American Chick in Saudi Arabia (6 page)

As Peter and I walk along the main street to our parked automobile, I hear an alarming confrontation between a
mutawah
and two Filipina women. With a raised stick poised menacingly, the man is angrily shouting.

I study the women's attire. They are both dressed modestly. The only issue that might raise his stick is their uncovered hair. But I know that foreign women working in Saudi Arabia are told by their employers that there is no requirement for them to wear a head scarf and
abaaya
. But the religious clerics have their own ideas on the subject, and opinions vary from one cleric to another. Foreign women really do not know what to do to discourage
Mutawain
attacks.

The two women are weeping and alternatively crying out.

"We are not Muslim, sir!" "We are not Muslim!"

I am grateful to see that the
mutawah
is accompanied by a city police office. In an effort to control the violent reactions of the religious zealots, the royals have had the wisdom to attach one regular police officer to each
mutawah
. The police officer will save these young women from a public thrashing, although there will be consequences if the religious clerics press the issue. Both will probably lose their jobs and be deported back to their country.

When he leads the two women to his squad car I overhear the policeman tell them in English that he is arresting them for indecent exposure.

Meanwhile the women around me — the veiled Saudis as well as foreign women — are moving away from the silent, still
mutawah
. When the policeman drives away, the
mutawah
will be free to terrorize any woman he chooses.

Peter and I stand and watch, speculating what poor female will next incur his wrath. Dressed as the most pious Saudi woman, with black gloves and stockings covering all my flesh, I do not feel in danger of his attention.

As Peter and I go on our way, my mind is full of activity as I question whether I will ever fully understand the impenetrable mysteries of life for women living in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

When I arrived in the kingdom, I was told that as a non-Muslim woman I was not required to veil or even cover my hair. Of course, I was cautioned to be modest in dress. Despite the heat of Riyadh, there would be no sleeveless dresses or summer shorts.

I quickly discovered that the official government policy was poles apart from reality. The sight of an unveiled female face and blonde hair was a potential riot-causing event in the crowded streets of Riyadh. In fact, my uncovered blonde hair had caused a disturbance in the jewelry souk shortly after arriving in the kingdom. Since that dangerous moment, I had been careful to braid my long hair and to cover it with a black scarf.

Foreign women also inflamed the zealots in charge of public morals. To the despair of every woman living in the kingdom, these angry men had recently discovered the joys of spray paint. With flaming red beards and eyes glaring with hatred,
Mutawain
men traumatized shoppers by spraying red paint on female offenders of the faith.

I will never forget the day that I witnessed such an attack.

Only in the kingdom for a few months, I did not feel comfortable shopping alone. Peter instructed his Filipino office driver, Joe, to remain with me while his part-time Pakistani maid, Majida, and I shopped. I was in the market for a camera so we would go to the Batha souk, on the corner of al Batha and al Khazzam Street. The last thing on my mind was the danger of a roving
mutawah
for I was dressed modestly in an ankle-length dress with my long hair braided and hidden under my scarf and cloak. My face was on view for passing shoppers to see, but no Western women were expected to wear the face veil, so I felt safe.

Since Majida is Muslim, she was discreetly attired in a skirt that hung four or five inches above her ankles. Her arms were exposed from the elbows down, but I thought nothing of it since Majida is so petite that she looks like a teenager. The fabric on her head scarf was rather sheer, but the scarf was black and her hair was black, so with black layered on black, there was nothing for anyone to see. Majida's face was uncovered, but many Muslim women from neighboring countries do not always cover their faces, as the Saudi women do.

I felt that we were both well within the strict dress code required for females by Saudi society.

Joe strolled a few feet behind us while Majida and I window shopped. We were walking calmly past a dim alley when a human figure sprang up then swooshed down in front of us.

It was a
mutawah
. As a result of the unexpected shock, we both screamed. With a loud, angry cry, the man covered Majida's arms with red spray paint.

The man's face was deeply lined and his beard was henna-dyed. I was amazed that although noticeably old in years, he was young in body and spirit. It was as though the
mutawah
was attached to a powerful spring! I had never seen anyone but a professional athlete who had the ability to bound to such heights. His leaps were so forceful that his checkered headdress actually flapped in the air, reminding me of giant rabbit ears. Had we not been the focus of his demented attention, the incident would have been comical.

Still springing up and down, he began circling us, spraying Majida with red paint. Once or twice he dipped low enough to spray her legs before bounding into the air once again.

"Help!"
I shouted. Eager for male assistance, I glanced behind me, searching for Joe. To my dismay, I saw Joe rapidly running away.

Only moments before, the busy street had hummed with shoppers, but the street had now emptied.

