In the Land of Invisible Women

by Qanta Ahmed

  Squadrons of Saudis condensed around symmetrical lines in a precise, invisible geometry known only to them. They aligned themselves in sharp rows towards the tarmac, facing the nighttime Atlantic. It was time for Isha prayers, the final evening prayer which Muslims observe after sunset. Watching them pray made me uncomfortable, reminding me of the many prayers I failed to observe myself, but still I found myself entranced by the scene. Around me, in the airport lounge, a veritable Masjid (mosque) was in session. The Saudis prayed for twenty minutes. I couldn't stop watching them, though no one else seemed remotely interested.

  As they prostrated to God, I wondered how the men's headdresses stayed put as they touched foreheads to the ground. Each time, I waited to see if the checkered red and white coverings would fall. What could be securing the cloth underneath? The women were blending into one another. Against plate-glassed night, they were a mass of black bundles, their silhouettes invisible. I paid barely any attention to these Saudi women. I had already forgotten that in a few hours, I would be joining their ranks. For now, my eye was drawn to the elegantly robed men.

  I was puzzled. This was no scene from my New York City life. Until now, these robed and veiled worshippers had been concealed from me here. I had been at airports countless times in this city, yet until now these Saudis had been invisible. Feeling exposed by their conspicuous piety, I glanced nervously at my own attire for the journey. I hoped I was properly dressed to enter the Kingdom. Saudi Arabia is an Islamic Kingdom, governed by Islamic Sharia law (The Holy Law of God).1 Saudi Arabia is also a revered holy land for all Muslims, and most notably, guardian and home to Mecca, the spiritual and historical epicenter of Islam. As a Muslim woman myself, I wanted to respect the ways of the Kingdom. I certainly didn't want to offend.

  The flight was announced. Shuffling and rambling, the Saudis rolled towards the gate. I was one of a handful of Westerners on the flight. Very few passengers were like me, single, female, “non-Saudi”—a phrase which would define me from now on. Glancing at the heavy veils surrounding me, I doubted any other women on the flight were Westernized, moderate Muslims like me.

  I downed the cold remains of a final Starbucks, spellbound, watching black bundles of women tumbling down the gangway. I switched off the cell phone. I was now completely disconnected. America was hurtling into my nascent past.

  At the gate, a Saudi stewardess beckoned me eastward. A hybrid hat with attached veil covered some hair while revealing most of her creamy, unlined neck. I could hear her speaking to passengers in rugged, near-Germanic tones of what I was soon to learn to be Saudi Arabic. Every clipped, guttural sound came from deep within a bottomless, muscular pharynx.

  “Good evening madam,” she enunciated precisely. “Boarding for Riyadh tonight?” I nodded an ambivalent yes.

  “This way to the Saudia flight, madam. Enjoy your journey.” She waved elegantly toward the gangway. Fellow travelers scurried by, hurrying on board with their children, packages, and carry-ons all in tow. Gathering up my fast-dissipating courage, I began to follow the others.

  My journey had begun.

  I settled back into the seat, girding the seat belt a little tighter. We waited to taxi away from America when a disembodied voice began to pray.

  “Bismillah Walhmadu lillah, subhan'al-lathee sakh hara lana hadha wama kunna lahu muqrineen wainn a ila rabbina lamunqal-iboon…”

  “In the Name of Allah and all Praise is for Allah! How perfect is He, the One who has placed this transport at our service and we ourselves would not be capable of that and to our Lord is our final destiny.”

  The pilot was reciting the special Muslim prayer dedicated for travelers about to embark on a journey. The amplified, melodious tones of classical Arabic startled me. I stared stupidly at the PA speakers. Soon, I sank into the calligraphic cocoon they were broadcasting. Invisible verses from the Quran wove a soft gauze of security around me. I found myself relaxing. This was already a different journey. Until now, these had been prayers that I had only heard uttered by my father. Islam was growing in dimensions; what had been limited to the privacy of my small family was becoming very public indeed.

  I was constantly reminded of my religion during that first journey to Arabia. By climbing into this plane, I had tumbled headfirst into the whale-belly of Islam. In the center of the cabin there was a big screen, normally for showing in-flight movies. Instead, it showed a motionless plane-shaped silhouette impaled on a white arrow. The image never changed. The arrow pointed to the direction of Mecca, the spiritual anchor for all Muslims. Muslims call this direction the Qibla. I found myself staring at it. I felt drawn.

