In the Land of Invisible Women (2 page)

A TIME TO LEAVE AMERICA

I
RECALLED THE COLD NIGHT of my departure only a few weeks earlier. Black rain glistened on liquid streets. Squinting between raindrops, I peered into the red river of brake lights. A blurred boa of traffic oozed ahead. I motored onto the Belt for a final time. A grim weight bore downward upon me, grinding me deeper into the creaking leather seat. Would I ever again call this country home? My flight to Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia, would depart Kennedy at nine. My recent past rushed by in the rearview mirror of a migrant's regret. It was time to leave America.

Denied visa renewal, the magic spell of my U.S. immigration was at an end. After a final appeal to revert my status had failed, I had decided to take my medical credentials to the Middle East where U.S. medicine was widely practiced. It had been a spur of the moment decision and with it I became once more an outcast in motion.

During my years in New York City, I had completed a residency and fellowship, gaining certifications in internal medicine, pulmonary disease, and critical care medicine. I had also finished a fellowship in sleep disorders medicine in which I would also soon be certified. My short years here had been productive, and within a few weeks of learning I could not stay in the U.S. any longer, I had been head hunted by a hospital in Saudi Arabia. After allaying my initial hesitations, I had accepted the job, lured by free accommodation and a fat salary. As a Muslim woman, I believed myself well-acquainted with the ways of an Islamic Kingdom, feeling no apprehension about life in Saudi Arabia. I dismissed the cautions of concerned friends at my sudden decision and thought no more of it.

Accelerating the silent Lexus, wipers beat metronomically to my sorrow. I wondered when I would next be at the wheel of a car. I knew already that it is illegal for a woman to drive in Saudi Arabia. In Riyadh, I would be licensed to operate procedures on critically ill patients, yet never to drive a motor vehicle. Only men could enjoy that privilege.

I felt the car purring under me as I drove myself to the airport. I already missed the primal thrill of pedal and power, the visceral surge uniting me with machine. Soon my car keys would be gone. Atlantic winds ruffled my thick hair, caressing ripples of my femininity. Soon my hair would be covered, banishing such playful breezes. Legislation would stipulate my head be veiled in the Kingdom. Everything would be different.

I return in my memory to the rainy surroundings. Arriving at Kennedy, the airport was empty. These were the halcyon, forever-lost days before 9/11. Check-in was completed in minutes. The contents of my apartment were to remain in storage in New York, a casual decision. My car was to be retrieved by a friend who would keep it for me until my return. Intuitively, I knew I was embarking on a stage of transience.

“What's a year?” I remembered thinking to myself, as I had signed the contract recklessly, flicking through pages, ignoring bold capitals announcing the death penalty. In a thoughtless flourish I found myself now subject to the laws of Saudi Arabia, decapitation included.

I waited alone at the gate, making calls on a dying cell phone. I kept up a banter fueled on bravado, while I studied the passengers gathering for my flight.

My prior sightings of Saudis had been rare, clusters of them at the Cleveland Clinic awaiting consultation, a sprinkling of Saudi figures bustling at the Dior counter in Harrods, and the odd exotic Saudi traveler connecting at Heathrow. Tonight there were dozens of them. Everywhere I looked, Saudi men and women were seated apart, cordoned by invisible barriers. I caught some murmuring Arabic. A knot of Saudis caught my eye. I watched.

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).
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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.
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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 abbayah
⁴
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.