In the Land of Invisible Women (8 page)

“Khallas, those days are over now,” she went on, sounding defeated. “The Mutawaeen spoil everything. These days it's really bad, Qanta, really bad.” She studied me for the full effect. “We hate them!” She looked suddenly defiant. “I still hate them. I am never used to veiling. My mother also never veiled. We are not from this orthodox Islam. We are not Wahabis!”

I was astonished to learn there had been a time before the menace of Mutawaeen and the mandate of monolithic religion.

“It started in 1979,” she explained. “In the Islamic calendar this was 1399, so at the beginning of a new century, the radicals believed this was to be the century of Islam. At the same time, you remember, Khomeini was taking control of Iran. The revolution was in full swing.” She stopped to expectorate a fruity, bronchitic cough.

Inhaling a drag on her French cigarettes to calm her spastic cough, she began a detailed explanation beginning with the assassination of King Faisal in 1975.
⁵
Shortly after that, in Medina, a new plot was suspected against the royal family, directly threatening the monarchy. The danger appeared to be coming from among the community of Wahabi clergy. They were looking for the right Muttawa leadership figure who could spearhead their cause. Zubaidah's mother snorted in distaste at various intervals in the story. I was surprised; Zubaidah's mother had a deep loyalty for royalty.

She continued explaining, mentioning Juhaiman bin Mohammed al-Otaibi, who had served in the Saudi Arabian National Guard for around 18 years. Together with the rector of the University of Medina (a man called Ibn Baz) they formed a group called the Ikhwan (which means spiritual brothers) but it was nothing to do with the original Ikhwan who were involved in the formation of the Kingdom earlier in Saudi Arabia's history. I was listening rapt, only now realizing that several other women had gathered to listen to Zubaidah's mother recount the recent history which had become modern folklore. She had more to tell.

Al-Otaibi was a radical critic of the royal family.
⁶
He believed Wahabi doctrines could somehow become a political program that would avoid creating either a republic or a monarchy. Instead he wanted the rigid, archaic teachings to form a philosophical basis on which to run the Kingdom. Soon he declared himself “Mahdi,” an emissary of the Prophet from the end of time, and on the threshold of a new century he began calling for the downfall of the monarchy. That November more than one thousand Ikhwan had mixed with Iranian pilgrims who were celebrating the revolution's success at eliminating the Shah from power during their Hajj. They were able to give special prayers of thanks during Hajj. The day before Hajj was complete, on the morning of November 20, 1979, the Ikhwan (who were heavily armed) swarmed through the al-Haram mosque around the Ka'aba. Many of them were from within the National Guard itself, friends and allies of al-Otaibi. Zubaidah's mother stopped, interrupted by cries of “Astagfarullah” (God forgive me) that echoed through the cluster of women around us. She went on:

“Can you believe these men occupied the holiest place in Islam and with weapons? Russian weapons! They held a siege there for nearly two weeks. It was a terrible time. Many died, hundreds of soldiers, pilgrims, and clerics and even more, more than five hundred were injured.”

I began to understand that at that time both the monarchy and the clergy were vulnerable. Both needed the other to survive, so the crisis actually strengthened their parasitic relationship. The monarchy needed the clerics to control the population, authorizing some very oppressive laws. Another woman chipped in:

“So here we are in Riyadh today, controlled with abbayahs, and bans on driving and not being allowed to travel without our men. We lost our freedoms while the monarchy and the Mutawaeen got to keep their power.”

Zubaidah's mother nodded to the other guest. After a deep sigh, she threw back her stylish head and blew a smoke ring, self-medicating her frustration with tobacco. Tapping the glowing embers aside into a Baccarat ashtray, she went on.

“And meanwhile the royal family feels safer, but not until they also made a special unit in the National Guard for special operations. You know they rewarded the army which protects them, kind of protection money. Somehow this arrangement works, for the Mutawaeen and the monarchy. Only the people are fed up!” Smiling, she began to rise to mingle with other guests.

