In the Land of Invisible Women (25 page)

“Show me your passport!” The Muttawa was insistent. I wondered if he had glimpsed Her Majesty's crest peeping out of a pocket in my handbag where I had casually slipped it earlier in the evening. I decided to be honest. I had already come to my senses and realized the Muttawa was operating without a Saudi police officer. To my knowledge without the authority of the police force, he had no grounds for harassing us.

“I don't think I should show you my passport.” I tried hard to sound firm.

“You don't think you should show it to me?” he mimicked spitefully. If we hadn't been so afraid, the situation was approaching a bizarre, almost Pythonian comedy. I had a sudden desire to laugh: nerves.

“No, I think not,” I answered, almost haughty. I was beginning to feel marginally more confident. Scuffles outside distracted the Muttawa. In a quick spin of bisht and thobe, he left the room.

From the vestibule we could hear anxious Bengali protestations. The voices faded away into futility. We heard a vehicle pulling up to the restaurant and driving away. The waiters had been apprehended for serving a mixed crowd and were now en route to the Mutawaeen's custody. The restaurateur was still being interrogated. With the Muttawa out of the room, we all turned to Imad to salvage the situation. Alon looked frankly nauseous. He was loosening his necktie and wiped sweat away from his brow with a linen napkin. His perspiration did not abate.

“Imad! You have to do something!” demanded Manaal, angry at both the Muttawa for imprisoning us and Imad for chastising her.

“Calm down, Manaal,” he answered controlling his irritation. “I have made some calls. The National Guard will be here soon to transport the ladies back to the compound and the men will be released.” We stared at him blankly. Reluctantly, Imad explained.

“As soon as we heard them entering, I called the CEO,” Imad told us. The newly appointed CEO must be powerful, I guessed. I didn't know the reach of his wasta (influence). “He phoned Dr. Fahad,” continued Imad. “He was our prior CEO, now a senior Royal advisor to the Crown Prince,” explained Imad to the few who didn't already know. “He then activated the Crown Prince's office. They called the Crown Prince himself at the palace and he ordered the Governor of Riyadh to call the Mutawaeen off. It is just a matter of time.”

We stared at him in disbelief. Our rescue required maneuvering at the very apex of the Saudi monarchy. “Don't worry,” he continued matter-of-factly. “Just be calm. We will get out of here shortly.” Imad came to a halt. So Imad's fidgeting and endless phone calls had been a negotiating mission to get us out. Even under the height of pressure, he had risen to the occasion.

I studied him. I was relieved we had access to the Saudi supreme authorities. Yet these machinations, this dance which Imad had had to engage in to rescue us, was intensely emasculating. He couldn't just lead his group out of here; he had to rely on a network of Princes and courtiers to secure us safe egress. Though it was obvious he had wasta (after all he had known all the correct numbers to dial), and while wasta is highly valued in Arab and specifically Saudi culture, his lack of
personal
wasta, personal influence, demonstrated by his need to rely on the wasta of others, only documented his impotence, both as a man and a leader, in painful clarity. As an individual, or even as a senior administrator at the pinnacle of Saudi medicine, he didn't have sufficient influence to avert the Mutawaeen himself.

I watched him loosen his collar under tension. He seemed at once influential and fatally weak. His authority was a mirage, his manhood manifested only through a mobile phone. Like the privileged racer-boys in lipstick-red Ferraris, he too had been publicly emasculated by the Mutawaeen. I realized this wasn't the first time Imad had been stripped of his masculinity. His wasta would never be greater than a collection of telephone numbers. He was a minion in a world ruled by monster-sized monarchies and monstrous Mutawaeen.

We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Around us, congealed rice and hardened bread reminded us of the evening's abject failure. Imad, more than anyone else, had been humiliated by the raid. As host, he had led us into danger. The Muttawa returned to the room but something had changed. All relish had left his vicious face. He stared at each of us in turn and, saving a particularly nasty look for me, turned on his splayed heel to exit. Like a wizard, he disappeared behind the cover of his billowing brown cloak.

