Sara, like all the other women aside from Zubaidah, was dressed in entirely Western clothing. She would have looked right at home in New York City. What then was the Saudi national dress for women? These women didn't look anything like my patient Mrs. al-Otaibi or her relatives. In fact I noticed from my observations so far, though Saudi men were umbilically rooted in the Medieval magnificence of robes, immutable across centuries, the modern Saudi woman was much more Neiman Marcus than Najd.
As I watched her critically, Sara scurried amid peels of laughter and placed the hubbly-bubbly down on the floor by the spineless sofa. Clearly she was expert at doing this. The steel tray of charcoal bricks was now at the apex of the glass tower and, with matches, a flame was lit beneath. Soon water bubbled and bricks glowed, perfuming the air with roses. Women puffed on the hubbly-bubbly, offering each other the same mouthpiece, each carefully wiping it before passing it on. As I sat, flanked by the Irish nurse and the Canadian peacekeeper, the hubbly-bubbly was offered to me. I was surprised to find myself taking the long, purple, silk-covered hose between my fingers. Even if I was a lung specialist, finding no excuse to refuse and not wanting to offend my hosts, I inhaled deeply. Someone snatched a photo documenting my efforts. It was surprisingly pleasurable, leaving a brief race of nicotine pounding in my chest and a soft aftertaste of rosehip. So I had engaged in smoking—a macrue activity (undesirable, but not forbidden) in Islam. These women were not at all rigid, in the way I expected. Already they had me pushing my boundaries.
I passed the pipe on to the next guest, satisfied that I was participating in the joviality rather than just spectating from the sidelines. I settled back to enjoy the scene, as they laughed, smoked, giggled, and generally had fun. Soon the conversation lapsed into Arabic, but our hostess never forgot to see that we were included in conversations in English whenever possible. All women there spoke perfect English, and many spoke excellent French too. Finally, hours after I had lost my appetite, around eleven p.m., food was served, elegantly displayed in silver trays and porcelain platters. Zubaidah had personally prepared much of the menu: hummus, tabouleh, kibbe, rice, motabbal, kebabs, babaghanoush, yogurt sauces; a dazzling array. The food was predominantly Lebanese, Mediterranean, and Jordanian.
As we started eating, Zubaidah's mother descended the stairs. She floated into view without intruding yet somehow immediately causing a stir. She was an elegant woman, wearing her hair short in a stylish, well-cut bob dyed a tasteful auburn. Smoking a cigarette, leaning one hand languidly on her hip, she greeted her guests with soft, liquid salaams. She had presence and superb dress sense. Tonight she was swathed in a chic outfit of neutral wools and silks, draping her tall figure in softly pleated slacks, a silk blouse, and a warm shawl casually thrown together with effortless precision. The generational contrast was intriguing. I wondered why Zubaidah had chosen a traditional Palestinian costume when her mother was much more MaxMara.
Zubaidah's mother spoke French with more ease than English, though she fluidly swirled between both. Eager to welcome me, she seemed to know about me already; being the first female physician in the ICU had apparently been some news. Immediately she enquired of my parents and then asked how I could leave them so far away. I was beginning to get used to my parental lineage as an opening gambit in any conversation in Riyadh. People wanted to know where I was from, but more importantly, to whom I belonged. Without family, I was an unmoored puzzle. Quickly however, and unbidden, she told me her memories of Riyadh before the Mutawaeen had become so powerful.
“Riyadh wasn't always so difficult, Qanta,” she began in a cultured, tobacco-bruised voice. “When I was newly married in the '50s, we never covered! No abbayahs, no scarves. I could go out alone without my husband.” She released a poignant gravelly laugh.
“Khallas, those days are over now,” she went on, sounding defeated. “The Mutawaeen spoil everything. These days it's really bad, Qanta, really bad.” She studied me for the full effect. “We hate them!” She looked suddenly defiant. “I still hate them. I am never used to veiling. My mother also never veiled. We are not from this orthodox Islam. We are not Wahabis!”
I was astonished to learn there had been a time before the menace of Mutawaeen and the mandate of monolithic religion.
“It started in 1979,” she explained. “In the Islamic calendar this was 1399, so at the beginning of a new century, the radicals believed this was to be the century of Islam. At the same time, you remember, Khomeini was taking control of Iran. The revolution was in full swing.” She stopped to expectorate a fruity, bronchitic cough.
Inhaling a drag on her French cigarettes to calm her spastic cough, she began a detailed explanation beginning with the assassination of King Faisal in 1975.5 Shortly after that, in Medina, a new plot was suspected against the royal family, directly threatening the monarchy. The danger appeared to be coming from among the community of Wahabi clergy. They were looking for the right Muttawa leadership figure who could spearhead their cause. Zubaidah's mother snorted in distaste at various intervals in the story. I was surprised; Zubaidah's mother had a deep loyalty for royalty.
She continued explaining, mentioning Juhaiman bin Mohammed al-Otaibi, who had served in the Saudi Arabian National Guard for around 18 years. Together with the rector of the University of Medina (a man called Ibn Baz) they formed a group called the Ikhwan (which means spiritual brothers) but it was nothing to do with the original Ikhwan who were involved in the formation of the Kingdom earlier in Saudi Arabia's history. I was listening rapt, only now realizing that several other women had gathered to listen to Zubaidah's mother recount the recent history which had become modern folklore. She had more to tell.
Al-Otaibi was a radical critic of the royal family.6 He believed Wahabi doctrines could somehow become a political program that would avoid creating either a republic or a monarchy. Instead he wanted the rigid, archaic teachings to form a philosophical basis on which to run the Kingdom. Soon he declared himself “Mahdi,” an emissary of the Prophet from the end of time, and on the threshold of a new century he began calling for the downfall of the monarchy. That November more than one thousand Ikhwan had mixed with Iranian pilgrims who were celebrating the revolution's success at eliminating the Shah from power during their Hajj. They were able to give special prayers of thanks during Hajj. The day before Hajj was complete, on the morning of November 20, 1979, the Ikhwan (who were heavily armed) swarmed through the al-Haram mosque around the Ka'aba. Many of them were from within the National Guard itself, friends and allies of al-Otaibi. Zubaidah's mother stopped, interrupted by cries of “Astagfarullah” (God forgive me) that echoed through the cluster of women around us. She went on:
“Can you believe these men occupied the holiest place in Islam and with weapons? Russian weapons! They held a siege there for nearly two weeks. It was a terrible time. Many died, hundreds of soldiers, pilgrims, and clerics and even more, more than five hundred were injured.”
I began to understand that at that time both the monarchy and the clergy were vulnerable. Both needed the other to survive, so the crisis actually strengthened their parasitic relationship. The monarchy needed the clerics to control the population, authorizing some very oppressive laws. Another woman chipped in: