In the Land of Invisible Women

by Qanta Ahmed

  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.

  “Saudi women are incredibly manipulative,” she answered flatly, in a low determined voice. She watched the scene with an unflinching, aqua-colored eye. I looked at her, stunned at her criticism, especially as she partook of their hospitality. What did she know of these women? What had she learned in her years here?

  “They have to be manipulative,” she went on. “Their goals and dreams and their places in the workplace are achieved only through the manipulation and influence of husbands or fathers or brothers or sons. Without their influence, they can never express themselves.” She sounded bored. Evidently she had theorized on this before.

  I listened, taken aback by the venom in her conviction. Christine explained how she believed Saudi women cannot realize their needs by assertion, in the way women in the West traditionally do. The ambitious Saudi woman, therefore, becomes skillful in influencing men within the family, a subversive manipulation, calculating, persuasive, and highly intelligent. I knew already that the women at this party, the Saudi women who worked at my hospital, were unique and rare within the Kingdom. These were some of the first women in the workplace in Saudi Arabia. My hospital was exceptional in encouraging Saudi women to work, with the support of the liberal and woman-promoting CEO, Dr. Fahad Abdul Jabbar. I had not yet met him, but among the Saudi women at the National Guard Hospital, he was revered.

  These women must have overcome tremendous traditions that would normally encourage them to remain at their father's home until it was time to relocate to a husband's home. In this stratum of Saudi society, the families were wealthy and the women would have no material need, no economic compulsion to earn. The goal to live in one's own apartment was one which I never encountered amongst these women. Though they longed for the freedoms I had enjoyed—driving cars; wandering the world with short hair and no scarf; traveling alone; pursuing a career as avidly as a man; simply being free—there was no driving force urging them on to leave their families and be independent in any real sense. The hunger these women did have was for education and autonomy in the workplace; a need for purpose, one greater than that of their mothers.

  Whatever their methods, of argument or debate or attrition only in the way a beloved daughter can exact upon any indulgent father, these women were indeed very strong. I was not sure that “manipulative” was the most encompassing description for such determined women, and I wondered how much of that observation was a reflection of Christine's frustrations. I could see that matters I had taken for granted—education, freedom, travel, independence—were hard-won prizes, even for these privileged, wealthy creatures. And yet, when allowed in the workplace, they had to be tough, just like I did, competing not only against men, but against legislated male supremacy—men who believed women belonged in the home and at the hearth, not in the hospital or headquarters, not in offices or operating rooms. Facing that everyday was a feat. As I spent more time in Saudi Arabia, I would see how much strength would be asked of a woman at work. I would learn from them and observe them in action. Saudi women indeed were a force to be reckoned with.

  It was after one a.m. I had work in the morning, and we faced a long drive back to the compound, far from the pulse of downtown Olleyah. Christine signaled that it was time to take our leave, and we began our thanks and farewells. Already a good neighbor to me, Ghadah volunteered to run us back home. As the steely gates closed on an exceptional evening, we clambered into Ghadah's green minivan, which was waiting for us, engine running, outside the house.

  A sinewy Bengali sat hunched over the wheel. The streetscape shimmered by in the velvet night. The city was still busy even though it was late. Traffic packed the highway and the side streets were congested. Everyone had been out tonight, on the eve of Ramadan. We all wore our veils properly, covering our hair, even though the windows were heavily tinted. Ghadah's veil was the most beautiful, with deep borders of purple and silver embroidered flowers; she drew the veil into a perfect frame around her face, showing off her chiseled jaw. There could be no hiding this kind of beauty. Ghadah's beauty was radiant, unquashable. No abbayah could vanquish this resilient, gleaming woman.

  As I sat enfolded in my own clumsy veil, I smiled: I really had enjoyed myself. It was extraordinary to gain entry to the matrix that is Saudi. Without the abbayah, in the privacy of a home, these women laughed and danced and joked and smoked like anywhere else. In unveiling ourselves, we had revealed our womanhood in common. Saudi women were no longer alien. During the day, or in public, these women not only veiled their beauty and their clothes in those black abbayahs, they veiled their spirits, their souls, their joie de vivre.

