American Chick in Saudi Arabia (7 page)

"But Obeid reminded me that he was the husband, the head of our family, and that I was never to question his decisions. I was to put the thought of a career out of my mind.

"When Obeid learned that I did not own a veil to cover my face and eyes, he called his mother and asked her to meet us at the Riyadh airport with veil in hand. When I protested, he softly told me that my exposed face would cause a scandal. "You must cover your face when you leave our home," he ordered in a gentle voice.

"When I wept in our bed, Obeid demanded his marital rights again and again, asking me, what woman could want more than what I am offering? Everyone was happy, but me, when I became pregnant on our honeymoon."

Nayam haltingly reveals that her first child, a son, died before his first birthday. His kidneys did not function properly. With such a small amount of urine output, his entire body was slowly poisoned. The infant had suffered terribly with gruesome raw red rashes that coated his body. The rashes developed into open sores that sometimes oozed pus and blood. Even Nayam, his loving mother, admitted that she believed his death merciful.

Her second child, a daughter, died within six months with the exact medical problems her brother suffered. The poor darling had left her earthly life whimpering with pain.

After the death of their second child, Nayam's physician recommended genetic screening and counseling. Once the results were studied, Obeid and Nayam were cautioned by Western physicians not to have more children. They were told that both carried a gene that, when combined, was likely to cause terminal abnormalities in their offspring.

Many tribes in Saudi Arabia routinely marry within the tribe, with cousins marrying cousins on a regular basis. There is a belief that such customs strengthen families. Weakness comes from outside the family unit. The idea that medical dangers may lurk in intermarriage is an outlandish concept to most Saudis.

Obeid had scornfully rejected the warnings, insisting they try yet again. "Only God can decide this issue," Obeid declared.

Nayam's third child, a son, died within nine months of the same medical disorder.

Obeid insisted on yet more children. The grieving Nayam was pregnant within a week of burying her third child.

An exhausted Nayam pleaded with Obeid to take a second wife. Let another woman give him children, she implored. If he did not want two wives at the same time, she would not protest a divorce.

My jaw drops in surprise. The biggest fear of every Saudi woman I've met is that their spouse will bring a second wife into their lives. None that I ever heard of encouraged her husband to take a second wife.

"Obeid had no interest in another woman. Instead, he was angered by my suggestion. My husband became obsessed, telling me with that quiet voice that he could and would father a healthy child with me."

She lifts her chin, staring at the bundle in her arms. "Then my little Shaker was born with a head too large for his body. The doctors are doing what they can, but Shaker's head keeps growing. Even the head drain did little to stop it.

"Just today, the physician told Obeid we should not have any more babies. The doctor said in his medical opinion that all our babies will die prematurely."

She tells me that Obeid had spoken softly in that deadly voice of his, "Allah will decide."

"When I heard my husband's words, I knew that I would start screaming and never stop. I scooped up my child and ran away. I ran in the first elevator that opened and stepped out where it stopped. That is how I came to be here," she says, gesturing at the door and hallway.

Nayam's unmasked face glistens with fear. "I cannot change my husband's mind. About anything. Obeid is like a mountain between me and happiness."

"What about your parents? Can they help you?"

"Nothing." She looked into her baby's face and gave him a brief, faint smile. "They can do nothing. Both of my parents tried to speak with Obeid, but he froze them with his words." She hums the words, "Pleasing words filled with poison."

My thoughts are racing. I know that I would divorce this Obeid, but things are not so simple in Saudi Arabia. While divorce is an uncomplicated matter for Saudi men, it quickly becomes tangled with intricate complexities when it is the woman who wants a divorce.

Saudi men can divorce their wives without giving reason. The routine is one of speaking the words "I divorce you" three times, followed by notification to the religious and legal authorities.

Women, on the other hand, are under obligation to prove that the man is either impotent, or that he is not financially capable of supporting a wife and family. Or, if the man has more than one wife, a woman can try to make the case that he is not providing equally for all wives. Even then, the religious authorities generally side with the man, telling the woman to go home, that God knows best what is good for her.

I am thinking without speaking. It is painfully obvious that Nayam cannot claim that Obeid is impotent. He may well be the most potent man in the kingdom. Since she is his only wife and lives in obvious physical comfort, the second reason for woman-directed divorce is also invalid.

