by You Jin
Editing the movie section, I had entered the world of the stars, and even took a short tour of that world. But to me, the entertainment industry is no different from a world of ice sculptures. On the surface, it was all glamour and glitz, but beneath, it was cold and hollow.
I worked hard at my job but, deep inside, I had an unfathomable sense of despair. I really wanted to work in the literary arts, and a little voice inside kept nagging me, growing ever louder, but every minute of my day was taken up by my job, writing one article after another and conducting interview after interview. Even before I had met up with X, I had to get busy arranging for an interview with Y and Z. I lost myself in this crazy schedule. I felt like a bottle tossed about in the sea. Even though the shore had the scenery I longed for, the wind and waves went against my will, and I was pushed farther and farther from it.
It was at this time that I received a letter from Saudi Arabia. The letter had come from my husband, writing from Jeddah, on the coast of the Red Sea. He had been living there for a year. Now, he was settled in, and he wanted me to bring our son over and stay with him. As soon as I read it, I made a decision.
I applied for a two-year unpaid leave from the newspaper office and made plans to move to the desert. The office approved my application in June 1979.
Part Three
CHAPTER 9
Joy and Sorrow in the Desert
A Little White House in the Desert
AFTER AN EIGHT-HOUR nonstop flight, my two-year-old son Nini (a childhood nickname; his given name is Fang Yi) and I finally arrived in the infinite desert, hearts full of mixed emotions as we landed in that oil-rich kingdom: Saudi Arabia.
The joy we felt was because our family of three was finally reunited after spending a year apart. In 1978, James worked for a company in Saudi Arabia, which later secured a two-billion Singapore dollar project, to build palatial housing in the Port of Jeddah, on the West bank of the Red Sea. James had been sent there by the company as managing director on a three-year contract. At the time, I had just moved up from reporter to editor, with all the new responsibilities attached to that role. I had so much to learn, and it was intensely interesting, so I was quite reluctant to leave. James respected my decision, so he flew to Saudi Arabia alone. I moved back to my parents’ home, enjoying the loving care of my mother and father. As for Nini, his grandmother had taken him back to Ipoh and cared for him since he was born.
Saudi Arabia was shrouded in mystery for us. Knowing little about the place, I had still taken leave from my job, left my parents behind and brought my son here, a place where I did not speak the language (and Nini was only able to speak his grandmother’s dialect). How would we adapt? Was it possible?
With such conflicting emotions, we reached our destination. The airport was very strict, and very chaotic. The strictness was in the atmosphere; the chaos, at the luggage carousel.
In Saudi Arabia, politics and religion are one. It is extremely strict, allowing neither alcohol nor pork to enter the country. So our luggage was searched very carefully, each piece examined by hand, both checked and carry-on bags. Each bag was opened, investigated carefully, and lined up on a long counter, where each piece was ransacked, and left in an untidy mess. When everything had been pawed through, we were finally allowed to clear customs.
James was outside the airport, waiting quietly for us. When I saw him, I was overwhelmed. My eyes teared up, and I could not control myself. I started to cry. How could this person in front of me be my husband? His once-full cheeks were now caved in. He had a scraggly beard, and his formerly robust build had shrunk. He was so thin.
Was life in the desert really so hard? I ran my teary eyes over him. He pulled me to him, then took our son from me. Nini looked at him and, as if recognising his father, laughed heartily. It was an innocent laugh, fading into his father’s beard. I stood to one side and wiped the tears from my face but, as soon as I cleared them, more appeared.
A car pulled up to an empty spot next to the curb and picked us up. There was nothing but harsh sunlight outside the window as we drove, sand flying everywhere in a yellow cloud. The houses scattered across the sandy land were all built out of earth and brick. They were short with flat roofs, painted in pale colours, and seemed more like rough models than real houses. There were trees beside the road, but they had all wilted under the scorching July sun, with bare branches helplessly extending towards the sky, as if pleading for rain to fall.
We lived about ten kilometres from Mecca Road. Once we had driven past countless rows of earthen houses, we entered a long dirt road and started a slow ascent up the side of a mountain.
It was an all-white house, perched on a barren cliff. Behind the house was an endless range of mountains. The scene was so bland and desolate, it sent a chilly shiver up my back.
Nini and I stood on the top of the cliff, looking at the view before us. The golden glow of sand stretched for miles all around us. I looked back and saw our shadows dragging heavily on the ground, one large and one small. A feeling of lonely isolation welled up from deep inside me.
After we settled in and adapted to the place, the bold, generous desert scene, in its desolation, magnificence and hidden melancholy, became a favourite spot in my life away from home. On the surface it appeared quite monotonous, but different weather and seasons brought myriad changes to the scenery.
Many years later, when I had travelled all over the world and even though I had seen many wondrous sights and amazing scenes, I never encountered a country like Saudi Arabia, which shook my spirit so greatly. It was shockingly conservative, and its oppression of women was absolutely astounding.
