by Carla Banks
The students were a mixed group, studying a range of subjects, and all with their ambitions focused on different careers. It wasn’t what she had expected. Some of them seemed rather young compared with UK students of the same age, shy and inclined to giggle, others seemed far more mature and serious. One woman, Haifa, studied Roisin with cool hostility. Her face, which had the fine-boned, slightly avian beauty that was very prevalent among Arab women, was tightly framed by her scarf. She said very little, except when Roisin addressed her directly. ‘I study medicine. To be doctor,’ she said, in response to Roisin’s query. Then she resumed her silence.
As they talked, the students became more confident, joining in and adding to the discussion, even the shyer ones like Mujada. Towards the end of the session, the talk turned to the different customs of Western and Saudi culture. ‘Tell me about the hijab,’ Roisin said. She still hadn’t grasped the rules governing its use. ‘Is this…’ she tried to think of an English word they would know ‘…custom?’ They looked blank. ‘Sunna,’ she tried–as far as she knew, this word expressed the concept of custom rather than compulsion. ‘And what about…?’ She made a gesture of covering her face. This elicited laughter round the group and the girls looked at each other as they tried to formulate a response.
‘For us, it is required.’ This was Haifa. ‘You should wear the scarf, but you should not cover your face. You are not Muslim.’
‘You are wrong,’ Najia intervened. ‘It is not required. It is custom. In many countries, good Muslima do not hide themselves like this.’
Haifa responded in Arabic, too fast for Roisin to understand. ‘English, Haifa,’ she said. ‘That’s the rule. In this class, you speak only English.’ The student’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t say anything.
Yasmin, the teaching assistant who had been watching this exchange, stepped in suddenly. ‘Haifa was explaining that she believes we Saudis must set the best examples as we are the guardians of the holy places.’
‘This is the truth,’ Haifa said, addressing Yasmin. ‘Saudis are the guardians because our blood is pure. We carry no Christian blood,’ she said, her eyes flicking contemptuously to Roisin. ‘None at all.’
Saudi is another country, Roisin reminded herself. They do things differently here.
By the end of the morning, apart from the slight frisson with Haifa, she felt pleased with the way things had gone, and much more relaxed about the prospects for her work at the university. Yasmin, who had stayed with her, waited until the students had left, then said, ‘I enjoyed that. You are a good teacher.’
Roisin felt her face flush with pleasure. ‘Thank you.’
‘I must apologize for Haifa. She was discourteous.’
‘She has to say what she thinks.’
Yasmin studied her hands. ‘She is…well thought of. Her family is very traditional.’ Her gaze met Roisin’s, but she didn’t expand on her comment. ‘I am glad to watch you teach,’ she said. ‘I need to learn to help my own teaching.’
‘Here? In the university?’
Yasmin smiled. ‘Here, I am just trainee, just assistant. No, I am teaching women in the villages–it’s true what the professor says, we want to educate women here. But in the villages, it’s hard for them to find a class they can attend, so we take it to them.’
‘I’d like to see that,’ Roisin said.
Yasmin studied her face. ‘Maybe one day,’ she said. ‘Now, I have work to do.’
Roisin packed her bag and went along the corridor to the cloakroom to do battle with her scarf. The Saudi women were neatly, often elegantly hijabed, their scarves covering their hair and hanging in careful folds around their faces and shoulders. Souad’s had been an accessory as well as a cultural requirement. Whatever views anyone might hold of the Islamic head covering, it was an attractive garment.
To Roisin, however, it was a pain. No matter how carefully she tied it, it was either too tight and gave her a headache, or it slipped back, uncovering her hair and she had to keep grabbing at it. She stood in front of the mirror and fixed the scarf carefully in place.
But as she turned away, it slipped again, and she sighed with exasperation. She grabbed the ends and tied them firmly under her chin. Framed tightly by black, her face looked deathly white and at least ten years older. She loosened the ends, and the scarf slipped off. She pulled it off her head and swore out loud. There was a suppressed laugh from behind her.
She looked round. A woman was standing there watching her. She was dressed to leave the campus, her hijab hanging in meticulous folds, her face carefully veiled. Her eyes watched Roisin in the cool light. Roisin coloured, wondering if the woman had understood the obscenity she’d used. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘This thing is enough to make anyone swear.’
The woman lifted the veil away from her face, revealing herself as the student, Najia. Her eyes gleamed with laughter at Roisin’s embarrassment. ‘You do not do it right, Roisin,’ she said. ‘If you tie like this—’ she held her own hijab tightly under her chin to demonstrate ‘—you look like someone’s grandma.’
Roisin couldn’t argue with that. ‘So how do I do it?’
‘Here, I show you.’ Najia took the scarf from Roisin’s hand and unknotted it, tutting slightly at the creases the tie had made. She shook the scarf out. ‘You should get the proper hijab. This scarf is too small.’ She folded it into an unequal triangle to make the back longer, and put it on Roisin’s head, adjusting it to make the folds hang evenly. She tucked the sides behind Roisin’s ears, pulling the front flat, then drew the folds forward. She pinned it under Roisin’s chin, and pulled the ends round her shoulders. Then she pulled the scarf free from Roisin’s ears and loosened the tight band across her forehead. ‘With proper hijab, it hang down and you can pin,’ she said. ‘But now it is better, see?’
