‘I’m American. I felt at peace living in Saudi Arabia’
Why would a woman, a healthcare executive living in New York, give up her lifestyle and relocate to Saudi Arabia? It made no sense to me, yet that is precisely what I did when my husband and I made the move in April, 2001.
It wasn’t my idea. My husband Khalid, looking up from his medical journal one day, said, “A hospital in Saudi Arabia has an opening for an oncologist.” He felt the practice of medicine in the U.S. had lost its luster and he was looking for a change.
I didn’t want to go: women couldn’t drive, and I wrongly thought I wouldn’t be able to work. My husband suggested we “see what happens,” which led to a hospital in Riyadh offering him a one-month locum tenens on a trial basis.
They also offered to fly me out for a week. I went along, believing that once I had “seen it for myself” I would have the evidence to reject it. I was immediately offered a job in the hospital as a Utilization Management Specialist. I was surprised by how much I felt at home in that hospital setting: female American expats were in management and clinical positions; the systems aligned with American accreditation standards; the Saudi staff had been trained by Americans; English was the official language.
The American expats wooed me, too, introducing me to the vibrant social life in the expat community. Even when I said: “But women can’t drive!”, the women replied: “Why drive if you can be driven? One call and the hospital limo is at your doorstep.”
Soon enough, a temporary move began to feel like an adventure. In April 2001, we left for Riyadh on a two-year contract. We ended up staying for six years.
The first order of business was to get myself an abaya—a black cloak and head scarf, mandatory in public places. Once I got past the notion that this was being imposed on me, I found the abaya liberating. No longer did I have to think about what to wear, or worry about having a bad hair day. Of course, absorbed in a sea of black, Khalid had trouble locating me in public places. Often in the shopping mall I would encounter the muttawwa—morality police—calling out, “Cover your hair.” Their presence intimidated me—one could get arrested on the spot.
The contradictions were striking: expat women in bikinis sat by the pool in the compounds, men staffed lingerie stores, and veiled women saw it all without being seen. Restrictions on women in public were offset by the freedom and amenities in the walled compounds, designed to make expats feel at home.
At the workplace, the abaya, hijab or veil were not required. I wore a white lab coat with my hairdo intact. Yet at the time of hiring, a Saudi woman in H.R. while processing my contract, handed me a form.
“And here is a form for your husband to sign.”
“What is this?” I asked.
“It is a No Objection Form. Your husband has to state that he has no objection to your working.”
I was being employed in a position that would monitor physician’s utilization of clinical services, and my doctor husband had to approve my employment.
At another time, I needed minor surgery. Khalid accompanied me to the admissions office to have my paperwork processed. I sat across the table from the admissions officer, my ID prominently displayed, filled out the form and handed it over. He looked it through, then handed a form to Khalid.
“Please sign the consent form.”
“He has to sign the consent form?” I asked. “I am the patient.”
“Yes, but you are his dependent.” Khalid was the primary visa holder.
He was polite and was just doing his job. But I, someone who influenced policy on medical care, couldn’t consent for my own surgery. The lack of autonomy was jarring.
During my first week on the job, a senior Saudi colleague told me that I needed to project the image of being an American “If you are seen as an American, people will listen to you,” he said. I didn’t know how to “act American” but I asserted myself by speaking up at meetings. At times, I was the only woman in the boardroom, surrounded by Saudi male colleagues in their traditional attire—long white robes and red-and-white checkered headdresses. Yet my voice was heard, and if my proposal was turned down, it was for good reason and had nothing to do with my gender.
Saudi men in the workplace were of high caliber, professional, and respectful. But the competence of Saudi women struck me, too. They served as department heads in key areas including finance and IT. Some wore the hijab, some veils, and some neither. These women were articulate, assertive, and professional in their demeanor.
While working in Saudi Arabia, my stress levels dropped. There was no more driving an hour each way to work—the hospital shuttle bus stopped at our door; no more pumping gas or looking for parking; and our homes were maintained by the hospital. The easy life was seductive, but more than that, I felt enveloped in a feeling of peace. There was an inexplicable force that permeated the air, instilling quiet and peace.
What I relished most about living in Riyadh was my job experience, as did Khalid. I continued to advance in my career, with increasing responsibilities. But we missed our sons, who were both in their 20s, and along the way came grandchildren. Every time we visited home, our grandchildren would forget who we were. Then our grandson was diagnosed with autism. That was why, in 2007, we decided to return home. Our children needed us, and home is where the children are.
We now live in Manhattan, and we are both retired. I have turned to writing and we are both engaged in interfaith dialogue, giving talks about Islam in U.S. institutions. Encountering Saudis face-to-face changed our perception. We are now committed to raising awareness about Islam and Muslims in America, knowing that when you put a face to the faith, you see its humanity.