  Sleep deserted me. To relieve monotony, I watched other travelers. The gangway bustled with busy passengers even at thirty-five thousand feet. On board, numerous clearings had been established by the removal of rows of seats. Appearing every ten rows or so, even in the economy section, private alcoves allowed passengers to pray during the flight. I saw only men seeking out these semi-public sections to observe prayer, their wives preferring to remain semi-prostate in their seats performing abbreviated travelers' prayers.2 Throughout the night, Saudi men walked up and down the aisle, hands dripping fresh water from their ablutions (required before prayer), velvet prayer mats casually tossed over their tall, surprisingly broad shoulders, as they made their way to the alcoves. From my aisle seat I could anticipate their passages; breezing by, each man trailed the sharp but pleasing fragrance of the Saudia flight cologne freshly applied from their preparations in the rest-room. (Aware that fragrance is recommended for men in Islam, the airline had thoughtfully provided ample supplies for liberal use.) In their right hands, rosaries revolved in time with silent prayer. I watched them for a long time, unable to sleep and unwilling to pray.

  From time to time, I pulled out the copy of Fortune I had grabbed minutes before boarding. The cover that month portrayed a Saudi billionaire, appropriate reading for my journey, I thought. I began to learn about Prince al-Waleed Bin Talal.3 He was photographed in his Saudi robes, and when I looked up, distracted by wafts of cologne which followed the Saudi men rustling by, I could see no difference between the prince and these passengers. This ancient dress seemed to contain a message of equality. I devoured the article and tried hard to remember the prince's name. I was hungry for any knowledge about the country I was now making home.

  Silent apprehension took firm root. I was worried about everything, most acutely about my appearance. Only hours away from arrival, I considered my outfit: loose-fitting, beige slacks, a turtleneck, and a gray, long-sleeved cardigan, complete with hood. In my desire not to draw attention to myself, I had already donned the camouflage of desert colors. I sought reassurance from the stewardess.

  “How do I look? Am I dressed properly? I am worried because I don't have an abbayah4 for when I land. I know all women in the Kingdom have to wear one. Will I have any problems in the airport?” I sounded as though I was babbling.

  “You are dressed perfectly,” she said warmly. She had to be lying, I decided. My cardigan seemed short to me. I should know; I was a dues-paying Muslim. I knew my hips were showing, noisily announcing my sex. I wished I had something to engulf my debilitating gender. I almost wished I was a man.

  “The King Khalid Airport is an international area,” she went on. She seemed to be addressing everyone within earshot, oblivious to my mounting anxieties. “You won't need an abbayah in there. When you arrive at your destination, ladies will help you find one.” She silenced me with a final, firm smile.

  An hour after crossing into Saudi airspace, we had landed in Riyadh. I looked out of the porthole. For a long time I stared through the window while the rest of the plane stirred into action. Outside in the late night an oceanic panorama of starlit sand stretched for miles. “Nevada!” was my first conscious thought. For miles in every direction the barren landscape was desolate, utterly flat. I felt the sudden tug of quiet intrigue. This was going to be an adventure.

  Deplaning through the covere
d gangway, I stepped beyond the vanishing point of twelve hours earlier. The heat of the night seeped under my cuffs, sinking its lazy weight under my clothing. Even though this was two a.m. in late November, I was already too warm in light woolens. At the mouth of the dim gangway, disheveled passengers spilled out into the blazing lights of a world made glossy with black gold.

  Trembling with a mixture of fear and fascination, like the quivering bride of an arranged marriage, I stole a virginal view of Saudi Arabia. Blinking in the harsh lights, I glanced overhead. A giant Raymond Weil clock marked time. I could first hear and then later see the tinkling cascades of marble fountains, spilling precious water, here more costly per liter than petroleum. My eyes, gritty with fatigue, rested gratefully on interior gardens. Underfoot, my shoes resonated on marble floors gleaming with geometric designs. Travertine parquetry rippled away from each footstep in soft shades of gray and white, beige and sand. Chrome and glass divided the massive, marble space into wide stairways, giant atria, and immigration control. The marble scene was refreshing. No unsmiling, visored limo drivers, with hand-held signs and curlicue ear pieces, no Haitian cabbies touting for rides here. I was a world away from the pent fury of Kennedy. I felt suddenly remote.