Minutes later, a National Guard driver entered the room, informing us that several buses were outside ready to ship the women back to safety. Quickly we stood, sealing ourselves shut in our abbayahs. Manaal led the way, covering her face in addition to her usual hijab, but even the swathes of cloth couldn't stifle her temper. I merely covered my hair and followed the line of four other women. As we left the men behind, wondering about their fate, they watched, locked in silence. They looked uncomfortable and worried. At their center, Imad was a mixture of humiliation and relief. At least the women in his party would reach their homes safely.

Outside the dining room, in the vestibule of the restaurant, we found ourselves flanked by ranks of men in brown. There were a dozen Mutawaeen standing on either side of us. Astonishingly, an entire brigade of Mutawaeen had been dispatched to disband the debauchery of our evening. At their head was the malignant Muttawa who had held us hostage for over an hour. En masse they were even more frightening, but leashed back by the authority of the Crown Prince and the Governor of Riyadh, like wild dogs, they had been muzzled.

Recoiling from us in disgust, they allowed us to pass. They smoldered, almost crackling with contempt. We hurried out into the street, which strangely was still as deserted as when we arrived. It was a dead-end, one-way lane where no through traffic could pass, leading only to the discreet side entrance of the restaurant. It wasn't until we were secure inside the bus, with doors slammed shut and the driver pulled away, that any of us dared speak. Diana was bursting to tell us her ordeal.

“Those Mutawaeen are unbelievable. Wait until my husband hears about this!” It never ceased to amaze me how women always referred to male authority for validation. “He started pulling on my arm, grabbing me! I couldn't believe it. So that's why I screamed. Remember when I shouted ‘ow’?” she said. “I did it really to frighten him. He could be in trouble for manhandling a woman! He was scared, the coward. He didn't hurt me at all.” And laughing loudly, she pulled up the sleeve to her abbayah revealing a plump, creamy arm. She fingered her gold bracelets with obvious pleasure. “See, no bruises!” She laughed, coquettishly.

I was puzzled at my anger toward her. She evidently had played the situation like a game. Didn't she understand matters could be far worse had the Mutawaeen reacted to her contrived hysteria differently? As she was the events manager for our international guests, I was even more offended. Her antics had only made our time more difficult. She had shown no insight for our collective safety.

The other women (two of whom were U.S. visiting faculty) were stony silent and relieved to be safe. One of them began, “But I felt ill for Alon. Did you see how pale he turned when the Muttawa entered? His wife was very upset that he had agreed to be visiting faculty to the meeting at all. She called me to talk him out of the trip. She worried that his religion would be discovered, that it would endanger him. She was furious that he decided to attend.”

I had to turn around, compelled to express my astonishment, “You mean Alon is Jewish? And he entered the Kingdom?”

“Of course,” responded an American woman, also a visitor from Hopkins. “Imad invited him. He knew he is Jewish. Everyone here knows. He simply labeled himself Christian on his visa documents, of course. But Imad guaranteed his safety as long as he stayed with the meeting congress at all times. You can imagine what a nightmare tonight was for him. If those Mutawaeen had discovered there was a Jew among us, who knows what could have happened?” I shuddered at the thought. Who knew what could happen in Riyadh where Wahabis were in state-authorized power?

“What a fool,” I said. “How could he even agree to attend here? He should know how dangerous the climate is at the moment. His selfish decision to come, even against his common sense and his wife's warnings, was foolish. Tonight could have been much worse! Doesn't he know Jews are never admitted to the Kingdom? Imad is certainly senior but he doesn't have
that
kind of influence.” At least, I didn't think so and, by his dependence on the chain of remote power accessed by cell phones, it was clear he was at the bureaucratically lower end of the Saudi food chain. He could no more guarantee Alon's safety than I could. We fell into an awkward silence.

