"You think she's still sleeping?" I asked while adjusting the air vents above my head.
"No, we were talking all morning."
I nodded and dug my hand into my bag, pulling out my phone. I checked my messages and emails as Malak was on her phone as well. I glanced at her as she lifted her hand to turn off the screen in the rear DVD entertainment system and her abaya sleeve rolled down, revealing an inch-long scar on her forearm.
"Do you think the scars will ever fade?" I wondered out loud.
"What?" She looked down at her hand. "Oh that. I don't know. Sometimes I forget it’s there. It’s a nice reminder." Malak smiled.
"I wouldn't say nice," I said. "Do you have gum?”
"Yeah." Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a pack with yellow wrapping and handed it to me.
"Mmm. Pomegranate,” I said. “Thanks."
We both dove headfirst into our phones and got lost surfing our own digital worlds, not speaking. A continuous honking lifted our attention back to the surface.
"Why you do this?" Raj said with an Indian accent. "You don't see the traffic just change green! You don't see!” He waved his hands and glared into the side mirror as he talked to the guy behind us, who started blowing his horn a nanosecond after the light turned green. As if your vehicle needed to start moving at the street’s maximum speed as soon as the light permitted it. I can’t wait to drive here. Malak and I exchanged glances and continued playing with our phones. We’d gotten used to the road rage, unpredictable behavior, and noise pollution. Honking horns and screaming went side by side while driving here. How different would it be when we’re behind the wheel?
"I miss Mom and Dad," Malak said. “I even kinda miss Dad’s proverbs.”
"I know.” I giggled. “I miss them too.” A ringing interrupted us.
Malak looked down at her phone and said, "It’s Deema." She answered the call. “Hello, we’re—" She stopped, and her smile faded. Her lips parted slightly like she wanted to say something but shouldn't.
"Okay, yeah. Yeah sure." Her eyebrows were high, creating tension between them, her eyes downcast. "No, no. We'll be there. Bye."
"What?” I asked, not waiting for her to press the End Call button.
"Change of plans. We’re going to May’s house. Deema’s almost there.”
"Why? What’s wrong?"
"She didn't say," Malak explained. "Raj, go to May’s house,"
"Okay," he replied and changed the destination, U-turning back home.
"I hope nothing bad happened," Malak said, staring at her phone.
I frowned. "Me too."
Chapter 4
We stood under a cloudless sky, no sand to be seen, but the heat remained a constant reminder that this was a desert—a landscape of sand starched until brought to a halt by the water. There was no one around, but the birds that chirped, excited to be under the tree’s shade. Malak and I rang the bell as we basked in the morning heat, shy of the main gates of May's villa. The villa was located less than ten houses away from our own house. It sat in the middle of our neighborhood surrounded by other familiar homes.
"It's hot." I waved my hands to fan myself, but the humidity lingered. My clothes stuck to my skin, absorbing the sweat like I was standing in a sauna’s doorframe. For future reference, hand waving doesn’t work.
A thump-thump-thump sliced through the calm. It was a distinctive sound. Loud and vibrating through us. I raised my head to squint into the sky, forcing the sunlight out.
"Helicopters," I said.
Malak simultaneously turned her gaze upward. The delayed sound lagged behind both in time and position, placing the helicopters far past us. Five desert-tan vehicles swooped through the sky. It was not unusual to see helicopters here, although we didn’t spot them quite often. What struck me as strange was the low altitude at which they were flying, so close one could mistake the noise for machinegun fire. These were no ordinary choppers. They looked nothing like the ones I had seen floating over the skyline.
"I’ve never seen these flying over the city before," Malak said, confirming my suspicions.
"They do look unusual."
"Sara," her tone was lower now, "those are Apaches."
"So? Is that bad? And how do you know this?"
"I covered a story last year on the military defense and weapons used in the Gulf War."
I took a step off the porch as if it would bring me closer to the out-of-range choppers. "What were they used for?"
"You see the two in the back?" She pointed. "Those two might be used for a search and rescue, or cargo transportation, or a number of other things. They are considered multi-role helicopters, but the three leading are Apaches—those are used to attack."
A cold chill ran through my sweaty shoulders. "Attack?'' I repeated.
"They carry missiles," she explained, locking the camouflaged helicopters in her sight while they put more distance between us.
"Maybe they’re in training. The air base is close by," I reminded her. The Royal Air Force Base was located in Al-dhahran city, which was within our town’s borders, being that Al-dhahran was part of the greater Dammam area.
"Why haven't we ever seen them before?" she asked.
The door opened before suspense was allowed to build, leaving the question hanging between us. A shadow fell behind the door. "Hello," the hovering figure said.
Malak and I glanced at one another and stepped in.
"Hi, Rose," I said to the young woman dressed in a conservative dark green uniform.
"Miss Sara, Miss Malak." She smiled as she closed the door behind us. "Please come in."
Rose led us through the Cemetery Iris flower garden to a door secluded from the main house with a separate entrance. We knew our way around. We'd been here at least a hundred times before. I spent endless days and long nights over at May’s house studying for finals, dreaming of what our future would be like, and taking breaks from dreaming to get some actual studying done. But Rose was new.
