American Chick in Saudi Arabia (4 page)

The heat of the closed souk is increasing. I unintentionally suck the gauzy fabric of the black veil into my mouth. The material wafts a pungent odor into my nostrils and leaves an unpleasant taste on my tongue.

With each tentative step, my legs grow twisted within the folds of the too-long black cloak. I've noticed that many Saudi women are tall and thin. The black cloaks are designed with their figures in mind. Unfortunately, I am a short woman, so all cloaks are too long. To keep from stumbling, I try to gather the fabric of my cloak and long dress in my right hand, to lift it above the dirt-worn pathway, but this awkward clutching only worsens the situation. When I stumble on a stone so jagged I feel its sharpness through my shoe leather, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

I am having enormous difficulty seeing. I must peer through a black veil and every shopkeeper or item at which I gaze, and every face upon which I look appears dimmed in shadows. Distinguishing specific features is an ordeal.

Despite the difficulties, I linger to examine the glittering array of 18-and 21-karat-gold bracelets, chains and rings. While chains are hanging on the wall, bangles are perfectly lined up under glass cases. As is the case for most females in the kingdom, the stacks of golden jewelry never fail to tempt me.

I pause to examine some enticing wide bracelet bangles. From earlier experience, I know that each of the bangles bears individual patterns, but all details appear indistinct through the veil. I need to get closer. I bend over and lean near to the glass-topped counter.

No, being closer doesn't help. The Saudi shopkeeper quickly steps behind his counter to assist me. He speaks a few enthusiastic words in Arabic that I cannot understand, and in response, I make a sound without words.

I stand sideways and look down. No. Peering from either periphery is impossible. The veil is fastened to each side of my head while my head scarf loosely drapes over the veil.

"Hmmm…" I then shift my body from front to side several times to see if the view improves.

The shopkeeper is watchfully silent.

I try the front view once again. I bend forward. I am so close to the golden bangles that my nose touches the glass.

Intuitively, I feel the eyes of the shopkeeper studying me closely. Saudis are not naturally bold. He takes a step backward.

The only possibility for unrestricted sight is from the unfastened hem of the veil. Many times during the past months I observed Saudi women as they cautiously raised the bottom of their face veils to examine merchandise. I am not practiced in the fine art of subtle movement and fear that I might expose my face, which is bound to raise an alarm. A suspicious man might even summon the morals police.

But the bright gold bangles beckon.

The hem of my veil is tucked into my blouse, which is hidden beneath my cloak. I use my fingers to extricate the veil, but I pull too strongly and the hairpin that secures the right side of my veil falls to the ground.

Disaster! Without that pin my veil will swing loose from one side of my face, revealing my pale features. There is nothing to do but to find the hairpin.

As I stoop down, the shopkeeper peers over the top of the counter, and then, to my dismay, he gallantly comes around to assist me.

Holding the veil with my left hand, I pat the earthen floor with my right hand, frantically searching for that much-needed pin.

The shopkeeper's voice has a questioning tone as he squats beside me, once again speaking to me in Arabic.

Instinct tells me that he must be asking me what I have lost, so I grunt once again.

When the well-meaning man speaks the second time, I ever so slightly push my scarf back and point to the hairpin holding the secure side of my veil.

He understands my unspoken message and starts to rummage around with me.

Just when I am about to give up and consider my day's mission a failure, the shopkeeper begins to speak gleefully.

I squint as I peer through my veil.

The smiling shopkeeper holds the hairpin between his fingers and waves his hand triumphantly.

He talks happily as I secure my veil, but I do not speak. By now the poor man is likely convinced I am mute.

Feeling that he deserves a reward, I consider purchasing a gold bangle. Each bangle cost approximately 500 SR (US $150), depending on the bangle's weight and the customer's bargaining skill. I can't haggle if I can't speak, and I can only nod and gesture.

When I turn away with my new purchase, I slip and automatically say, "
Shukran
," the Arabic word for "thank you." With my southern American accented
shukran
, there is no mistaking that I am not a Saudi woman.

I turn and rush away as quickly as my confining garments allow.

"
Afwan
!" (Don't mention it!) he cries out in surprise.

I feel the man's questioning eyes upon me as I hurriedly create a distance between us.

When I round the corner I am panting. I stand quietly, waiting to see if I have been followed.

Within a few minutes I feel safe enough to readjust my cloak, veil, and head scarf.