Roisin looked in the mirror and saw herself neatly hijabed, her face elegantly framed by the folds of the scarf. She moved her head cautiously. The scarf stayed secure. She moved her head again, starting to smile as the scarf remained in place.
‘Thank you.’
Najia’s eyes creased at the corners. ‘You look nice now. Pretty. Not someone’s grandma any more.’
Their laughter as they left the room echoed down the silent corridors where the light formed pools of gold among the shadows.
13
Arshak Nazarian’s offices were in one of the older parts of the city, among decaying lots that were due for development and hastily erected blocks that were now empty and heading towards dereliction. He was hidden away from the thriving city, camouflaged among the detritus of urban fall-out.
He didn’t stint himself in the other aspects of his life. The Kingdom had made him rich. He lived in a spacious house in the suburbs, with a mature garden that was maintained by teams of gardeners and irrigation systems available only to the water rich, in a land where that commodity was more valuable–though often less valued–than oil.
He lived his life in modern Riyadh and paid little attention to the desert city that underlay the world he knew, stepping carefully over the gaps where the mullahs prayed, the clerics wielded their swords and the poor scratched a living from the desert soil. His city contained malls, designer shops, fast cars and luxury–and a run-down office in a derelict block.
But sometimes, the desert intruded.
The offices might be run down, but the door was steel framed and fitted with the latest security locks. The windows were covered with shutters that were never opened. The man at the door and the men waiting inside the first office were Nazarian’s own men. Since the assassination attempt, Nazarian took his security seriously.
He’d brushed it off at the time, dismissing it as the act of what he called ‘local hotheads’. In his line of business, these things happened, and business he could handle, especially now that he had a son-in-law who was high up in the police force.
Damien, arriving on time for his appointment, waited as Nazarian’s security men took their time checking hi
s papers. They knew him, but they enjoyed the small exercise of power. It was an attempt, Damien always assumed, to unnerve him and reduce his status. But Damien had learned from the Arabs a long time ago and responded with cool politeness–discourtesy demeaned only the person using it. Such things could be dealt with later. Arabs were not a forgiving people. Many ex-pats thought the Saudis were ill-mannered and unfriendly, not recognizing that their own behaviour had doomed them to be forever pushed aside and ignored.
One of the men spoke into the intercom, which crackled in response. ‘You go in now,’ the man said. He passed through the door to the small office that was the centre of Nazarian’s web of exploitation.
The Armenian was sitting at his desk when Damien came through the door, inspecting the screen of his computer. He flicked it off and stood up. He was tall and well built, and could use his muscular bulk to intimidate, but today he seemed out to charm. He held out his hand and smiled warmly. ‘O’Neill. Good to see you. I’m sorry about all this—’ He waved a hand at the door to indicate the security Damien had just been subjected to. ‘Troubled times,’ he said. ‘Please, sit down.’
Damien took the proffered chair. ‘Business good?’
Nazarian made a so-so face and tipped his hand from side to side. ‘Business is business,’ he said. ‘Coffee?’
‘Thank you, but I just had some.’ People who ventured into the underworld should beware of accepting hospitality. ‘I hope your family is well.’ Family, for Nazarian, was his daughter Yasmin.
Nazarian smiled. ‘I will soon be a grandfather.’ For a moment, the human being was visible behind the mask of corporate hospitality, then Nazarian pulled the conversation back to business. ‘You should come to see me more often, O’Neill–I go short of intelligent conversation in my days. But you’re busy. I understand. What’s this about Patel?’
‘Just some talk on the streets–someone isn’t happy about what happened.’
Nazarian allowed himself a smile. ‘Including Patel, I presume.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘It’s over and done with. The man did something stupid. We try and warn them, but…’ He shrugged. Easy come, easy go. ‘Why concern yourself?’
Because Nazarian had asked him here as soon as Damien had mentioned the name. ‘You brought Patel here?’
Nazarian’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hope you don’t mean that I had a responsibility to protect him from the consequences of his own actions.’
‘Not at all. But I wondered if someone else might think that. Maybe the person who’s been asking questions…’
‘Who says anyone has?’
Damien waited him out. Nazarian let the silence grow, then shrugged. ‘Someone tried to pull his record off our system a few days ago. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d succeeded, but I don’t like people breaking into my data.’
This explained why Nazarian had responded so quickly to Damien’s original query. He wanted to know the identity of the hacker. Damien could probably help him, but he wasn’t going to. Nazarian had some unpleasant ways of showing someone that they had made him unhappy.
He let the talk go on for a while, but he already had everything he needed. As he left the building, he had fixed in his mind the image of Joe Massey in the internet café, his eyes intent on the monitor in front of him.
14
KING SAUD UNIVERSITY WEB SITE
English Department
Student discussion forums
Students may post articles or topics
for discussion.
All contributions must be appropriate
and must be in English.
