In the Land of Invisible Women (35 page)

“All of us children were raised in the Kingdom. This is my country, our home. I do understand that to be a vascular surgeon—the first woman vascular surgeon in the Kingdom—would help my countrymen a lot, Qanta. There are women who have ischemic leg ulcers and do not want to seek treatment because all the physicians and surgeons are usually male. They need the skills of women like me.” She studied me earnestly, checking to see if I had absorbed the full import of her commitment.

I had met this sincere commitment to improving the Kingdom time and time again, whether issuing from curved, moustached lips of aristocratic Saudi academics, or the bare, unglossed lips of earnest Saudi female clinicians. They revealed an affection for their nation of enormous and very sincere dimensions. I had no doubt that doctors like Reem, al-Turki, and Mu'ayyad were very much driven by a deep desire to improve medicine for the average Saudi national. I was struck by Reem's altruism and searched for signs of the same within myself. I wasn't sure when I had lost my ideals of serving the needy and seamlessly replaced them with an insatiable hunger for reward. I had definitely lost something along the way that Reem, like so many of the pioneering Saudi clinicians I knew, clearly had not.

They worked not only for the patients in their immediate charge but, through these actions and choices, by striving for a role of public service in their country, also for the wider community. There was no doubt in their minds that what they chose to do and how they exercised their skills and privilege was moving their country forward in tiny degrees; like a bloated oil tanker changing direction, every miniscule and unseen effort helped moved the behemoth Kingdom toward modernity and advancement. Reem, like many of the Saudis I met, was a die-hard idealist, willing to direct her career to serve that calling. Like all of her Saudi colleagues, she had the credentials and clout to pursue a fine medical career outside of the Kingdom, but instead she wished to invest her expertise within her native land.

We were finishing our coffee that had since grown cold. Outside, Thalia Street was illuminated with glossy boutique stores selling precious dates, fine culinary items, and the ubiquitous, exclusive jewelry. We noticed that our driver had appeared, waiting to take us both back to the compound. As a single working woman, like me, Reem had an identical apartment on compound where she preferred to live rather than stay as a perpetual houseguest at her sister's married home, which was also in Riyadh. Reem's family trusted her implicitly and allowed her an unusual degree of independence.

In so many ways, Reem thought, acted, and lived exactly like me. Within this Kingdom I was discovering some very liberated, independent, powerful, and highly intellectual women. Interestingly, I was beginning to discern the glimmers of a new insight. I began that evening to realize most of these extraordinary women had arrived in these circumstances by dint of progressive fathers and nurturing male mentors. In the Kingdom, women were gaining their opportunities with the encouragement and often unabashed support of their male Saudi counterparts. This was a complex tapestry of inter-gender cooperation that was finally coming into view, antithetical to the rabid preachings of the state-sponsored Wahabi clergy who wished women voiceless, invisible, and socially inert.

After months of feeling, seeing, and experiencing male supremacy, I was discovering the most fervent supporters and enablers of women's liberation in the Kingdom often came in the form of enlightened men, whether through fatherhood, marriages, or professional mentorships. The Saudi male was much more than I had realized, and Reem, without discounting her own personal efforts or minimizing her own determination and appetite for development, was a product of exactly these forces. I felt myself warming to the Saudi male. I had sorely underestimated him. But there was more to Reem than met the eye. A week later she called me for an evening of conversation.

“Qanta, I have news!” Reem's voice was pressured and tense with excitement.

“What is it?” I asked, rousing myself from the void of a nap that had found me painfully curled up on my eternally lumpy sofa. I patted around to find my eyeglasses that I had cast off in a foggy doze some hours earlier. Reem was jabbering at high speed. It took me a while to understand exactly what she was telling me.

“I got accepted! University of Toronto! I have the fellowship! I can't believe it, Qanta! I am going to be a vascular surgeon!”

“Congratulations, Reem, when did you hear? Mashallah that is terrific. You will be the first female vascular surgeon in the Kingdom! I am so proud of you. You deserve this. Quickly, I want to know first, what did Dr. al-Turki say when you told him?”

“Oh Qanta,
he
told
me
! He was ecstatic. He called me at home and then he called my parents to congratulate them. He heard from the program director in Toronto that I matched. I am so excited, I cannot tell you. This is a dream come true for me. It's hard to believe it is actually happening.” She released a gale of laughter which I couldn't help sharing. We giggled for a while, clutching our telephones.

Still holding the phone, I slipped my feet into slippers and started to open the windows in the apartment, hoping for the evening breeze to sweep through the musty apartment. Reem was rattling off more news, without pausing even for breath. As I listened to her animated voice, I poured myself some water. The day had been unusually hot and, as the top apartment of the block, my apartment took hours for the superheated ceilings to cool down. Outside, the Maghreb (evening) Azaan sounded. A scraggly flock of pigeons rose into the air, startled by a stray cat.

“When do you leave, Reem?” I asked, thinking already how much I would miss my lovely friend and colleague. In the past months we had solved so many clinical problems together. I had discovered she was a brilliant clinician and she often helped me turn over difficult problems in the patients we shared.

“Well, Qanta the fellowship starts in July, like all programs over there.” I already knew this but still waited to hear her plans. “But I need permission from my father first. You know I can't travel without his consent and it's going to be difficult for my family…” she trailed off. I detected the first tones of uncertainty.

“But Reem,” I caught myself defending her, already adopting sides of an invisible argument, “you have lived away from them for years in Riyadh. You live alone here. They know how seriously you take your career. Of course it will be terrible in the beginning. All the homesickness in Canada, the horrible winters. But I have confidence you, and they will get over it. I am sure they will and of course, two years are going to fly by so fast, you won't even know you are gone before it's time to come back!” I ended on a triumphant note; what was there to discuss? She had to go. Anything else was clearly out of the question.

