In the Land of Invisible Women (32 page)

The Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) said that of all things permissible for Muslims, divorce was most detestable. I couldn't help imagining Faris's humiliation. For many Muslims divorce carries terrible shame and a sense of failure. Faris, being a deeply religious if bumbling man, must have been devastated by what seemed like an unexpected response of divorce from his wife.

One thing was clear: like all people everywhere, Saudis longed for meaningful and intimate connection. Their behaviors spoke to trapped isolation among people who just knew no other ways to intimately connect with the opposite sex. In this hermetically-sealed, sterile environment of intense Wahabi intrusion into day-to-day living, people became desperate. Men, locked in depression and unable to communicate, sought solace in affairs, returning to their wives with second wives in tow. And what of the fate of the divorced women left behind? I made plans to meet with Fatima. I wanted to know more.

THE SAUDI DIVORCÉE

A
COUPLE OF DAYS LATER, I ran into Fatima in the hallway. At least I was pretty sure it was her. This time I stopped to talk.

“Salaam alaikum, Fatima. How are you?”

Her eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Salaam alaikum, Qanta! Mashallah you look so well. Your hair looks great! You got it cut!” In a world where almost everyone was veiled, this was an unusual compliment in public. I thanked her.

“Alhumdullilah, Qanta. I am very well, and you?”

“Of course, fine, Fatima, but I have been worried about Dr. Faris. He didn't look very well yesterday. I worry he may be depressed. I am encouraging him to see his doctor.” Fatima paused, pensive, saying nothing. “And I am so sorry to hear the news of your divorce,” I continued. “That is very upsetting, Fatima. I didn't know. Actually I didn't even know you were married to each other.”

For the first time it occurred to me that I had never realized the two doctors, Fatima and Faris, had any connection to one another, even after spending so many meetings in the same room with both of them. They never acknowledged one another in public, not even with the most minimal of salaams. Usually Fatima slipped in discreetly after the meeting began, which Faris often chaired, yet somehow always left moments before the end, avoiding greeting anyone. I had always considered her a very private person. Perhaps now in my inquiries, I was being intrusive.

“Thank you, Qanta. Thank you for being concerned about Faris. Yes, we are very sad to be divorced, Qanta. But Alhumdullilah I am getting stronger every day, and Allah guides me.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Fatima? Can I assist with anything?”

“No, my dear,” she responded warmly, “but I would like you to come to my house and take tea with me. I will give you my address and my numbers. Perhaps you can visit soon. You know where the Astra compound is? Let's arrange it soon.” And handing me her details, she floated off, surging ahead through the black waterfall of her abbayah. She sounded quite excited to invite me home. I wondered what I would learn about divorced women in this Kingdom of Strangers.

The day of the visit I had been especially busy at the hospital. Running late, I rushed home and readied myself for my small outing. Astra was just a few minutes away from the compound where I lived but I would have to go there with Zachariah, the driver. I dialed the number, and quickly, securing my abbayah in one hand, a small house gift in the other, I hurried down the unlit steps to wait for him outside.

The familiar night breeze fluttered around my abbayah. I waited for the taxi headlights to materialize out of darkness. Behind me, I could feel the apartment building radiating heat, each wave of hotness pushing me farther into the cooler night. Even the ground pulsed underfoot. It was almost nine p.m. but it was still over 100°F.

Zachariah bumped into view. I got into the cab, and to the filtering sounds of an unknown symphony on a crackling radio station, we rode into the night. When we arrived at the Astra compound gate, a soldier asked for our identification. I showed my hospital badge which seemed to be enough, though I had my Iqama (national ID) at the ready. He quickly waved us through and we lurched over the speed bumps.

The compound looked different than mine. It was landscaped into wide avenues that were surrounded by large, low bungalows and two-story homes on either side. Neatly maintained lawns fronted most properties. Each avenue led, it seemed, to many others. Thousands of Saudi citizens made their homes here. Finally we approached a dimly lit cul-de-sac. A solitary street lamp buzzed in the darkness. As we rolled up to our destination I spotted Faris's white Cadillac a few houses away. So the rumors were true: husband and wife now lived in separate villas just a few homes apart.

Zachariah dropped me off and, waving him away, I walked up a tidy path. I spied a tricycle lying on its side where a child must have just flung it. A flaccid garden hose lay curled over the still-damp lawn. Inside, the lights were on. I rang the doorbell and waited.

The door opened, and a diminutive figure stood just to one side of the heavy wooden paneling. At once I could smell cardamom. Fatima must be preparing coffee. The headlamps of the taxi swept past the doorway and then faded into the dark, just as a tiny and very fair hand pulled me inwards by the sleeve of my abbayah. As the door closed behind me, I turned around and found myself looking at Fatima.

In the bright lights of her home, after the thick darkness of the Riyadh night, I was dazzled. My eyes were smarting with black spots. Fatima smiled at me shyly and after a few moments, her face curved into a wide, cerise bow. Her lipsticked smile was giant, and her pink lips over white teeth reminded me of a Cover Girl commercial. She was gorgeous in a pristine way. I was momentarily taken aback, trying to tally this image with the mumbling, shapeless figure that I knew to be her in the hospital. After an awkward pause, we greeted each other as Muslim women do, with a series of embraces. A delicate scent of jasmine rose up from her smooth, white neck. Her hair was neatly styled in a short bob that jostled from side to side with her every animation. She was slim and sporty in build. Dressed in slacks and a pretty sweater she looked like an attractive soccer mom. She was definitely an older “hottie.”