As I stroll past the sandal makers, a Saudi woman accidentally tramples on the back hem of my cloak. No doubt she, like me, is having difficulty seeing. I hear the distinct sound of fabric rip and I am jerked to a full stop. I would topple backward, but the woman is tall and heavy-built and blocks my fall. I carefully gather the folds of my cloak and continue walking.

Truthfully, I am comically clumsy in the veil. How on earth can Saudi women endure wearing this cumbersome costume? And how can they do it with such elegant style?

I sigh but continue my stroll. I pause when I notice a squatting Bedouin woman selling loose nuts from a straw basket. The woman pauses to peer around the crowded souk. I guess correctly that she is about to lift her veil. I stand and watch as she deftly lifts the hem of her veil before taking a quick sip of canned orange soda. No bystander could possibly catch a glimpse of her forbidden face.

Even as I admire such a practiced movement, I cannot match it.

Suddenly I am overwhelmed by a rush of anger that any woman must wear a face veil. Truthfully, I am ready to fight
someone
. I look around angrily.

The Saudi men in the souk appear to be in good spirits, walking freely through the market while their subservient, veiled wives follow dutifully behind. They seem cool and comfortable in their loose white
thobes
, sandaled feet, and uncovered faces while their wives are wilting in their heavy black garments.

Other Saudi men are standing or sitting in knotted groups, enthusiastically gossiping in the musical Arabic language while they watch the women in their circle. I know they are guarding their women like a shepherd guards his flock. The unseen danger they worry about is the possibility that a female in their family groups might commit some dishonorable act, such as having a conversation with a strange man, or lift their veils to display their faces.

Still other men sit idly on stools behind their golden wares, no doubt wishing that a wealthy Saudi woman will appear to buy a basket full of expensive trinkets.

Are these men truly contented with a life of guarding women to restrain them from innocent pastimes? Do they feel nothing for the plight of the black-veiled women in their midst? Even if their minds approve, surely their hearts must feel shame at the unspeakable lives the women of their family are forced to live.

My emotions are spinning out of control. I begin to glare in all directions. Each time I catch a shadowy view of a Saudi male face through the black shroud that covers my face, I give the man an unseen fierce look.

The male shopkeepers continue to smile and point out their wares. Their efforts only spur my fury...until I realize dispiritedly that the men are wholly oblivious of my escalating anger.

When a young Saudi shopkeeper in one of the gold stalls speaks to me in Arabic and enthusiastically thrusts a heavily ornate 18-karat –gold breastplate toward my face, I grumble without words. I wave my black-gloved hands as though his golden products are beneath me.

Breathing heavily once again, I lean against the side of a wooden stall. The scent of the veil brushing against my nose and lips is so nauseating that the memory of the small shop where I purchased my veil and
abaaya
suddenly rushes back.

Bolts of cloth were piled high against the front windows. The only artificial light came from a single electric bulb swinging at the end of an unraveling cord. Even in the dismal light I could see grime on the counter surface and on the green and gray shaded linoleum floor.

The pleasant-faced Indian shopkeeper was polite, chirping a friendly greeting when I walked through the doorway.

He was cute as he laughingly slipped on an
abaaya
and face veil, teasingly pulling the veil on and off. I was startled to witness his ease at wearing female attire until I recalled that women are not allowed to try on clothes to determine a proper fit, when outside their homes. This male clerk has become accustomed to modeling female wares. He's quite the actor, prancing around the small shop. He forgets himself and begins to flirt, fluttering his eyes and speaking slowly, "The beauty of white faces should be seen, not covered."

I shrug at his nonsense before leaning forward to take the veil from his hands for a personal examination. I quickly purchased the items I needed and bolted from the shop. Remembering that I never bothered to wash any of my purchases, I recoil, dreading the diseases I might catch from the unwashed fabric. I quickly tighten my lips, breathing the stale air through my nose, cursing the face veil.

A man in a white
thobe
surprises me when he brushes my shoulder as he walks by. He stops, and then stands too close for conservative Riyadh.

I gasp, wondering how on earth I am going to discourage a flirty Saudi man when I can't even speak his language.

That's when I hear Peter Sasson merrily ask, his distinctive voice low, "Are you quite ready to leave now?"

I slowly exhale. The man in the
thobe
is my European boyfriend. In the months following our first date, Peter and I have become involved in an exclusive romantic relationship. Since that time, we have enjoyed a number of desert adventures.