  Argumentative Arabic wrenched me from the scene. I coiled with tension. For a moment, Saudi soldiers, armed and red-bereted, flanked me. I stood right next to them, close enough to see their ripe stubble pushing through on chiseled jaws, but they seemed not to see me. They were dark-eyed and handsome. Their voices rose to a crescendo of purpose and strain, but I understood nothing. They searched for a face. Finally, a cry of recognition, a flurry of melodramatic salaams, and they had moved ahead. They were the security detail for a dignitary, apparently aboard the same plane. Whisking the influential bundle of red and white cloth away, they took their animated aura of accents with them.

  I descended stairs toward passport control. Ahead to both the left and the right were huge lines of impoverished Bengali men arriving to take up menial laboring jobs. They stared at all women. Being the lone, unveiled, nonwhite face at the airport, they stared at me unflinchingly. Already I was maddened by the scrutiny. I covered my head with the hood of my sweater. The spear-like focus of the staring men, enclosing me with their collective gaze, was deflected. Like a child, if I couldn't see them, they couldn't see me. I felt better inside my “veil.”

  Other lines were made entirely of women. The segregation had begun. I noticed Filipina women, maids or nannies arriving for their Saudi employers. They looked poor, none wearing jewelry or makeup, so unlike the designer-clad, Gucci-brandishing Filipinas in New York City. I selected the least intimidating lane: the one with the most Western women in it.

  I could see I wasn't the only one concealing myself. Others were already wearing their crumpled up abbayahs, hurriedly yanked out of carry-on luggage, scruffy Nikes peeping out from under askew hems. They had obviously been to the Kingdom before, probably returning home after a vacation away. Not only Westerners rushed to dress themselves before disembarking, but Saudi women, too, veiled more fully. One Saudi woman, caught unprepared, waited patiently in line under the airplane blanket that she had draped, chadhur-like, over her expensively colored hair and her sleeping, cherubic prize, a Saudi son.

  I studied the Western women in my queue. Many were nurses at neighboring hospitals, Irish, English, white South African women. Not the least perturbed by the staring, they reassured me with the smug luxury of the veteran. I envied their confidence and huddled a little closer.

  At last, my turn. An impeccably coiffed Saudi soldier scrutinized my passport. I glanced around to see if anyone from my hospital had appeared. I also knew that as an unmarried female employee in Saudi Arabia, I could not enter the country without my “sponsor” (a representative from my employer) receiving me and handling my papers through passport control. If no one arrived, I would be held at the airport.

  As I wondered who would be sent to meet me, I looked on at hundreds of Malaysian Muslim women quietly squatting on the marble floor by a silenced baggage carousel. All were fully veiled. Even buried in material, each emanated resignation, defeat. They huddled, eyes downcast, silently awaiting their employers. I heard no laughter, no muted chit-chat. Piled like the uncollected baggage around them, they were silent and inanimate. Yet their inertia was much more than just the pounding fatigue of jet lag; these were women stripped of hope.

  Even the security of my medical skills could not change the fact that doctor or domestic, Muslim or not, an unmarried woman cannot enter Saudi Arabia alone. Without a sponsor, without husband or father, without son or brother, I would wait as a maid would wait, with cargo, like cargo, until collected. Women cannot function as independent entities in the Kingdom. My autonomy had already been curtailed.

  I was waved beyond the immigration line to the Perspex counter. The soldier at passport control offered no smile. He did not welcome me to his country. He did not greet me as a Muslim, even though my last name gave me away as one. In fact, he did not greet me at all. Supercilious, he busied himself reviewing my papers. Following his lead, I didn't engage in small talk either. We made no eye contact. Intuitively I already knew the ways of the Kingdom. With a dismissive wave, he signaled me gone, tossing my passport onto a distant counter. The gold insignia of Her Majesty's Crown lay marooned in an eddy of crumpled-up, handwritten Arabic notes. The sharp taste of nostalgia for my English childhood rose suddenly to my throat. Out of habit, I went to grab my passport anyway. Instead, a hulking figure expertly corralled it, snatching it away from me.

