It was early eighties, and I was a teenager, working as a reporter for the local magazine, Igraa, when I received an invitation to attend, with my editor, Dr. Abdullah Manna, a National Guards military maneuver. We waited for less than an hour, in an airport lounge, for then Prince Abdullah. He entered in a hurry, visibly embarrassed, apologizing and explaining that he was in an audience with King Fahd that went longer than expected. It was not bad at all, as the place was very comfortable and we were, editors and writers, greeting each others and engaging in a friendly discussion. Besides, in the media, we are used to uneven schedules and long waits. Forty five minutes is nothing at all! During that visit we saw the other side of the quiet, strict and disciplined prince — a passionately humanistic and proudly generous Bedouin. Our tough ride with him in the desert was made joyful by his kindness, humbleness, and gentleness. In his tent, and wherever we went, we had to share our space with his favorite people — Bedouins. They crowded around him, even as his 4-wheel-drive car was cutting through the sands in rough grounds. Their pickups would cut our bus off, and our driver would shout to him as he negotiated his way among them. I asked him why were they allowed to do so, and he answered: The prince won't approve of hurting their feelings. I received the same answer when I complained to our hosts on behalf of our editors that the Bedouins are taking their reserved seats on the front row. Later I learned to run, when I could, to get a place near the prince. In one of those occasions, he was sitting on the sand, outside the main tent greeting his desert guests, before dinner. I couldn't find any place this time near him, and editors and reporters where scattered around. I was young and clueless, so I decided to sit right beside the king. That place was supposed to be free, so the prince would have clear vision of his guests on the same side. I realized my mistake as I sat, and my editor and colleagues were signaling to me to leave at once. I was about to stand up, when the prince turned to me with his sweet smile and started a conversation. “I smell rain in the air!,” he said. I looked up and saw no clouds in the clear, starry night, so Iasked him, how did he know? He laughed as he answered: “I am supposed to know … I am a Bedouin!” That was his way of telling me and everyone else, including protocol officers, that it was OK for me to sit beside him. My colleagues and the whole world were envious, I felt! As we went to dinner, I walked beside him, and sat to his right at the head of the ground table, but not beside him. An old editor came from behind, looked around and couldn't find a space, so he sat unknowingly beside the prince. Again the prince tried to send the same OK message, asking him about what he likes to start his dinner with. The editor looked at the person talking to him, and jumped when he realized who he was. The prince was quick to put his hand on the man's shoulder, telling him he was most welcome, then served him with fatless meat and rice, and gave health advices on the most suitable food for him.
Twenty years had passed since this first encounter with the late King Abdullah, before I had the chance to shake hand with him, and sat before him with members of the National Dialouge conference. He was sad that day, and a bit quiet. Suddenly, I heard him talking to the late Dr. Ghazi Alogsaibi, then Minister of Labor, with passion: “What really breaks my heart is that the misguided dead are our sons … our own sons!” He was mourning some killed terrorists in an encounter with the security forces, because they were his people, too! When a BBC reporter asked me why we regard King Abdullah as our father, I told him his subjects felt his sincerity, love and compassion. He was a father to the young, a brother to the old, and a champion of the poor, underprivileged and women. It was not surprising. Our kings have always been kind to us. Their father, King Abdulaziz, listened to reports from Aden radio, during World War II and after, to find out about the allies' food ships, so he would claim his country's share. Bread and cooked meals were given free to people. When an adviser informed him that some families were exaggerating their numbers to get bigger shares, he laughed and told him: When they find out that bread is available free and fresh every morning, they would not do it again. What were they going to do with dried bread? In Saudi Arabia, we regard our kings as fathers, and the Al-Saud as our extended family, because they treated us as such. May Allah bless the souls that passed away, and the hearts that deeply and compassionately carry our interests and love. — Dr. Khaled M. Batarfi is a Saudi writer based in Jeddah. He can be reached at [email protected]. Follow him at Twitter: @kbatarfi
