In the Land of Invisible Women (41 page)

“But the worst—it's a disgrace!” Sputtering, Mama Mary's Afrikaans-inflected voice cut through us all, thickened with outrage. “Those bloody obstetricians, two Saudi women—women for Christ's sake—ordered cakes!”

“Cakes? You cannot be sure!” I cut her off in disbelief.

“Cakes, Doctora Qanta! Cakes! Yes, yes. I am not exaggerating. They ordered not one but two cakes, as soon as the towers crumbled. They had them delivered from the Diplomat Bakery. They were dialing right away, as they watched the towers fall. And they sliced them up and fed them to other staff, as a form of mabrook (congratulations). They even sent the cakes over to the cheering patients, the same wards where the American and other Western nurses were on duty.”

“How do you know? Did you see this?” I pressed, quizzing her intensely, refusing to accept the possibility this could be true.

“So you didn't see the memo? Dr. Fahad sent a hospital-wide memo as soon as he found out, condemning their behavior. I don't think they were disciplined. We don't know. But he wrote and had it put up in every unit in the hospital reminding us we are an institution with fifty-three nationalities in our ranks, many of whom have family or homes in America, and he expressed sorrow for the events in New York City. He added, ‘Any other response is unacceptable as a member of the organization.’”

I knew then that this was not a figment of an overactive imagination or vicious rumor. This was real. A few meters away from us, Saudi women, women who were obstetricians, women who delivered new life in their highly skilled hands every day, had commemorated murder with angel food cake and butter icing.

For a time we whispered our muzzled outrage amidst the beeping canvas of cardiac monitors and hissing ventilators, our sense of loss secure in isolation. I was relieved that my patients were comatose, powerless to hurt me. After a while, stunned, we fell into silence, not wishing to leave the safety of unmonitored privacy. I felt comfortable among the Westerners, the Africans, the Filipinas. Every woman around me was a Christian compelled to hide her religion. Yet here at the epicenter of Islam I was alone amid Muslims who alienated me in their hatreds. I couldn't see a place among them. I no longer belonged here.

Within days, the terrorists were identified as Saudi. The world now rotated around a new axis. Overnight, I had found myself at the wrong pole. I found myself paralyzed in the frightening aftermath that many expatriates sensed.

“I have been eating a lot of chocolate, Qanta.” Jane and I were chatting a couple of evenings later. We discussed my discoveries of the last few days. She had heard the same stories. She paused to munch on a snack as we talked on the phone. “And I haven't really talked to any of the Saudis in the department. It's not really a subject we can open with them. I have been sticking to my British and Kiwi friends. We're pretty much keeping to ourselves.”

“Me too, Jane,” I said, realizing how quickly we had become demarcated from the Saudi nationals we knew. We were too afraid to engage in dialogue, even moving in the educated sector. Visiting the grocery store on the compound confirmed the prevalent hate.

The South Indian check-out boy scanned my shopping. Always chatty, he wanted to talk. He spoke in his native Hindi, which I answered in Urdu. He was eager to discuss the news.

“This news in New York has been very good, Doctora! The Americans deserved it.” I looked up from my wallet, disgusted. A man of only twenty-two, perhaps, he had until now, always impressed me with his friendliness and warmth. There had been a certain curiosity about him that belied promise. Instead he proved himself ignorant and hateful.

“New York City is my home!” I barked. “My friends and my family are there. Don't ever say that again. You call yourself Muslim and you celebrate death! Don't you know life is the most sacred thing in Islam? That the right to human life overrides even the rights of God?” The young man cowered under my blistering attack. Shamed, he immediately began to apologize. I snatched my goods from him, threw a handful of notes in payment and pushed my way past other shoppers. I wanted to get away.

In the days following 9/11, I bore witness to an extraordinary fabric, uniting the most educated and elite of Muslims to the weakest and least educated in shared hatreds. As I stumbled upon rancid hates and crude appetites, I was reminded of what I had chosen to forget: the deep-rooted currents of anti-Americanism and anti-Semitism that here often seemed to run together. An instance flashed into recall.

