In the Land of Invisible Women (34 page)

I watched Zubaidah's pearly smile crinkle repeatedly under pressure. She had been going through this with her avant-garde mother for years. Tonight her own mother didn't even attend, bored by the dull proceedings that every winter wedding circuit seemed to bring. Still, out of respect, Zubaidah called on the other mothers, most of whom knew her and seemed genuinely happy to see her. Inside, I was certain Zubaidah hated every minute of the proceedings, but she was too gracious to admit as much, even to herself. Rather than stay home yet another evening, she compelled herself to engage in the social duties of attending a colleague's wedding. Being at this wedding surely reminded her that as a single woman over twenty-five in the Kingdom, others believed she should by now be desperate to be a housewife. At her age she was no longer in a position to choose; her best years were already behind her.

The bride walked up a central aisle, unaccompanied, to the stage. No one gave her away. She proceeded to the stage in a slow march in time to the garish music. Clutching her fluttering bouquet under an unforgiving glare of flashbulbs and fluorescent lights, she continued on her path forward. As the female Saudi photographer captured wedding moments on film, women around the room scurried to veil or duck, avoiding incriminating photography of their cleavages and dimpled, satin-wrapped rears. Performing a strange Mexican wave, in choreographed synchrony, the women lifted their arms into abbayahs, draping their heads and shoulders into the blackness as the searchlight of the photographers' flashbulb swept across the room.

From the far left of the stage, the wedding singers began their ceremonial renditions. An all-female, ebony-skinned, svelte-limbed Sudanese drumming quartet released the high-pitched, ululating soprano cries, the hallmark of marriage in the Kingdom. In the face of cameras, only the bride remained unveiled, her glittered eyes creasing deeply as she smiled and blinked back tears of emotion. Finally, she reached the stage and perched, head high and still unveiled, on an overstuffed white brocade sofa-throne, surrounded by arrangements of white roses and sweeping palm fronds. She surveyed the kitsch tableau of her entry into married life with evident pride. I had no doubt she felt queen-like. Unlike the arranged brides at weddings I had seen in my childhood, she was clearly glowing with excitement and did not fear marriage. She was relishing the prospect of becoming a wife to the unseen groom who was presently celebrating with menfolk in an adjoining ballroom.

By midnight the men had not appeared and, exhausted from waiting for refreshments or further spectacle, I took my leave. I rubbed my breastbone to soothe the racing heart caused by hours of cardamom-laced Arabic coffee.

As I turned to exit, Zubaidah was still ensconced in a circle of dancing women who had wrapped scarves around their hips and were sedately gyrating to thumping music. The lighting remained mercilessly bright, but the women were undeterred, shifting their weight from side to side, briefly encircling the bravest wedding guests of all, those who dared dance a solo in the center of the circle. Zubaidah was firmly situated in the safety amid the ranks of satin and chiffon. She didn't see me leave.

As I moved through the lobby I could hear the rising roar of men chanting in song. The sounds were coming from the adjoining ballroom where men were locking arms and performing a choreographed sword dance, likely the brothers and uncles and father of the groom. The groom was not likely to join his bride in the women's room until the early hours of the morning or later the next day.

Later, Zubaidah would confirm he didn't arrive until after 2 a.m. Notice of course was provided and the women who were not family could fully veil in preparation for the influx of men. Only after he entered and took his seat on the upholstered wedding throne next to his bride (who by then was crumpled with exhaustion from a dizzying vapor of excitement, stress, and hunger) was dinner finally served. I had made the right decision to leave early. By the time the groom looked woodenly at his nervous new wife, I was already deeply asleep. Even my hunger had been unable to keep me awake.

Several days later I described my experiences of the wedding to Zubaidah, explaining that I had left before seeing the men enter.

“Qanta, I looked to see where you were but I couldn't see you. I was searching for you around one a.m.” Zubaidah paused, awaiting my explanation, far too polite to explain just quite how insulting my behavior was as a guest who left before dinner was served.

“Zubaidah, it was so late! I was starving. I felt as though I had to wait for dinner as long as I have to wait to find my own husband!” and we both laughed in unison.

“What about you, Zubaidah, will you have a wedding like this? Is that what you want, Zubaidah?”

“Wa Allah, Qanta, that is a difficult question.” Zubaidah cocked her head to the side, considering her response. “Of course, I would like to be married, but I pray Allah finds me the right man. I am not desperate to be married. My family is educated, they are liberal. They would like to see me settled, but there is no requirement for me to do this in a rush. Alhumdullilah, my father is very understanding, and so too my mother.” She went on to explain the conundrum her unmarried state continued to present, both for herself and her family.