May’s mom suffered from OCCD—obsessive-compulsive cleaning disorder. Everything had to be sparkling and flawless. The house had to always be immaculate. Their previous help couldn't take the pressure and quit. I’d seen them go through housemaids like a year went through seasons. Not so much “seasons” since in Saudi Arabia there were two seasons, summer and winter, but seasons in the scientific sense. May’s mom wasn't always like this. She started showing symptoms after having some serious martial issues. After a year of unresolved problems, May’s parents separated but never officially divorced.
Rose opened the door for us. "Would you like me to hang your abays?" she asked with a smile.
"Yes please," I said.
“Please," Malak echoed.
We slipped off our abays and passed them to Rose, who took her leave. Then slipped off our shoes near the entrance. Deema was already there, sipping on a tinny Arabic coffee cup with no handles. The smell of lightly roasted coffee and a range of cardamom, clove, and saffron spread across the room.
"Deema!" Malak said in a high-pitched voice. "What’s going on?"
Deema placed the cup of coffee on the table next to a platter of assorted dates. She spread her arms out for a hug and Malak went in for the embrace, while I took slow steps, studying her expression. She didn’t appear to be concerned.
"Don't worry. It’s a thing with her dad," she answered, picking up on my stiff body language.
I came closer. "Again?" I leaned in and gave her a quick hug and a kiss on both cheeks.
"I’m afraid so," she replied. "May was just here. She went in to change into something more comfortable since her brother forbade her from going out." She shrugged.
"Oh," I cooed, sitting on the sofa and placing my purse next to me. Pausing for a second, I relocated the purse to the carpet by my feet.
Brother and sister dynamics were complex and different depending on the culture. In retrospect, that dynamic among some here was less than ideal. For the general structure of families,
society gives the brother authority over the sister by favoring him in many cases and placing blame on her in other cases. This can result in the brother having more control, especially over his sister—regardless of age—which can be devastating to some girls.
I always wished I had a brother. It was only Malak and I in our four-member family. My mom had prayed for a boy and my parents tried, but they had two miscarriages. Two brothers, we never named and never met. Two incomplete bodies with immortal souls flying in heaven. Safe. Peaceful. Complete, yet missed. Many health complications prevented my mom from conceiving and after a while, they stopped trying. I sometimes wondered how different our family would have been if we had a brother.
“Is she okay?” Malak asked, making her way to a spot on the sofa across from me.
“I guess,” Deema said as she eyed her next bite.
I reached into my bag for my mini mirror. It reflected the large, oil paint portrait of May’s father and uncles behind me, hanging over the sofa. The painting depicted them in their prime youth, riding an Arabian white horse with its natural high tail carriage.
Rose came back into the room and picked up the gold coffee pot, pouring Malak a cup of blonde coffee. The act of drinking or eating in May’s house triggered something in me. What if I spilled something? Everything was easy to stain, it was intimidating. I held my tiny cup in my right hand as Rose approached me and poured the coffee, using my left hand, I threw the mirror back in my open purse. The movement caused the cup to shake and a drop of coffee landed on the pale eggshell rug. I looked around and made sure no one saw it. Planting my foot, I covered the stain before anyone could notice. May’s mom would have my head for this. She put so much effort into the guest room. It was elegant and had a highly sophisticated yet faded vintage style. The size of the room was breathtaking, with high ceilings, and three walls painted in an eau-de-nil while the fourth one was a light gold with a touch of shimmer. French-inspired, ornate picture frames hung there, and a chandelier dangled low from the center of the ceiling like a glinting cherry.
The door swung open and May rushed in wearing red cotton pajamas, the shirt displaying some character from one of her horror movies. May looked out of place like she was standing in a museum.
"Oh my gosh, I’m so happy to see you all!" she screamed and went around greeting us. She sat on the floor, legs crossed like she was meditating, yet, her face did not get the memo. Her eyebrows crossed in a knot, matching her arms.
"Talk!" I said, sitting awkwardly with one foot out of place, unable to withdraw my foot or withhold the suspense any longer while also trying to keep the coffee from dripping. Again. "What’s going on?”
"I had a huge fight with my dad this morning." May always clashed with her father. I would too if I had him as a parent. Her dad followed what her brothers said, no questions asked. "He said I can’t go." She frowned.
We all let out a few soft “Ohs” while exchanging glances. What else could we say?
"I can't go to Dubai with you, unless Khalid tags along. I am twenty-four. Twenty-four years old! My brother is sixteen. How’s that fair?" she asked. She paced back and forth. It was all she could do not to scream at the top of her lungs. Her face red with frustration and her movements fast, she was too charged up to sit in one place. "I don't want my brother coming with us!"
Many families were conservative, only allowing women to travel with their dad, husband, brother, uncle, or son. It didn't matter how old the women were; they had to be accompanied by a man to protect them. It was like females were sentenced to be treated as minors for life. Although the laws around this matter had changed, residue of the old mentality that influenced those laws still existed. Like many other matters, the root of the problems was not the legal aspect but the social. Even though the laws were altered, that didn’t mean the population’s principles would be altered along with them. There would still be a group that pushed back, like May’s family. Her dad would not allow it—it was not the law stopping him—but I did not plan on reminding her of all that.