“This is a depressing topic, not good for a party, but at least you know. After 1979, they decided women have to wear abbayahs always because they allowed the Mutawaeen more freedom to impose their ways, and Sharia law was everything. Luckily a lot of us still remember Riyadh before the Mutawaeen were so powerful. I used to be free in Riyadh, walking around like this,” and she ruffled her hair with her elegant hands. “Can you believe, Qanta, I used to walk alone in Riyadh, no man, no maid, just relaxed like in Paris? Now that is all over, just like that. Makes Riyadh very hard to live in, huh, Qanta? That's why we spend time in Amman and Lausanne every year. We can stay in Riyadh only three months at a time.” She looked at me for agreement.

“Are you ready for Ramadan, Qanta? It will be difficult here. You will have to get used to it. Next year will be better, Inshallah.” She stopped as abruptly as her grammar, rearranging her tense face into a relaxed, chic smile. I couldn't imagine being here more than one year. I couldn't see beyond the next thirty days.

Looking at my grave expression, Zubaidah piped up, “I veil because I choose it!” Defiant, her gray-green eyes gleamed. “My parents never required but I always wanted. It is what Allah wants for me. I am not yet strong enough for full niqab, for full veiling, but I do what I can. It makes me happy, Qanta. I don't hate the veiling. Not like my mother!” She exchanged a goading chuckle with her resigned mother. Her mother looked at Zubaidah in dismay, rolling her eyes in contempt.

As I looked at Zubaidah's shining eyes, which glowed with idealism and spiritual enlightenment, I believed her. There was no doubt that Zubaidah's enthusiasm for veiling was genuine, her passion for her beliefs not fanatical but quietly steely, and I wondered if the glow she had about her, which her mother, in her bitterness and resignation so lacked, was more spiritual, more God-given than simply the elixir of youth.

I was puzzled as to how such radically different views could emerge from the same family and societal environment, and I wondered how much of her enthusiasm was founded on unquestioning submission to the prevailing norm, following the peers of the day, rather than an active, living choice. After all, unlike her elegantly bitter mother, Zubaidah had never known life before the Muttawa, so in reality how could any of this be a choice, when the head scarf was mandated by law?

As I cast my eye around the marble room, the amount of hair on display struck me. In a short time, what would have never caught my eye previously was now arresting. Outside, bare heads were a rarity in Riyadh, when all men wore headdresses and all the women were veiled, even the patients. Here, amidst all these exposed manes, I could see I was the only woman with undyed black hair; everyone else was an aspiring redhead or a blonde-in-evolution. Kingdom-wide, female hair was colored along a continuum between the two. Next to these women I was plain, ungilded, colorless.

Hair had never been a particular concern of mine except that it be quick and easy to manage and above all, in place when I woke up in the dead of night to answer to my patients. Here, where hair was veiled, concealed for most of the time, enormous energy and money went into making it attractive. For whom was all this effort? For the women themselves, I suspected. After all, how many men in a woman's family could care either way? And if no unrelated men were to see one's hair, how gratifying could it be to repeatedly beautify one's own lonely reflection? On a practical note, where did they get their hair done, I wondered. I was acutely aware I would have to find a replacement for Gerard, who had tended my hair for years. For sure, there would never be anyone as skilled here, but didn't these women all look great without access to Fekkai, Licari, Zouary, or Désange?

As I pondered these observations, an uproarious whoop let loose. I turned to witness a tall and extraordinarily beautiful woman entering the room. Simultaneously stately and mischievous, she caught my eye at once. I signaled her to sit near me. This was Ghadah, another dietician colleague of Zubaidah's. Ghadah had deep, shining, brown saucers for eyes, surmounted by long, pharonic eyebrows and flawless, creamy skin. The expressive, extraordinary eyes dominated her face. She bubbled over with joy. Impala-like, Ghadah was spectacularly beautiful. Hers was the index against which all the women present here measured their beauty in meager, modest comparison. White gold jewelry adorned her throat, wrists, slender fingers, and ears, reflecting against her luminous porcelain complexion, glinting with her every animation. A wedding band studded with diamonds graced her left hand, accompanied by the de rigueur Geneva timepiece. A deep, guttural laugh interspersed her speech, infecting everyone around her. She laughed full-throttle with her head tossed back, mouth wide open revealing imperfect and uneven teeth, an irregularity which seemed only to enhance the authenticity of her incredible looks.

