American Chick in Saudi Arabia by Jean Sasson
Chapter Ten: Riyadh Chick Nayam
With my roommates away for the evening, I wander aimlessly through our small apartment. Disheartened after my experiences beneath the veil today, I have fallen into a rare depression. I am more aware than ever of the dark reality that much of the world can be a dangerous place for the female sex.
I pace, silently questioning: Is there anything I can do to change the destiny of veiled women? Truthfully, it feels presumptuous to even think this way. The situation is too complex and traditions are too deeply rooted for any one person, and particularly a foreigner, to make a difference.
I am suddenly struck by the only possible solution. Saudi women are the answer to their own problems! Saudi women must lead the charge. There are many wealthy, educated and intelligent women in the country, but all are hiding behind the black veils. Native women must transform and overturn the regulations and rules that have nothing to do with Islam yet are sanctioned by this male-intoxicated country.
Change must make its way through the cities and into the desert by the efforts of Saudi women. While I cannot lead this effort, I can encourage Saudi women I meet to embrace the boldness necessary to bring action. Perhaps I can be the hand swinging the sword of change.
My new ideas lighten my mood.
The following weekend while visiting Peter, I confide my new idea. "Peter, from this day forward, I'll make a special effort to befriend Saudi woman. I'll persuade Saudi women to push for change." I smile and nod my head, tapping my foot on the floor in cadence with my words. "Never again will I refuse an invitation to a Saudi home or to a woman's party."
Westerners are new to the kingdom and helping to modernize Saudi Arabia. Native Saudis have not yet wearied of our presence. Hospitality is a trait deeply ingrained in the Saudi tradition, and many in the educated Saudi population welcome both Americans and Europeans into their country and into their homes. And, thanks to Dr. Feteih and Peter, I have more opportunities to socialize with Saudis than do most Westerners.
Dr. Nizar Feteih, the Saudi head of the hospital, after arriving from his hospital office for a much-needed social visit at the Sasson villa over a weekend break.
Despite a persistent veil of intolerance directed against women, that is adversely coloring my personal experience in this desert kingdom, there is no denying that many Saudis are bright, lovely people whom I believe are secretly open to the idea of cultural and political change. From my personal observations, I have seen that most Saudis work around the issues that life has dealt them, while waiting for true change to begin at the top and work its way down to the masses.
I fear that they are waiting in vain.
"Yes. I'll seek out these women, Peter. If all the women of Saudi Arabia band together, they can be an explosive force."
"Forget it, darling. So long as the middle class makes buckets of money and the Mutawain are given free rein to attack women, men will not allow their women to revolt."
"I don't know."
I continue my talk with Peter, trying to persuade him that he might become involved, that he should convince his Saudi business friends to rise up in anger on behalf of their women. He needs to speak out, to tell them that it is better for the country, and better for business to treat women as equal partners. By not allowing Saudi women's participation in public and business life, the Saudis are squandering half of their national human resources.
Peter laughs gently at my naïveté, and says as he walks away. "Leave me out of your schemes to change the world. Live and let live, I say."
Peter's attitude disappoints me. But I am not willing to give up. Change, I realize, is going to happen only if Saudi women insist upon it. And I am perfectly positioned to encourage their subversive inclinations. From now on, I decide, I will accept every invitation to female social functions, and I will take advantage of every opportunity.
***
Several weeks later, I am alone in my office in the Medical Affairs Department sorting papers when I hear a thump outside my office door. Moments later, whimpering noises bring me to my feet.
Nearly every Saudi male entering the hospital as a patient, or as the relative of a patient, requests to meet with Dr. Nizar Feteih, a well known Saudi who is the head of the hospital. Saudis who know him, or who have heard of his accomplishments, are understandably proud of the Saudi doctor. To protect Dr. Feteih's privacy, Medical Affairs offices are tucked away on the hospital's second floor.
I walk into the hallway and see nothing of interest. I peer to the right down the corridor leading to the hospital administrative offices. Everyone seems to be going about their usual routines.
I turn to my left to the hallway leading to the Medical Records department. A large bundle near the women's restroom catches my eye. "Now what is this?" I mutter. It is July and so hot that many of the hospital employees schedule vacations during this time. Even Dr. Feteih is away, visiting King Khalid at his summer palace in Taif. At this same time, the deputy medical director is on a short leave.
This is something I'll have to deal with alone. First I try to open the restroom door, but it is locked.
I lean forward to inspect the bundle on the floor. I step back when the blanket stirs and a whimpering noise escapes. I lean forward once again and hesitantly push the blanket aside.
I gasp as I step back. There is a baby in the blanket. I take a deep breath and step forward. The baby's head is oversized and misshapen, with its little features pitifully scrunched in the center of its face.
I fall back against the wall, my heart pounding. Even though I've lived in the kingdom for only a short while, I've learned that Saudis born handicapped have an extraordinarily difficult life.
The customs of the Bedouin still influence modern Saudi life. Meager resources cannot be wasted on those without the ability to contribute favorably to the tribe. Such babies are often neglected in the hope they will quickly succumb to illness and die.
