THREE MONTHS after my arrival in Saudi, I wake up on a Saturday morning with a feeling of inexplicable dread. I feel burnt out. I am teary and shaking; tension overwhelms me. I cannot face going into work today. Although I try to talk myself into it, I can’t. The only way to get out of work is to go to the doctor. Physically there is nothing wrong with me.
I fluctuate between overwhelming relief when I get home after a day at the palace and acute apprehension on my way to work. Whether it will be a good day or a day from hell depends on the princess’s mood. These people wield real power. If a royal killed a staff member, it would be swept under the carpet, never to be mentioned again.
After phoning the princess who shows concern and assures me that she will send a driver straight away, I shower and am ready in no time. On the way to the hospital, the princess phones and asks me to come by the palace after my doctors visit, not to work, just for her to make sure I am okay. How do I tell her that she is the cause of my severely unsettled mental state?
I cannot quite believe that Dr Friendly, after asking me where I am from as if he has never seen me before, goes through the whole “Goeie more, hoe gaan dit?” shpiel again. I understand that he sees a lot of patients, but still. He accompanies me to his consulting room and closes the door behind us.
As much as I try to contain myself, I cannot stop the tears. I am not openly sobbing but the tears just keep on coming. A constant stream of medical personnel interrupts us, even though the door is closed. I am a mess but the intruders pretend not to notice and I am too exhausted to care if they do.
Between the ongoing interruptions, I try to tell him how unhappy I am, not because of Riyadh itself but because of the person I am working for. He asks me why I don’t leave. I tell him why I can’t. If I break my contract before the year is up, I have to pay a $4000 penalty to the princess, my ticket back home and the recruiter’s fee for the remainder of the contract, which is 25% of my annual salary. The amount is close to R90 000. I feel trapped. There is no way I can manage that.
I think back to all the goodbye parties back home where male friends jokingly promised that should I be unable to leave Saudi, they would find a way to get me out. Their promises seem absurd now, but I loved them for saying so.
I ask the doctor’s advice. I plead with him, not quite sure how he can help me. He listens, concerned. The tears refuse to stop. I tell him of the constant tension, of the princess’ terrible moods and bullying demands and I touch on the subject of the abuse she metes out, now almost daily.
In my desperation, I ask him if he could send me home on medical grounds. He acts as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Perhaps a bribe would refresh his memory but I don’t have it anyway.
After our talk, he is kindness itself and instructs a waiting nurse to take my blood pressure and to draw blood. Alarm bells go off as I am convinced the blood tests will reveal the red wine from the previous day. “When will you have the results of the tests, Doctor?” I ask, innocently. “In about a week,” is his reply. Okay – so for a week my flesh will remain intact and I can still enjoy the sanctity of my own bed.
Sultan is waiting outside and we make our way to the palace. I have hardly entered the villa when the princess comes flying down the stairs to the entrance level. She is pale and for a reason I am yet unaware of, she is livid.
Dr Friendly phoned her soon after I left his rooms and repeated almost everything I told him. I was expecting sympathy.
She is outraged that I had the audacity to discuss my work conditions with the doctor. “Pay your penalty and you can go!” she shouts. Although prayers blare from the little radio on the windowsill, they don’t drown out the princess’s harsh words.
I am learning the hard way that the protocols and work ethics of the Western world mean nothing in Saudi Arabia. Doctor patient confidentiality doesn’t seem to exist. I am stunned. In reaching for help, I put the first nail in my coffin.
The friendly doctor advised her that it would be better to let me go. “Why keep someone who doesn’t want to be here? It is counterproductive,” he said. At least that showed some sound judgment. I realise nothing I can say will aid me so I stand in front of her with my hands behind my back as protocol demands and I don’t say a word. She rants for what feels like an eternity. As beautiful as she is when she is in a pleasant mood, she is ugly, with veins bulging on her forehead, when she is angry.
I look up at her contorted face now and again, but mostly keep my eyes down in an effort to defuse my simmering anger at the injustice of it all. I am angry that anyone, especially one so young, so unimportant in the bigger scheme of things, has the power to abuse others so.
My face betrays none of these thoughts. When she’s had her fill, she dismisses me. With a “Thank you, Your Highness,” I turn and walk out of the room, breaking protocol. It is not intentional but I am not thinking straight. I make my way to the front gate where Sultan is waiting to take me home.
Holding my head in my hands so that Sultan cannot see my tears, we drive to the compound. I have reached one of the lowest points in my life.
As we pull up to the compound gates, Sultan turns in his seat and offers me a chocolate with a slight smile. This has never happened before. I don’t think this gentle man will ever know what his gesture of kindness meant to me. In a way, it was an outstretched hand of unity. He has felt the same despair. We are in the same boat. To this day I have not forgotten the feeling of utter amazement that kindness does still exist in a moment when I felt most alone in the world.
No doubt, the worst is still to come.
I arrive back at the compound and go straight to Serge’s apartment. The kettle is on and he is waiting for me. The pillows and duvet on the carpet have been straightened in anticipation of my arrival. After kicking off my shoes, I fall down onto the pillows. I am too drained to talk much. He leaves me on my own. After a while, he puts the ornate gold leaf tray down in front of me. He pulls me into his arms and gently rocks me. It is surprisingly soothing. We sit like this for a few minutes, not talking, and it calms me completely.
I start to talk, my face half buried in his neck as his arms are still wrapped around me. I tell him about what I saw as the doctor’s betrayal. He vehemently tells me not to trust anyone, ever! He is visibly upset and I end up comforting him. Under his breath, he mutters, “Fucker,” as he stares menacingly into the air. I explode with laughter as I have never heard Serge swear. Maybe it was the intensity of his statement, but I feel better for it.
“Habibty, listen to me,” Serge says as he moves around to face me. “Move in with me,” he says simply. At my silence, he repeats what he has just said. I love him for it, but it is impossible. I would not put it past the princess to make an impromptu visit to our compound.
Some evenings at home, I switch my phone off. If the princess doesn’t reach me, she contacts me on Mona’s phone. And when she does reach me, she asks to speak to Mona immediately afterwards. If I was with Serge and the princess asked to speak to Mona, I would have to run up a flight of stairs and down the passage to our flat. It is just too much of a risk. I tell him so.
I am too distracted to stay over. He understands, but asks me if he could stay over at my place. I cannot help but laugh at his earnest face. Mona would have a field day with this – having another guest in “her” apartment. I beg off, saying I am exhausted and not good company. He walks me up the stairs.