  With a jolt, I noticed this was the first time I had heard out-loud laughter in the Kingdom. Within weeks of my arrival, the public Saudi Arabia had already become pervasively oppressive; like a vapor, nothing escaped its suffocating touch. Invisible tentacles of control had smothered me into submission. But underneath this miasma-mask, in the far marble pavilions of Saudi homes, in the recesses of the private Saudi, it was already alluring, intoxicating, and profoundly conflicted. I wanted to know more.

  My joyful reverie was aborted minutes later. Caught in a snag of unruly traffic, we came to a juddering halt on the highway. An impasse of SUVs (“James's”) and loitering Land Cruisers barred our way. Music blaring, pulsating windows reverberating to the subwoofer bass beats within them, surrounded the diminutive minivan. Our entrapment was sudden. The bass beats were more Cross-Bronx Parkway than Khuraij Road; once more a crass cultural shard of America in the heart of Arabia.

  As I looked out of the tinted window, I locked eyes with a Saudi man staring straight back, window rolled down, his shemagh flowing in the night wind, billowing in the breeze. From the front window I could see their driver, arm hanging out, gangsta-style. He slouched in the unspoken language of the ghetto, slumped at the wheel, barely sitting upright. These men were reclining at the wheel less like caliphs and a lot more like boys from the 'hood. This cruiser was prowling for “chicks,” and we, it appeared, were the chicks in question. Ghadah was already screaming instructions to the dull driver to move the car, except he couldn't; the cars were packed ahead. In the impromptu jam, the guys were taking time out to pick up women.

  On the left-hand side of our car, another vehicle heaving with young men prowled menacingly. They had caught on that we were six women in one car, the odds were good. Ghadah became more alarmed.

  “Ladies! Please! Cover yourselves! Please cover your faces.” Immediately she tossed the end of her scarf over her face. She continued to bark orders to the driver through a mass of chiffon, like a crazed but very commanding Muppet.

  I felt ridiculous. I tried harder to see through the opacity of polyester and tinted glass. She was overreacting, but her fear was real. I couldn't tell her to calm down. Surely, they couldn't see us through the smoked windows, except maybe our silhouettes. We were now transformed to six shrouds. With my eyes firmly covered I found I could stare about with much more abandon. Donning my mask was perversely liberating.

  Then the missiles began. Through the driver's window, which in his torpor he still hadn't closed, a piece of crumpled paper came up, thrown in from the black Land Cruiser. Unraveled, it was a cell number. The shrouds collectively laughed, partly inhaling our scarves. The other ladies were only half-amused. It was impossible to know which of the men had sent it and to which lady it was intended. Ghadah's anger was now ablaze.

  “This is what they do, Qanta,” she said, exasperated, Impala eyes flashing with anger. “They are trying to pick us up!”

  It seems this was how Saudi men met girls or at le
ast tried to meet them. Sometimes they threw in crumpled paper. Other times the paper was wrapped around empty cassettes for a more aerodynamic missile-missive. As I looked at the leering faces, there was no mistaking that hungry, prowling look of cowardly men who hunt in packs. I wished the glass had been darker. I wished I was more concealed. I wished we were home.

  It made perfect sense, once I considered it. Without a religious policeman installed in every vehicle, men simply could not be prevented from doing this; the law could not be enforced here. And, with so many men and women in a small place together, stuck in a jam, it was only natural that the walls of segregation would strain under the proximity. Necessity was indeed the mother of invention, it seemed. I recalled a recent trip to Miami. This was after all just a slight distortion from cruising South Beach on a Saturday night.

  I found the exaggerated panic of Ghadah even more startling. She was planning to drop off her sister who was also in the car with us at her married home before reaching our compound, but, given the SUVs pursuing us, immediately cancelled that plan. Ghadah called her father on the cell phone for advice. After a tense discussion in staccato Arabic, Ghadah's sister was to come to her father's house instantly. She was not safe in her home while her husband was away on business, and the Land Cruiser seemed intent on following us. Ghadah decided to drive everyone, all of us, to her father's home first, before taking us back to the compound.

