Chapter 5: Exchanged - in the Month of Shawwal
Mariyah prepares to enter the harem of Sheik Ali bin Shareef al-Saalih. In preparation she must submit to the custom of denuding (today we call it Brazilian Waxing or Hollywood Waxing) whereby her superfluous body hair is removed and she is again reminded, in another way, that she has relinquished her rights as a free married woman to say "no" to a man's unwanted advances. Clearly, she enters the world of a slave girl. She is given the harem name Sapphira.
EXCHANGED — in the month of Shawwal
We arrived just after noon a Sheik Ahmad al-Sabur’s home in the town of Al-Ta’if, where the exchange was to take place. Jamaal would return to Jeddah that afternoon and I would spend the next two days with Sheik Ahmad as his honored guest before being escorted to my destination—the harem of Sheik Ali.
That evening, our first order of business was to make up a story about how I became a slave, and to give me a harem name. Ahmad recounted the history and traditional sources of slave girls and we agreed that to have been captured and sold into slavery by Algerian corsairs would best fit my background, and require the least amount of fiction to support. I was to be a nonbeliever at the time of my capture and enslavement, a requirement to conform to Islamic law that forbids enslavement of believers, though I had later converted to Islam, something that Sheik Ahmad said I would find of benefit in the harem, without offering any explanation. That was to be my story and Sapphira was to be my name. Sapphira had an exotic and precious ring to it—I liked it, and I could weave a story around it, although I had hoped for a more salacious name but could not think of one at the time.
We spent time rehearsing possible scenarios, he asking me questions to see if I could answer convincingly, trying to catch me off guard with clever questions that could bring my story into doubt. We found a weakness—my lack of experience and knowledge of the “ways of the harem”. Therefore, I agreed to have him present me as a newly acquired girl not yet instructed.
A servant brought in a wrought iron stand. At first, I thought it was a candlestick, but it was a small iron anvil mounted on a tall stand. On a short side arm, several silver bangles of different sizes swung back and forth. Ahmad selected one, squeezed it tightly around my upper arm and raised it so that the silver band rested on the anvil. A small lead rivet, passed through the clasp and hammered over tightly, closed the bangle around my arm and prevented its removal.
Two girls served us that evening. Dressed in heavily embroidered silk salwar-kameezes they opened my mind and eyes to what lay ahead for me. Unbuttoned at the top, the kameezes showed more than a glimpse of their curves. I felt uncomfortable with this sensual display, and I sensed that all three of us shared this feeling, more so after Ahmad spoke.
“Let me show them to you,” he said, beckoning the girls to stand before him.
With a brief hand sign from him, they took off their kameezes and stood before us, naked to the waist, eyes cast downwards. Another sign, a circling of his hand, and the girls turned around to show a striking single braid of black hair that fell down their backs almost to their waists.
“Let me show you the rest of them,” he said, ordering them to turn around, loosen the drawstring of their salwars, and step out of them.
“Aren’t they pretty? I have a sharp eye, don’t you think?” he continued, proudly. “They come from the northern part of India. It is surprising what you can find beneath the rags of low caste peasants. My spotters in the port of Hochin found them for me—I paid them a generous finder’s fee for their efforts. I gave their desperately poor parents a small amount of money to relieve their poverty, and a promise to look after their daughters for them. Told them I would place them as maids to regal daughters of royalty I knew. They were impressed.
“For the sail back to Jeddah, I cleverly dressed them as boys, hiding their long hair under Sikh turbans. You never know when the British navy might board you. Brought them up from Jeddah on a cart piled high with carpets, each of them rolled up in one to hide them from prying eyes,” he said, sitting straight-backed and turning his head slowly from side to side as though trying to affirm to all how clever he was in his deviousness.
“And you can imagine my surprise when my physician reported that they were virgins—easily quadrupling their value—and you can also imagine their surprise when I had them smoothed and started their tantra instruction. I paid an old Indian merchant friend of mine to teach them a few words of Arabic and tell them in their own language that they had been sold by their parents to be slaves, not maids, and would be instructed in the erotic arts before being sold to a man.”
Searching for something to say, I blurted out, “It must be difficult for you to instruct them with their small understanding of Arabic.”
His answer sent a chill through me. “A camel whip speaks all languages.”
Quickly changing the subject, I asked, innocently, “Sheik Ahmad, what is tantra?”
“Tantra is an ancient Indian teaching of spiritual and physical love. A girl knowledgeable in the tantric ways makes for an exciting night companion. We believers of the true faith have purged it of false faith and holiness and given it earthly practice, and for added measure, I include some Persian and Greek customs so that my slave girls are three ways ready. Yes,” he said proudly, while again moving his head haughtily from side to side, “when one of Sheik Ahmad’s girls goes to auction she is ready to serve her new owner whatever his lustful intentions may be.”
He was obviously a trader in more than pepper-spice, carpets and medicines—and supremely proud of it.
“Knowing that you write, I assume that you also read,” he continued.
