RIYADH, 25 July 2003 — In the middle of a conversation with one of my friends, Amal (not her real name; I choose it because it means “Hope” in Arabic), we got talking about the new photo ID card for women in Saudi Arabia. Knowing her family, I was rather surprised to learn that she had one. Amal then told me the story of her experience with the photo ID card.
“I will never forget the day my ID card was issued,” she said. “I remember the excitement of going to fill out the forms, getting my picture taken, and finally, the joy of just holding it in my hand. As I traced the edges of the long overdue card that actually was mine, and mine alone, I felt liberated and somehow more independent.”
“Coming from a rather conservative family,” she continued, “permission to get my ID card did not come easy. In fact, ironically, it was the circumstances of my society that finally made my family agree that it had become a necessity. Being separated for a long time before my divorce was finally legalized, I was always constrained by the need for my legal guardian’s permission to do almost anything that required formal papers.”
The problem with that was that Amal’s legal guardian then was the husband she was divorcing — you can imagine the awkwardness of asking the man from whom you are separated for his family ID card every time you want to document anything legally, or even withdraw money from the bank. “With some reservarions my family decided to let me be one of the ‘pioneers’ among women and have my very own ID card.”
Amal went on to describe her first experiences using the ID card: “The first time I ever used it was at the two banks where I had accounts. As I made my first withdrawals, I remember thinking ‘Wow, this is so much easier than before.’ Suddenly, I wanted to do everything.
First, I needed a new mobile number. When I applied for a new number at STC (Saudi Telephone Company), however, I was told I would still need permission from my legal guardian to do that. Moreover, my ID card was useless; they wanted the old family card.” In the end, Amal got her new mobile — but with “wasta” (pulling a few strings).
Next, Amal went to annul the legal power of attorney that she had previously given her ex-husband, but the judge would not accept the ID card as proof of her identity. Instead, he requested the presence of two males who would testify that she was the person on the family card. “Ironically,” Amal said, “the two men who testified do not even know me — they were just friends of my brother’s who happened to work in the building.”
A few months after her ID card was issued, Amal was legally divorced. Hence, her name could return from her ex-husband’s family card to her father’s family card. When asked if that helped, Amal answered: “Yes, it is a relief now that my father is the man I have to go to for all my legal papers — but I am immensely disappointed how worthless the card is that I had thought would make my life easier.”
I also recalled another friend of mine who had been divorced twice and is currently with her third husband.
She had joked about having been taken off and put back in her father’s family card so many times that at one time she felt “like a tennis ball.”
I remember smiling at her little joke, but after hearing Amal’s experience with her ID card, each time I remember the analogy I grow sadder. I would have advised her to get an ID card, but what for?
The way I understand it, most Saudi people object to ID cards for women because they require a picture. What I cannot comprehend, however, is how readily these same people allow the same women to own passports. In fact, many women in this country have passports.
What is the difference between the picture on a passport and the picture on an ID card? The only logical conclusion I can come up with is that the people objecting to women’s ID cards are doing it for another reason: to restrict a woman’s freedom and make her dependent on a man. That is not religion. That is pure male chauvinism. Our religion is much more lenient than that. Our religion is more encouraging of women. Our religion is not a weapon to be used for hidden agendas.
Over three years ago, Crown Prince Abdullah said: “Saudi women are first class citizens with rights and responsibilities; and when we talk about the development and growth that our country is going through on all levels, we cannot exclude or ignore the role of Saudi women and their contributions to this growth.”
I understand how hard it must have been for the government to permit women to have their own ID cards in the face of great resistance from society. What I do not understand, however, is why the government does not take that extra last step by making women’s ID cards mandatory and effective in all the ways men’s cards are.
I understand the limitations society places on using women’s ID card in front of men. I am a woman who covers her face in public. But would it be so hard to have a section — just one station (preferably positioned in a court) — where women requesting any kind of service can state their needs? This office then could supply us with formal verification that the women filling out the forms are the same women carrying the cards. Women’s ID cards need not be the start of a revolution against women covering their faces or hijab, as some people see it. Our society can adapt itself so as to accommodate the needs of its women, while observing the restrictions of its customs.
That is the difference between a country that strives to move forward and one that, instead, chooses to remain where it is until one day it realizes that it is greatly lagging behind.
While Amal no longer carries her ID card in her wallet, she says she still keeps it in a safe place, in the hope that one day she will actually be able to use it for what it is — an identification card. I, too, await with her.
