toward women at the company changed my brother and transformed my future.

After his experience with the Americans, he did not accept an arranged marriage but in fact, fell in love with a Saudi girl who was working at the company. She is an unusual Saudi woman in that she is strong-willed and commands respect. She does not accept abuse from anyone. His wife bore him a daughter and a son, and to our amazement his favorite of the two children is his daughter. Working in a company where women are respected, and married to a woman he loved, my brother had slowly awakened from the

‘Saudi sleep’ so common to men of our country, where they do not even notice the unhappiness enveloping the women around them.”

“Go on,” I encouraged her, then asked, “Does your brother live in the Aramco compound?”

“The attitude shown toward women at the company changed my brother and transformed my future.

‘Saudi sleep’ so common to men of our country, where they do not even notice the unhappiness enveloping the women around them.

“And it came to pass that I was spared a miserable life. When my brother learned of the ongoing struggle between my father and me, he came to our home and showed an interest in my thoughts and feelings. The biggest shock of my life was when my brother asked what would make me happy, what ambitions did I hold? I was not sure how to respond, but then he remembered that for my entire life I was known throughout the extended family as the girl with a natural talent for arranging elaborate and beautiful hairstyles. I was the one who had always fashioned the hair of my cousins on their wedding days. I was delighted to tell him that my greatest joy was working with women to enhance their looks. In particular, I took great pleasure in creating beautiful hairstyles, for that is where my true talent lay.

“I could see that he was thinking deeply of everything I had said. He seemed genuinely concerned for me and my future happiness, and he asked that I give him some time to seek out a solution. After speaking with me, he talked for a long time with our mother and told her that it was her duty to keep her daughters safe and that I should not be married against my will.

“A boulder of strength passed from him to my mother, as his words fortified my mother’s will to speak back to her husband, my father. My brother obviously met with my father and gave him a similar message; Father became angry and distant, but he also ceased all talk of marriage. Most important, my brother gained guardianship over me.

Most important, my brother gained guardianship over me when he asked my father to transfer guardianship to him. So nothing has given me more freedom than to have a sympathetic guardian, who is my brother.“A month later my brother came for a second visit. Never shall I forget that day. He looked into my sad face and whispered, ‘Do not worry, sister. I will run with you and together we will catch your dream.’“My brother had returned with a well-researched plan. He had met with various people to find out the legal steps he must take to open a small business. He recognized that my natural talents drew me into the circle of those who establish and work in the female beauty business. He was glad that the clerics had become less aggressive against such establishments in recent years, although he said that one young cleric in training had told him that women should be happy with the way God had made them. He disagreed with the idea that women should be allowed to style their hair and wear makeup as such a thing meant that they were going against God!

“My brother tried to soothe that cleric but had little luck in doing so. My brother believes that such thinkers have a difficult time pulling their thoughts out of the gutter.

“My brother was happy to learn that Saudi Arabia’s Technical and Vocational Training Corp (TVTC) had announced that they would soon issue business licenses to women to open and operate beauty salons. Since the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia has many unemployed women looking for work, this is a method to help those women find jobs. And so he found a small outlet in a strip of buildings designated for business and he purchased one.

“Once this was accomplished, my brother invited me to dinner to celebrate. That is when he presented me with the business license, which stated that he was the owner of a beauty salon. He assured me that it was in name only, that the beauty salon was mine to organize. He gave me the start-up funds and left the business to me. Since he was appointed as my guardian, my brother signed papers giving me the authority to open up a bank account at one of the women’s banks in the city. So I am now allowed to handle the money I earn.”

I was happy to hear this news, as I have heard numerous complaints from young women who are given permission to work but never allowed to collect a salary. Most fathers in Saudi Arabia demand that their daughters’ salaries be given to them. So many girls never see a single riyal they earn, which is a great crime, but so long as every Saudi girl is required to be ruled by a male guardian nothing can be done.

Laila sighed loudly. “Now, three years later, the business is thriving and I am so happy that I am the first person in our home to rise from my bed and many days even prepare breakfast for all in our home before my brother drives me to my business. our home to rise from my bed and many days even prepare breakfast for all in our home before my brother drives me to my business.

“There is such joy in my heart, Princess. When I gaze at my six-chair salon, with its walls covered in colorful photographs of beautiful women with luxurious long, dark hair, I can barely believe that I am the one who has made this possible. Most pleasant for me is the realization that the four divorced Saudi women who work in this salon are supporting their little children with their earnings. This fact adds sweet cream on the cake of life.