Periodically her mother and father invited prospective suitors. They would arrive at their elegant family home and take tea with both parents and Zubaidah. In these strained and highly choreographed events Zubaidah would perhaps have a very short conversation with the suitor while the parents waited discreetly in another living room in the home. Zubaidah had been through these events on many occasions. She was accustomed to the tedium of receiving and graciously declining a number of proposals.

“Wa Allah, Qanta, we just don't find anyone suitable.” I waited for her to continue.

“Recently I was introduced to a man from Damascus. He was much older—widowed, but he had no children. He was OK, Qanta, but I didn't feel anything, and I suspected he was not very educated. He was not very good-looking either. I know he had wealth, but that is not enough for me. I can't explain it. I just did not have a good feeling and I am not sure if he was really serious about Islam, the way I am.

“You have to understand my father, my brothers, Mourad and Haroon, are very educated. I cannot be with anyone less. Everyone agrees on this. I suppose I will be married only when Allah chooses. I have stopped worrying.”

“But don't you wish to seek independence, Zubaidah? I mean while you are waiting, why not travel, work overseas, just have some independence and fun. Have you thought about that?” I was unsatisfied with her response. Surely she wanted more than to simply wait.

“No, Qanta, I have no desires like you to live alone, or to have my own apartment or to be financially independent. I have never wanted what you want. I love to be with my family. Alhumdullilah I am very comfortable in my father's home. You see I have my own suite here. I couldn't bear to be away, thousands of miles from them, like you. I should be terribly lonely. I just don't have the same desire to be apart from my family as you. I never will.” I just stared at Zubaidah, wondering how she could be so different, to the point that her fire of independence, which surely burns deeply in all women, vanished?

Little by little I realized she had never needed to rebel. She accepted her lifestyle and her family's expectations and had fully embraced them as her own. Unlike me, she was not in conflict with her cultural expectations; rather she was cocooned by them. She had no need to surge with rebellion and overcome restrictions she didn't even identify as such; she was cozy and comfortable amid convention. Here lay our difference: in my family I was an anomaly; in my culture an outcast. In hers, she was accepted, the conformist; and was, in fact, most fulfilled being nothing else.

While the Southeast Asian and Saudi cultures were undoubtedly similar in the pursuit of marriage (which was arranged and often endogamous), Zubaidah's relationship to her culture was diametrically opposite to mine. What I resented, she welcomed. What I rebelled from, she embraced. What I dreaded, she longed for. I looked at her across the table, preoccupied in unknown thoughts, stirring the foam in a creamy cappuccino, her hooded eyes casting heavy, crescent shadows of long lashes over her porcelain skin. She seemed content, not despondent. She was patient; she was not desperate. She would become a wife only if Allah willed it and until then she was content to wait. She wanted little more.

Nadija's wedding prompted me to wonder more about the dreams my Saudi women friends held for themselves. There were several women I wanted to know more about; perhaps I would find they too were desperate housewives themselves. I had so much to learn about the female Saudi psyche. As I learned more, I was finding that it was often both partly familiar and partly alien.

I set off to speak to the Saudi Jackie Onassis look-alike, as I liked to think of Ghadah. I wondered if her life of marriage to a surgeon and mother to three daughters was the romantic dream it appeared from the outside. At the same time I decided to compare notes with Reem who, like me, was still single into her early thirties, and, a talented surgeon, hell-bent on pursuing a vascular fellowship in Canada. I wanted to know more about the Kingdom's women, whether already desperate housewives or desperate to become such.

THE MAKING OF A FEMALE
SAUDI SURGEON

R
EEM'S REPUTATION PRECEDED HER. SHE was beloved by nurses, widely respected by her Saudi and Western colleagues, and clearly held in awe by the sprawling sandaled troops of male Saudi surgeons (many of whom were military officers in the Saudi Arabian National Guard) whom she trained in her role as senior surgical resident. They followed her on rounds very much like chicks following a mother hen. Deferent, they waited for her to opine and reveal her knowledge to them. They hung on her every soft-spoken word, carefully drawn maps, and detailed instruction as she gently taught them the science of surgery both within the operating room and outside it. She executed all of her duties without ever wavering from Islamic ideals.

She was already a familiar sight at the National Guard Hospital as she scurried from patient to patient whether long before dawn or late into the lonely night. Her hair was never exposed, even by accident, because she always secured her headscarf with small safety pins, tucking the ends into her V-necked, green surgical scrubs which themselves were covered by a white coat buttoned up to the throat. She moved through her work effortlessly and unencumbered by her restrictions required of her expression of Islam.

