Before university closed for spring break, the students in my programme were invited to a conference organised by the government. One of the panels at the conference was on gender laws in the country, and as someone who was passionate about women’s rights, I rushed to get a seat.
The main discussion was whether the gender laws in the country enabled women to excel in society. I put up my hand. The moderator pointed at me and his assistant came over with the microphone.
“There are laws that grant women the right to be educated, the right to work, the right to drive and the right to vote, but why is it that women still must have a letter of no objection from a male guardian before they can actually step into the workplace? It’s still a patriarchal society,” I said.
My classmates clapped while the panellists and the rest of the audience looked bewildered. The ‘patriarchy’ was a relatively new word in the Gulf in 2010. No one had even heard of a feminist back then.
“Err, well, due to the sponsorship laws in the country, this is difficult,” the government minister on the panel said in English, lost for words.
After the session, I left the banquet hall that was being used for the conference to grab some food from the waiters.
“Excuse me miss!” a man called out in Arabic.
I turned around and saw a very tall, broad-shouldered Gulf man, dressed in a thowb and egaal, following me. I could tell by looking at him that he was someone important, from the way his thowb was buttoned all the way up to the top, to the expensive-looking silver pen that was perched inside his chest pocket, the round silver cufflinks encrusted with black onyx that held his thowb sleeves together, and his shiny, black, lace-up leather shoes.
Ordinary Gulf men wore chunky leather sandals called na’aal. It was only businessmen and government officials who wore lace-up shoes with their thowbs.
“Excuse me, miss, where are you from?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m half English and half Egyptian,” I replied.
My eyes were distracted by the trays of sweet delicacies that were floating around the lobby outside the banqueting hall. I wished he would hurry up and finish whatever it was he wanted to say so I could eat before the next panel started.
“I heard your question during the last panel. You speak English so well, like a native English person, but when I look at you, I can see Arab features. I was so confused,” he said, laughing.
“Yeah, I get people telling me that all the time. I was born and brought up in London.”
“Wow, I go to London a lot for work,” he said. “Sorry, let me introduce myself. I’m Nawaf.”
“It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Sara.”
“What do you do?” he asked. “Are you studying? Working?”
“I’m actually in my final year studying Political Science at the state university.”
“How funny!” he exclaimed. “You’re studying Political Science here in my country, while I studied Political Science in yours!”
I took a good look at him. He was quite handsome. He didn’t have a beard or goatee, just a thick moustache, which was unlike most Gulf men. It was usually middle-aged men who sported just a moustache, but this guy couldn’t have been older than his early thirties. He was well built and he had a little dimple in his chin.
“I better go back inside, the next panel’s going to start and my friends are inside waiting for me,” I lied.
“Oh yes, of course,” Nawaf said. “I’d love to stay in touch with you. Would you mind if I asked for your number?”
I was a sucker for a bit of charm and good looks, so I gave him my number. I knew I had promised Heba no more Gulf guys, but I hadn’t promised myself!
We walked back into the banqueting hall for the next panel. I sat back in my chair but my eyes followed him across the hall. I noticed he sat in the front row, in one of the fancy, deep-red, upholstered chairs with gold frames that were reserved for government ministers, diplomats, members of the royal family and VIPs.
He clearly was important, but who was he? What would someone like him want with someone like me? I wasn’t some glamorous TV presenter or actress that I assumed he usually dated. You know the type—long, glossy, black Arabic hair, designer clothes, and a plastic surgeon in Lebanon on speed dial.
I was plain old me. A university student with a big nose, wild curly hair, confusing half-English half-Egyptian features, and boring blouses and long skirts from Marks & Spencer. I still hadn’t even figured out what I wanted to do after I graduated, so what was interesting or alluring about me?
To be honest, I didn’t focus on the rest of the conference. I just kept looking over to get a glimpse of Nawaf, wondering if he’d also turn around to try to look at me, and our eyes would meet. But he seemed preoccupied. A government minister was sat next to him wearing a thin black cape with gold embroidery called a bisht—a garment only worn by Gulf men who were important. He was speaking into Nawaf’s ear.
The conference ended at 5pm. One of my female peers tapped me on the shoulder.
“I can’t let you wait for a taxi, let me give you a lift,” she insisted.
I smiled. “Thanks, that would be great.”
As I stood in the lobby, waiting for her to finish going to the toilet, Nawaf came out of the banqueting hall. He was alone and walked straight up to me.
“How are you getting home?” Nawaf asked. “Can I give you a ride?”
“Oh, thank you, but my friend is giving me a lift,” I replied.
“I hope we can meet again soon and that I get the chance to know you better,” he said. “It would be an honour.”
“Thank you,” I replied, trying not to blush. “The honour is mine.” My ride was coming out of the ladies’ bathroom. “I’ve got to go, but message me.”
“I will,” Nawaf said, smiling.