“So I am a Saudi woman who respects and admires her brother. Had he not stepped forward to help me, I would be without a single riyal to my name. I would be helpless to advance my dreams or to facilitate other women with work so they might provide the basics of life. I would most likely be in a loveless marriage to a man who would think it his business to follow my every move. Going to market, I would be forced to follow his footsteps, all the while stumbling along covered by a full veil. I would be his slave, cooking his food and cleaning his house, and delivering a baby every year. I would be miserable because I am not yet ready to be married. Although I know I will marry one day, now at least I can taste freedom and have some time to organize a business. I can buy my own clothes and even purchase gifts for my family members.

“Operating this business is a full education, in my opinion, because Saudi Arabia is filled with people from all over the world who come into our country to work. The women from these foreign lands long to visit a place where they can have their hair styled and their fingernails painted. While my employees and I work our magic to make them even more beautiful than they are, these women tell us many things about their home countries.”

Laila glanced at Maha. “I am discovering that there are many scandalous things that occur in these foreign lands, unusual situations between men and women that create a lot of gasping and giggling in my little shop. I am learning that there is a big world I know nothing of, but, as time passes and I save funds for travel, I would like to leave Saudi Arabia and explore other lands and other cultures. Who knows, I might one day become mischievous just like those girls from other cultures so different from my own, something that I would have never considered until I became free to think my own thoughts. Without operating my own business, I would have never known that girls, too, can have fun and enjoy freedom.

“And, that, Princess, is my story.”

“And what a wonderful story it is, Laila,” I replied. “Now you can plan your future without fear of any man. I pray to Allah that every female born in our country may achieve her personal dreams.” I glanced at my daughter, who was gazing at Laila with an intense expression I had never before seen.

“Maha?” I interrupted.

“Oh, Mother, sorry. I was thinking how unfair it is that any woman should have to endure fear and trauma such as Laila did, only because she prefers to postpone marriage while she pursues a career.”

“Yes, you are right, daughter.”

“Mother, I believe that you should rest until your stomach has calmed. Shall I walk you to your quarters?”

My oldest daughter has always been blunt, and I took the hint that she desired privacy to discuss these points with her friend, so I excused myself and returned to my private quarters to rest. For several hours, I reclined in bed and attempted to read Memoirs from the Women’s Prison, a thought-provoking book written by Egyptian physician, feminist, and author Nawal El Saadawi, a highly respected woman once imprisoned in Egypt’s notorious Qanatir Women’s Prison. Nawal is one of my heroes. But even her book could not keep my mind from dwelling on Maha and how my daughter had exchanged expressions of affection with Laila.

“What was going on with my daughter?

I was to discover the answer soon enough.

Several weeks later, Kareem returned home in a rare rage. I was sitting at my dressing table, applying kohl to my eyelids and eyelashes. Kohl is an ancient cosmetic for the eyes, used by many Middle Eastern and African women. Kareem so startled me that I spread kohl over my forehead rather than on my eyelids.

“Kareem, husband, what is going on?”

“Sultana, did you know what Maha is planning?”

“No. What is our daughter planning?” I asked, although I felt a dread working through my chest and stomach.

“Maha is taking her hairdresser with her back to Europe.”

I sat without speaking, remembering those affectionate glances and wondering if they were a result of forbidden thoughts or were perhaps nothing more than two young women enjoying a normal friendship.

But never would I have expressed my concerns to my husband.

“Sultana? Did you know about this?”

I answered truthfully, “No, Kareem. No. You are telling me this information. I knew nothing about such a trip before this very minute.”

“Our daughter is crossing a line, Sultana. She can do as she pleases when in Europe, but I expect different conduct when she is in Saudi Arabia.”

“A line? I do not believe that Maha has crossed this line you are speaking of.”

“She is taking a Saudi woman out of the kingdom.”

“Surely the woman’s guardian has given her permission. Does she not have the right to visit Europe? In fact, when I met the young woman she expressed a sincere interest in traveling, something she has never before done.”

I asked Kareem, “How did you discover particulars of this trip?”

“Amani called me.”

“Amani?” I was more than surprised. Maha was not known to divulge her secrets to her younger sister.

“Amani said she had accidentally stumbled across some airline tickets made out to Maha and her hairdresser.”