Whenever I saw her I knew she must have been uncomfortably hot even within the air-conditioned marble wards and hallways of the ICU, surgical wards, or the sterile finality of the operating room. She would sweat with effort at securing a line, finishing meticulous sutures, or cleansing a purulent wound, yet still she did everything with grace, patience, and evident pleasure. Sometimes she emerged from the operating room sprayed with blood, but always her gown closed, her hair covered, and her soft voice gently reassuring the worried families who had been awaiting the outcome. She was a paragon of the female Muslim professional. Reem was the archetypal Saudi female surgeon.

Even in crises or when she had reason to be provoked, she never raised her voice, she never displayed her frustrations. I had been watching her for some time, noticing her go about her duties whenever she entered the ICU to write surgical orders on my patients. As she moved silently and efficiently she often cast a pleasant smile in my direction.

Yet for a time she remained an enigma to me. I was inhibited by her decorous behavior, which somehow spotlighted the deficiencies in my own conduct. While I could see I was crashing into fury and anger several times a day, unable to navigate conflicts with even remote diplomacy, Reem remained perfectly in control of herself. With so much turmoil in my own behavior and such tranquility in hers, I was deeply puzzled and suddenly shy to know such a woman. How did she glide through her life when I was forever stumbling? I wanted to know more about her.

I already knew that the salient qualities of an ideal Muslim are encompassed in valuing self-control—control of one's actions, one's body, one's tongue and ultimately one's soul. As Muslims age and engage in the practice of Islam with greater understanding and insight through their lifetimes, their ultimate goal of emulating the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) in excellence of compassionate behaviors drives them to seek to become more God-like. They strive toward tolerance and patience and perseverance. These are perhaps the finest aspirations Muslims can express and to me, it seemed that at thirty-one, Reem had virtually arrived at this stage already. I couldn't be further removed from these ideals with my mouthy New York City aphorisms that dropped from me at the slightest irritation. I was ugly; she was pure. Against the turbulent backdrop of the fast-paced, high-octane ICU, Reem shimmered, a lake of tranquility. She was unaffected by pandemonium surrounding her, whether required to attend several traumas at once or to seek resolution among an arguing cabal of clinicians competing to impose their self-important opinions. She seemed angelic. I was just pondering this very thought yet again, when Reem marched directly toward me.

“Dr. Ahmed, I am the senior surgical resident, Reem Jumma.” It seemed she didn't realize I knew who she was. “I wanted to let you know I have written the transfer orders for the patient in bed nine. He can go to the ward anytime you choose.” Quietly, she waited for me to respond.

“Thank you, Dr. Jumma.” Without pausing, I found myself spilling my tirade. “I have been calling for these orders all morning. It's unbelievable it has taken so long to get them done! So frustrating!” I noted her patient eyes calmly absorbing my irritation. I was somewhat subdued by her gaze. “Well,” I continued, “it's very kind of you to come and write them, but can you tell me how to avoid these delays in the future? The ER is constantly calling to move patients from their holding area here, and until I have orders, I can't transfer patients out to make room for new admissions.” I had begun to sound lame, as though I was still complaining at the delay in orders that Reem had just resolved.

Unperturbed she responded, “I am very sorry that my residents caused you to wait. I will address the matter myself but in the future please just call me. I will be happy to assist.” I was firmly but gently defused. She was offering her services above and beyond the call of duty and seemed not the least bit bothered by my plaintive bleating. Just as she turned around to leave the ICU, I touched her arm.

“Reem, it would be lovely to meet when we are not at work. Let me give you my numbers.” She burst into an unrestrained and very wide smile revealing small, even teeth. Her grin briefly rectified the asymmetrical plainness of her face that somehow accorded her the pathos that struck me as her hallmark. Her voice rose in excitement as she confirmed our plans to meet, displaying raw emotion for the first time. As she scribbled her numbers on a scrap of paper, her eyes twinkled joyfully. In that moment I knew we had commenced a friendship that would last well beyond my time in the Kingdom.

We met a few weeks later. After an evening of window-shopping we settled in a favorite café.

“Tell me, Reem, how did you decide to pursue surgery as your career? How does a woman become a surgeon in the Kingdom, a Saudi woman at that? What are your plans after residency here?”

Reem stirred the crystallized-sugar swizzle stick in her foamy café latte. We were at a table at Jawad's coffeehouse on Thalia Street, one of my favorite spots in Riyadh. We had found a secure place behind a screened section for women. Reem had undone her scarf, allowing me to see her luscious, thick, black hair. The glossy locks transformed her from a surgical nun to a very attractive woman. I wondered if Reem knew how beautiful she was. Even though she was continually devoid of makeup and her eyebrows were ungroomed, she was lovely looking. The plainness of her open features merely added to her charm.

