The neighborhood was filled with many faces that together formed its human tapestry. Some faces carried a stronger presence, though not because of wealth or material standing. Despite the modest differences in means, the neighborhood never suffered from their effects. Hearts stood together in every joy and every sorrow, and hands extended with whatever little they could offer—enough to preserve the dignity of those in need and keep them upright within a community that played the melody of love and summoned tenderness.
The tall, elderly woman was not among the familiar visitors who came to see his mother, nor was she one of those who received special invitations or joined the women of the neighborhood on their usual visits. When she appeared in their home, she was welcomed warmly—though with less intimacy than others. Her visits were marked by a certain formality, reflected in how brief they were. Between greetings and farewells, the time was barely enough for a cup or two of mint‑ or basil‑scented tea.
“Sitt al‑Ahl” was one of the most striking and intriguing figures in the neighborhood. She was clearly well‑off; her house was one of the largest, and she lived in it alone. It was known that most of the surrounding land belonged to her, including a plot his father had purchased. From that deed he learned that “Sitt al‑Ahl” was her real name—long assumed to be an affectionate nickname.
Her relationship with his father was built on mutual respect, commanded by his dignity. She was not the only one who entrusted him with her affairs, but she was certainly the most frequent. She would leave sums of money with him in quick, direct dealings—never once did he see a signature or a seal. As a boy, he would sneak in deliberately, and he still remembers the bundles of red hundred‑riyal notes that accompanied most of her visits.
Her presence outside the house was even more prominent. Many stories were told about her and the musical gatherings held in the orchard next to her home with young men who considered her a mother, just as she considered them family. Despite the whispered questions—Who was she? Where did she come from? Who were her people? Who managed her affairs?—everyone treated her with a respect imposed by her sternness.
The only time she ever spoke directly to him was when he brought her a dish of food his mother had sent. Something about that visit—perhaps the type of dish, its quantity, or its timing—seemed to please her. A young man was in the house, introduced as a distant relative. She smiled and asked the boy to wait. He watched as she walked to the safe, lifting her dress slightly to reveal striped trousers and a belt heavy with keys.
“Come here, boy,” she said—this time with unusual warmth. She patted his head and slipped four qirsh into his hand. Those coins brought him joy for days and left him with a late‑blooming affection for “Sitt al‑Ahl,” though he continued to wonder, like everyone else, who she really was.
King Saud’s visit to Al‑Madinah was a major event. It was customary for him to tour its neighborhoods. Naturally, his grand procession would stop in al‑Awali on the way to Bilad al‑Amir, where the King would drink a cup of coffee prepared by “Sitt al‑Ahl,” repaying her hospitality with his own generosity.
She often spoke of that annual stop—how much the coffee pot had cost her, how carefully she had prepared it, and how the King had praised her (though she surely exaggerated, to the delight of her listeners).
During one of the King’s visits, she stood at the usual spot waiting for the procession. The chief of police—or one of his senior officers—knew of the yearly ritual and deemed it inappropriate. He scolded her, saying, “The King doesn’t have time for you.”
She argued loudly, and in the midst of their exchange, the royal procession arrived and stopped as usual. She took the coffee pot, but instead of pouring for the King herself, she turned to the officer who had tried to stop her and said:
“Go on, Saud—serve His Majesty the coffee!”
“Sitt al‑Ahl” remained a presence for many years. During his father’s long illness, he paid little attention to the changes happening in the neighborhood. After his father passed away, he asked about her. No one gave a definitive answer.
Some said she had married a policeman, bought him a red Chevrolet, and he squandered her wealth. Others said she died suddenly and distant heirs appeared, reclaimed her property, and sold it without concern for being seen. Others said… and others said.
But she remained alive in the memory of a neighborhood whose features and people were scattered by new developments.
As for him, he still remembers the four qirsh with a smile—and in his eyes, the image of the land deed:
“Appeared before me, I—Abdulqadir bin Ahmad al‑Jaza’iri, judge of the Sharia Court in Al‑Madinah Al‑Munawwarah—each of the following… and Sitt al‑Ahl ‘Allam.”