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The princess trilogy by jean sasson pdf

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DOWNLOAD The Complete Princess Trilogy: Princess; Princess Sultana's Daughters; and Princess Sultana's Circle by Jean Sasson [PDF EBOOK EPUB. Jean Sasson grew up in a small town in Alabama—her mind always in a book and her hands always searching cover image of The Complete Princess Trilogy. Editorial Reviews. Review. "A fascinating look at the lifestyles of the rich and Saudi." -- Kirkus The Complete Princess Trilogy: Princess; Princess Sultana's Daughters; and Princess Sultana's Circle eBook: Jean Sasson: Kindle Store.


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The third and last book completes the PRINCESS TRILOGY, called a "Political rallying cry." by Publisher's Weekly. CIRCLE paints a horrifying reality for. about Jean Sasson and her books, or for updates on. Princess Sultana, women's issues, and Saudi Arabia, please visit the following websites: Author's website. For the first time, the international bestselling PRINCESS books are available in a boxed set. This first book in the nonfiction trilogy describes the true life of Princess Sultana, a princess in the royal house of Saudi Arabia where she lives in a "gilded cage" with no freedom.

Invisible, they were loosely draped and passed unnoticed until the age of understanding reduced my life to a narrow segment of fear. It sickens me that the woman who was impregnated in the hospital wasn't even an afterthought to that horrible family. Get to Know Us. It is wrong, however, to blame our Muslim faith for the lowly position of women in our society. Ramona Forrest. Her room stayed cluttered with books of all the great masters. I, Sultana, am one of these direct descendants.

I thought he was a god. How was I to know he was not? Thirty-two years later, I remember the sting of that slap and the beginning of questions in my mind: If my brother was not a god, why was he treated like one? In a family of ten daughters and one son, fear ruled our home: My mother feared each pregnancy, praying for a son, dreading a daughter.

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She bore one daughter after another—until there were ten in all. The new wife of promise presented him with three sons, all stillborn, before he divorced her. Finally, though, with the fourth wife, my father became wealthy with sons.

But my elder brother would always be the firstborn, and, as such, he ruled supreme. Like my sisters, I pretended to revere my brother, but I hated him as only the oppressed can hate. When my mother was twelve years old, she was married to my father.

He was twenty. It was , the year after the great world war that interrupted oil production had ended. The leaders of great nations had begun to pay homage to our king.

Bright green, with a throne-like backseat, the automobile sparkled like a jewel in the sun. Something about the automobile, as grand as it was, obviously disappointed the king, for upon inspection, he gave it to one of his favorite brothers, Abdullah. He accepted, much to the delight of my mother, who had never ridden in an automobile. In —and dating back untold centuries—the camel was the usual mode of transportation in the Middle East.

Three decades would pass before the average Saudi rode with comfort in an automobile, rather than astride a camel. Now, on their honeymoon, for seven days and nights, my parents happily crossed the desert trail to Jeddah. Forever after, she divided her life into the time before the trip and the time after the trip.

Once she told me that the trip had been the end of her youth, for she was too young to understand what lay ahead of her at the end of the long journey. Her parents had died in a fever epidemic, leaving her orphaned at the age of eight. She had been married at the age of twelve to an intense man filled with dark cruelties.

She was ill-equipped to do little more in life than his bidding. My father was a merciless man; as a predictable result, my mother was a melancholy woman. Their tragic union eventually produced sixteen children, of whom eleven survived perilous childhoods. Today, their ten female offspring live their lives controlled by the men to whom they are married. Their only surviving son, a prominent Saudi prince and businessman with four wives and numerous mistresses, leads a life of great promise and pleasure.

From my reading, I know that most civilized successors of early cultures smile at the primitive ignorance of their ancestors. As civilization advances, the fear of freedom for the individual is overcome through enlightenment.

Human society eagerly rushes to embrace knowledge and change. Astonishingly, the land of my ancestors is little changed from that of a thousand years ago.

