I became restless. My daughter and I were in the same city.
The fact that I had not seen her for ten months haunted me.
After ten grueling months, grateful for the emotional support of a wonderful network of friends and family, I finally returned to Saudi Arabia with renewed hope. In October 1988, I boarded that awful fourteen-hour flight to Jeddah with a visa to work at a new private hospital. The job I had been offered as a registered nurse (RN) was Director of Staff Development for nurses, and I was the only person in the department. Companies applied, were approved for, and received a certain number and certain types of visas at a time. A lab tech visa had been available, so my visa claimed I was a lab technician.
I arrived in the country, determined to see my daughter. I had my own apartment and was familiar with Jeddah, and my husband had no knowledge that I had returned to his country. I felt an advantage in that.
After my arrival in Jeddah, I was greeted and driven to my awaiting apartment by a gentleman from India who worked in personnel. Because I worked for a new hospital, its employees also lived in a nicer, more modern new housing compound two blocks from the hospital. We walked on the newly laid, wide sidewalks in the scorching heat or waited to take a shuttle bus to or from work. The compound consisted of several apartment buildings with balconies. The southern side of the compound held larger apartments for doctors, their families, and some department heads from countries, like Germany and Jordan. No Saudis resided here, and less than a handful worked in the hospital. Wooden gates were present but not used to separate one area from another. A high stucco wall surrounded the guarded compound from a growing new community. A small seven-foot-by-seven-foot guard station was manned by one or two men, usually from India. They were the eyes of the compound.
The compound was inviting, clean, and spruced up with a few short, immature palm trees. When I moved in, the gleaming new hospital had only been occupied for six months and had space to expand. Sadly, within three years, its attractive appearance would be close to nonexistent. Not all have the same standard of cleanliness. Garbage would be thrown everywhere, creating a growing stench, even with garbage cans around. Things were not maintained; it was disappointing to see this deterioration.
My tiny one-bedroom apartment, maybe two hundred square feet, was located on the second floor, on the northwest side of the compound. Here, department heads, both single and married, lived. The hospital could be seen from my bedroom window, separated by several empty (but not for long), sandy lots in one long, desolate block. This part of Jeddah was being developed. An excellent view of the Red Sea could be seen from the upper, unused floors of the new hospital, a place where I found my solace. Soon I discovered that my office also offered a magnificent view of the sunset; my favorite time of the day soothed me and brought me some inner peace. Clouds were not a familiar sight due to the climate, though blinding sandstorms could appear out of nowhere.
Other hospital staff included Filipinos, Indians, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, and Egyptians, who all lived in dormitory-like units with maybe twenty rooms to a floor. There could be six to eight people in a small room of bunk beds that shared one small window. All tenants on each floor shared one common, dorm-style bathroom area. Complaints had been filed about mixing married with unmarried, men with women, etc. This was changed to married staff together, with single males and single females arranged in separated units. Hospital staff worked a variety of hours, days, and nights; thus sleep was a challenge. Overall, it was a chaotic scene. It never would have been an acceptable standard in the United States.
Three meals a day were provided for the lower-paid staff. The choices of food offered were Middle Eastern, Indian, and Filipino cuisine. I enjoyed all the ethnic varieties and still do. At the beginning of my tenure, I attempted to eat the hot curried Indian flavors, causing tears to run down my cheeks. Eventually, I no longer cried, having grown accustomed to the spices.
The hospital also had a beach house for staff to use if we wanted. Someone would call ahead to let the guard of the beach compound know. At times, a bus would be available to take groups out for the afternoon. For those who had cars, more frequent visits could be made. The beach house was located north of Jeddah in an isolated area in the middle of the desert, about an hour away. It became our spot for snorkeling and diving, and a getaway for more peace and privacy from a busy home compound of people who worked together some grueling sixty hours a week. We didn’t worry about the Mutawa so far out.
After I settled into my new home, I became restless. My daughter and I were in the same city now, and the fact that I had not seen her for ten months haunted me. I mustered the courage to pay a surprise visit to her and her dad. Since I had lived in Jeddah before, I knew how to navigate quite well. In some ways, I felt at home. There was a familiarity in being back.
Abdul and Aisha lived in the same apartment, a mere fifteen minutes from my new living accommodations. The public bus was my preferred mode of transportation. The bus stopped right in front of my apartment complex, and then I could take it to a stop that was a short walk to Abdul’s apartment. In the past, Aisha and I had loved to ride the bus, though it wasn’t customary for Americans to do so. In Saudi Arabia, people would ride the bus and its well-established routes only if they couldn’t afford to take limos or hire a driver. The bus was divided by one-inch-thick metal bars that separated the men, who rode in the front of the bus, from the colorfully dressed, dark-skinned women, mostly from Sudan and Somali, who occupied the back of the bus. We had always found the interaction with the women on the bus delightful, and they had loved to talk to Aisha. They loved her blonde hair and blue eyes; and when she spoke to them in perfect Arabic with a Saudi accent, they were stunned and amazed for those words to come out of her tiny little mouth.
On this day, though, the bus was unavailable. I threw an abaya on over my slacks and blouse and hailed a limo to their home. It was late afternoon, and a feeling of exhilaration came over me. My breath caught in my throat as the limo drove closer to the compound. I could not believe I was, in reality, going to see my daughter. I had the necessary money, Saudi riyals, to pay the driver when I arrived. Quickly, I scurried past the guardhouse as if I belonged there. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I walked to the back unit, my previous home. It didn’t appear that anyone was home; the unit was dark, and there wasn’t a car parked nearby. I found a quiet, private place near the swimming pool where no one could see me and attempted to calm my frayed nerves. While I waited around the compound, the sun set and the automatic outside lights turned on. My body stood on guard as I waited for signs of life in Aisha’s home.