Topic: Veiled Knowledge
Metaeb: Dear Red Rose, many people in the West criticize the Saudi system and Saudi men, and I am not saying that our system is perfect–we are human, and humans are flawed. But our faith does not allow men to oppress women–quite the contrary. I know that many men do not act as well as they should, and sometimes the laws protecting women are not enforced as rigorously as they ought to be. But, Red Rose, this is not exclusive to our country–I have travelled widely in Europe and in the US, and I can assure you that the same things happen to women there.
Red Rose: Dear Metaeb, if all Saudi men believe as you, then we do not need debate. But more men believe different interpretation that are not right. The words of the holy book do not say this, or in the life of the prophet (saaws).
Professor Souad al-Munajjed: Red Rose, from your writings I can see that you are not as experienced as you would like us to believe. After all, your opinions are not so confident that you put your real name to them!
Red Rose, elections and democracy are and have been the biggest political lies throughout the history of the modern world. Look at what is happening in the so-called democracies of the West. Do you really think that this is what the people chose when they voted?
Back to our main subject: women in Saudi Arabia. Why all this concentration on us? All over the world, the majority of women are oppressed, bullied, betrayed, abandoned, raped, and used as white slaves or prostitutes, so why isn’t anybody mentioning this? Why enlarge our problems and minimize the major issues of others?
I want to ask you a question. How and why do you think women are oppressed in Saudi Arabia? Is it because we wear the hijab and don’t mix with men? Why is this such a terrible thing? What would we gain if we changed it? And what would we lose? In the UK and the US, women have to fight to be allowed their own places where men cannot go.
As for the elections, my young friend–forget about it. This is just another big lie that the Western politicians use to reach their goals. If one man in the modern world had eliminated poverty and made fruitful education available for ALL his countrymen, I would believe in elections and democracy, but this has never happened and never will.
Now, I have to tell you something, Red Rose, Metaeb, Ibrahim, all of you. This site is not for political discussion, and if you continue to post unsuitable articles, I will ban you from the discussion boards.
Once she started work, Roisin was on familiar territory, and found the Kingdom less alien and alienating. Her work at the university occupied more of her time than she’d expected. She became friendly with Najia, the student who had helped her with the hijab on that first day, and also with Yasmin. The two women were clearly friends, and were eager to develop their advanced English skills. In addition, Yasmin was keen to pick up ideas about teaching from Roisin. She was happy to work with them. She enjoyed their company, and she had nothing better to do with her time.
Joe was still working long hours, so Roisin started spending an extra day on campus to work with them. When Professor Souad found she was willingly putting in unpaid time, she started asking Roisin to work with the university archives to prepare teaching material that the English Language Department could use in the future.
‘She’s exploiting you,’ Joe warned when she told him about the new arrangements. ‘You know who’ll get the credit for all that stuff.’
‘I know.’ They both knew how universities worked, senior staff taking credit for work done by junior members. Roisin didn’t mind. It was hardly ground-breaking stuff she was producing. Souad al-Munajjed wasn’t going to run away with a Nobel prize on the back of Roisin’s work–she’d just have more resources for her section. ‘Maybe I should sneak something un-Islamic in, then she won’t dare to claim it as her own.’
‘Right, and I’ll come and visit you in the Riyadh slammer on alternate months.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘I know you’re on your own here too much,’ he said.
Now she had started work, she no longer felt overwhelmed with loneliness, but she missed Joe. The closeness they had developed in London was receding as the distance between them increased. It was almost like a bereavement, as if the companion she had depended on had left her without warning, leaving a void in her life.
She had no idea what she would do with all the spare time if she didn’t spend it at the university. The alternatives were far from appealing: tedious coff
ee mornings with the stay-at-home wives, or devoting even more of her time to housework–though the house was already more spotless than any place she’d ever lived in. She’d heard the warning bells the day she found herself contemplating a pile of underwear, the iron in her hand.
It would be different if she could find another woman she could be friendly with, but most of the interesting women she had met were in full-time work–nurses, teachers, doctors, women who had established successful businesses when they had come here with their husbands–so instead she put in the extra hours at work, enjoying the familiar atmosphere of the academic world.
She was starting to get to know the students, though it was a slower process than she was used to. Instead of staying on campus after their classes were finished, they vanished, reappearing only at the start of classes the following day.
So she enjoyed the time she spent with Yasmin and Najia. They were intelligent and informed, and deeply engaged with the debate about the forthcoming election. They talked about the lives of Saudi women, their education, their experience of the world. Roisin, aware of her status as a teacher in this most rigid of societies, kept away from personal topics, but otherwise, the talk was unrestricted. She felt far more drawn to them than to the women she met in the compound and at the few ex-pat parties she and Joe had attended.
‘Why do all the students disappear so quickly?’ Roisin asked them once when they were working in the library together. Yasmin was analysing a text, Najia was studying for her advanced English exam, and Roisin was reading a journal, trying to keep up to date with the latest theories on language learning. She had been taking a break, looking round the room, and had been struck by the absence of students. ‘Is it true that the students aren’t allowed to stay on campus once classes are finished?’ This was one of the points that had been made in an article about women’s rights that had been posted on the student web site.