I recalled that Amani had visited our home a few days earlier and had asked if Maha was in her quarters. Maha was away at the time, and I had thought nothing of Amani’s curiosity about her sister until I later walked into Maha’s rooms and found Amani searching through one of the wooden storage chests that hold many of Maha’s private papers. Amani had said she was looking for some photographs to show her husband, but now I knew that Amani had been spying on her sister.

“I am sure there is a good explanation, Kareem. As I mentioned, I met this hairdresser Laila and she is a lovely woman. She works hard at her craft and is highly respected. She and Maha became friends and nothing more. You know how Amani thinks, husband. She sees wrongdoing when there is no wrongdoing.

Please, let us wait and speak to Maha.”

At that moment Amani rushed through the door, her abaya and veil floating behind her; she was moving so fast her Islamic garments were falling off her body.

“Mother,” Amani screeched, “did you know that Maha has taken a lover?”

To my despair, Maha arrived at that exact moment and overheard her sister’s accusing words. Maha grabbed her sister by her long hair and yanked her across the room. Amani screamed loudly and Kareem and I had to move fast to separate our daughters.

My anger was directed at Amani, while Kareem was upset with Maha.

“Apologize to your sister,” I ordered Amani. “You cannot make such reckless accusations!”

“Daughter, you will disgrace us all,” Kareem said in a cold voice to Maha.

As Allah is my witness, that was the moment Abdullah, Zain, and Little Sultana called out from the hallway. They could hear the commotion and were very alarmed.

“Do not enter this room,” I shouted to my son, as I pulled on Amani’s ear, which produced a scream from my daughter. Of course, my demand and our shouts created such anxiety that Abdullah did not obey but instead pushed through the door and hurried into my rooms, perhaps thinking that intruders were in our home and I was trying to warn him to run away with his family. We had agreed in the past that it would be best for someone to sound the alarm should we ever be in danger of a kidnapping.

My son was shocked when he saw his father, mother, and two sisters in a twisted bundle, each one holding on to another.

“Mother, what is going on?”

My heart plunged in distress when I saw Zain and Little Sultana clutching each other, mother and daughter in a state of fear. When Kareem, Maha, and Amani also realized that Little Sultana was a witness to our family scene, we instantly pulled away from one another. Everyone was mortified at being thus caught and looked to me to offer an explanation. For once in my life, I could think of nothing that would absolve the embarrassing moment.

Little Sultana shamed us all when she spoke the truth of the incident in her tiny voice: “You were fighting. I saw you.” Little Sultana looked from her father to her mother, then to Kareem and finally to me.

“You were fighting.”

We all fell to our knees, wanting desperately to win back the trust of the most precious little girl in our world. Even Amani was in tears, realizing that she was the one who had created the shameful episode.

Our hearts broke when the darling child looked at us in disappointment; she clutched her mother’s fingers and pulled her from the room, all the while shaking her little head while muttering to herself,

“They were fighting.”

***

“All was explained to Abdullah once his wife and child had returned to their palace. My son felt so strongly about the incident that he returned to our palace within a few hours to meet with Maha. The two met in her private quarters and talked for several hours, so we knew nothing of their conversation.

After his visit, Abdullah came to his distraught parents to express his feelings. My son was rightfully angry that his wife and child had been a witness to our family brawl. Abdullah was flushed with anger as he spoke harsh words about the incident.

“This is all Amani’s fault. My sister believes she has the right to tell everyone how to live. I no longer have patience with my younger sister. She needs to mind her own business unless someone is physically harming her, her children, or a member of her family. Please give Amani a message from me, for I do not want to see her anytime soon. On the next occasion she feels the urge to spread a rumor, tell her that she will have to deal with her older brother.”

Abdullah had a hard look on his face as he stared at his father, one I had never before seen; he knew the events of that evening had in some way resulted from Kareem’s easy acceptance of Amani’s unsubstantiated gossip about her sister.

Kareem moved toward his son, who held up his hands to keep his father from showing the affection I knew Kareem wanted to express. Abdullah was not harsh, but he was firm.

“Father, I respect and love you, but I must say these words. You owe your daughter Maha an apology. Once you look into the matter, you will discover that Maha is not in a relationship with the hairdresser. They are friends, only. But if they were in a relationship, you must remember that your daughter is an honest woman who has never hidden her feelings. She does not lie, about anything. She has harmed no one, and she should not be harmed by anyone in this family. Maha does nothing but try to help others to live a life of freedom. That is something you love in Mother. Please find the same love for Maha’s work.”