Nayam has a problem.

Her family either cannot, or will not, go against her husband.

Nayam recognizes clearly the ugly hopelessness of her personal circumstances. Tears continue to stream down her face.

I shift uncomfortably and ponder an appropriate response to my distraught visitor.

Her gentle face wrinkled in agony, Nayam suddenly pulls the veil over her eyes and abruptly stands. "Obeid will be looking for me. He will be furious that I ran away."

I lightly brush her arm with my outstretched hand. "Please, I want to know what happens with your baby...and with you." I plead with her, searching for words that will make an impact. "Nayam, I truly care. Please, come by my office any time you visit the hospital."

She stops and turns, a stranger swathed in black shroud once more, facing me, but without a face. "I can call you?" she questions hesitantly.

"Yes!" I move toward my desk and quickly write down my office phone number, my MCV apartment phone number, and the phone number at Peter's villa. I write my name, Jean Parks, at the top of the paper.

"John Park," she repeats in her beautiful accented voice.

I smile. "Jean Parks."

She does not offer me her phone number, but not for rudeness. Nayam would be afraid for Obeid to discover that we have ever met. Surely this is a man who would forbid his wife a friendship with an American woman.

I watch her small black-cloaked form as she seemingly floats up the hallway and to the elevator.

I am sure that I will never see or speak with the gentle Nayam again.

But I am wrong. Surprisingly, she calls several times over the course of the next few months.

As the years pass, I am to learn that telephone conversations create a comfort embraced by many Saudi women. Quite simply, many Saudi females readily reveal intimate secrets, even to strangers, during telephone conversations. I have heard of some young women, bolder than most, who dial random numbers, whispering sexual promises to men who answer, strangers to them.

The reason for this behavior is a mystery that I cannot solve. But it does seem that every human being living in bondage finds an outlet for secret pleasures.

Nayam speaks openly when she phones, telling me that her situation has not improved.

My heart pounds painfully when I hear that Shaker, her baby son, is still living a miserable life of cruel deformity.

Nayam suffers through several more pregnancies; all, she is pleased to report, ended in spontaneous miscarriages.

I do not know whether to be happy or sad for her lost pregnancies. Perhaps some of those children would have been without deformity, although considering the parents' genetic history, such a thing is doubtful. "And Obeid?" I ask. "Has he changed?"

"Nothing of Obeid will ever change," she replies in her sweet voice.

As I listen to Nayam speak, I remember my vow that I will persuade Saudi women to fight for their own freedom.

I believe that Nayam's unusual childhood, which had been grounded in thoughts of female self-determination, layered by a good education, will make her open to my ideas. I feel certain I have met the woman who can help bring important change to Saudi culture. But first she must be able to break away from her own oppression. With a sick child, constant pregnancies, and a demanding husband, will she have the energy for such a cause?

Too nervous to approach the topic in a straightforward manner, I read her a short poem I wrote.

"Nayam, listen. This is something special. Something for you," I tell her with a rush of excitement. "This is about the Saudi tradition of cousins marrying cousins."

"A man's first cousin is not a proper wife.

The good doctors at the KFSH quote medical statistics,

warning unyielding hawk-nosed men that each child born

from a "cousin coupling" is in grave danger of a short-lived painful life.

I listen as Bedouin husbands argue that all is in Allah's capable hands.

These two resolute forces remind me of tenacious rivals taut with strife,

each determined to be triumphant, yet both destined to lose.

Meanwhile, wounded women are caught in this merciless web,

while innocent Arab babies burst into a cruel world,

their deformed bodies tormenting them,

as well as those who love them."

Nayam is quiet. She thanks me, saying, "I did not know American people are verse makers."

"We are not talented poets like you Saudis," I confess, "but I know many Americans who write a poem occasionally." I add, "I've been writing poems since I was a teenager." I speak words that I fear saying, even as they are spilling from my mouth. "Nayam, have you thought of forming a society for Saudi women?"

Her voice is high pitched when she says, "A society?"

"Yes. I'm speaking about a political organization where Saudi women can gather and make appeals to the government."

Her breathing becomes intense, but she does not respond.

Her silence encourages me.

"Perhaps a women's society that could present one important issue at the time, such as the issue of veils, and then the issue of divorce without cause, and then the issue of..."