Yes, modern buildings spring up, the latest health care is available to all, but consideration for women and for the quality of their lives still receives a shrug of indifference. It is wrong, however, to blame our Muslim faith for the lowly position of women in our society. Although the Koran does state that women are secondary to men, much in the same way the Bible authorizes men to rule over women, our Prophet Mohammed taught only kindness and fairness toward those of my sex.

Our Prophet scorned the practice of infanticide, a common custom in his day of ridding the family of unwanted females. Whoever hath a daughter, and doth not bury her alive, or scold her, or prefer his male children to her, may God bring him into Paradise. Yet there is nothing men will not do, there is nothing they have not done, in this land to ensure the birth of male, not female, offspring.

The worth of a child born in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is still measured by the absence or the presence of a male organ.

The men of my country feel they are what they have had to become. Convinced that women have no control over their own sexual desires, it then becomes essential that the dominant male carefully guard the sexuality of the female. The authority of a Saudi male is unlimited; his wife and children survive only if he desires. In our homes, he is the state. This complex situation begins with the rearing of our young boys.

From an early age, the male child is taught that women are of little value: They exist only for his comfort and convenience. The child witnesses the disdain shown his mother and sisters by his father; this open contempt leads to his scorn of all females, and makes it impossible for him to enjoy friendship with anyone of the opposite sex. Taught only the role of master to slave, it is little wonder that by the time he is old enough to take a mate, he considers her his chattel, not his partner.

And so it comes to be that women in my land are ignored by their fathers, scorned by their brothers, and abused by their husbands. This cycle is difficult to break, for the men who impose this life upon their women ensure their own marital unhappiness. For what man can be truly content surrounded by such misery?

It is evident that the men of my land are searching for gratification by taking one wife after the other, followed by mistress after mistress. Little do these men know that their happiness can be found in their own home, with one woman of equality.

By treating women as slaves, as property, men have made themselves as unhappy as the women they rule, and have made love and true companionship unattainable to both sexes.

The history of our women is buried behind the black veil of secrecy. Neither our births nor our deaths are made official in any public record.

Although births of male children are documented in family or tribal records, none are maintained anywhere for females.

The common emotion expressed at the birth of a female is either sorrow or shame.

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Although hospital births and government record keeping are increasing, the majority of rural births take place at home. No country census is maintained by the government of Saudi Arabia. I have often asked myself, does this mean that we women of the desert do not exist, if our coming and our passing goes unrecorded?

If no one knows of my existence, does that mean I do not exist?

This fact, more than the injustices of my life, has prompted me to take this very real risk in order to tell my story. The women of my country may be hidden by the veil and firmly controlled by our stern patriarchal society, but change will have to come, for we are a sex that is weary of the restraints of customs. We yearn for our personal freedom. I will attempt to uncover the buried lives of other Saudi women, the millions of ordinary women not born of the Royal Family.

My passion for the truth is simple, for I am one of those women who were ignored by their fathers, scorned by their brothers, and abused by their husbands.

I am not alone in this. There are many more, just like me, who have no opportunity to tell their stories. It is rare that truth escapes from a Saudi palace, for there is great secrecy in our society, but what I have spoken here and what the author has written here are true.

Ali slapped me to the ground, but I declined to hand over the shiny red apple just given me by the Pakistani cook. Refusing to give in to his male prerogative of superiority, I had committed a grave act and knew that I would soon suffer the consequences. My sisters feared Omar almost as much as they did Ali or my father. They disappeared into the villa, leaving me alone to face the combined wrath of the men of the house.

Moments later, Omar, followed by Ali, rushed through the side gate. I knew they would be the victors, for my young life was already rich with precedent. Nevertheless, I swallowed the last bite of the apple and looked in triumph at my brother. Reluctantly, my father looked up from his black ledger and glanced with irritation at his seemingly ever-present, unwanted daughter while holding out his arms in invitation to that treasured jewel, his eldest son. Ali was allowed to speak, while I was forbidden to respond.