  No matter how much her sister protested, first to Ghadah, then to her father, there could be no discussion. She would not be allowed to travel to her own house. She was quite powerless in the face of her father's decree. She would manage without her bed that night; they had everything she needed to stay over. The illusion of our power had evaporated.

  As we continued on and the road ahead opened up, the Land Cruiser kept up constant pursuit. Driving in parallel, windows open, men leering, hanging out of the windows, and calling out in Arabic, we were prey. Music blasted louder still. Effectively only a malnourished and silent Bengali was our protection. Where were the Muttawa now, when they could have done some good after all, protecting us?

  We traveled deeper into the city, away from our compound. At last we arrived at Ghadah's father's house, and the Cruiser entered the mouth of the street. Instinctively it hung back, exhausts growling as the engine idled. The Cruiser blocked off the only exit to the small lane leading to the house. Again, Ghadah called her father. It was now two a.m. She refused to unlock the car doors until her aging, silver-haired father came into the street to receive his daughter. Immediately on the appearance of the septuagenarian, an arc of blazing headlights swept by, illuminating the scene, recognizing his male authority. The Land Cruiser retreated, doublelumened exhausts growling a low roar. Soon, it was merely a drop of brake lights joining the red stream of traffic in the distance. We were safe.

  After seeing Ghadah's sister into the house, we headed back home in silence. The mood was one of subdued relief. I recalled my question at orientation, “What should we do when we are followed?” and the disdain with which it had been received, remembering the irritated dismissal of my alarmism. I felt indignant and newly vulnerable. The repressed, inhibited men sought conquests, just like men in other countries, but the strain of their leashes wore thin. What was unfathomable to me was how they could be attracted to follow us to such lengths. After all, there were so many other vehicles carrying bundles of women.

  But which women would respond to such overtures? In the late nineties these missile missives were common, but in a few years, these comically desperate attempts of the segregated lone male would be replaced by a wireless Bluetooth assault of tracking devices looking to make an electronic connection with bored, lonely women longing for Bluetooth boyfriends.7 Now women in Riyadh and Jeddah can flick on their cell phones and BlackBerrys, activate the Bluetooth icon, and simply wait for messages to appear. Very quickly they do indeed pop up on screen, by the dozens and often with very flirtatious screen names looking for cyberdates. These not-so-shy cybersuitors, themselves veiled by virtuality, are within a radius of only a few meters, flirting from within the wireless confines of the Bluetooth signal.

  I looked over to Ghadah, her face uncovered and veiled as she was normally, silently staring into the road ahead. Her gaze was steely. She seemed furious. Her angular jaw, her liquid eyes, and those endless brows were indeed alluring. In the moonlight, her pale skin gleamed. Now I could see the enormous price she paid for her beauty; it was a weight, a burden, a tiresome responsibility. It was probably her profile that had fueled the chase. When I pressed her, she admitted this happened to her often. Her screaming instruction had been less anxiety and panic and more anger. Ghadah was constantly a victim of her beauty. While perhaps it sounded exotic to be chased in pursuit, even when recounting the tale now, it left all of us feeling exposed, powerless, and above all, defenseless.

  The gatehouse loomed up out of the darkness and the military guard waved at us in recognition. The gates closed behind us. For the first time I was pleased to see the walled compound. I was relieved to be secure under military patrol. It was then that I drew the parallel that stayed with me throughout my Saudi years; the safety in my home in Riyadh was based on armed security. I could relax only in private, high-walled homes. For me, Saudi Arabia was becoming clear: while now my home, it was also my prison.

  VEILED DOCTORS

  EVEN THOUGH POST GRADUATE MEDICINE in the Kingdom was legally a desegregated environment, where men and women were employed and could interact as work dictated, the voluntary gender segregation remained extreme. Rounds were a male-dominated event. More often than not, I found myself the lone female in the team. If any other women were present, they had only silent walk-on parts, mute props watching from the sidelines. I was slowly becoming aware that chauvinism and sexism was just as marked among many of the Western attendings as it was amongst many of the Saudi and other Arab physicians, as though the climate of the workplace promoted an infectious transmission of male supremacy.