"Jean. I beg you. Stop. Do you want me to languish in a dungeon? Who would take care of my son?"

"Well...with Western influence making an appearance in Saudi Arabia, don't you think that your government is moving forward on key issues relating to women?"

Her accent thickens. "
No. I do not.
" She begins to speak rapidly with a sudden coldness in her tone. "This is dangerous talk. I do not like it."

"I..."

"Shaker is crying. I must go."

A click of the phone and the call abruptly ends. I stand there holding the receiver in my hand, feeling rather foolish.

"Well, I could have handled that much better," I tell myself as I hang up the phone.

As I mull over our conversation, I realize that Nayam was right to be concerned. There is no patience for activist activities within the kingdom. There's no such thing as civilian protests in Saudi Arabia. People are not even allowed to gather in large crowds. There are no movie theaters, no bowling alleys, and very few independent organizations, since such groups must be licensed by the government. Even if a license is granted, the organization will be carefully monitored by the religious authorities. Even private groups that do nothing but read the Koran are often shut down.

In Saudi Arabia, any large gatherings, other than weddings, are forbidden by law.

Never again do I hear Nayam's sweet voice. Apparently Nayam believes her association with me is too dangerous. I'm wretchedly sad when I realize that I moved much too quickly with this Saudi woman. I've lost contact with a woman whom I truly cared about. I have learned a painful lesson.

But I'm not willing to abandon my efforts to change the fate of these veiled women. I realize that I must become clever with my techniques and encourage these women to reach conclusions
on their own
. I won't suggest the formation of organizations but l will try to lead them to reach that idea themselves.

But to make this happen, I must become friendly with other Saudi women. I want to meet them in their homes and get to know them. That's the only way they'll ever grow to trust me and what I have to say.

A few weeks later, when I'm invited to a royal wedding at the invitation of a minor princess I met through Saudi friends, I eagerly accept. I've attended a few other Saudi weddings and I've found them to be over-the-top fun. I've enjoyed dressing up and spending time with so many interesting and beautiful Saudi women. But now I've got a more serious agenda.

Hotels in Saudi Arabia build special rooms to host Saudi wedding parties. Unlike Christian weddings and Jewish weddings, which are often held in places of worship, Muslim weddings are not conducted in mosques.

Mosques are for men to gather for prayer, for discussion of the Prophet's teachings, or for secret political meetings. While females are allowed inside the largest and most holy mosques in Mecca and Medina, and in particular during holy times of Ramadan and Haj, I've never known women to participate in events inside any of the numerous neighborhood mosques within the kingdom. In fact, women are discouraged from praying in local mosques.

Many times during the
muezzin's
call to prayer, I've gazed out on the street from the rooftop at Peter's villa watching the crowds of Saudi men spill from their homes to walk to the neighborhood mosque. No women walk beside them. Instead, I often watched as solitary Saudi women bowed to Mecca from the small balconies. Those who did not venture outside to their balconies, obviously prayed to Allah from the interior of their homes.

Weddings, too, are sexually segregated. On the occasion of this female-only celebration of an upcoming wedding I am the guest of Princess Selma, a minor princess in the House of al-Saud, meaning that the men in her family are not in line to the throne. Princess Selma and I became friendly a year ago. We met through mutual friends at a women's party, when one of the doctor's wives at the KFSH invited me to accompany her. Learning of my interest in her culture, Princess Selma had kindly invited me to several Saudi social functions since then.

Selma is in the backseat of a black Mercedes when her chauffeur arrives to pick me up in front of Peter's villa. She looks unusually attractive on this night. Although she was born with a prominent nose that curls over thin lips, Selma employs a skilled make-up artist from Morocco who diminishes her nose while plumping her lips. The result is strikingly flattering.

Selma's dress is a lovely pink silk gown with delicate pink pearls on the bodice. Diamond earrings are swinging from her ears and her neck is embraced by a band of emeralds and diamonds.

I'm wearing a multicolored silk blouse and matching long skirt that I recently purchased in Milan, Italy, when I traveled there with Peter to visit his parents. My hair is hanging long and straight down my back without any adornments.

Jean dressed to attend Saudi royal wedding party with Princess Selma

Before we step out of the Mercedes, Selma throws a cloak and scarf over her dress. My attire is modest with arms and legs fully covered, so I step out without the usual black cloak and head scarf.