I shouted out the truth of the incident. My father and brother were stunned into silence at my outburst, for females in my world are reconciled to a stern society that frowns upon the voicing of our opinions.

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All women learn at an early age to manipulate rather than to confront. The fires in the hearts of the once proud and fierce bedouin women have been extinguished; soft women who bear little resemblance to them remain in their stead. The fear curled in my belly when I heard the shouting of my voice. My legs trembled under my body when my father arose from his chair, and I saw the movement of his arm but never felt the blow to my face. As punishment, Ali was given all my toys.

To teach me that men were my masters, my father decreed that Ali would have the exclusive right to fill my plate at mealtimes. The triumphant Ali gave me the tiniest of portions and the worst cuts of meat. Each night, I went to sleep hungry, for Ali placed a guard at my door and ordered him to forbid me to receive food from my mother or my sisters.

My brother taunted me by entering my room at midnight laden with plates steaming with the delicious smells of cooked chicken and hot rice. Finally Ali wearied of his torture, but from that time on, when he was only nine years old, he was my devoted enemy. Although I was only seven years old, as a result of the apple incident, I first became aware that I was a female who was shackled by males unburdened with consciences. I saw the broken spirits of my mother and sisters, but I remained faithful to optimism and never doubted that I would one day triumph and my pain would be compensated by true justice.

With this determination, from an early age, I was the family troublemaker. There were pleasant times in my young life too. Widowed, too old for further notice and thus complications from men, she was now merry and filled with wonderful stories from her youth of the days of the tribal battles.

She had witnessed the birth of our nation and mesmerized us with the tales of the valor of King Abdul Aziz and his followers. Sitting cross-legged on priceless Oriental carpets, my sisters and I nibbled on date pastries and almond cakes while immersed in the drama of the great victories of our kinsmen.

This show of loyalty ensured their entry into the Royal Family by the marriages of their daughters. The stage was set for my destiny as a princess. In my youth, my family was privileged, though not yet wealthy. The income from oil production ensured that food was plentiful and medical care available, which at that time in our history seemed the greatest of luxuries.

We lived in a large villa, made of concrete blocks painted snowy white. The thirty-feet-high block walls surrounding our grounds were maintained in the same fashion. As a child, I felt our family home was too large for warm comfort.

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The long hallways were dark and forbidding. Rooms of various shapes and sizes branched off, concealing the secrets of our lives.

I used to peer into their quarters with the curiosity of the child I was. Dark red velvet curtains closed out the sunlight. A smell of Turkish tobacco and whiskey embraced the heavy atmosphere. Mother had the room painted a bright yellow; as a result, it had the glow of life that was so glaringly absent in the rest of the villa.

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The family servants and slaves lived in tiny, airless rooms in a separate dwelling set apart at the back of the garden.

I remember the foreign maids and drivers speaking of their dread of bedtime. Their only relief from the heat was the breeze generated by small electric fans. Father said that if he provided their quarters with air-conditioning, they would sleep the whole day through. Only Omar slept in a small room in the main house. A long golden cord hung in the main entrance of our villa.

Then, lungs bursting, I would rush to my bed and lay quiet, an innocent child sleeping soundly. One night my mother was waiting for me as I raced for the bed. With disappointment etched on her face at the misdeeds of her youngest child, she twisted my ear and threatened to tell Father.

But she never did. Our slave population increased each year when Father returned from Haj, the annual pilgrimage to Makkah made by Muslims, with new slave children. Pilgrims from Sudan and Nigeria, attending Haj, would sell their children to wealthy Saudis so that they could afford the return journey to their homeland. The children were our playmates and felt no compulsion to servitude.

In , when our government freed the slaves, our Sudanese family actually cried and begged my father to keep them. 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 , three years before I was born! As a result, our new country was sliding toward political and economic chaos. I recall one occasion in , when the men of the ruling family gathered in our home. I was a very curious seven-year-old at the time. 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.

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. 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. 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. 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.