On his final leap, the crazed man reached out and pinched Majida's arm hard enough to bruise the flesh to bone.

Majida screeched in pain.

Standing motionless for the first time, the
mutawah
began to shout angrily.

I stood in amazement.

The
mutawah
was so enraged that the wrinkles on his face began to rise and fall with his words.

Too late, I was able to find my voice. I shouted in English, "
Stop it!
What is your problem? We are properly dressed!"

The
mutawah
looked at me for the first time.

My tone of voice, combined with a white face appeared to astonish him.

My heart was pounding but I tried to look forceful.

The man's piercing eyes were suddenly filled with intense hatred. It was my first occasion to look into the eyes of someone who plainly wanted to physically harm me.

I braced myself for the spray of paint that was sure to come.

Much to my surprise and relief, the
mutawah
turned his back and walked away as calmly as if the incident had never happened.

"My God!" My entire body was tingling from the shock of the attack. "Majida! Are you all right?"

Poor Majida was making low, whimpering noises. She was rubbing her red-coated arms and hands. During the frenzied attack her face had been sprayed as well.

"Madam Jean, Madam Jean..." Majida burst into heaving sobs.

I grabbed her tiny hand and we began to stumble toward our parked car.

Heads appeared as shoppers peeked from the shop fronts. No one offered a gesture of sympathy.

I saw Joe lurking behind our automobile, so frightened that his face was pale and his eyes stretched open wide.

I bit my tongue, deciding not to rebuke him. Filipinos are routinely treated as one of the weak groups in the Saudi society, rarely enjoying mentors to protect them. Had Joe openly confronted the
mutawah
, he would probably have been flogged and then deported.

I suddenly felt a rush of shame. I should have reacted sooner. My lame excuse was that the attack had been so sudden that I was too stunned to counter the assault.

***

I shiver, forcing my thoughts to the present moment. I glance at Peter who is now calmly smoking a cigarette while studying camera equipment displayed in a glass case.

When the police car passes by, I look inside to see the two Filipino women. With heads in their hands, both are weeping, humiliated at being attacked and arrested.

Poor, poor women! They are as traumatized as the unfortunate Majida had been. Majida left the kingdom within days of the assault. When I pleaded with her to stay, knowing that she was returning to a life of certain poverty, she swore that, "I would rather starve in my poor village than live the life of a woman in Saudi Arabia."

Remembering the day she left, I am brushed by a great sorrow.

"Let's get out of here," I tell Peter.

My brief experience wearing the veil has been searing. I do not have to witness yet another injustice to grasp that female life under the black veils of Riyadh can be terrifying.

Despite Malaak's positive view of the veil, I
know
that most non-Bedouin women in Saudi Arabia do not share her views. And I know that as long as a single woman on earth is veiled against her will, I will always carry the weight of an invisible veil on my own shoulders.

With my roommates away for the evening, I wander aimlessly through our small apartment. Disheartened after my experiences beneath the veil today, I have fallen into a rare depression. I am more aware than ever of the dark reality that much of the world can be a dangerous place for the female sex.

I pace, silently questioning: Is there anything I can do to change the destiny of veiled women? Truthfully, it feels presumptuous to even think this way. The situation is too complex and traditions are too deeply rooted for any one person, and particularly a foreigner, to make a difference.

I am suddenly struck by the only possible solution. Saudi women are the answer to their own problems! Saudi women must lead the charge. There are many wealthy, educated and intelligent women in the country, but all are hiding behind the black veils. Native women must transform and overturn the regulations and rules that have nothing to do with Islam yet are sanctioned by this male-intoxicated country.

Change must make its way through the cities and into the desert by the efforts of Saudi women. While I cannot lead this effort, I can encourage Saudi women I meet to embrace the boldness necessary to bring action. Perhaps I can be the hand swinging the sword of change.

My new ideas lighten my mood.

The following weekend while visiting Peter, I confide my new idea. "Peter, from this day forward, I'll make a special effort to befriend Saudi woman. I'll persuade Saudi women to push for change." I smile and nod my head, tapping my foot on the floor in cadence with my words. "Never again will I refuse an invitation to a Saudi home or to a woman's party."

Westerners are new to the kingdom and helping to modernize Saudi Arabia. Native Saudis have not yet wearied of our presence. Hospitality is a trait deeply ingrained in the Saudi tradition, and many in the educated Saudi population welcome both Americans and Europeans into their country and into their homes. And, thanks to Dr. Feteih and Peter, I have more opportunities to socialize with Saudis than do most Westerners.

Dr. Nizar Feteih, the Saudi head of the hospital, after arriving from his hospital office for a much-needed social visit at the Sasson villa over a weekend break.

