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manner of the American slaves; they participated in our home life and in my father’s businesses as if they were their own. The children were our playmates and felt no compulsion to servitude. In 1962, when our government freed the slaves, our Sudanese family actually cried and begged my father to keep them. They live in my father’s home to this day.
    My father kept alive the memory of our beloved king, Abdul Aziz. He spoke about the great man as if he saw him each day. I was shocked, at the age of eight, to be told the old king had died in 1953, three years before I was born!
    After the death of our first king, our kingdom was in grave danger, for the old king’s hand-picked successor, his son Sa’ud, was sadly lacking in qualities of leadership. He extravagantly squandered most of the country’s oil wealth on palaces, cars, and trinkets for his wives. As a result, our new country was sliding toward political and economic chaos.
    I recall one occasion in 1963, when the men of the ruling family gathered in our home. I was a very curious seven-year-old at the time. Omar, my father’s driver, burst into the garden with a manner of great importance and shouted for the women to go upstairs. He waved his hands at us as if he were exorcising the house of beasts and literally herded us up the stairwell and into a small sitting room. Sara, my older sister, pleaded with my mother for permission to hide behind the arabesque balcony for a rare glimpse of our rulers at work. While we frequently saw our powerful male uncles and cousins at casual family gatherings, never were we present in the midst of important matters of state. Of course, at the time of each female’s menses and subsequent veiling, the cutoff from any males other than father and brothers was sudden and complete.
    Our lives were so cloistered and boring that even our mother took pity on us. That day, she actually joined her daughters on the floor of the hallway to peek through the balcony and listen to the men in the large sitting room below us. I, as the youngest, was held in my mother’s lap. As a precaution, she lightly placed her fingers on my lips. If we were caught, my father would be furious. My sisters and I were captivated by the grand parade of the brothers, sons, grandsons, and nephews of the deceased king. Large men in flowing robes, they gathered quietly with great dignity and seriousness. The stoic face of Crown Prince Faisal drew our attention. Even to my young eyes, he appeared sad and terribly burdened. By 1963, all Saudis were aware that Prince Faisal competently managed the country while King Sa’ud ruled incompetently. It was whispered that Sa’ud’s reign was only a symbol of the family unity so fiercely protected. The feeling was that it was an odd arrangement, unfair to the country and to Prince Faisal, and unlikely to last.
    Prince Faisal stood apart from the group. His usual quiet voice rose above the din as he asked that he be allowed to speak on matters that were of grave importance to the family and the country. Prince Faisal feared that the throne so difficult to attain would soon be lost. He said that the common people were tiring of the excesses of the Royal Family, and that there was talk not only of ousting their brother Sa’ud for his decadence but of turning away from the entire Al Sa’ud clan and choosing instead a man of God for leadership.
    Prince Faisal looked hard at the younger princes when he stated in a clear, sure voice that their disregard for the traditional life-style of bedouin believers would topple the throne. He said his heart was heavy from sadness that so few of the younger royals were willing to work, content to live on their monthly stipend from the oil wealth. A long pause ensued as he waited for comments from his brothers and relatives. As none seemed to be forthcoming, he added that if he, Faisal, were at the controls of the oil wealth, the flow of money to the princes would be cut and honorable work