Not knowing whether you are coming or going is a stressful time. We lived everyday hoping that we would move to a better place. Throughout the weeks and months, we got to know the city. We did not have a car, and with my father being busy anyways, there would have been no man to drive it. We walked to catch taxis to malls, supermarkets and restaurants. It was a fascinating city. Quarter million dollar cars would be cruising down the street with men in tailor-made Thiyaab (plural of Thawb, a dress or long garment for men) and a Shmagh (head cover for men) with their women covered in fancy black Abayaat studded with designing crystals. So moden, yet so traditional.
Without a father, I craved a male figure in my life; I wanted someone I could talk to, someone to advise me and protect me. I bought a cheap cell phone with internet and began to surf the net for a man for myself. During this time, it was discovered that Maha, my father's second wife, had given birth to a daughter. She named her 'Maryam.' Though this may seem normal to many, it was psychotically disturbing for the ones who knew that my mother's name was also Maryam.
(At first, I didn't know why this was a problem. I thought to myself, "so what if they have the same name? Maybe Maha is trying to make peace." However, I finally asked a non-Muslim friend why she thought this may be offensive and she explained: "Most men connect similar traits of women to other women they know, i.e. her brother finds it hard to check out another woman who resembles her because he cannot look at his sister that way and it makes him feel uncomfortable. If my father was sleeping with a woman named Maryam (my mother), it would probably remind him of his baby daughter and make things difficult and awkward." I was stunned by this, and thinking of how my mother felt and still feels hurt me so much.)
Stressed out again, I felt an even bigger urge to have someone to cry to and found a boyfriend. He was from Syria, very good and handsome. He had dark hair and big blue eyes. He wasn't extremely religious, and sympathized with me about my family situation. We found ways to meet when I went out with my family to the mall or supermarket. I'd just walk away for a bit and he would meet me and we would talk really quickly and generally so as not to be caught by the Hay'ah (Islamic or vice police). Soon, I found a job teaching English to special needs children. I had had a few years of private tutoring experience from Egypt and I thought it would be a great opportunity. Soon, I found a way to meet my "boyfriend," Mustafa, after work. Instead of the bus taking me home, which usually took an hour and a half, I would spend that time with Mustafa and he would drop me home. At this point, I did not care about what I was doing behind my parents' backs. I wanted someone to be there for me.
One day, Mustafa and I were at Starbucks. Restaurants in Saudi Arabia are separated into two parts. The 'Singles' section and the 'Family' section. The Singles section is only for men when they are without females accompanying them. The Family section is for women and families together, families include the males. The tables are set into booths with curtains and doors to add privacy so a woman can lift up her Niqab (face cover). Mustafa and I were, of course, in the Family section. This may be considered a very public place to many in the world, however there is no such thing as a woman being in the presence of a non-related male, whether in "public" or private if it is not for marriage or emergency purposes. Someone called the Hay'ah (Islamic police) and they came and took us away. I do not have many details on what happened to Mustafa, but I was held for a few hours. I was in a holding cell with other woman, some who had been there for months. Their charges ranged from overstaying their visa to prostitution. There was a large room, similar to a living room, with carpets and a television. There were bedrooms connected to this room. The bedrooms had bunkbeds with bedding and wool comforters that were much more accomodating than I expected. The occupants of each room were determined by where they were from. I did not fit into the Indonesian room, the Filipino room or the Ethiopian room, so I went to the Arab room. I got to know the women there and once in a while one would start crying. I was getting panic attacks. I was 16 years old and could not understand why sitting at a Starbucks was so wrong! I had called the American embassy, but they were unable to help me as I had broken a local law. I was interrogated by these religious men and told them I that I honestly did not see what was wrong.
As I cried myself to sleep, I heard the jailer call my name. My father, the one person I already did not get along with, had come to pick me up. I was not booked or officially charged. I had only been held a few hours. Mustafa had been held three days; but then again, he was Syrian and I was American.
(Many Saudi Arabians dislike other Arabs, especially those of the Levantine area.)
Lesson Learned: Respect the laws of the country you reside in. The consequences are rarely worth it. Do not underestimate the law.