“Yes, I can read.”
“Good. I shall lend you some pages, a translation of some of the Asian tantric writings describing often demanded and unusual favors. They may be of help to you in your venture, but you must remember to bring them back with you. My precious secrets must not fall into the hands of other traders.”
After thanking him kindly and seeking pause from the conversation, I asked, “Where is Kassim?”
“Sold,” he replied, firmly, confirming my earlier suspicion that she was a slave and he an uncaring slave trader. Without offering further explanation, he quickly changed the subject. “Have you,” he asked, pointing his beard with long strokes of his fingers, “been groomed in the style of the harem?”
“I think so,” I replied, passing my fingers through my long shiny hair and then tossing it back over my shoulder, although I knew what he was alluding to, and had foolishly thought I could avoid it somehow by ignoring it.
“No, that is not what I meant. Have you been smoothed? Have you had your superfluous hair removed?”
“No, I am not groomed in that way,” I admitted, blushing badly.
“You must be bared before you are presented to Sheik Ali, or our ruse will be exposed. We will do it tomorrow.”
“Is it necessary? Could you not tell him….”
“No. As I said, it will be done tomorrow.”
Smoothing was
an ancient practice, dating back to the time of the Egyptian Pharaohs.
It later spread across North Africa, from Persia in the east to Morocco
in the west, and north to Turkey and Rome. Today, it was still a common
practice, particularly among brides and younger married women, although
rarely spoken of. My husband’s second wife arrived in our household
already smoothed and I knew he found the sleek silkiness attractive.
However, because he took me to his bed only on those few occasions when
his second wife was indisposed, he never asked me to have myself groomed
in that fashion. For me, he probably saw it as an unnecessary monthly
expense, and I didn’t
encourage it.
In a slave harem, smoothing was de rigueur.
Next day Ahmad took me to his barber where I had a private early afternoon appointment.
Once I was inside the shabby establishment the barber bolted the door shut, and closed the latticed shutters over the window openings to keep out unwanted eyes, yet allow in light enough for him to go about his business.
Ahmad told me to remove my garments and sit in the padded barber chair, an ancient assembly of creaking wood and squeaking leather. In a show of modesty the barber, but not Ahmad, turned his back while I undressed—a needless gesture considering what he was about to do and see.
A small pillow, wrapped in a towel and placed under my hips, embarrassingly caused my thighs and belly to rise into view when the barber slowly lowered the back of the chair. Then, to my further embarrassment, he eased my thighs apart, wide enough so that my legs hung off each side of the chair.
Towels soaked in hot water and placed over my lower belly and between my thighs restored some semblance of modesty, and thoroughly softened and moistened the area before they enthusiastically worked in a generous dribbling of hot wax and sticky pine rosin over my mons and deeply between my thighs. Strips of muslin embedded in more layers of wax formed up a thick pad that was left to cool and harden, pulling at the hair with every slight movement—a harbinger of things to come.
“The pleasure is to be mine,” said Ahmad, pushing aside the barber. Ahmad worked his fingers under the lip of the wax pad, his other hand pressing down flat on my stomach. With one smooth stroke, he tore away the hardened pad, taking with it the offending hair. The barber’s hand, placed firmly over my mouth, muffled my cries as a fierce stinging swept down my groin. Ahmad, smug with satisfaction, waved aloft the expended pad like some sort of animal pelt trophy, while the barber plucked out a few hairs that had evaded the grip of the wax. My underarms received the same painful attention.
My ordeal, however, was not yet over.
Ahmad left the room, and then quietly reappeared proudly holding high a yellow striped jar. “This balm stops hair from growing back,” he said, before he had the barber spread the foul smelling cream over my denuded areas. “You’re a lucky woman; this is a great improvement over the old ways of monthly plucking or threading. I am being kind to you.”
A slight tingling sensation swelled to a maddening burn as a triangle of fire spread over my groin, pushing away any thanks I may have had for Ahmad’s kindness. I could not hold back my tears or find comfort regardless of how much I squirmed and changed position. Unconcerned with my suffering, Ahmad insisted on leaving the balm to do its work—for a full hour—otherwise, he said, it would be an expensive waste of money.
Over the foul smell of the balm, I occasionally caught a whiff of the pleasant aroma of coffee and tobacco and heard the two men laughing and chatting, interrupting their talk to briefly come to me and inspect their handiwork, apply fresh balm, but not to ask about my comfort or offer consoling words.
After an excruciatingly uncomfortable hour, the barber scraped off expired balm and wiped clean the bared mound and hollows with a cloth. The burning sensation died down, giving me some relief from my torment.
 |
Bared |
In a large polished metal mirror, I saw myself as others would see me. Although my skin still bore a rash from its ordeal, I was peculiarly pleased with my new appearance, and could understand why many men preferred their women groomed in this manner. I felt young, alluring, and confident that I could seduce my sheik when the time came.