A few months earlier, in the compound video store, I was about to leave when I noticed a Saudi couple. The woman was wearing a hijab with her face uncovered, standing with her thobe-clad husband. They were renting a movie; planning their Thursday night as a family. A daughter, perhaps ten at most, stood between them. She was unveiled. Her curly hair cascaded into a lush mane. Clinging on to her mother's hand with slim fingers decorated with plastic jewelry, she waited for them silently. Ribboned hair indicated she was cherished, adorned. Warming at the sight of a valued daughter, I was surprised to notice the mother clutched an Al Pacino movie,
The Devil's Advocate.
I had seen the film and knew it to be inappropriate for a ten-year-old. I had to say something.

“Excuse me, but some of the film is a little explicit. It's not what you should be allowing your young daughter to see. I have seen it. I think you won't be able to have your little girl watch it.”

“We know exactly what it is like. We know the ratings,” said the mother brightly, as though I had underestimated her. “That's why we want our daughter to see it!”

I was shocked. The movie imagined a world in which Pacino plays Satan. Group sexuality peppers the film, conveying Satanic evil. The violence in it is extreme, and ironically, it's portrayed against a sleek, glossy interpretation of modern-day New York City.

“Are you sure you wish her to see it?” I looked at the mother, unable to know quite how to tell her she would be exposing her daughter to sexually graphic images without completely embarrassing her in the tiny shop.

“Yes, we want our daughter to understand all the things which are so bad about the West, and especially America. We want our daughter to be aware of all the bad things that come out of there, for her own protection. I don't believe in sheltering my daughter. We believe we should expose her to the true reflection of that corrupt and debased world! I want to inform my daughter. She needs to be prepared.” I was amazed, both at her ignorance and the highly articulated English with which she expressed it. I couldn't let this go.

“Rubbish! You couldn't be more wrong. I am a product of New York City. This movie is no reflection of that. It is fantasy. You are not telling your daughter the truth; you will be lying to her. And as a British Muslim woman myself, I take offense personally at what you have said. I have lived in New York City and I can assure you, my morals are intact, like those of many New Yorkers and Americans. You are cultivating ignorance in your daughter.”

I looked hard, first at the woman barricaded within her cozy prejudice, and then at her soft-haired daughter who remained still innocent of discrimination. The spineless father shifted uneasily from side to side, unwilling to engage in the melee, unsure of how to react. I left the store not knowing if they changed their minds about the movie. I was beginning to realize some mothers inculcated hatred in the way others did love. Privilege and foreign training, an excellent command of English, and opportunity were still no panacea for hate.

As a result, even if I had denied it as time went on, I was well-acquainted with hate in the Kingdom. In the days after 9/11, anxious friends urged me to get out. Unsolicited, Jewish friends were the first to offer practical help.

“Get out now!” urged Stuart when we spoke on the phone, my dear friend and research mentor. “There is an incredible cry for blood here. It's not safe. There is a talk of a strike. I don't know if you are secure here. Do you need a ticket? Money? Tell us!”

“Will help to get you out! Get out now!” read Alan's message. “Tell me what you need! We are waiting!” I could feel his concern in his staccato emails, which, usually a rarity, were now persistent.

“Come home now, we are worried for you,” from Ronna, my mentor's wife.

In a roiling Muslim sea, my lifelines were cast by Jewish hands. I was grateful for their solidarity toward me and felt glad that Allah had blessed me with such Jewish goodness in my life. I felt no shame for my allegiances with Jews in the way so many Muslims around the world are wrongly raised to express, especially after 9/11. I felt deep shame only for the ignorance and hatred I had now witnessed among Muslims.

In the difficult weeks following, I quickly discovered that anti-Semitism infected many of my Muslim circles. Both Saudi and non-Saudi Muslims felt free to express their hate to me, even as some planned to flee to their Virginia homes with blue passports in hand. Somehow, my Muslim calling card announced (in their eyes) a tolerance and permission to express hatred, some of it particularly virulent. The worst incident I had encountered was perhaps the most crushing disappointment of all.

