American Chick in Saudi Arabia

American Chick in Saudi Arabia

a memoir

Jean Sasson

© 2012 by The Sasson Corporation

Published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved. This book may not be duplicated in any way without the express written consent of the author, except in the form of brief excerpts or quotations for the purposes of review. The information contained herein is for the personal use of the reader and may not be incorporated in any commercial programs or other books, databases, or any other kind of software without the written consent of the publisher or author. Making copies of this book, or any portion of it, for any purpose other than your own, is a violation of United States copyright laws.

For additional information about Jean Sasson and her books, please visit
http://www.JeanSasson.com

Over the years, readers have asked me to share the stories of my personal adventures in the Middle East. I lived in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, for an exciting twelve years, and I traveled throughout the Middle East for a total of thirty years. Several times I had begun writing my life story, but each time I got started, my phone would ring or an unexpected e-mail would drop into my in-box, and I would once again find myself pulled away from my own story and immersed in another's.

Whenever Princess Sultana or Mayada or Joanna or Omar and Najwa or Maryam offered me the opportunity to write about their amazing lives, I recognized that the world needed to hear their voices. Some of the courageous people whose stories I shared quite literally put their lives on the line, many of them risking torture, imprisonment, and unbearable tragedies — just to be heard. My own story seemed much less important in comparison.

But as change has once again roared across the Middle East, throwing once-stable societies into turmoil and revolution, thoughtful analysts have asked me to share my experiences. Journalists and academics and writers from many corners of the world have reached out to tap my personal knowledge, along with the glossaries and chronologies and maps that I've always included in the back of my books. That's when I remembered that I owned another treasure trove of history — of primary material — stored away in dusty boxes. I pulled open those old files and began to piece together my memories. Reminiscence drew me back in time to the many thrilling moments I had lived through while visiting these foreign lands. I had lived through so many exciting adventures that I soon realized that I was in danger of writing a two-thousand-page memoir. I decided instead to break my experiences into small pieces. In this new media world, publishing my adventures as stand-alones, as "shorts" or "singles," made perfect sense, at least as a beginning. Later I would pull together the most poignant stories into a traditionally published book.

And so I now return to the place where my own adventure began, to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

As I gathered my thoughts, I couldn't stop looking at a smiling photograph of myself in 1978. A title for this "short" popped suddenly into consciousness. What a chick I was–in all senses of the word–how young and confident and innocent...just an American chick in Saudi Arabia.

In 1978, I was living in Jacksonville Beach, Florida, attending court reporting school. About nine months into the program, I reluctantly realized that life as a court reporter didn't suit my personality. Sitting in my seaside apartment on Jacksonville Beach one Sunday afternoon, I searched the newspaper employment ads, seeking a job that would give me time to discover what I really wanted to do. I had previously worked as the assistant for the administrator at a hospital in Alabama and I had loved my work there. While scanning the newspaper ads, my eye caught an intriguing post from Hospital Corporation of America, headquartered in Nashville, Tennessee. The recruiting agency sought a qualified person to take charge of organizing medical meetings at King Faisal Specialist Hospital & Research Centre (KFSH) in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. My hospital experience in Alabama prepared me for the job. And, as a single woman without children, there was no reason I couldn't fly across the globe to assume the post. In fact, I quickly grew excited at the prospect of traveling thousands of miles so that I might experience a whole new country and an exotic new culture.

Six weeks later I was on my way to Nashville, where I was to undergo orientation before flying to London and then on to Riyadh. Although my parents and certain friends were nervous for me, I was so excited that I couldn't stop smiling. I loved my country, but I was ready to explore the world outside the United States.

Nineteen seventy-eight was a "happening" time in the region of the world in which I would be living, as one big news story after another made headlines. American president Jimmy Carter was working extremely hard with Egyptian president Anwar Sadat to strike a peace deal between Egypt and Israel. Just as I was leaving the United States, Carter, Sadat and Israeli president Menachim Begin gathered at Camp David, Maryland.

