A colleague from Jeddah told me he wanted to introduce me to an acquaintance who had just finished the first series of an Arabic comic book centered around a fearless Arab warrior who derives his powers from his knowledge of poetry, science, literature and chivalric skills.
All excited about the idea of meeting someone talented and, moreover, a comic book fan myself, I was thrilled about the idea. But after learning that it was a gathering at another friend’s house I was a bit hesitant. “Are you sure he would not mind me coming along?” I asked. “No, not at all. In fact he is expecting you. I already told him who you are and I want you to meet him and everyone else there,” came the reply.
My Saudi colleague is an informal person from Jeddah and does not care much about what people say about him. He was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. I was wearing a thobe, as I got used to wearing formal Saudi attire due to the working environment in the capital and people’s lifestyle here.
Just as I was about to put my shummagh (head gear) and my igal (headband) on, my friend told me that it would not be necessary. “It’s better not to wear it. Trust me.” Though I had an idea why he asked me not to wear it, I kept my mouth shut.
The gathering consisted of men and women, some Saudis, some not. But I was the only one wearing a thobe. I could feel the tension in the air, especially when I stood up to greet the other men and women coming in from outside. At first I was uneasy, and I sensed that the other guests were uneasy too. Not because I was a Saudi, but because of the thobe I was wearing.
Perhaps to them, wearing a thobe and not wearing a pants and shirt could mean many things: That I was a close-minded person who would not approve of such mixed gatherings; a stuck-up person who is not modern; someone who disapproves of the presence of women and thinks it is sinful; and so on. I felt like an alien.
Though I managed to fit in somehow — because I was a journalist who spoke English and was outspoken, I have to admit that had I worn Western clothes, the guests’ attitude toward me would have been much more relaxed.
Ironically, I got the exact same feeling last month when a Saudi friend who lives in a Western compound here invited me to dinner at his house. There were men and women there, mostly foreigners, but also some Saudis. And again I was the only Saudi wearing a thobe. This time I also had my headgear on.
The electricity in the air was vivid. I instantly felt it in the split-second of hesitation before newly arrived women guests shook my hand.
Sometimes I wonder. What would have happened if I for some reason, any reason, had refused to shake her hand, as other Saudis would have done?
For years I have been trying to answer some questions. Why do foreigners live in compounds in Saudi Arabia? Do Saudis or other nationalities live in compounds when we live in the United States or Europe, for example?
Why are foreigners completely isolating themselves from society?
Is it because of security reasons? Is it because they do not want anyone to dictate a certain lifestyle to them? Is it the convenience of foreign women not having to wear an abaya and walking freely without being harassed?
Many of those questions still remain unanswered. But perhaps the biggest question of them all is: Who is isolating whom, the Saudis or the foreigners?
I find it amusing but sad at the same time to know that some foreigners have been living in my country for 20 years and do not know to read or write Arabic and can barely utter a sentence of the language. They have no Saudi friends and live among themselves.
The longer nationals and foreigners isolate themselves from one another, the more ignorance and misconceptions there will be on both sides.
Some of the foreigners at my friend’s house discovered that I was a different person than they thought. I am sure that Saudis need to be enlightened that the majority of foreigners here are not a threat to our culture or traditions, would like to get to know us better and are here to help build our nation.