Selma's fingers brush through my hair as we walk into the large hall. "Allah blessed you with this hair," she says with a smile.

"What a sweet thing to say. Thank you," I reply, hugging her.

We enter the hotel arm in arm. This wedding is not as elaborate as previous weddings I've attended, but still it is a flamboyant affair. I smile in approval at the understated elegance of the decorations. For my taste, Saudi celebrations are often garish. But tonight the flowers are simple yellow carnations and white roses. The coverings on the tables and seats are yellow silk. Large white candles are centered on each table-top.

After removing her cloak and veil to hand them to an attendant, Selma takes my hand and leads me to a group of her friends who are talking and laughing, happy to be celebrating. Although every blonde-haired foreign female stirs wondrous curiosity in the kingdom, the lengthy fall of my hair always piques added fascination.

I am equally fascinated by the exotic Saudi women. With their glowing bronzed skin, raven hair, and chocolate eyes, most Saudi women are very attractive.

Each elaborate dress is stunning, and a few dazzling gowns are stitched with precious stones. Their dark hair is elaborately coifed and decorated with jeweled pins, and expensive jewelry drapes every neck and wrist.

I'm relieved that many of the women have a good command of English, which will make the evening more pleasant for me. Since Dr. Feteih frequently speaks with members of the royal family from our Medical Affairs offices, I've been asked not to learn Arabic, so to promote royal privacy. But these women do not know this, so I feel a quick flush of shame that I still do not speak their language.

Although everyone exclaims over my dress and hair with gushing compliments, I notice a few women glancing at my bare neck, wrists and fingers with a look of pity. Most upper-class Saudi women attach enormous importance to expensive gowns and costly jewels. It's one of the ways they can express their individuality and their status.

Our group approaches overloaded tables stacked with gourmet food. I begin with a sample of some of the Beluga caviar and smoked salmon before accepting a glass of cold apple juice.

Since alcohol is banned in the kingdom, there is none visible at this female event. When more than one woman whispers to me that there is a store of alcohol in a small room adjoining the large wedding hall, I smile. I suppose they expect that all Western women drink alcohol.

When I was recruited by HCA, I was warned that if giving up alcohol would be a hardship for me, I should not accept the offered position. So I was surprised to learn that alcohol is readily available in the kingdom. Wealthy Saudis have access to anything they desire, including alcohol. And, most expatriates make it themselves or they buy it on the black market.

Suddenly the throb and crash of loud drums and cymbals fill the air. A group of female dancers mingles through the crowd. They are dressed in golden costumes, delighting the eye with their adroit moves. One of Selma's friends shouts that the women are from the Sudan and Egypt. The dancers make their living traveling to the wealthy Gulf nations to perform at female celebrations.

The mood is one of happy anticipation. Everyone is waiting to see the bride, who we hear is an educated girl from a professional family. She is marrying "up" in society, into the royal family, which is a triumphant occasion for her and for her family. A few of the women seem jealous of the bride's good fortune and make cruel remarks about her. "She is of the tents," I hear one say scornfully.

The outspoken woman becomes quiet after Selma gives her a fierce look.

Women of the royal family are always shown deference by non-royals. Anytime a member of the royal family approaches a group of women, the other women react with respect. Jewel-covered hands are often kissed, although Muslims believe that no man or woman is above another in the eyes of God.

Within the hour, a lovely girl in a Western-style white beaded wedding dress walks through the room. This bride is very pretty and appears extremely happy.

Selma whispers that the young woman is marrying one of Selma's cousins and that the young man is known for his gentle manner.

I think of the soft-spoken Obeid and hope that this groom is not another man of deception. After the wedding, the groom will be free to do as he pleases, knowing that there is no authority that cares one whit about his wife's happiness.

The groom soon enters the hall, one of only six men in attendance. He goes to his bride like a man in a trance and doesn't seem to notice the mass of unveiled women staring intently at him. I exchange smiles with Selma. The groom's behavior is a hopeful beginning, I tell myself, recalling a wedding where the groom shocked all by ogling his wife's friends.

After bride and groom are presented and congratulated by those present, the event breaks into small groups. Some women return to the food while others begin to dance with female partners. I openly stare. It's routine for females to partner with females at Saudi weddings, but the sight of women dancing suggestively for each other is a scene I've never grown accustomed to seeing.

