AFTER A week of intense duties, I am so looking forward to our first Friday off. Mona suggests we take a taxi to some of the ultra-modern malls. As she has been here months longer, I let her take charge – and it’s a role she seems to relish.
Three of us, Mona, myself and a fellow South African expat, Tracy, squeeze into the taxi. The cluttered interior makes me laugh. You need to keep your elbows and knees in to avoid dislodging the bags of miniature chocolates hanging off the front seats, the eight boxes of strategically placed tissues or the fake flowers that adorn the roof.
We arrive at the mall during prayer time so all the stores are closed.
One designer shop follows another. After walking around for about 30 minutes, I feel deflated and down. I have never been much of a shopper – I find it somehow lonely and a little pathetic. Walking from one closed shop window to another, on the only day we get off in a week, is not my idea of recreation.
We end our excursion with a coffee at Starbucks, in the family section.
Though there are many restaurants and hundreds of coffee shops in the city, I can’t even go for a coffee. A woman who enters a restaurant alone is seen as immoral and could be chased out like a stray dog.
Segregation is particularly strict in restaurants, as eating requires removal of the veil. Most restaurants in Saudi Arabia have “family” and “mens” sections. In the family section, diners are usually seated in separate rooms or behind screens and curtains.
Waiters are expected to allow women time to cover up before they enter, although they don’t always stick to this practice. The mutawa particularly favour restaurants. They go from table to table, inspecting the iqamas of the diners. Valentine’s Day is one of the most fruitful days for arrests.
Sexual segregation, which keeps wives, sisters and daughters from contact with male strangers, follows from concern for female purity and family honour. At social events, men and women don’t usually mix.
Most Saudi homes have one entrance for men and another for women. If a male who is not a relative enters the female section of a Saudi home, this is a violation of family honour. This section is “haram” which means “forbidden” and “sacred”.
Private space is associated with women while public space, like the living room, is reserved for men. Traditional house designs incorporate high walls, compartmentalised inner rooms, and curtains to protect women.
As public life is very much the domain of men, women are expected to veil themselves outside their homes. Although Sharia laws are not applied as strictly to expats, I keep my head covered with a hijab when I’m out, or risk a public chastising. If you’re seen without it, the mutawa storm over, telling you, loudly and aggressively, to cover up. Blondes especially are targeted, and subjected to regular confrontations.
Public transport is segregated, as are beaches and amusement parks, so some have different hours for men and women. “Khalwa” is the term for violation of the principles of sexual segregation.
I learn a little about these rules when I open a bank account. As I walk in, I stand at the back of the only queue, of 34 men, as I know no better. I ignore the stares – I am becoming slightly immune to them. These men are mostly expats sending their wages home.
A bank official walks over to me and kindly tells me that I am in the wrong queue. He directs me to the non-existent women’s queue. I now understand the stares. I am served immediately. I can’t help feeling a little smug as sexual segregation has worked in my favour for once. I am out of the bank in 15 minutes. As I leave, I glance over my shoulder. The men’s queue has hardly moved.
We arrive back at the compound after my first off day and I feel sad. I miss home. I work to the best of my ability but I also need down-time to function properly. It seems to be all work and no play so far.