Product details File Size: November 7, Sold by: English ASIN: Enabled X-Ray: Book Series. Is this feature helpful? Thank you for your feedback. Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. Read reviews that mention saudi arabia middle east royal family eye opener princess sultana eye opening well written must read jean sasson true story highly recommend treatment of women women are treated american woman muslim countries women in saudi behind the veil read these books even though years ago.

Top Reviews Most recent Top Reviews. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Kindle Edition Verified Purchase. The series is a fast read and, for the most part, flows easily.

I also do not believe that the Princess is real. The first book, detailing the Princess's life from her childhood to when she marries and has her first baby, is mostly believable but it's the 2nd book, that tells about her daughters, that cemented my thoughts that this is fiction. Although the story about the Princess's older daughter is a bit over the top, I can understand how anyone, especially a woman, would need psychological help when living in an oppressive country like Saudi Arabia.

I do not, however, agree with how the daughter's romantic relationship with another girl is portrayed as a mental illness. The youngest daughter, though, is absolutely not believable, which is obvious after reading an interview with the author. This younger daughter is described as being obsessed with animals, saving strays and trying to prevent her father and brother from hunting by hiding guns and ammunition, which is exactly how the author describes herself growing up.

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Lastly, there was a lawsuit brought against the author and publisher by a European woman who wrote a memoir about her marriage to a Saudi man that was a London educated lawyer, their problems and family life, which was written before this series.

The woman submitted her memoir to the publisher of this series who turned it down. A few yrs later, immediately after the first Gulf War, when interest in the Middle East was high, this series came out. The lawsuit was dismissed but the author has never revealed her own original writings to prove this was actually hers. The author did work in Saudi Arabia in a hospital but the Saudi Royal family very rarely, if ever, socialize with everyday foreigners that work in the country so it's very highly doubtful that the Princess is real and the stories true.

In this book she states that the crime rate in Muslim countries are so much lower than in non-Muslim countries. Well I disagree. It is easy to say that it is lower when you do not have to count the following as crimes: Honor Killings- Muslims can kill their wives and kids without having to go to jail.

The man just has to say that they were dishonored. Pedophiliac practices- Children still in diapers can be promised to a husband. Sex starts at 9. They can have several wives. Then he may marry another child! He may have a temporary marriage. He can be married for 1 hour or 1 week. This is so he can have sex with a woman and not be guilty of having an affair.

I feel it is just a form of rape. Abuse- Men are allowed to rape and beat their servants and kids without any one being charged with a crime. One story in the book talks about an uncle who locks his niece in a room for 15 years and allows no one to talk with her. She is fed and given water only. She dies. Her crime?

She meet a boy not of the Muslim faith and fell in love with him. This first book in the trilogy describes the life of Princess Sultana, a princess in the royal house of Saudi Arabia where she lives in a "gilded cage" with no freedom and no control over her own life. As Sultana battles for a life of dignity, she saves other women from servitude. You have never read a story like the story of Sultana, and you will never forget her or her Muslim sisters. This bestselling book has been called "riveting" and "heart-wrenching.

Hidden behind her black veil, she is a prisoner, jailed by her father, her husband and her country. Sultana tells of appalling oppressions, everyday occurrences that in any other culture would be seen as shocking human rights violations: As second-generation members of the royal family who have benefited from Saudi oil wealth, Maha and Amani are surrounded by untold opulence and luxury from the day they were born and which they take for granted.

Stifled by the unbearably restrictive lifestyle imposed on them, they have reacted in equally desperate ways. Their dramatic and shocking stories are set against a rich backcloth of Saudi Arabian culture and social mores which are depicted with equal color and authenticity. Throughout, Sultana never tires of her quest to expose the injustices which her society levels against women.

Princess Sultana once more strikes a chord amongst all women who are lucky enough to have the freedom to speak out for themselves. Jean Sasson paints a horrifying reality for women of the desert kingdom. It is a haunting look at the danger of Saudi male dominance and the desperate lives of the women they rule.