Every ten to fifteen minutes, for an hour, I checked; then I was startled when I saw Abdul’s car parked and the apartment lights on. I assumed Abdul and Aisha would be there. I took a deep breath and slowly started to climb the two flights of stairs, bringing back memories of what had happened there before. When I reached the door, I paused long enough to get my breath and say a prayer.
I nervously rang the doorbell while covering the peephole with my finger. I was sure Abdul could hear my apprehensive heart pounding out of control as I stood vulnerably before his door. I can still vividly see the look on his face when he opened it. He went pale, chalky white, as if he had seen a ghost. He was caught off guard to see me standing in his doorway and could barely speak. He faintly asked, “How did you get here?”
Not wanting anyone to see me, he quickly invited me in and gave me a cordial hug. He had thought I would never get back into the country again and that I was out of his and Aisha’s lives in Saudi Arabia.
I was proud of my boldness yet uneasy, as I didn’t know what to expect from Abdul. As I looked around the room, I began to panic, neither seeing nor hearing any sign of Aisha. I frantically wondered where my child was, while I maintained an outer air of calmness as I explained that I had a work visa at the new private hospital. With all the confidence I could retrieve, I told him I wanted to see Aisha.
Abdul was befuddled but actually seemed glad to see me. Now on his best behavior, he apologized that Aisha wasn’t home. She was out with her cousins, the cousins I had enjoyed being with. Relieved, I could breathe again. At least she was in Jeddah and would be home soon. He invited me for a cup of hot tea while I waited. Frightened of the unknown, I flipped out on the inside as I worked hard not to show my hate, which was somehow mixed with a hint of wistful, still-lingering love.
On a handful of occasions over the previous ten months, I had spoken with Abdul on the telephone at select times when I might also talk with Aisha. Abdul and I no longer talked about being together. He had sought the help of a therapist after I left, and we kept the conversations as simple as possible. I had learned through those simple conversations that Abdul was hurting, too. The fact that he had gone through therapy had given me a faint glimmer of hope. The bottom line, as daunting as it was after all the abuse, was that in order to be with Aisha, I had to be with him. Aisha was everything to me, so I emboldened myself for another try.
My own therapist in the States consoled my weary soul and gave me strength to replace that which had waned after I had been kicked out; he was my lifesaver. While I worked with him about my return to Saudi Arabia, I voiced concern at how difficult it would be for me not to get tangled again in Abdul’s web.
My therapist asked, “What is your fear?”
After some thought, I said, “If I could only make it work, somehow, but he is such a liar, and I do not trust him.”
The gentle, cautious reply of my therapist was, “The good thing is you already know that. It is not as if you are going into this blind, thinking that everything is going to be perfect.”
As Abdul and I sat and made awkwardly polite conversation, a knock on the apartment door startled me. It caused me to jump and my heart to gallop. Oh, my God—was Aisha home? My body tingled with anticipation. Abdul apologetically whispered for me to hide in Aisha’s bedroom so his relatives wouldn’t know I was back in the country.
Aisha greeted her father with a hug when she came home. She had a way of curling her skinny little arms with tightly closed fists around your neck when she hugged. We called them “snugs.” They lovingly said their goodbyes to her aunt. The heavy wooden outside door seemed so loud as it closed and locked. Once the door was secured, Abdul told her there was a surprise in her bedroom. “What? What is it, Daddy? What is the surprise?” she asked, wiggling up to him. Abdul walked a step ahead of her into the bedroom and turned on the light. Slowly and apprehensively, she made her way into the bedroom. As her widened blue eyes caught a glimpse of me, she broke into a huge smile, fell shaking into my long-awaiting arms, and cried uncontrollably. Her grip was tight; she would not let me go. Oh, my God, she had grown so much; she was almost four. Ecstatic to see her, I held Aisha protectively, like a mother lion protecting her cub. She’d had no hope that I might ever be back again; it was not talked about. And Abdul had never had the wildest idea I would get back into the country.
Just to be near Aisha, to feel her sweet, little, warm, lovely, soft body next to me was a dream come true. When I was asked to stay that night and sleep with our daughter, I could not believe what I had heard. She was not going to let me go. She was never going to let me go, she said.
Waking up the next morning in my former home was awkward and unsettling, even though there was a sense of familiarity. Too much had happened in this apartment; the mood was unpredictable. It was Friday, likened to our Sunday in the States. My first workday was Saturday, the next day, as was Abdul’s. After Abdul saw how happy Aisha was to have me with her again, he asked if I wanted to have breakfast with them, which progressed to being asked to spend the day with them.
Here was the man I had married. Maybe his therapy had healed him; maybe it had brought him back to being the loving, caring, wonderful man I had fallen in love with, my prince. Could this be happening again? Before the night was over, I was invited to live with my family again. I didn’t want to leave the welcoming warmth of it all. I had been asked back with open arms.
So afraid I would be weak and vulnerable and get sucked back into Abdul’s vicious, volatile web, I reminded myself of what my therapist had said: “The good thing is you already know he does not tell the truth. You are not going into it blinded, as if everything is going to be perfect. Prepare yourself that this is how life is today. You cannot change him.”
On this day, my happy, surprised prayer was, “Help me create a peaceful home. Not everything will be perfect.”
And I wondered how long my bliss would last.