In the Land of Invisible Women (37 page)

“And so she says every time she sees Thunayan, she loses her trail of thought—” Reem broke off, crippled by waves of hysteria that had seized the whole group. I was puzzled. They were adolescent in their appetite for details about Sameera's crush. I suddenly felt I was at a sweet sixteen rather than a farewell soiree for a surgeon.

They giggled coquettishly and girlishly. The atmosphere was at once innocent and deeply saddening. The women, starved for meaningful contact with the opposite sex, fell into two camps before marriage; panicked promiscuity on threat of dishonor or even worse, and adolescent, girlish fantasies that would never lead to a real relationship. I failed to see my own fantasy weaving in my daydreams about Imad. I was no more immune to the artificial climate of Riyadh myself, no matter how Westernized I thought myself to be.

I sank back into silence, thinking of hymens and hysteria. Around me the women chattered on unrestrained in Arabic and soon I returned to my customary role as silent observer. Only Mai noticed my dismay. I wondered how Reem would fare in Toronto. Would she really be able to stand up to the expectations her culture had placed on womanhood? To cackling laughter yet again about the lanky surgeon, I quietly excused myself and left the room, leaving their girlish desperations resonating behind closed doors.

THE HOT MAMMA

B
ALANCING ONE DAUGHTER ON HER slim hip, Ghadah was scrambling eggs for my breakfast. I felt nurtured, a feeling I realized I had been missing for a very long time. She had invited me over for brunch at her villa, which was just adjacent to my apartment. Post-call from the ICU with the whole day ahead of me, I had dragged myself over. Being in her kitchen was soothing. Ignoring my sleep deprivation, I was already glad to have come. I soon forgot I was sleepy.

“I want to make you something nutritious, Qanta. You seem to be losing weight! And you know as a dietician I like my guests to eat well!” Ghadah chortled at herself while she handed her child to her Filipina nanny and busied herself chopping spring onions and tomatoes to add to my omelet. I was growing hungrier by the minute.

Though Ghadah was several years younger than I, she was evidently the consummate mother. She had been married for more than a decade, from the tender age of nineteen, was already mother to two young daughters, and now pregnant with a third child. She was lush in her beauty, a dead ringer for Jackie Onassis, with the same wide-set, beguiling eyes and long, curved brows that were the envy of every woman who knew her.

Her hair was casually cut into medium length which tumbled onto her wide, sculpted shoulders rising out of a boat-necked Pucci shirt. The tunic stylishly encased her growing belly. As she heated the pan and melted some butter, I noticed how relaxed Ghadah was within herself. Her comfortable, faded jeans outlined long, athletic legs perfectly, lean and muscular, even in advanced pregnancy. On her feet she wore platform slides in white patent leather revealing a chipped, purple pedicure. There was something warm and casual about Ghadah. Though astonishingly gorgeous, Ghadah would never be a prisoner to her beauty; even with hair displaced by the grasping toddler in her arms, a trace of flour smudged over her button nose, and her fractured nail polish, Ghadah was one hot mamma.

“Would you like toast, Qanta? And do you prefer coffee or tea? Tell me, I want to make you your favorite breakfast!” She was beaming, her lipstick (a pale sixties' pink applied too thickly) highlighted her crooked, rather uneven teeth, which nevertheless still dazzled in her fabulous smile. I was enchanted by Ghadah. Her beauty was so powerful I was constantly distracted. She looked at me for a moment waiting to hear my preference.

“Toast, Ghadah, and coffee. That would be wonderful.”

She went about laying the table, pouring coffee grounds in the coffeemaker, all the while briefly instructing the Filipina maid who stood close by to assist. Ghadah spoke gently but quickly in staccato Arabic while waving the maid away. Ghadah was determined to prepare everything for me personally; I was her guest, not her maid's. She gently sat her child down in one chair, tucking her in and watching the child begin to tear pieces of pita bread and dip them into the hummus and thick, creamy yogurt laid in a plate before her.

Shyly, Ghadah's older daughter, Nada, just turned seven, approached the table. Soon I was flanked by the two small Saudi girls who watched me as intently as I did them. Her children were peach-complexioned with long, curly, light brown hair which stretched in thick ropes of ponytails down to their small waists. They were dressed in pink and white and adorned with pretty hair grips and ribbons. Ghadah's daughters were cherished and decorated. These were loved children who sparkled with health and vivacity. Ghadah was raising confident children, daughters who would grow up to be confident Saudi women, just like their magnificent mother.

“So Qanta, how do you like Riyadh?” Ghadah shot me a piercing look, twisting her wide lips into a knot as she suppressed laughter. At once I knew I could speak frankly.

“It's not always fun, Ghadah,” I began cautiously, “but what about you? How do you like it?” Ghadah approached the table with the sizzling omelet and, sitting down, began serving us.

“I can't tell you, Qanta. This has been the most difficult year for me. You know I was in Canada for years while Haydar was training in Ottawa? He did his surgical residency and then cardio-thoracic fellowship there. My girls were raised there, and that's where I did my training as a nutritionist. I loved Canada. We had a great time. Now it seems like over there I got to be with my husband so much more, even though he was often operating or on call. Every weekend we could do things as a family, without the distraction of so many relatives. And then of course the independence! I could drive myself and my daughters anywhere. We could see movies. We could go to restaurants, the mall, anywhere. No one cared what you we were wearing. No Muttawa in Canada, you know, Qanta.” We both laughed out loud. She continued. “Riyadh was unbearable for me in the beginning. I cried a lot, Qanta, I have to tell you. Haydar was really worried I wouldn't be able to make the adjustment.” She stopped to chomp on some toast, a little breathless. I was surprised that, as a Saudi who had been born and raised in Riyadh, she found her own country suffocating.