In Pakistan, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto was sentenced to death. In Lebanon, a United Nations force marched in to monitor Israel's "Operation Litani" invasion taking place in South Lebanon. In Iraq, Palestinian terrorist Wadia Haddad died under mysterious circumstances while under the dubious protection of Saddam Hussein. In Afghanistan, a revolution bubbled and boiled over, sated only when the president and his family were murdered. Jordan's King Hussein married American Lisa Halaby, who took the name of Queen Noor. And in two countries that directly bordered Saudi Arabia–Yemen and Southern Yemen–coups toppled the existing regimes.

Few places on earth could match the Muslim Middle East for political intrigue and economic excitement.

After an informative week of travel to Nashville and London, I arrived in the desert city of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. From the first moment that my feet touched the soil of Riyadh, I was forever changed. I felt an instant and passionate connection to the country and to the people. I was never frightened or shy or nervous; I was instead intensely curious about the many lovely people I met, including hospital employees from three hundred different countries.

I lived with two other single women in the gated and guard-protected Medical City Village, with all the other single women working at the hospital. I was employed as the administrative secretary in charge of doctor's meetings. Less than two years later, I was promoted to Administrative Coordinator of Medical Affairs, working directly for the physician head of the hospital, a Saudi cardiologist named Nizar Feteih.

Within a month of arriving at the hospital, I was introduced to Peter Sasson. Peter's father was Jewish with an Italian and British family background. Peter's mother was Catholic Yugoslavian. Peter was a cosmopolitan man who was raised in the Church of England, spoke six languages fluently, and was a world traveler. He was also head of an insurance company operating in the kingdom. Peter was the only person I dated in the kingdom and we soon fell in love; four years later, we married.

Through Peter, who lived in a villa in a Saudi neighborhood and who was sponsored by a prominent Saudi family, and through Dr. Feteih, who enjoyed a close relationship with King Khalid and Crown Prince Fahd, I met Saudis from all social classes. I came to know Bedouins, city Saudis from the professional class, and a few members of the royal family. Through Dr. Feteih I even met King Khalid and Crown Prince Fahd, both of whom were very considerate and kind.

The Middle East was changing just as radically as I was. In 1979, events exploded in the Middle East and for the first time Americans became aware of the insecurity and religious divides that unsettle the region. Many people were shocked and dismayed by the fall of the Shah of Iran in January 1979 and by the subsequent expulsion of his family from their country. That troubling incident was followed by the violent Mecca uprising in November 1979. The episodes together rocked the Saudi government.

Since the kingdom was moving toward modernization, most Saudis and many Westerners believed that Saudi women would soon benefit from a loosening of rigid rules. But such was not to come, for the Saudi government was so wary of the religious clerics that they wanted to do nothing to turn the powerful religious establishment against the regime. Little did I foresee that one day I would become involved with one of the few Saudi women willing to put herself at risk to bring change to Saudi females.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First let me take you back with me to the year 1978, and give you a brief peek into the beginning of my adventure in the desert kingdom.

In my childhood fantasies, a kingdom was always a magical place. So when I first enter a faraway land ruled by kings, the moment feels surreal. I first arrive in the desert city of Riyadh on September 7, 1978. I have flown in on a fully booked Saudia jumbo jet from London. Once the aircraft lands and the doors open, hot air gushes into the airplane. I grimace with shock.

Soon after landing, passengers are loaded into a crammed bus to be taken to the airport terminal. There is nowhere for us to sit on the bus because all available seats are already occupied by Saudi men. Even pregnant or elderly Arab women are standing. As the bus begins to move, we strap-clutching women and children sway and collide with the erratic movements of the vehicle, while only men sit in comfort, staring stoically out the bus windows.

I nearly lose my balance as passengers roughly push to get off the bus. I am pushed along in the crowd and through the terminal door. The airport swarms with people moving in many directions. Suddenly a burst of unintelligible voices greets me; the noise and the chaos feels like a human assault. I stand motionless until someone behind gives me a not-so-gentle push into a long line of people waiting to get their passports stamped to gain entry into the kingdom.

Foreign visitors find obtaining permission to enter the closed society of Saudi Arabia is enormously complicated. This is not a country that allows tourists. Only those foreigners needed to work in hospitals, schools, construction, or in the oil business are allowed entry. The rulers of the kingdom fairly recently resolved to leap across centuries of primitive life and bound into the modern world. Thus, they reluctantly opened the doors to welcome a host of foreign workers. Thankfully, everything about my visit was handled by Hospital Corporation of America (HCA), so no problems are expected.