Despite a persistent veil of intolerance directed against women, that is adversely coloring my personal experience in this desert kingdom, there is no denying that many Saudis are bright, lovely people whom I believe are secretly open to the idea of cultural and political change. From my personal observations, I have seen that most Saudis work around the issues that life has dealt them, while waiting for true change to begin at the top and work its way down to the masses.

I fear that they are waiting in vain.

"Yes. I'll seek out these women, Peter. If all the women of Saudi Arabia band together, they can be an explosive force."

"Forget it, darling. So long as the middle class makes buckets of money and the
Mutawain
are given free rein to attack women, men will not allow their women to revolt."

"I don't know."

I continue my talk with Peter, trying to persuade him that he might become involved, that he should convince his Saudi business friends to rise up in anger on behalf of their women. He needs to speak out, to tell them that it is better for the country, and better for business to treat women as equal partners. By not allowing Saudi women's participation in public and business life, the Saudis are squandering half of their national human resources.

Peter laughs gently at my naïveté, and says as he walks away. "Leave me out of your schemes to change the world. Live and let live, I say."

Peter's attitude disappoints me. But I am not willing to give up. Change, I realize, is going to happen only if Saudi women insist upon it. And I am perfectly positioned to encourage their subversive inclinations. From now on, I decide, I will accept every invitation to female social functions, and I will take advantage of every opportunity.

***

Several weeks later, I am alone in my office in the Medical Affairs Department sorting papers when I hear a thump outside my office door. Moments later, whimpering noises bring me to my feet.

Nearly every Saudi male entering the hospital as a patient, or as the relative of a patient, requests to meet with Dr. Nizar Feteih, a well known Saudi who is the head of the hospital. Saudis who know him, or who have heard of his accomplishments, are understandably proud of the Saudi doctor. To protect Dr. Feteih's privacy, Medical Affairs offices are tucked away on the hospital's second floor.

I walk into the hallway and see nothing of interest. I peer to the right down the corridor leading to the hospital administrative offices. Everyone seems to be going about their usual routines.

I turn to my left to the hallway leading to the Medical Records department. A large bundle near the women's restroom catches my eye. "Now what is this?" I mutter. It is July and so hot that many of the hospital employees schedule vacations during this time. Even Dr. Feteih is away, visiting King Khalid at his summer palace in Taif. At this same time, the deputy medical director is on a short leave.

This is something I'll have to deal with alone. First I try to open the restroom door, but it is locked.

I lean forward to inspect the bundle on the floor. I step back when the blanket stirs and a whimpering noise escapes. I lean forward once again and hesitantly push the blanket aside.

I gasp as I step back. There is a baby in the blanket. I take a deep breath and step forward. The baby's head is oversized and misshapen, with its little features pitifully scrunched in the center of its face.

I fall back against the wall, my heart pounding. Even though I've lived in the kingdom for only a short while, I've learned that Saudis born handicapped have an extraordinarily difficult life.

The customs of the Bedouin still influence modern Saudi life. Meager resources cannot be wasted on those without the ability to contribute favorably to the tribe. Such babies are often neglected in the hope they will quickly succumb to illness and die.

Has this sick baby been abandoned by its parents?

I must do something, so I lift the little one from the floor and into my arms. I try to cuddle the over-sized bundle against my chest while making soothing noises. The infant begins to make heaving sobs. I decide to take the baby to one of our pediatrics outpatient clinics. Handicapped by a big head, I assume that the baby was brought in for treatment. Surely someone in the clinic will have information on this child.

Just as I am rounding the corner to leave the area, I hear a yelp of distress. I turn back to see a veiled woman with upraised arms rushing at me. "
Ahlan!
" (Hello!) I shout a greeting in my elementary Arabic.

The woman is moving so fast that her veil and
abaaya
both flutter. It is clear that this woman is the mother of the baby.

She comes to a sudden stop, startling me when she shouts in accented but perfect English, "You have my baby!"

Relieved, I smile and place the baby in her outstretched arms, explaining, "I was afraid this baby had been abandoned. I was taking it to the nurse's station in pediatrics."

I know she is staring at me from under that black veil which totally covers her face. I strain to speak normally, although I'm speaking to the equivalent of a blank wall.

"You left your baby on the floor?" I prompt.

She defends herself in perfect English. "Never would I leave my baby! After seeing the doctor and hearing his sad news, I became dizzy with grief. I went to the toilet. I left my baby only a short distance from the door."

She is beginning to sob as she asks, "Do you have a place I can sit? For only a moment?"

It is extremely rare for any Saudi to seek comfort from a Westerner. In the age-old tradition of Bedouin hospitality and generosity, the Saudis I know are warm and friendly, yet much time and many efforts are required before actual confidences are shared.