When a beautiful Saudi woman glides toward me, takes my hand in hers, and pulls me to the dance floor, I recoil awkwardly. I've never danced with another woman. I know it will be a serious affront to this woman if I balk at her invitation. I glance at Selma in the hope she will intervene, but she is busy talking and gesturing to two women at once. There's nothing to do but move to the beat of the music.

My dance partner tries to make conversation over the sounds of the loud music. But her words are in Arabic, so I respond with a smile and a shrug. I continue dancing, dearly longing to remove myself from the dance floor.

"Lord. Mama would die," I mumble to myself even as I maintain a brave face.

I grew up in one of the most conservative regions of America's Bible Belt and any type of dancing is considered slightly sinful. The Saudi custom of women dancing with women would thoroughly shock all the people I know and love in my small hometown.

I'm searching the crowd, looking for rescue, when my partner reaches over and tries to pull me close. This woman is taller than me. I look up and am astonished to see that her lips are beginning to pucker!

I involuntarily shout, "No, no," and place my hand over my mouth.

My dancing partner freezes in place.

Suddenly strong hands pull me backward and off the dance floor.

Another beautiful Saudi woman has me in her hands. Believing I am in some kind of danger, I begin to struggle.

Selma runs to me and begins to sputter in anger, "She is my guest!"

The woman who saves me begins to laugh. "Your guest was about to receive one of Latifa's special kisses! I saved her."

By this time several chattering women encircle us.

"If I were married to Latifa's husband, I would kiss women, too," one says with a hearty laugh. "He's a most unattractive man with a stomach this big," she mutters as she circles her hands in a rounded gesture across her mid-section.

An older Saudi woman glares in Latifa's direction. "That woman is strong. My daughter Sara told me the force of Latifa's kiss sucked her tongue straight through her lips and into Latifa's mouth!"

"Latifa is too wild," Selma mutters while glancing over my shoulder and at the dance floor. She looks back at me. "Jean, never mind Latifa. She tries to kiss all the new girls. She means no harm."

I turn back to look at Latifa. She is staring at me with an expression of disappointment. For the first time I notice Latifa's athletic body. She is a large woman with muscles.

I shiver at the thought of my narrow escape.

My thoughts are interrupted with an introduction from one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. "I am Asma."

I instantly recognize her as the woman who pulled me from Latifa's arms. Before I have an opportunity to thank her, Asma's sister and five other women quickly join us. Saying that they have been watching my long blonde hair swing while on the dance floor, all their attention is focused on me.

When these women discover that not only am I unmarried, but that I have traveled around the world as a single female to live and work in a royal hospital in their country, they are intrigued.

Hand in hand, we saunter over to a large table with chairs and seat ourselves where a lively conversation develops.

I detect a mixture of emotions as hurried questions come from every corner. Two of the women even clutch at my arms and express their horror that I am a woman who works to provide for myself and to support my parents. Such a financial burden is beyond their comprehension.

"If you do not work, does that mean you do not eat?" Asma inquires with a steady gaze.

"Well, I suppose that is right." I laugh heartily. "I've been feeding myself for most of my adult life, and guess what?" I circle my waist, which has increased by a few inches since I first arrived in the kingdom, with my hands and exclaim. "I've missed no meals!"

No one laughs. Several women exchange alarmed looks and Asma shakes her head in sorrow and says, "Oh, Allah! She would not have a piece of bread if she did not labor!"

Asma's sister voiced what seemed to be an unspoken, yet unanimous opinion. "When I hear such stories, I feel blessed to be a Saudi woman. Pass me my veil! I am happy to wear it, now."

Several women giggle while others mumble their heartfelt full agreement.

I am assuredly the one to be pitied in their eyes.

By the end of the wedding, I have not inspired anyone to reject the Saudi status quo. But I have received a number of heartfelt invitations to individual Saudi homes. I smile, thinking that these sweet women are concerned that I will not have enough to eat. They want to take care of me, just as I want to take care of them.

Months later when I receive a coveted invitation to spend a few days at Asma's palace in Jeddah, I am elated — even though Asma makes it clear that she's most eager to share her highly developed methods in "catching and keeping a man." In Asma's mind, a thirty-three-year-old unmarried female is a challenge to be met!