The meandering human lines barely move as dour-faced Saudi officials stamp innumerable pages in an endless chain of passports. I repeatedly check the documents I hold in my hands, and when I finally pass them to the Saudi bureaucrat, I stare at him as he stares at me. He is tall and slim with a youthful face, albeit a face with a serious expression. But after shifting his gaze from my face to my passport photo, he surprises me with an open sweet smile, and says, "Welcome. Welcome to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia."

Relieved and happy to be pleasantly greeted, I smile back before joining yet another long line. Our suitcases must be searched.

Everything in this new world is so different from anything I have ever known. I steal looks at the Saudi men. Most are tall and slim, the same as the young man who stamped my passport. All are wearing the same type of dress, a long white shirt that reaches to the ankles. This, I know, is called a
thobe
. The men also are wearing similar head gear, a red-and-white–checkered cloth known as the
ghutrah
. This headdress is held in place by a black band called an
agal
. I can easily understand how their white dress and head covering is the best costume to wear in the desert. Considering the heat, I have a fleeting idea that I might wear one of those dresses myself. I wonder if there is a penalty for women wearing men's clothing.

The women's black cloaks and veils are another matter. I can only imagine how hot and uncomfortable such an outfit must be in the Saudi sun.

Looking from the men to the women, I recall the warnings of well-meaning friends who advised me
not
to travel to a country where personal freedoms for women are so limited. Concerned friends also raised questions about living in a country ruled by a monarchy, a regime whose authority is built on the back of the warlike Wahhabi sect of Islam. But I dismissed their concerns. I was born with a bold spirit and harbor no fear of new horizons.

The line inches closer to the serious-faced men who will inspect my bags. Alcohol, pork, and pornography are strictly forbidden in the kingdom. But after growing up in a tiny Southern town in America's "Bible Belt," I am accustomed to a conservative lifestyle. Going without these three items will pose no hardship for me. As the daughter of an alcoholic, I've never tasted alcohol. I've seen pornography only once, and that was by accident. And pork is a food I can readily forego. But Saudi law censors other, "harmless" items that spur my concern. Books by Jewish authors, such as Herman Wouk and Leon Uris–two favorite writers–are forbidden. Christian crosses, the Holy Bible, and even women's magazines are banned. I'm an avid reader and have packed many books and magazines. Might I inadvertently have committed a crime?

The screech of a child grabs my attention. I observe a black-cloaked woman who stands obediently behind her Saudi man, an infant crying in her arms while two toddlers clutch at her long black cloak. That woman's life is so unlike my own that we might as well be from different planets. I am a single female traveling around the world to live alone in a country where I do not know anyone. She is a woman who most likely married early to a man she met for the first time on her wedding day. Like most Saudi women, every decision that affects her life is made by a man.

Perhaps Saudi men wish to keep their females forever children?

My attention moves to settle on a second Saudi family. A lone man is trailed by six veiled women who are tasked with mothering nine or ten small children. Since Islamic law limits Muslim men to four wives, I suppose that several of the women are his wives while the remainder of the shrouded figures could be daughters who have reached the age where they must be fully covered.

For a weird, brief moment, I feel an unexpected emotion. I would love to be on the other side of that restrictive veil, to know exactly what it feels like to be shrouded in black. Otherwise, I'll never understand the limits of their lives. I watch in fascination as the no-faced women begin to cheep and titter under their veils. Numerous children are shoving and shouting, harassing their mothers with the boundless energy of youth.

The dominating husband is obviously exhausted by the work of attending to such a large group of women and children.

I study his face carefully, realizing that I had noticed this same man's flurry of activity while I gathered my own luggage. He had rushed to collect his family's many suitcases. Now, with hurried movements, he lined the colorful bags in a perfect file. Then he did the same for his wives, first gesturing at the cases and then at the women, shouting at one veiled woman after another until his brown face darkened with pique. I assume from the reactions of the veiled women that each one was put in charge of an individual suitcase, since now each woman stands tranquil beside an overstuffed case. I feel disloyal to my sex when I smile, thinking how the women resemble a row of watchful black birds on a wire. Shifting my gaze to the man once again, I smile even wider. This greedy man has overburdened himself by taking so many women as wives. I chuckle. It serves him right.