  I looked up to see a huge man. He returned my gaze with open distaste. This was Umair, my sponsor. Under his male authority, I could now leave passport control and enter the Kingdom. Umair was my “meet and greet” manifestation of my employer. Intimidated, I felt myself shrink in his male shadow. A bulky, tall Saudi, Umair was dressed in a white thobe5 punctuated with a recurring filigree of tobacco-stains; a batik of spit. Ancient sandals made almost of camel-hide (they seemed so thick) completed the ensemble, exposing fat, cracked heels. On his head, he wore a red and white checked headdress (the shemagh) that sorely needed pressing. Though dressed in the identical uniform of the Saudi national dress, he wasn't as refined as the Saudi I had been studying on the cover of Fortune.

  Though meeting me (meeting my passport, more specifically) he failed to greet me. We communicated in sign language, as he spoke no English and my Arabic consisted only of prayers. Stupidly, I still made vain gestures to recover my passport but he retained it tightly in his leonine fist. Irritated, with flabby nicotine-stained fingers, he motioned to me to retrieve my heavy luggage, while he languished, supporting his considerable bulk against a railing. He struggled to coax his fat hand into a seamless pocket, finally retrieving a badly squashed packet of Marlboros. He made no move to help, preferring to watch in unrestrained boredom, scratching his belly from time to time.

  The baggage carousel continued to circulate cases which no one rushed to claim. The Malaysian maids remained motionless, leaning against the crawling belt. I lugged my enormous bags off the carousel by myself, surrounded by male onlookers. No man came to my assistance, neither porter nor passenger.

  At last, X-raying the bags after baggage claim to ensure I was not bringing anything illegal into the Kingdom, I was allowed to leave the terminal. I sighed with relief. The conspicuous authority in the airport made me uneasy and I felt anxious to get away. I stepped into the November night. A westward desert breeze caressed my face. Without the requisite black abbayah, I was patently out of place. Already I could see Riyadh wore more black than even New York City.

  I bundled myself into the hospital van. The windows were blacked out, a cheap film peeled over the panes trapping both air bubbles and me behind a purple haze. Many of the vehicles I would ride in from now on would be themselves a veil, leaving me wondering of the real color of the world outside.

  Umair loaded the luggage into the car and started the drive to my new home. The
immaculate road leaving the airport stretched for several miles. It was perfectly straight, no need for the mad curves and tight angles of London or New York. Traffic was surprisingly heavy so late in the night. Everyone was driving very fast, as though hurtling to an imminent death. On either side, tumble-weed and desert bushes fell away to interminable sand, an earth-bound Sea of Tranquility on a nocturnal moonscape. The only movement, a voiceless ripple of breeze through sand, was soon blurred by our own ridiculous velocity along the roadway.

  We entered an arterial highway into the city. Globalization had reached even here. Within minutes, I spied the first signs announcing American pop culture was for sale in Riyadh. Briefly thrilled that my childhood Arabic was good enough to read the signs myself, I started reading the names aloud. Thirty feet in the air, in jarring fluorescence, a sign screamed “Taco Bell” in Arabic. Saudis ate fajitas and tacos! From the van, I could see Saudi families disembarking their sedans and entering the fast food outlets. I was disappointed. This new world seemed depressingly uniform on the surface, so many American flagships of consumption. This Saudiscape revealed an America with Arabic subtitles, where men and women ate burgers and drank Coca-Cola. McDonalds, Pepsi, and finally even KFC followed, underlining the monotony and disconcertingly displaced sense of familiarity. I saw nothing which I could identify as authentically Arabian. The main highway on which we were driving was peppered only with fast food outlets and strips of car dealerships selling GMC Suburbans or Porsches.

  Around us, cars raced by, bulging Cadillacs, bellies bursting with Saudi women and their children, at each wheel always a man. I wondered where they were going, so late at night. Every car window in the rear was blacked out with heavy tinted glass or veiled under pleated curtains. These roads teemed with more Cadillacs than Park Avenue. Yet inside the glossy cars, the people were most definitely from here. I allowed myself a first unseen smile.

  Regulation black or steel-colored S-series Benzes passed the bumbling Cadillacs, racing one another along the highway. I looked to my left and locked eyes with a long-lashed camel in a battered Suzuki pickup, a jarring reminder that I was no longer in New York. Rubber burns marked the roadway in wide calligraphic Naskh strokes. The new Kingdom of German sedans sliced past the old Kingdom of munching camels, the two worlds dueling alongside each other on this, the Mecca Highway.