I feel true sympathy for her situation, the mother of a special needs baby. I guide her from the hall to a chair by my desk and pour her a glass of water.

With her sobbing baby clutched to her chest, she begins to weep in earnest, and I quickly close and lock the door.

To my surprise she lifts her veil and pats it securely over her head.

I stare openly. I have never once looked at a veiled woman when I did not long to see her face, hear her voice, and know her personal story. Many times I have thrust one hand into the other to keep from reaching out and pulling the veil up and away.

Her face carries a clue to her character. The softness of her eyes conveys a distinctive sweetness. She cannot be called beautiful, but she is very pretty, with fair skin and delicate features. Her hair and eyes are brilliantly dark. Her hair falls in ringlets upon her shoulders. She is still cloaked, so I can only imagine her physique, but she appears slight. She is wearing a thin gold chain around her small neck.

Her searching eyes look at me.

I smile with encouragement and find the nerve to place my hand lightly on her shoulder.

My compassionate gesture causes her to burst anew into tears. While sobbing, she stretches her arms out so that I can look at her baby's face. "This is my fourth child! Three are already in the grave. Poor Shaker has lived three miserable months!" She shakes her head vigorously. "He will die soon, just like the others."

Over the next hour, I learn her tragic story.

Nayam is an educated woman. In 1975 she earned her degree at a well-known university in Beirut, Lebanon.

Before 1977, Saudi women were permitted the freedom to travel abroad for their advanced education. But in 1977, an al-Saud family crisis, brought about by royal adultery, led to the public execution of Princess Misha'il, granddaughter of Prince Mohammed, the eldest living son in the al-Saud family. Her lover, Khalid Muhalhal, the nephew of the special Saudi envoy to Lebanon, was beheaded.

In reaction to the humiliation of al-Saud adultery, and the international scandal revolving around public executions for the crime of unsanctioned sex, King Khalid decreed that all Saudi women were banned from traveling abroad without a "
Mahram
"-a close male relative, such as a father or brother, to whom the female is forbidden to marry-as an escort.

Since few fathers or brothers are willing or able to take years out of their lives to accompany a daughter or sister abroad, virtually all Saudi women have stopped being educated abroad.

Nayam is one of the lucky few who left prior to the confining royal decree.

She tells me, "My parents are highly educated. Both of them. They are free-thinkers. My father was educated in Lebanon. He met my mother there. She has Syrian roots. They fell in love in a normal way. Their mistake was to come back to my father's country. I am one of six children. I grew up in Jeddah, thanks be to God. I did not even cover my face, unless the men of religion were on a mission."

A tight smile pauses briefly on her lips.

I nod. It is well known that women are not as restricted in Jeddah as they are in rigid Riyadh. Such a thing would never happen in Riyadh, the most conservative of all Saudi cities where all Saudi women veil. No wonder Nayam is quick to toss the veil over her head.

"My parents encouraged all their children to get a degree, even their three daughters." She smiles proudly. "I earned my dentistry degree easily." She sighs, "I planned to work as a pediatric dentist. All my patients would be children, so there would be no cause for complaint from my husband."

At the thought of her husband, Nayam weeps quietly. "I did not complain when my parents arranged for me to meet a cousin, a cousin they wanted me to marry. This is our way." She sighs again. "My fiancée's name was Obeid."

I pull up a chair and sit near her.

"I even met him before we married."

She looks into the distance, a frown on her face. "Obeid is not handsome, but I found him to be intelligent and interesting. He owns several contracting firms, and when we met he had been awarded a government contract to build a high school in the kingdom. In the beginning, Obeid seemed pleased and proud that his educated wife wanted to have a career. He even sketched a building design for my new office."

She pauses to take a sip of water and to kiss her baby's little lips. "I ignored an early troubling indicator of things to come. Obeid's draft drawing of the dental clinic had separate rooms for male and female children."

In Saudi Arabia, male and female children are sometimes allowed to freely mingle socially until puberty. Although adult Saudis are sex-segregated in almost every setting, they seldom insist on the separation of young children by sex, unless they are of the most conservative tribes.

"He was so nice...at first. When I told him that I did not want to wear the veil, he stared at me. When I asked him if he could find anything in his Muslim faith that required women to cover their faces, he smiled without commenting. When I told him that I wanted to wait a few years to have children, he smiled without speaking.

"The day after our wedding, Obeid sat me down, talking in his soft voice, telling me that he wanted a wife who stayed at home, a wife who would give him children, a wife who wanted a husband to be a real man and take care of his family. I protested that I wanted to pursue the career I had trained for, and that my work as a dentist would be ideal for a wife and mother. I could make my own hours, I told him.