Reem responded slowly, carefully, “My father is a conservative man, Qanta.”

“But you mentioned he is so educated, a professor,” I hastened to interrupt, not understanding where Reem was leading.

“Yes, Qanta, he is indeed highly educated, but he still is concerned about me as his only unmarried daughter. He didn't allow me to attend a surgical conference at the European Vascular Course in Marseilles last year. Here in the Kingdom an unmarried woman has to have the written permission of her male guardian in order to travel outside to meetings or to study. My father did not grant that.”

“Why not, Reem? All you would be doing is anastomosis workshops and attending some lectures. So what if it was in beautiful Marseilles?” I could feel my indignation rising.

“It's difficult for him, Qanta. Saudi society, even in more-relaxed Jeddah, is still very conservative. If he is seen to be too liberal with his daughter, there could be consequences to my reputation.”

“But that's rubbish, Reem. You are the most honorable woman I know. You would never violate their trust, and you are old enough to choose your own path. Allah knows your inner intentions. Tell your father to stop worrying about this and trust in the fine daughter he has raised.” Then I added, “Honestly, Reem, that's ridiculous.” I couldn't help voicing my anger. Her concerns reminded me of women in my own family raised within the confines of expatriate Pakistani culture. I couldn't believe what I was hearing this young surgeon tell me.

“So,” she continued guardedly now that she sensed my concern about her decisions, “I am well aware that if I insist on assuming my place in the fellowship, I will only be allowed to go as a married or engaged woman. Without that it will be impossible for me to migrate.” I was speechless.

“My father mentioned this to me when I was applying. He didn't prevent me at all—far from it, he encouraged me—but he made it clear he could never allow me overseas without being spoken for.”

It was as simple as that. Reem would not be allowed the chance to pursue fellowship unless she had given herself away in a commitment to marriage. I was amazed. Reem had never mentioned any aspirations for married life. I suspected, like me, she would pursue a career first and then worry about those matters much later. In her case this path wasn't an option. Career could only come at the price of marriage whether or not this was an aspiration. This was not a desperate housewife scenario, this was a desperate surgeon scenario; a surgeon who would attain her credentials only through marriage rather than in spite of or without marriage.

“What about your mother? Surely she doesn't think this is a good idea, compelling marriage just so that you get to study a little more? I can't believe she supports this, Reem.”

“My mother says nothing. It is up to Father, but she is very concerned about my solitude in Toronto. I think privately she prefers I have a fiancé. That would reassure her.”

“So you have agreed, Reem? Are you actually telling me that you have decided to marry so you can attend a fellowship?”

My voice was filled with undisguised anger. I couldn't believe a woman so intelligent could be so stupid and so weak. Why couldn't she defy her family, like I had been able to? Why were women so spineless? And why were our own mothers so eternally silent? To where in the world had all the maternal indignation gone? I could tell from my trembling voice there was more feeling in me than just about her situation. I was thinking about every snatched opportunity I had to claw back toward myself, always fending off the specter of arranged marriage with a pitchfork of determination and defiance.

“Of course, I agreed. I have no options, Qanta. If I don't agree, my father will not approve my exit visa applications, and I cannot enter Canada. I have wanted to pursue vascular surgery for years now, and I am not going to be stubborn about it. If I have to marry, I have to marry. I see no problem with that.” She was suddenly firm in her authority.

“Have they selected anyone for you yet?” I asked sheepishly.

“Yes, Qanta, a Saudi from Jeddah. He is in IT. The oldest son, he is responsible for his retired parents; his name is Sultan. We met last weekend in my parents' house. Qanta, I really like him!” This last remark shocked me. Reem had just met a stranger and was contemplating marriage and actually sounded excited. And I had thought her my alter ego!

“We are going to be engaged, Qanta! I can't wait for you to meet him!”

“Will Sultan accompany you to Canada, Reem, perhaps after the wedding ceremony?” I asked, completely confused. Perhaps that had been the point of the engagement, so that he would be able to chaperone her around Toronto. Better still, as a husband he could live with her and be her protection, guarding her honor from whatever her parents and their community feared.

“Oh no, Qanta, he will remain in Jeddah working and saving for the wedding. We will communicate by telephone and Internet. I can't believe how many hours we spend on MSN Messenger already. I am not sure, but I could be falling in love.”

I had nothing further to say. From my vantage, the cool calm surgeon was gripped in a demented delirium that I had seen affect so many Muslim women who had no contact with the opposite sex outside their immediate relatives. They thought themselves in love in a matter of weeks. They made decisions to commit their lives to strange men without even a pause or hesitation. It was such a polar opposite to the values I had absorbed in the West, the values that had subsumed those of my parents' culture.

What earthly protection could her fiancé on the other end of a dial-up connection in the Hijaz offer her in wintry Toronto? Who in Toronto would care whether the vascular surgical fellow was a married woman or not? Reem had already informed me she planned to continue wearing her headscarf in Canada, so I couldn't imagine she would be accosted by curious Canadian men. The headscarf alone was deterrent enough in my opinion, particularly in Canada, where sensitivities to foreign cultures in cities like Toronto were fairly pervasive. And how could Jeddah society be placated and Reem's honor preserved by her cyber-betrothal? I had a million logical questions.

Inside I knew the answers already. It came down to the age-old enemy of independence: what people will think. Like my family, Reem's family feared what other people would think if they allowed her to leave the Kingdom unattached. This fear outweighed any other decision for the family as a whole, irrespective of the fact that Reem had secured the only scholarship for vascular surgery in the Kingdom and that she was making history by becoming the first Saudi female to train in this discipline. That was immaterial. What really mattered for Saudi daughters, like Pakistani ones, was what other people thought.