“My son walked to me and I shuddered, thinking that my son might have critical words for me, too.

But instead he gazed at me with a lovely smile and leaned down to give me a tender hug. My son knew that I was a mother who would never turn away from any of my children, no matter their personal choices in life. He also understood that there were valid reasons I did not speak openly with Maha, or anyone in the family. In our culture, a woman who prefers women to men is considered a great sinner who should be severely punished. If such information leaked from our household to the wrong person, who then might involve the clerics, it would be dangerous for Maha to return home for visits.

Our disappointed son departed, leaving his parents so despondent that neither of us found it easy to speak coherently.

In a day’s time, we pushed our emotions aside to sit and talk about our children, coming to some important decisions. We agreed that we needed serious meetings with both of our girls. First, we talked with Maha, who easily confessed that she was attracted to Laila but that Laila did not share her feelings.

Although Laila had chosen to postpone marriage, her excuse had nothing to do with any physical attraction for another woman because she did not have those feelings. She wanted nothing more than a friendship with Maha.

Maha is a young woman who respects those who are honest and good, and she was happy with an innocent friendship with Laila. She thought it a nice gesture to fulfill Laila’s dream to see something of the world, and thus she had invited her new friend to visit her in Europe. Laila’s brother, who was her guardian, had signed the travel papers so that Laila could visit Europe for a month. Laila’s assistant, a hardworking girl from Egypt, was going to assume responsibility for the shop while Laila was on a rare holiday.

My husband apologized to Maha, and the two came together closer than ever before because there were no hidden thoughts or ideas. Although Kareem was not pleased to know for certain Maha’s feelings about men and women, he said that never again would he disrespect his daughter.

As for Amani, I told Kareem that he should be the one to discuss this business with our youngest, for she is a girl who has always listened to her father and ignored her mother. That meeting did not go so well, according to Kareem, as Amani was petulant, claiming that Maha’s business was her business and, besides, she did not believe her sister’s words that the relationship was nothing more than a friendship.

Even Kareem was exasperated with Amani and said he left her without his usual affectionate farewell.

Another dilemma was what we must do to lessen the sadness of Little Sultana, who had received a major shock upon witnessing a physical fight between family members.

Abdullah smoothed our path, as he advised us that he had sat with his sad daughter and spoken about human imperfections, how sometimes people become overly excited and behave in unbecoming ways.

Little Sultana was not eager to see us for a week or so, but finally she reconciled in her mind that those she loved best were less than they should be, but she would love them still. We were eagerly awaiting her visit, all of us dressed as though we were going to a fine party, when our little sweetheart walked into the room with a bouquet of flowers. She paused, looking at each of us as though she had never met us before, then finally hurried to Maha and offered her the flowers, speaking the words that were in her heart. “Auntie Maha, Father tells me that you feel differently about things from many others.

Please never change because I love you just as you are.”

Kareem’s eyes grew large with emotion, and he swept Little Sultana and Maha together in his strong arms. I rarely see my husband weep, but on this occasion big tears rolled down his cheeks.

Kareem and I both sat in surprise when we saw Amani approach her sister. She began to sob, too, clinging to her sister and begging for forgiveness. Amani was in a different mood from the one she had been in when her father had left her a few days earlier. Perhaps she had been thinking about the destructive actions that had brought the fury of those she loved upon her head.

Maha was aloof but said nothing harsh; she even stroked her sister on the shoulder. A weeping Amani made the rounds of all family members, her eyes overflowing with tears as she asked each of us,

“Please give me another chance. I will be less critical. I will. Please do forgive me.”

Of course Kareem and I forgave our youngest child and assured her that all would be forgotten, though I thought to myself that only time would tell when it came to Amani, the most difficult of my three children. I noticed that Maha and Abdullah exchanged a look of suspicion, no doubt wondering how long Amani’s contrite behavior might last.

Maha later confided that although she had never allowed any of our opinions to alter her feelings or behavior, she was much relieved that everything was in the open and that everyone appeared much more at peace with her uniqueness.

For sure, we were all regretful that any of us had ever wished Maha to be someone she is not. We do love her just as she is, a young woman filled with passion to right the wrongs of our world. It took the wisdom of those we love, Abdullah, Maha, and Little Sultana, to bring us to this place of total acceptance and love.

Allah is good.

#P198 #Princess: More Tears to Cry #Jean Sasson

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