She was dressed in easy, wide-legged slacks and a billowing Etro shirt. Casually she flung a substantial Dior bag into a deep recess in the sofa and rearranged herself. Rangy and lean, she crossed her legs and stretched out her arm on the back of the sofa. Ghadah exuded confidence and unabashed sex appeal. Chanel footwear completed her relaxed elegance. Her silky black hair was shot through with subtle ruby highlights framing her translucent skin with a pink glow, blushing like the inside of a smooth, polished shell.

Ghadah, it emerged, was my immediate neighbor, living in a row of villas opposite my apartment. She too had just relocated to Riyadh after years in Toronto, where she had accompanied her husband during his years of training to become a cardiothoracic surgeon. Haydar, her husband, was a talented surgeon, and I had already met him at work where we shared patients post-operatively. Ghadah already was a mother of two and, while raising her children, had pursued her own deepening interest in work outside the home, ultimately training in nutrition and also qualifying in Canada. Ghadah seemingly had it all: marriage, children, and a career. Riyadh was her home; she was a Saudi daughter of a Saudi father. They represented the crest of modern avant-garde professionals returning to Riyadh in the late nineties; the New Saudis. Haydar and Ghadah were committed to bettering their nation.

She invited me to her home for a longer talk and we quickly exchanged numbers. I was delighted at my good fortune: I would befriend this gazelle. Maybe some of her grace would fall like diamond dust on me too. Already, part of me wanted to be more like these glittering, extraordinary women.

After dinner the music began to rock, reverberating with unpent energy in the marble basement. The soundtracks were a mix of cutting-edge Beirut house and traditional Arabic melodies. I wondered where Zubaidah's father could be hiding in this noisy, tumultuous house. Clearing a space in the middle of the room, the women began to dance. They tied their scarves low around their hip bones, accentuating their movements, the hip-scarves forming a visible line of gyrating iliac crests that moved to a beat. The wider the hips appeared the better, it seemed. Unlike the fashion world of the West, where androgyny was king, here womanly, voluptuous figures were admired. The lights remained bright, not turned down. And one by one, each woman took the lead, dancing wildly and without inhibition, so self-confident even bright lights were no deterrent.

No one was intoxicated either, because alcohol was never served in Zubaidah's house, in keeping with the strong Islamic faith she shared with her family. Though illegal and punishable, black market alcohol was readily available in the Kingdom, but these ladies needed no alcohol to have a riotous time.

Among the sober Saudis, no one danced
with
one another; rather they danced
for
one another, the dancing woman surrounded by an enclave of clapping, laughing, shrieking joviality. The dancer was a performer for all to enjoy. I clapped to the music and collected my disordered thoughts.

In a few short hours, Saudi Arabia and its women were slowly demystified. These women were becoming three-dimensional, less like hooded holograms as I learned more about them. They were real women, coming into sharp focus through my very privileged lens of fellow womanhood. Underneath the swathes of veils and abbayahs, dancing feet and gyrating, curvaceous hips were scurrying by all over Riyadh. The daylong sedated, veiled torpor, the mask of Puritanism was just that: a bland façade to the uninitiated, lifting privately to unveil carefully guarded energy, made all the more delicious and potent in its illicitness. These were buoyant, spirited women, made stronger by the layers of oppression in the public world. These were women of appetites, complexity, and deep convictions. Through Zubaidah I was inducted into a multilayered, complex, cloistered world. Under an impassive, forbidding surface, Saudi Arabia was very far from monolithic.

As Christine and I tapped our feet to this scene, unable to join in the day-lit disco of dervishes, trapped in very Western inhibitions, I asked her about her relationships with her fellow Saudi nutritionists. She had worked with them for some years. I wondered how she felt toward them.

“How do you get along with these Saudi women?” I asked, mentioning that I hadn't any female colleagues in my section.