I was stunned by the way the women dressed. Every one of them was covered in black, even their faces. The older ones were completely hidden from view, and the younger ones were wrapped in even thicker covering. I am not exaggerating when I say that my first sight of these women, cloaked in black garb as dark as midnight and floating about in absolute silence, made me feel I was surrounded by dark spirits.
Every religious rule or doctrine was like a thick cord, suffocatingly binding the women of Saudi Arabia. It was tragic, and I really felt for their plight. Whether she wanted to or not, each woman was forced to hide herself away. She could not express herself, and could not even work, drive a car or go out alone for a walk. Some women never left their homes, from infancy until death.
The idea that men and women should never touch was practised thoroughly, even in the smallest details of life. On public transportation, the cars were separated by gender, men in front and women in back, with a partition in between. In public venues, there were “men’s days” and “women’s days”. The most irritating thing was that even wedding ceremonies were divided, with a day for male guests to celebrate and a separate day for female celebrants. I was shocked by this aspect of the culture, and not just on one occasion.
With the great wealth brought by the oil industry, many families sent their daughters abroad to study. But when these daughters returned home with higher education and liberated minds, they again donned their black burkas, suppressed their thoughts and went about life as before. Even the opportunity to go to the university was, for women, only a way to find a husband.
Once, in the capital, Riyadh, I was at the scene of an execution. A commotion broke out, the crowd so wild that I was nearly trampled to death. It cast a dark shadow over everything. When I went to Jeddah Street, where all sorts of wares from Mecca were sold, I saw countless beggars, all missing limbs. My guide told me they had all been punished for various crimes. This strict legal system was supposed to bring about a safe environment, but I had made friends with several foreigners in this place, and all of them got into trouble because they did not know the laws well. For instance, one British friend had been jailed for running a red light while driving, and a Syrian lawyer had been jailed for half a year for making his own wine and drinking strong spirits.
Writing in the Desert
During that first year li
ving in the desert, my relationship with writing entered a strange period of tension. It was a time of unprecedented alienation, but also unprecedented intimacy. I was alienated because I did not see Chinese writing anywhere. There were no Chinese newspapers, books or magazines. On television, all of the programmes were about Islam and the Qur’an. When the occasional Western film was aired, it was censored into a state of confusion.
Because there was nothing worth watching on TV, I spent all my time at home reading. Before I moved to Saudi Arabia, I had made it a point to buy several dozen Chinese books, including long novels. The problem was that I was a very fast reader. That, coupled with the fact that I had loads of time on my hands, meant that a box of books would not even last me through the month. Being without something to read was a unique sort of suffering. It made my whole spirit feel empty and, compared to my former life when I was surrounded by words all the time, I felt helpless.
So what came out of that situation in Saudi Arabia was that my pen worked non-stop. My long period of reading had built a strong foundation for me. In other words, my creative sword had been quietly sharpened, calmly waiting for the opportune moment to be unsheathed. The words that had lain dormant in my veins now jumped to life. They breathed, they moved and they struggled to break out. So I released them, each word filled with emotions and sensory pleasures, joy and despair, letting them roll out freely onto the page, creating a musical score of exhilaration and sorrow in the desert.
I sent my writings about life in the desert back to Singapore. When they were accepted one after another and appeared in the supplement section of the newspapers, I felt a satisfaction I had never known before.
During this time, I met many different people from all over the world. You could say that everyone who came to Saudi Arabia had dreams of making his fortune, but some unexpectedly found their dreams turned into an unforgettable nightmare. When some awoke from that nightmare, they emerged stronger and braver, ready to start over and face a new life; others remained forever in the shadow of that nightmare, never returning to the lives they had known.
These people and their encounters touched a chord in me. Moved, I committed each story to paper. The characters came from many different backgrounds—programmers, lawyers, writers, construction workers, odd-job workers, butlers, maids, delivery boys…you name it. These people, who came from all over the world, were not just imaginary characters, but were real flesh and blood people. Most importantly, they all left their footprints on my life journey, so when I sat down to write, I could feel my heart pulsating. For instance, I wrote about Muhan being thrown into jail, Shacaiben slitting his wrist to commit suicide, Hanai being deported, Shawang escaping with stolen money, Taba beating his own child and Geniya’s secret affair.
It was difficult to control my tears and sighs as I wrote out these stories. They eventually made up the collection Desert Nightmare. These stories about people from all over the world were the origin of the “Traveller’s Tales” I wrote later.
During this time, I had a very intimate relationship with writing. I was not so much the person holding the pen as I was the pen. As soon as I grasped my pen, the text flowed in a rapid stream. This sort of experience of the pen and person practically becoming one was especially exhilarating.
I wrote day and night, my pen scratching its way across the page. The sound of my pen on paper became the most beautiful symphony in my life. Sometimes when I had been writing too long, my thumb and forefinger would be sore, and my pen left a deep impression in the middle finger. But my creative fire was burning brightly, so I wrapped my middle finger in soft tissue paper and kept on writing. I wrote until my hands felt numb and would not straighten. Only then did I stop.