Mu'ayyad had finally invited me for dinner. Newly married, he wanted to introduce me to his young wife, Najwa. After years as a playboy, racing speedboats on Lake Cuomo during long summer vacations, of growing his hair long and resisting his culture, Mu'ayyad had bought into the traditional role prescribed him as a Saudi male. He had married a Saudi Muslim woman, albeit one who was exceptionally beautiful.

“I saw her at a wedding in Aqaba, and I just knew I was going to marry her. She hated me. She thought I was arrogant.” Mu'ayyad flushed at the memory of his first ardor while his stunning wife looked on in adoration. We were in their living room decorated with French antiques. Heavy damask draperies cosseted the room in a musty perfumed silence. His wife handed me a stemmed Baccarat glass of freshly squeezed juice. Her slim, creamy arms showed through the chiffon sleeves of a stylish tunic, probably Gucci couture. It accented her Earl jeans perfectly.

“I did!” she laughed. “He was so confident, so full of himself!”

“And then we fell in love! I had to marry her, right, habibti?” Squeezing her waist, he used her endearing nickname, in reference to her gorgeous skin. Mu'ayyad was evidently still entranced with his young wife nine months after the birth of their first child, a son, called Mohammed.

They described their whirlwind international romance, conducted like that of so many Saudis, outside the country's borders, in the widespread phenomenon of transnational dating.
³⁴
In response to the restrictive social climate inside the Kingdom, many Saudis courted overseas, often traveling with family members in tow, to pursue important social networking during their long summer vacations, often falling in love in the process.

I looked at the family. I was happy for Mu'ayyad. A chain-smoking, highly strung, hypertensive surgeon of exceptional brilliance, Mu'ayyad had trouble winding down. Najwa seemed to have helped him relax. But he was still a workaholic. Even my clinical neuroticism attending his critically ill patients was not up to his exacting obsession with the care of his patients. Often he worked days without a break, operating around the clock with limited relief. A sub-specialized surgeon, he was unique in his country. No one else possessed his skills, and patients came from across the wider Arab region to benefit from his expertise. Many of his patients were indigent and poor, some with very serious congenital defects, a result of generations of intermarriage, defects he could repair. He operated on anyone whom he could help. Whether operating on rare defects or simply the humdrum routine of debriding scarred wounds, Mu'ayyad was the consummate clinician, tireless, dedicated, a perfectionist.

The other quality I liked most about Mu'ayyad was his recognition of women. He was one of the few Saudi men with whom I consulted who treated me exactly as an equal. On many occasions, he actually deferred to my expertise. Whenever I conferred with Mu'ayyad I was instantly transported back in the West. And he also had a profound knowledge of the Quran, able to cite long passages from memory and then dissect them critically with his brilliant mind. Clearly he was a scholar of Islam. I admired him greatly, uncritically.

The elegant couple served me a dinner of Lebanese delicacies including my favorite, a Lebanese fish dish, sayyadieh, which Najwa had prepared herself. We talked of religion and politics. In Riyadh it was impossible to have dinner without discussing either.

“So, Mu'ayyad, I hear congratulations are in order. I heard from Salim that you donated a huge sum, hundreds of thousands of dollars, to your alma mater fellowship in Ohio. Mashallah, you are so generous. What a wonderful gesture.” Mu'ayyad flushed with pleasure and seemed awkward at the discovery of his good deed.

“Oh, so you heard?” he began. “Alhumdullilah, Allah has given me much. I wanted to give back. With this money I have created a fund so that each year a single resident from the National Guard could be trained in the States without incurring costs and then return to serve our nation. I want to improve surgery for our country.”

“You must be a very wealthy man, Mu'ayyad, Mashallah.” He visibly straightened.

“This is not family money, Qanta,” Mu'ayyad underlined, anxious to separate his wealth from that of his father's, who was once a senior advisor in the Treasury and a very affluent man. “This is from earnings I have made from my margins trading. I am really good at it, and I wanted to use the money for a good purpose. I am pleased I could do at least this. Inshallah maybe I will be able to do more.