“It's hard when you have a family, Qanta. Things change. The first married years we lived in Canada, we didn't have children immediately. You know, I was very young so we were just getting used to each other.

“Haydar and I had an arranged marriage. He says he selected me from among his cousins but I didn't know it. My mother and father asked me to marry him, so I agreed, and I was very pleased when we met each other. We did spend time together going out before we were wed—we went out to dinner and cafés in Riyadh right after we were engaged, so I was already falling in love with him before the wedding. We are very advanced, Qanta! Even though we risked harassment from the Mutawaeen.”

Again she laughed in delight. “Anyway, it was great to be able to develop our relationship further in Canada. We had a lot of fun, and then in his second year of residency we got pregnant, and right after that the children followed, and we have even more fun now, don't we Habibti?” She turned to wipe yogurt from her toddler's mouth.

“Now that we are back in Riyadh, every weekend is the same: Thursday we meet his relatives, Friday, mine. They usually gather at our house because Haydar and I are the eldest in our families so it's nonstop entertaining for me. We have no time as a family alone. No time! Sometimes I want to scream. I mean, I love my parents, my family, but really, a marriage, a family needs its own private time, its own private space. Here I feel we have none, we belong to other people.

“Canada was so carefree. What a contrast! I could meet my husband at the hospital for lunch in Ottawa if he was between cases, but now we are just too busy, and any time we do have has to be spent attending to our family commitments. And our families are big, Qanta!

“And then during the week, you know, I am a working woman. It's a race to get everyone to work and get the kids to school and be fully present at my own job five days a week at the hospital and make sure I am doing as dedicated a job as all the single Saudi women who have none of these responsibilities.” I was beginning to understand Ghadah's multiple pressures.

She had stopped smiling. Ghadah was mourning the loss of her privacy, not so much because of the oppressive official régimes or even the lack of driving, for instance. Rather she was craving a retreat from the culture of extended family that is the hallmark of Saudi society. I didn't know what to say. I just listened while she continued talking.

“My husband is a wonderful man. I love him very much, I mean, I am glad to be married. I wouldn't want it any other way. We have a very full life, Alhumdullilah. After breakfast I am going to show you our family album, especially the pictures from our honeymoon.”

She bowed her head smiling at a private memory. “I am so proud of Haydar. He is a very talented surgeon, Qanta. He is so dedicated, and he works incredibly hard. He is always at the hospital before seven, every day. He even rounds on his patients when he is not on call. You know it was all his decision to come back to Riyadh. I fought it for a long time. I told him I didn't want my daughters to grow up with such restrictions, but he was intent on serving our country. I knew inside he was right. He said I could provide the girls with the right environments in our home, I mean we both could, no matter the difficult public life here. There aren't any other men in our country who can do what Haydar does. If he didn't come back we wouldn't have the cardiac program we do now. I really admire him for that, Qanta.”

“What about you, Ghadah? Do you have the same feelings about serving the country?”

“Not really to the same extent, but I do like to help other Saudi nationals. Like any mother, my first priority is to serve my family. Make no mistake, I love my job and I know many Saudi women don't get the opportunities to work that they should have. I really enjoy being a nutritionist, and of course you must know I am applying to be the nutritionist for the cardiac program. We have to make a lot of improvements in our dietary habits for our people. You must know that pediatric obesity is becoming a major problem here?”

I did indeed know this by watching Saudi families with multiple children in tow hauling huge carts of soda and candy from the local warehouse superstore The Max (the equivalent of Costco). Their shopping patterns were much like most of America and just as disordered, especially when the native diet of dates and olives, yogurt and lentils, and unleavened bread was so much healthier than Snickers and Coke.

“Our people need information. Like Haydar, I am in a position to provide it. I am making it my mission.” She had raised her chiseled chin as she made her point. I had no doubt she would. Ghadah was a force.

Brought up in an affluent Saudi Palestinian family, Ghadah moved in the same sets as Zubaidah. Her father had made his money in business after exile from Palestine in 1948 and made a point of educating all of his children, both sons and daughters. He wanted his children to be independent. While Ghadah's mother was not educated, all her daughters were professionals in health care and each was married to a highly educated man. Ghadah had the same plans for her daughters too.

“It's very important for a woman to have education, Qanta. My family believes that, especially Haydar. It is actually a valued prize in Islam. The Prophet said that the man who educates the womenfolk in his family is most beloved to Allah. We live by that. Haydar is the biggest feminist thinker of all of us! I am amazed at my husband. He is unusual. He loves his daughters. He never once complained that we didn't have sons, though perhaps this last child will be our boy.” Pensive, she rubbed her belly.

“To Haydar it's not important what sex our children are. The only thing that matters is that his children, our children, whether daughters or sons, have choices and a voice. That is where they will always have power.” I couldn't agree more, but before I could interject, Ghadah swiftly changed the subject. “Let me show you the house!

“You have to excuse the mess, Qanta. We only moved a year ago from Canada and all my furniture is still arriving. Eventually we have to leave the compound and move to a new house Haydar is having built for us. This place becomes so crowded at our family gatherings. There isn't room to move. You try preparing food for forty in this tiny kitchen! It's a challenge even for a nutritionist.”

To me it was spacious, especially compared to my tiny dwelling, but imagining Ghadah and Haydar's extended families rolling up weekend after weekend, their vehicles clogging the whole street outside, I had to agree she probably did need more space.

We walked out of the kitchen into a pretty sitting room that was the family room. The furniture dwarfed everything in sight, leaving almost no space to walk. I bumped into the coffee table.

“Sorry about that table. Don't worry, you should see me, Qanta. I am the klutz! I am always doing that!” She giggled at her clumsiness while I giggled at a Saudi using idiomatic Yiddish. Ghadah had obviously a lot of experience living in North America.