The Great Sorrow of My Life
When we had lived in Saudi Arabia for eight or nine months, I entered a low point in my life. We had seen the sights of the Port of Jeddah countless times. Every time we went out, we saw exactly the same things. Of course, this meant we encountered the same sorts of issues and felt the same emotions. I had written almost everything that could be written.
If I had been living in a different country, I would have worked hard to explore the different layers of life there and discover new creative material, but in a country as conservative as Saudi Arabia, I did not even have the right to go out alone. As a housewife secluded in the house, how could I forge a space of my own?
When I first arrived in the desert, every morning from the moment I opened my eyes, I would think happily and enthusiastically, How should I make use of this day?
Now, when I forced my eyes open in the morning, I continued to laze in bed. Bored, I would ask myself, What can I do to pass the time today?
We had a butler to help with the housework and cooking. Faced with no one but the still innocent Nini, every day seemed interminable. My creativity even began to dry up, since it was separated from life.
James had been made the top manager of a huge building project, and the burden of the livelihood of more than a hundred workers pressed heavily on his shoulders. Of course he could not fail, but working life in Saudi Arabia was not easy, with the language gap, cultural differences, and different habits and viewpoints. It was not an easy burden to bear. As soon as one problem was settled, another appeared; and as soon as one wave passed, the next rolled in. Every day, Nini and I sat in our lonely cliff-top house waiting for him to come home, sometimes waiting until late into the night before we finally saw the car’s headlights turn into the drive. Then, as soon as the car stopped, he would shoot like an arrow into the house. Being a wife cooped up in the house like this, even if I had complaints, I could not bear to burden him with more.
I stored all the melancholy thoughts in my heart for a long time, not aware how my pent up emotions could become a harmful dagger. It was like a virus that quietly mutated in my system to become a deathly illness.
James’ workload became heavier day by day, and he often flew to Riyadh for meetings, leaving me alone at home with our son. One night, Nini went to bed early, and I sat in the room, staring at my shadow in the dim lamplight. The mountains filled the space outside the window, dark and foreboding, like an evil forest. The surrounding silence became oppressive. As my shadow and I sat facing each other in the house, I tried to contemplate, but my mind was in turmoil, and I could not think straight. Gradually I became aware of a pain inside. I did not know the peak of loneliness could result in pain. That ache was like a black ink splotch on a clean sheet of paper, spreading menacingly, seeking a way out. It grew to a huge size. My chest was throbbing, and my tears started to fall in a slow, unceasing stream. Oh, I was such a settled person, accomplished, confident and knowledgeable, and I had always been so adaptable. Why was this happening now, here in the desert, faced with the blank wall—I was crying so hard I could hardly breathe. I was no longer myself. I was a worm, my whole body cocooned in silky strands. I wanted to break out. I could not stop struggling; I knew that as soon as I did, I would suffocate.
Occasionally sandstorms come to the desert, and when they come, the whole world is turned into a yellowy haze, with scrolls of golden sand curling all over the earth. It comes in waves, beating against the house. It is like the whole structure will be picked up and carried away. The greatest fear of a driver on the road was to encounter such a sandstorm; a car could be tossed into the air, and neither car nor occupants would survive.
I hated these sandstorms. And, even worse, I feared them.
In the Port of Jeddah, though I did not encounter a life threatening sandstorm, every time the huge winds came, I saw the sand whipping around outside the house, seeping in through the windows, covering the whole house and all its furnishings with a grainy golden dust. It was extremely frustrating, making me anxious.
My greatest concern was for Nini. As soon as the sandstorms came, his asthma would flare up like a raging fire, making his eyes bulge, his chest rising and falling like waves as hissing sounds came from his throat. Before we had moved to Saudi A
rabia, Nini had been carefully looked after by my mother-in-law; I was still a young mother, without much experience. Every time I saw his asthma flare up, I feared he would stop breathing, so I watched over him the whole night. Seeing my extreme anxiety, when the doctor prescribed medication for Nini, he gave me a relaxant too. After the sandstorm, Nini’s asthma would settle down, but I suffered from terrible insomnia.
Every night, I would listen to the six air conditioners’ dull operating sounds. I stared at the ceiling, counting sheep—one hundred, two hundred and then a hundred more. When I had finished counting, I would still be awake; I would then pick up where I left off…four hundred, five hundred, six… The whole room—the whole house— even the roof, was filled with sheep, white and fluffy. Fat, white sheep, white sheep that were not fat, fat sheep that were not white. There were too many in the house, so they moved outside, sitting or squatting in countless flocks. I counted until I felt dizzy, but my watering eyes still stared blankly, wide open.
After several nights of insomnia, I was dead tired. I had no appetite and lost all interest in everything. Having no other way to deal with the situation, I started to take sleeping pills every day.