Excitedly, she bustled me into a sitting room just off her kitchen. I couldn't take my eyes off this beauty. How could Faris have wanted anything more than this woman, I caught myself thinking. I began to recognize the veiled Fatima in this, her unveiled persona. She was smiling the same mysterious Mona Lisa smile that I had always suspected she was reflecting back at me through the shadows of her veil.

Now that I could see her crow's feet, I could in fact confirm Fatima was a woman who smiled, and now I could hear, also laughed often. She was positively jolly. Her teeth were perfectly even and unusually long. She laughed a crisp, cultivated peal. Her skin was palest Caucasian, and on her hands, delicate blue veins were easily visible. Her beauty was translucent. I saw she wore no rings, at least not this evening.

“I am so glad you agreed to come for a visit, Qanta,” she started, obviously pleased.

“Me too, Fatima! Thank you for inviting me. Where are the children?” I asked immediately noticing the silence.

“Oh, tonight they visit their father, but they will be home soon. Inshallah, I wanted you to come when I had time to be free of distractions.” She giggled. As I faced her on the sofa, my eye was drawn to the gingham curtains hanging over a window in the kitchen, by the sink. Carefully tied back with ribbon, they revealed a pretty domesticity that somehow I hadn't expected. I felt suddenly sad, knowing this had not been enough for her husband. Though the view was nothing but a concrete wall (expected of course in the Kingdom where privacy is so intensely guarded) Fatima obviously wanted to make a home out of her drab surroundings. Rubbermaid gloves on the faucet were drying. Someone had just finished doing the dishes. Fatima was a house-proud Saudi. She was trying hard to make a home out of an anonymous villa. Faris had left this cozy picture. Having put his wife in an unbearable position, he had no choice but to move out.

“So how are you doing, Fatima?” I asked as she busied herself making coffee for us. She laid a plate of my favorite cookies on the table: ma'moul (flour-covered cookies stuffed with dates). I reached out to eat one.

“Alhumdullilah I am in much better shape now, but these have been some very difficult months, Qanta, I can't tell you.” I waited for her, munching on the delicious ma'moul that was melting in my mouth.

Unable to speak, Fatima allowed herself to express some of her sorrow. “You know Faris and I were married for a long time. Mashallah we have three children.” She drew me to pictures of the children that were scattered around the room. I looked into the faces of two sons and a daughter, wondering what their lives were like.

“Faris was chosen for me by my father. We knew his family. It was a very good match. We knew he was from Mecca, a Hijazi, and perhaps with a different outlook from our family. We are from the interior, the Najd,” she explained. “But I think even after all these years I didn't really know him. He is difficult, he is changeable, he has some terrible moods. I think you are right, he may suffer from depression.” She paused, looking at me for a moment. Nearby, the kettle puttered to a boil. I watched the steam rise into swirling patterns which then condensed into a fog on the nearby windowpane.

“Qanta, let me make the coffee. I gave the house maid her evening off tonight. I wanted us to be alone so we can speak freely.” I watched as she mixed the coffee, bringing it to a boil, scenting it with cardamom which she had freshly ground in a mortar and pestle. Finally she poured the concoction into a special thermos to keep it piping hot.

“Faris's family life was unstable growing up. I don't think his mother and father had a good relationship, and his father had more than one wife.” She looked at me, almost triumphantly. “So you see I was very shocked when he came to me seeking my permission for him to marry Noura.” This must be the name of the cardiologist. “I mean, like all marriages we had our good times and bad times, but I never saw this coming. I think they met at work, and you know Faris. He is very kind-hearted, to a fault. I think he just felt like helping her and perhaps he became too involved. I don't know. I cannot bear to really hear the details, but he did make it clear to her he already had a wife and children. She still was prepared to be with him and so I think he had decided in his brain he was going to marry her, and that she would be wife number two!” She puffed with incredulity.

“Well, for me that was totally unacceptable. I could never allow it. I told him that if he insisted, I would divorce him. He continued to insist on his rights as a man, the right to have more than one wife. I didn't agree with this and so I divorced him at once. It was a matter of days. We didn't even go through mediation. For me it was clear: I didn't ask for divorce, I demanded it. He was violating my rights as a wife. I had told him from the start of the marriage I would not tolerate this. I am an educated woman. I am fellowship-trained from Cleveland Clinic, Qanta. I am the only Saudi woman with these credentials.”

Her voice was climbing into an unsteady crescendo. I was worried that she would start to cry, but rather her high color, and the rare streaks of anger she allowed herself, began to show in her eyes and her white, high-boned cheeks. She was furious, not tearful.

“I thought I was marrying an educated man, and you know Faris is a trained scholar in Islam. He should know better the proper reasons for taking another wife, and you know he cannot really afford that either. After all, I am a working mom! He attended the clerical school here in Riyadh where he was studying Islam in detail before attending to his medical school. He should know better than to behave like this.”

“I understand, Fatima. It must be very difficult to consider sharing a husband,” I offered clumsily. “How are the kids doing?” I decided to change the subject, unsure how much more candid Fatima might become about my chairman.

“Oh Qanta, that is the worst part. They are crying constantly. They miss seeing their mom and dad together, and you know the two eldest go and live with their father. I had no options about that; it is the way. The little one is with me now. But in a few years he can also decide to be with his father if he wishes. I may possibly be living alone a few years from now.”

Her beauty finally crumpled as she wept for her loss into a bundle of tissues. After a while, twisting the tissues into a soggy rope in her elegant fingers, she settled down and continued.

“You must know Islam has provided guidance on where and how the children of the divorced must live?” I indicated my lack of knowledge. I had no idea on the rulings of custody in Islam. I had barely any knowledge about marriage in Islam let alone the death of one.