Has this sick baby been abandoned by its parents?
I must do something, so I lift the little one from the floor and into my arms. I try to cuddle the over-sized bundle against my chest while making soothing noises. The infant begins to make heaving sobs. I decide to take the baby to one of our pediatrics outpatient clinics. Handicapped by a big head, I assume that the baby was brought in for treatment. Surely someone in the clinic will have information on this child.
Just as I am rounding the corner to leave the area, I hear a yelp of distress. I turn back to see a veiled woman with upraised arms rushing at me. "Ahlan!" (Hello!) I shout a greeting in my elementary Arabic.
The woman is moving so fast that her veil and abaaya both flutter. It is clear that this woman is the mother of the baby.
She comes to a sudden stop, startling me when she shouts in accented but perfect English, "You have my baby!"
Relieved, I smile and place the baby in her outstretched arms, explaining, "I was afraid this baby had been abandoned. I was taking it to the nurse's station in pediatrics."
I know she is staring at me from under that black veil which totally covers her face. I strain to speak normally, although I'm speaking to the equivalent of a blank wall.
"You left your baby on the floor?" I prompt.
She defends herself in perfect English. "Never would I leave my baby! After seeing the doctor and hearing his sad news, I became dizzy with grief. I went to the toilet. I left my baby only a short distance from the door."
She is beginning to sob as she asks, "Do you have a place I can sit? For only a moment?"
It is extremely rare for any Saudi to seek comfort from a Westerner. In the age-old tradition of Bedouin hospitality and generosity, the Saudis I know are warm and friendly, yet much time and many efforts are required before actual confidences are shared.
I feel true sympathy for her situation, the mother of a special needs baby. I guide her from the hall to a chair by my desk and pour her a glass of water.
With her sobbing baby clutched to her chest, she beg
To my surprise she lifts her veil and pats it securely over her head.
I stare openly. I have never once looked at a veiled woman when I did not long to see her face, hear her voice, and know her personal story. Many times I have thrust one hand into the other to keep from reaching out and pulling the veil up and away.
Her face carries a clue to her character. The softness of her eyes conveys a distinctive sweetness. She cannot be called beautiful, but she is very pretty, with fair skin and delicate features. Her hair and eyes are brilliantly dark. Her hair falls in ringlets upon her shoulders. She is still cloaked, so I can only imagine her physique, but she appears slight. She is wearing a thin gold chain around her small neck.
Her searching eyes look at me.
I smile with encouragement and find the nerve to place my hand lightly on her shoulder.
My compassionate gesture causes her to burst anew into tears. While sobbing, she stretches her arms out so that I can look at her baby's face. "This is my fourth child! Three are already in the grave. Poor Shaker has lived three miserable months!" She shakes her head vigorously. "He will die soon, just like the others."
Over the next hour, I learn her tragic story.
Nayam is an educated woman. In 1975 she earned her degree at a well-known university in Beirut, Lebanon.
Before 1977, Saudi women were permitted the freedom to travel abroad for their advanced education. But in 1977, an al-Saud family crisis, brought about by royal adultery, led to the public execution of Princess Misha'il, granddaughter of Prince Mohammed, the eldest living son in the al-Saud family. Her lover, Khalid Muhalhal, the nephew of the special Saudi envoy to Lebanon, was beheaded.
In reaction to the humiliation of al-Saud adultery, and the international scandal revolving around public executions for the crime of unsanctioned sex, King Khalid decreed that all Saudi women were banned from traveling abroad without a "Mahram"-a close male relative, such as a father or brother, to whom the female is forbidden to marry-as an escort.
Since few fathers or brothers are willing or able to take years out of their lives to accompany a daughter or sister abroad, virtually all Saudi women have stopped being educated abroad.
Nayam is one of the lucky few who left prior to the confining royal decree.
She tells me, "My parents are highly educated. Both of them. They are free-thinkers. My father was educated in Lebanon. He met my mother there. She has Syrian roots. They fell in love in a normal way. Their mistake was to come back to my father's country. I am one of six children. I grew up in Jeddah, thanks be to God. I did not even cover my face, unless the men of religion were on a mission."
A tight smile pauses briefly on her lips.
I nod. It is well known that women are not as restricted in Jeddah as they are in rigid Riyadh. Such a thing would never happen in Riyadh, the most conservative of all Saudi cities where all Saudi women veil. No wonder Nayam is quick to toss the veil over her head.
"My parents encouraged all their children to get a degree, even their three daughters." She smiles proudly. "I earned my dentistry degree easily." She sighs, "I planned to work as a pediatric dentist. All my patients would be children, so there would be no cause for complaint from my husband."
At the thought of her husband, Nayam weeps quietly. "I did not complain when my parents arranged for me to meet a cousin, a cousin they wanted me to marry. This is our way." She sighs again. "My fiancée's name was Obeid."
I pull up a chair and sit near her.
"I even met him before we married."