I had heard rumors of Jewish communities in the Kingdom, small clusters of them living a life of subterfuge under the shelter of prominent royal families. One heard tales of eminent Jewish physicians expressly employed to attend members of the royal family. These Jews were granted permission and protection while they and their families lived hermetic existences in Riyadh. I didn't know how much of this could be true, but I did remember accounts of Jewish children studying at the international school where my friend Katherine had taught for years. Their parents were professionals, all working in the Kingdom. Some were here for brief stays of a few months while their expertise was authorized by a senior Royal allowing them to work. Others were here for very short visits, while they offered their opinions on medical conditions to senior royalty. This I could confirm from direct experience.

At least one senior pulmonologist, a brilliant American Jewish physician from the Cleveland Clinic, had been flown to Riyadh because of his world-renowned expertise. The doctor had been requested to attend a very senior prince. In a hospital canteen stateside, he recounted the incident to me over lunch.

A Prince had developed a difficult pneumonia which was not improving satisfactorily. Part of his assessment was a telescope exam of the lungs under sedation, a bronchoscopy. In the Kingdom, however, when the professor explained the procedure, the Prince refused to accept even the routine minimal risk of death attached to the procedure, effectively invalidating informed consent. Instead, he demanded an unreasonable guarantee that he would survive the procedure under any circumstances. Very uncomfortably, without much choice, the clinician did perform the procedure which, as was anticipated, went uneventfully. After a day or two he returned back to the clinic. Even in the canteen, he shuddered to consider the consequences he might have faced if the Prince had died during the procedure. During his stay in the Kingdom the physician had remained in a palatial compound, seeing nothing of the medical facilities or wider city. Instead, a treatment facility was provided for him inside the palace.

Others had told me stories about Jewish rabbis arriving in the Kingdom during the Gulf War. I remembered my Canadian friend, a maxillofacial surgeon at the hospital, recount one incident in particular.

“In the late summer and early fall of 1990, as the build up to attacking Iraq proceeded, there was a huge influx of U.S. military personnel into the Kingdom. Here, our hospital was designated to receive (what was expected to be many hundreds, but became a few dozen) orthopedic trauma and burns. Two complete military reserve medical units (from Georgia and Pennsylvania) came to the hospital and were integrated into the staff. These units consisted of various professionals including surgeons, nurses, pharmacists. Of course they were of all religions, including many Christian denominations, and also Jewish Americans too.” David thought for a moment. “Now that I think, I can even remember one nurse who was an American Muslim. Anyway, one of the Americans became my tennis partner. He was Jewish. He told me he had been ordered stateside to leave his religious designation off his dog tags. Even so, the forces came with all their various clergy represented, since there were thousands of military in Riyadh and all over KSA. These included Catholic priests, protestant ministers, and rabbis. They were all officially listed as ‘Morale Officers,’ so as not to cause any offense to the Saudis.”

I knew that even the U.S. army couldn't allow it to be known that Jews were entering the Kingdom. Jews entering the Kingdom was not a minor matter. Alon's predicament as a visitor arrived without personal authorization by a royal patron was far more tenuous than a Morale Officer with the might of the U.S. army behind him. I also knew a number of prominent Jewish American academics who had declined invitations to speak at meetings in the Kingdom because of their fears for personal safety. The danger was most certainly not virtual. At the hands of rabid Mutawaeen, it was real.

The bus pulled into the compound. Seeing the National Guard soldiers wave us in, lowering the barriers behind us and closing the Mutawaeen out, was gratifying. I finally felt safe. At last I noticed how much my shoes were now pinching, as though I had finally returned to my senses. I felt drained from the evening. I climbed out of the bus and arrived at the threshold of my apartment.

I flung my keys on the credenza and dialed Imad's number. He answered immediately.

“Imad, are you alright? Where are you?” I asked him.

“I am at home at the villa. We are all fine. The Muttawa left immediately after you all did. I paid the bill and then drove the others back to their hotel. Alon was a bit shaken but no damage done. I was worried about Diana. How is she?”

“Oh, she is fine!” I answered, annoyed. “She was just pretending she was hurt to frighten the Mutawaeen. Silly woman.” Imad responded with silence, infuriating me further. “It was horrible. I had heard about Muttawa raids but I had never believed I would experience one. Can you believe he thought I was Saudi, when he tried to speak to me in Arabic?”