“You have me to thank for the balm,” Ahmad confided on our way back to his house. “I discovered that mehndi and I am the only purveyor of it. For many years, I brought back from the Orient a lotion to remove warts. I had one here on the side of my face,” he said, parting his beard and pointing to a small bare patch. “The wart disappeared and so did the hair—it never grew back—and this gave me the idea for a new use for the balm. I had to disguise its humble origin, so I added tiger bile to give it a strong overpowering smell, and put it in an expensive looking pot. Supremely clever of me, don’t you think?
“My Chinese apothecary must think Arabs have many warts,” he chuckled.
On our return to Ahmad’s house, he showed me into a small room with a quarter-bath set in the floor in one corner. Before leaving, he instructed me to “Wash thoroughly, at least twice. The smell of tiger bile is not easily washed away.”
I emerged from the soothing water, wrapped a towel around me, and was startled to find Ahmad standing in the doorway. “How long had he been standing there, watching me?” I wondered.
“Follow me. I will escort you to your room,” he said, bending down to scoop up my clothes from the side of the bath before I could reach them. Instead of clothes, I held the small towel about me, as best I could, and followed him.
Passing through the archway leading to the courtyard he reached out and unhooked the first key from a row of large iron keys hanging by the side of the door, before continuing briskly to my room. He stood aside to let me pass into the room, then, to my unease, followed in behind me and turned the key in the lock.
“Lie on the bed,” he instructed, snatching the towel from my grip.
As though nothing unusual or untoward had happened, he smiled thinly, smoothed down his djellaba and said, “Dinner will be served at the sound of the bell.”
I was sickened to my stomach and absolutely in no mood to eat anything, particularly with him. However, as the afternoon passed by my moral strength returned. From my tumultuous mind emerged the clear realization that leaving at this instance to return to Jeddah would be impossible and unwise. I could not be certain what Jamaal or his family would think about my raping at the hands of Ahmad. In this country, the reasoning of men and women towards a dishonored woman is unpredictable. Some blame the woman regardless of the circumstances, others understand and console, and I think Jamaal would understand—but not his wife and sisters. Would they not see me as a foolish woman, deservingly sullied, and further belittle and ostracize me?
Furthermore, I had no horse or camel to ride on, and beside, even if I did, traveling alone to Jeddah would be impossibly dangerous.
Not surprisingly, I decided I had to keep this part of my life to myself, bury it in my mind as best I could, and reclaim my dignity. I would not be cowed by him or by his despicable doing. For the time being I would act as though nothing had happened, and quietly wait for the right time and place—for I was not above taking revenge.
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Harem Belly Dancer |
A graceful and seductive dancer entertained us that evening. Ahmad had hired her to teach her art to the two Indian girls, but on this occasion, she was showing her skills for our enjoyment.
While serving “Tea from China” in delicate porcelain finger bowls one of the Indian girls nervously stumbled when her foot caught the edge of a carpet, sharply clinking the bowls together and spilling some tea. Sheik Ahmad examined the fragile bowls for damage and then apologized for the careless manner in which they served us. “I can assure you that their poor ways will be corrected before they are sold,” he said coldly, before proudly informing me that he had “a hard earned reputation to preserve, as a purveyor of only the best and well-instructed slave girls.”
At the close of the evening, Ahmad escorted me and the Indian girls back to the courtyard. As he led the way through the open archway, I casually reached out and took my room key from its hook. I walked to my room, and he disappeared into another room on the other side of the courtyard with the two Indian girls. I turned the key in the lock, and settled down for the night.
It was not long before the quiet stillness of the desert night carried their cries through the window and into my tense consciousness. He was no doubt “correcting their ways”. How was he doing this? What was he doing to them that made then cry out like that? Surely, it was only Ahmad’s way and not the way of others.
I spent a fitful night thinking about, and regretting, how foolish I had been to allow my blind curiosity to launch me on this journey. In the closed and secret world of the harem, would I find myself trapped and helplessly passed around an endless circle of masters, perhaps never to return? Used, and then discarded? And would my new master take pleasure in bending me to his ways, and be so demanding as to find reason to put a camel whip to me? What would happen if I displeased him, would he punish me harshly and cause the desert night to hear my cries?
My visions of romantic interludes with an enraptured sheik rapidly evaporated—and with Kassim gone, plans could not be undone. My course was set; the door had closed behind me.
Someone rattling and pushing against the door awakened me just before dawn. I heard only retreating footsteps when I asked, “Who is there?” Thanks be to Allah, I had the key safe beside me.
Before formally concluding the exchange, Sheik Ahmad handed me a letter of introduction to deliver to my new master and after I halfheartedly thanked him, I handed over his key. “Here is your key. I borrowed it last night,” I triumphantly explained, before turning my back to him, and climbing onto the back of my kneeling camel.
As our entourage prepared to depart, my escort, a dark bearded man, pointed out to me a fair-haired girl Ahmad was leading away. “She is the slave Nadya, for whom you have been exchanged,” said the man, who, I later learned, was Mustafa the chief eunuch of my new master’s harem .