“Well, Qanta, I am from a very educated family. My father is a professor of economics. He lectures at a university in Jeddah. He always believed it was very important I get an education, and we all agreed medicine was a noble and fine career choice. Alhumdullilah, I was able to find a place at the King Abdul Aziz Medical School in Riyadh and I won a National Guard scholarship to sponsor my residency in surgery. That's when I switched to our hospital at the National Guard. I have been there four years. This is my last year.”

“What are you planning on next, Reem?” She released a clumsy gale of high-spirited peals. I was surprised by the volume of her laughter. She seemed suddenly and totally uninhibited.

“Oh Qanta, I want to be a vascular surgeon! That's my passion. I can't tell you how much I love repairing the circulation and watching limbs re-perfuse again. That's my greatest joy. My dream is to have a vascular surgery practice. I am working toward that.”

I was astonished; vascular surgery is one of the most bloodsucking, soul-destroying, pride-swallowing surgical areas to pursue. One needs the patience of a saint to be a good vascular surgeon, to constantly rebuild and bypass clogged arteries and dying veins only to see one's painstaking handiwork destroyed by a patient's addiction to tobacco or the inexorable course of diabetes. The surgeries are invariably long, backbreaking, and infinitely humbling exercises in surgical fortitude. What an interesting choice for Reem. She was a glutton for punishment in my estimation, but perhaps her preference spoke to her evident talents for resilience, compassion, and tolerance.

“Will your fellowship be here, Reem? I didn't know they had a vascular surgery fellowship in Riyadh.”

“Well, Qanta, they don't have a fellowship yet, but Inshallah they will someday soon. In the meantime, my mentor Dr. Saud al-Turki is encouraging me to apply for fellowship in vascular surgery at the University of Toronto.”

I had to interrupt, “Toronto, Reem? That's incredible news. You must go. How exciting Reem!” She gave in to her own excitement in another smile and spilled her coffee while she allowed herself another full-throttled laugh of pure pleasure.

“Well, Dr. al-Turki has been amazing, Qanta. He is such an incredible mentor. He is always encouraging me. He treats me and the other female residents with incredible respect and consideration. He is the perfect Saudi gentleman, and he really does believe women are worthy of pursuing the most advanced studies available. Plus he allows me opportunities to publish and speak; he helped me prepare my first case report as a second-year resident. He even encouraged my parents to think about allowing me to move to Toronto. I couldn't ask for a better teacher.” Her voice deepened with sincerity at the dedication of her teacher who sounded to me like a model mentor.

“Do you think you are influenced by Dr. al-Turki? I mean, because he is so compassionate and such an elegant and intelligent Muslim. Do you think that's why you want to do vascular? Perhaps your aspiration is to somehow become him?” Reem paused to give this some thought.

I knew from my own experience the relationship between academic mentor and the mentored could be a heady mix of nurturing, idealism, and unquestionably (if the relationship is rewarding) a lasting, deep love. Perhaps she had found the same experience too.

“It is quite possible, Qanta.” She cocked her head to one side trying to focus on a deeper answer. “I do wish to succeed and I have no doubt that I am drawn to his specialty because, of all the surgeons in the OR, he was the one who taught me with real compassion and dignity. The others did what they could, but I often felt they didn't believe I should be in the operating room with so many men there. Dr. al-Turki made me feel only like a surgeon. It was immaterial to him whether I was male or female. We just had a common goal, to perform surgery in the best way. And I think that's why I naturally gravitated toward emulating him.”

She paused and sipped her coffee. “It is possible, Qanta. Perhaps he has really influenced me in the choice of specialty I wish to cultivate for my own career. I agree, I must concede you that, at least.”

She stopped speaking, following her own train of thought in silence. Among everything else I was also startled at her flawless command of English. Like most of my Saudi colleagues, she had schooled within the Kingdom yet learned the Queen's English. Even so, she spoke perfect colloquial Arabic, could discuss and prescribe medicine in English and Arabic, and had enough command of her native tongue to understand the exalted classical Arabic in which the Quran is written. I soon discovered in Reem a repository of knowledge in matters of Islamic jurisprudence. Whether I wanted an explanation of Islamic teachings on divorce or inheritance or the Islamic ideals of observing Ramadan, Reem seemed to have acquired enormous knowledge beyond medicine.

I asked about her astonishing knowledge of Islam.

“Well, Qanta, I went to school in Jeddah at a state school. Islamic studies were mandatory. We took classes for five years in several disciplines. Quranic studies, the history of Islam, Islamic jurisprudence, the life of the Prophet, and also Islamic theology. Every child who goes to school in the Kingdom has to attend these classes. But the reality is my father is an incredible scholar, so anything especially difficult we could always go and ask him. My mother, too, is very learned, though she has never worked outside of the home. They love poetry and the history of Islam and my father also knows Farsi, so we have also read a great deal about the Persian culture.