My fears vanish. "No. I'm only resting for a minute." I pause. "It's so hot under this darn cloak I am about to burst into flames!"

Peter laughs.

He has obviously been watching very closely as he followed me throughout the souk.

We had agreed earlier that Peter would watch from a discreet distance and be ready to rescue me if I required his assistance. The day's adventure has been so overpowering that I have forgotten him.

Peter is the perfect "undercover agent" for this outing. With his smooth olive skin, dark brown hair and ability to speak Arabic, he can pass for a handsome light-skinned Arab with a European education. When wearing the Saudi
thobe
and
ghutrah
he looks rather dashing.

An international man, Peter was an only child to his parents and was raised in Alexandria, Egypt, where the Sasson family had settled to become wealthy cotton plantation owners. Peter was then educated in an exclusive school in England, and lived in France and Italy before traveling to Saudi Arabia. He arrived in the kingdom the year before I accepted a position at the hospital. Self-assured and resourceful, he is willing to take on any exciting exploit.

"Take care, then," Peter said before warning me, "I saw a
mutawah
walking in a side alley."

A
mutawah
! I look left and right.

Even in 1979, when the kingdom is filled with Western working expatriates, the
Mutawain
remain uncompromising clergymen who cling to their role of policing public morals throughout Arabia. I had made the discovery early on that even the ruling royal family can do little to curb the barbaric behavior of the
Mutawain
. This inability to act is partially fueled out of fear that the powerful clerics will call for the royals downfall from the loudspeakers mounted on the towers of the kingdom's neighborhood mosques. In order to keep the al-Saud family secure on their throne, Saudis and foreigners alike must endure relentless scrutiny from these inflexible men.

The
Mutawain
are fearsome opponents. Since arriving in the kingdom, Peter and I have both suffered unpleasant experiences at the hand of these angry men of religion.

I pat at my veil and scarf to make certain that none of my hair has escaped my black coverings. The
Mutawain
will not wink at my deception.

When I hear the conspicuous shouts of a
mutawah
mingled with the cries of women from a nearby street, I decide to leave the area.

I study the figures in
thobes
around me, searching for Peter. Then I recognize him conspicuously staring at my feet. He is checking my identity by inspecting my shoes. This morning he had tied a small colored ribbon onto the black strap of my shoe, a trick we had heard was routine in Saudi life.

"I don't want to lose track of you and grab the wrong woman," he said, and had laughed. "It would be off with my head!"

As I stroll in front of him, I nod my head and whisper, "Let's leave this place."

Peter speaks without looking at me. "Where now?"

"The Bedouin souk."

This Bedouin souk, or antiques market, is a favorite with many expatriates. No souk is more evocative of Saudi Arabia's past. And for some unheard of reason, the
Mutawain
seldom harass women in this area.

The Bedouin souk is a maze of alleys off Uthman ibn Affan Street. Many times during the past year, Peter and I have spent enjoyable hours browsing through the open stalls where daggers, coffee pots, incense-burners, camel bags, and antique weapons are on jumbled display.

The likelihood that my hands were stroking old muskets used in the days of Bedouin tribal raiding parties never failed to create electrifying images in my mind.

Prior to my arrival in Saudi Arabia, I had mistakenly believed that all Saudis were Bedouin. I quickly discovered that there is a marked difference between settled city Arabs and nomadic Bedouin Arabs. These two groups have long distrusted and disliked each other.

The educated Saudis I know at the royal hospital routinely scorn and ridicule the Bedouin and act embarrassed to be connected to this mainly uneducated facet of their society.

The Bedouin way of life has changed little since the time of Prophet Muhammad, (Peace be upon him) the founder of the Islamic faith. These proud people feel that their own lifestyle is superior to that of the urban dwellers, or "Godless sinners," as the Bedouin call them. There were times that the Bedouin refused to enter the settled interior communities of Arabia without first stuffing cotton or cloth into their nostrils, asserting that their city brethren had an obnoxious odor.

Although Bedouins can be found throughout the kingdom, there are only three places where they are likely to feel comfortable enough to mingle with foreign visitors. Restraints are loosened in the Bedouin's own desert encampments, which can be found in various desert areas throughout the kingdom, at the camel souk, located on the outskirts of Saudi cities, and at the Bedouin souk, where Peter and I are now entering.