  With time I began to understand how this could have developed. State-legislated Wahabiism endorsed male supremacy, which was pervasive throughout the Kingdom and in all aspects of life; a rather heady mixture for weaker men from all parts of the world. Porous to the noxious waters they found themselves steeped in, they sucked in male supremacy with surprisingly little aversion. Quickly they themselves became vectors of oppression. It took an extraordinarily strong, sound-minded, and secure man to protest to the benefits and intoxicating ascendancy being a man in the Kingdom entailed.

  Male physicians consulting on my patients would arrive at the bedside where I would be attending the patient. Frequently, they would breeze past me. I was invisible to them. In medicine, it is usual to offer an opinion about a patient's illness that could sometimes be quite different than one's colleagues. This medical exchange is vital for the best diagnosis and management of disease. In Saudi Arabia, if I failed to support the tentative diagnosis or, worse, tendered an alternative, male Saudi attendings would sometimes show deep personal affront. Missing the subtle indicators of deep displeasure in a silent, curled male lip, I was, for a time, deeply puzzled at the unspoken injury it seemed I often caused. Eventually I realized a difference of opinion was sometimes received no differently than a personal insult. No amount of Harvard or Cleveland Clinic could ever quell the tribal pride of the wounded Saudi male. My stubborn clinical disputes were deeply upsetting and anathema to them. I was told quite bluntly that while my clinical acumen was valuable, personally I was considered “intolerable.” I was surprised how wounded I felt to hear this. It would be a long time before I would be inclined to be more diplomatic. In my beginnings in this world, I was just too angry.

  An insidiously advancing invisible status engulfed me. As a woman clinician, even unveiled at work, but always covered in my white coat and trousers, I was at best an obstacle that was to be circumnavigated, quite literally like an awkward piece of furniture indecent enough to lack wheels. In typically fem
ale fashion, I began to search for my mistakes. Perhaps this lack of recognition was rooted somehow in my own fault? After all, I was a guest in this Kingdom. Why couldn't I communicate more diplomatically, like my other (male) peers, the quiet Poles who always smiled and were able to be incredibly pleasant to the most arrogant of Saudis. Later I would discover them privately, defusing their stress in a flurry of muttered Polish expletives and intense chain smoking, as they only half-jested at comparisons of Kingdom life to Communist rule.

  I turned to my Saudi female colleagues. I knew they were a rarity in this society and must have overcome many obstacles to be able to practice medicine in this world. The statistics were astonishing and these women were valuable for both their experiences and their expertise. Very few Saudi women could do what they could.

  At the time, the Kingdom was not self-sufficient in terms of the number of Saudi doctors its population needed. Only twenty percent of all doctors in the Kingdom were Saudi, with eighty percent being expatriates. This is an exact reversal of the United States, where between twenty and twenty-five percent of all doctors are migrants and the remainder citizens. Of the twenty percent in the Kingdom who were Saudi clinicians, only a tiny minority were women. This I could see reflected around me. I had almost no female peers.

  The prospect of women in the workplace was not necessarily an accepted reality. The women who worked with me were a reflection of the extremely progressive views of our feminist Saudi CEO, Dr. Fahad Abdul Jabbar. In fact, some muftis (senior clerical scholars) had even chimed in with the prospect of women-only hospitals as a solution to what they considered the avoidable evil of bringing women into the public workforce. Sheikh Abdul Aziz al-Asheikh, the Grand Mufti of Saudi Arabia, recently proposed the same during a symposium in Riyadh on applying religion in medical issues. He described the intermingling of sexes at hospitals as a “disaster” that challenged the intrinsic modesty of Islamic societies. The Grand Mufti even went on to suggest medical professionals should only treat patients of the opposite gender under clinical extremis.