She looks into the distance, a frown on her face. "Obeid is not handsome, but I found him to be intelligent and interesting. He owns several contracting firms, and when we met he had been awarded a government contract to build a high school in the kingdom. In the beginning, Obeid seemed pleased and proud that his educated wife wanted to have a career. He even sketched a building design for my new office."
She pauses to take a sip of water and to kiss her baby's little lips. "I ignored an early troubling indicator of things to come. Obeid's draft drawing of the dental clinic had separate rooms for male and female children."
In Saudi Arabia, male and female children are sometimes allowed to freely mingle socially until puberty. Although adult Saudis are sex-segregated in almost every setting, they seldom insist on the separation of young children by sex, unless they are of the most conservative tribes.
"He was so nice...at first. When I told him that I did not want to wear the veil, he stared at me. When I asked him if he could find anything in his Muslim faith that required women to cover their faces, he smiled without commenting. When I told him that I wanted to wait a few years to have children, he smiled without speaking.
"The day after our wedding, Obeid sat me down, talking in his soft voice, telling me that he wanted a wife who stayed at home, a wife who would give him children, a wife who wanted a husband to be a real man and take care of his family. I protested that I wanted to pursue the career I had trained for, and that my work as a dentist would be ideal for a wife and mother. I could make my own hours, I told him.
"But Obeid reminded me that he was the husband, the head of our family, and that I was never to question his decisions. I was to put the thought of a career out of my mind.
"When Obeid learned that I did not own a veil to cover my face and eyes, he called his mother and asked her to meet us at the Riyadh airport with veil in hand. When I protested, he softly told me that my exposed face would cause a scandal. "You must cover your face when you leave our home," he ordered in a gentle voice.
"When I wept in our bed, Obeid demanded his marital rights again and again, asking me, what woman could want more than what I am offering? Everyone was happy, but me, when I became pregnant on our honeymoon."
Nayam haltingly reveals that her first child, a son, died before his first birthday. His kidneys did not function properly. With such a small amount of urine output, his entire body was slowly poisoned. The infant had suffered terribly with gruesome raw red rashes that coated his body. The rashes developed into open sores that sometimes oozed pus and blood. Even Nayam, his loving mother, admitted that she believed his death merciful.
Her second child, a daughter, died within six months with the exact medical problems her brother suffered. The poor darling had left her earthly life whimpering with pain.
After the death of their second child, Nayam's physician recommended genetic screening and counseling. Once the results were studied, Obeid and Nayam were cautioned by Western physicians not to have more children. They were told that both carried a gene that, when combined, was likely to cause terminal abnormalities in their offspring.
Many tribes in Saudi Arabia routinely marry within the tribe, with cousins marrying cousins on a regular basis. There is a belief that such customs strengthen families. Weakness comes from outside the family unit. The idea that medical dangers may lurk in intermarriage is an outlandish concept to most Saudis.
Obeid had scornfully rejected the warnings, insisting they try yet again. "Only God can decide this issue," Obeid declared.
Nayam's third child, a son, died within nine months of the same medical disorder.
Obeid insisted on yet more children. The grieving Nayam was pregnant within a week of burying her third child.
An exhausted Nayam pleaded with Obeid to take a second wife. Let another woman give him children, she implored. If he did not want two wives at the same time, she would not protest a divorce.
My jaw drops in surprise. The biggest fear of every Saudi woman I've met is that their spouse will bring a second wife into their lives. None that I ever heard of encouraged her husband to take a second wife.
"Obeid had no interest in another woman. Instead, he was angered by my suggestion. My husband became obsessed, telling me with that quiet voice that he could and would father a healthy child with me."
She lifts her chin, staring at the bundle in
"Just today, the physician told Obeid we should not have any more babies. The doctor said in his medical opinion that all our babies will die prematurely."
She tells me that Obeid had spoken softly in that deadly voice of his, "Allah will decide."
"When I heard my husband's words, I knew that I would start screaming and never stop. I scooped up my child and ran away. I ran in the first elevator that opened and stepped out where it stopped. That is how I came to be here," she says, gesturing at the door and hallway.
Nayam's unmasked face glistens with fear. "I cannot change my husband's mind. About anything. Obeid is like a mountain between me and happiness."
"What about your parents? Can they help you?"
"Nothing." She looked into her baby's face and gave him a brief, faint smile. "They can do nothing. Both of my parents tried to speak with Obeid, but he froze them with his words." She hums the words, "Pleasing words filled with poison."
My thoughts are racing. I know that I would divorce this Obeid, but things are not so simple in Saudi Arabia. While divorce is an uncomplicated matter for Saudi men, it quickly becomes tangled with intricate complexities when it is the woman who wants a divorce.
Saudi men can divorce their wives without giving reason. The routine is one of speaking the words "I divorce you" three times, followed by notification to the religious and legal authorities.
Women, on the other hand, are under obligation to prove that the man is either impotent, or that he is not financially capable of supporting a wife and family. Or, if the man has more than one wife, a woman can try to make the case that he is not providing equally for all wives. Even then, the religious authorities generally side with the man, telling the woman to go home, that God knows best what is good for her.