"I hate this. It is insulting." Her veins throbbed in her neck.
I didn’t add anything to fuel the fire. No one said anything, and I figured they must have felt the same.
"It’s not like I'm gonna get lost," May pressed.
I stared at Malak, who didn’t say a word but gave me a “let her vent” look.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," Deema finally spoke.
Malak shot me another look. I knew that look; it meant trouble. I slightly shook my head giving her a “let it go” look.
"I am sick of this. I am an adult and I’m trapped," May went on. Her feelings were justified. I nodded. It was like being locked up, imprisoned behind invisible bars no one sensed other than those being confined. On the other hand, the rest of us didn't face that particular problem. We had total freedom of movement. In Malak’s case, she didn't live in the country and needed to go back and forth. For me, my parents wanted me to visit them every other weekend in Bahrain, a neighboring country where they were temporarily residing for work. As for Deema, the nature of her work required her to leave the country for training courses and seminaries. Sadly, we were the exception rather than the rule. If Malak and I had a brother, would it have affected the way Dad treated us? If they didn't move to another country, would they have still allowed us to leave the country so easily?
"Talk to him again," Malak said, legs shaking. "I'm sure you can reason with him."
"I did. We keep fighting, but I'll talk to him tonight," she said with a sigh, dragging her feet.
"Don't worry. He'll come around," I lied, knowing he wouldn’t unless her brothers did.
"If you don’t go, you'll be stuck here with me." Malak grinned. "I could use the company."
"Yeah," May said unenthusiastically.
Malak raised an eyebrow. "Thanks!"
"Oh, come on. It’s not like that." May tilted her head.
"I know. Cheer up."
"But we booked everything,” Deema said, “you should try talking to him. You can't allow him to control your life.”
"Okay that's it. I can’t keep quiet anymore," Malak exploded. Her body inched closer to the edge of the seat.
"About what?" May asked.
"Deema!" Malak answered her hands flew up in the air.
"Malak," I said calmly.
"Sara!" Malak snapped her gaze to me.
"Deema?" May asked, her focus on Malak.
"Yes, Deema," Malak confirmed, pointing at Deema.
"Malak." Deema placed her cup on the table. “What’s going on?”
"I think I'm confused." May adjusted her position, pulling her knees closer to her chin.
“Malak, don’t.” I stared at her and shook my head.
"Now that we’ve covered everyone’s names," Deema said, scanning us, "someone tell me what’s going on."
“Me too.” May plopped back down in her mediating position.
"You." Malak stabbed the air at Deema.
Deema opened her mouth to speak. "I think we all got that part," I interposed in a flat voice, speaking into my coffee. Deema threw me a puzzled look, and I displayed a smirk.
"You’re talking to May about standing up to her dad. You’re the one who thinks men should make decisions for women,” Malak said.
“Not men.” Deema adjusted her glasses. “Fathers.”
“How’s that any different?”
“I think that girls here make wrong decisions because they don't know any better. Fathers know best.”
“They don't know any better because they weren’t given that chance,” Malak defended.
May and I watched each other for a moment before our gazes traveled back to them. I realized this was no longer about May.
“You are against arranged marriages,” Malak said with air quotations, “and now you’re okay with it? How?"
"Malak," I said in a low tone. I was always bad with confrontations. So bad, I preferred not to be present on the same street of the hou
se in which an intervention was taking place.
"No, Sara,” she argued. “It’s not right! She’s throwing her whole life a way, and we have to say something."
"I'm hungry," I muttered. That's something.
"It’s not all black and white," Deema declared, ignoring me.
"No it’s not—it never is. Everything is always complicated and that's the simple truth, but you need to fight, and I don't mean the fight the whole world is trying to project on us by pushing their definition of freedom and rights without hearing us," Malak said. “But the fight that we need to have, on our terms.” Maybe Malak could speak this candidly to Deema because they’ve been friends longer than she and I, or maybe she was better at confronting people.
“This is how our society works,” Deema said.
“Social expectations are the problem. They bleed into hating or discriminating against certain groups. If you view it from the top bottom, it is rooted in divide that serves a particular group.” Malak took a deep breath. “This is the problem.”
"You’re only talking like this because you don't know what it’s like,” Deema snarled. “Your family doesn’t care who you marry. They don't have standards.”
“Wow.” Malak slowly clapped her hands together. “Thank you.”
I shook my head. May avoided all eye contact.
“Malak.” Deema bit her lower lip and closed her eyes for a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean it like that. We shouldn’t always fight back—it's not an option in my family. I have to marry someone from within the family. I must follow in the tradition."
Deema came from a wealthy, privileged family, who had high expectations. Women were only allowed to marry within the tribe. While I understood how difficult it must be, this was her life we were talking about. This was not my battle to fight. I crammed my mouth with an almond-stuffed date, hoping no one would ask me how I felt about the subject.
"Sara?”
All eyes were on me. Date plan didn't work.
Zombies In Saudi Arabia Page 3