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Authors: Qanta Ahmed
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of the basement, carrying a series of rather ugly vases. I could see no flowers. Not everything was quite ready for this party, after all. I followed the activity and offered help. With expert, feline dexterity, the young Saudi woman, Sara, quickly assembled the series of thick glass cylinders onto a round base. From one cylinder (the top most) emerged a thick flexible hose of purple silk. At the end of the hose was a wooden carved pipe wrapped with red cloth, ending in a brass mouthpiece. The “vase” being cleaned was not a vase at all. I was increasingly alarmed. Drugs! The Ganja! In Saudi Arabia! Don't they know about the death penalty? Do they really think they are safe in their homes, here in this police state? Hysterically, I began to feel unsafe, even here, in the security of a private home.
Sara carried on, oblivious to my rising anxiety. She pulled out a small packet of dusty gray bricks, each smaller than a deck of cards, unwrapped the colorful paper enclosing them, and placed them carefully on a steel tray to one side. She piled them up loosely like a short, fat tower. Then she lugged the vessel of vases, which was by now almost as tall as she was, into the deep sink, filling the base of the cylinder with tap water. Finally, I could see, she was assembling a giant kettle; it was a “hubbly-bubbly,” a hookah. Tonight women would smoke!
I looked at Sara more closely. No more than twenty-six, weighing less than one hundred pounds, her darker complexion was nearer mine in color, not as fair as Zubaidah. She was well made up; her well-dressed darker skin concealed scars from recent teenage acne, carefully covered in camouflage makeup. Sara's features were more Indian than Arab, and there was a coldness in her vivacity. She knew the power of her beauty already at a young age. Her widely arched eyebrows and wide-set, dark eyes imparted a feline appearance, compounded by her elegant, efficient movements. She too was wearing a stylish ensemble, a short skirt ending above the knee accompanied by a slim-fitting sleeveless sweater. Clicking heels added to her momentum. The body-hugging clothing revealed a lean, enviably streamlined figure.
Sara, like all the other women aside from Zubaidah, was dressed in entirely Western clothing. She would have looked right at home in New York City. What then was the Saudi national dress for women? These women didn't look anything like my patient Mrs. al-Otaibi or her relatives. In fact I noticed from my observations so far, though Saudi men were umbilically rooted in the Medieval magnificence of robes, immutable across centuries, the modern Saudi woman was much more Neiman Marcus than Najd.
As I watched her critically, Sara scurried amid peels of laughter and placed the hubbly-bubbly down on the floor by the spineless sofa. Clearly she was expert at doing this. The steel tray of charcoal bricks was now at the apex of the glass tower and, with matches, a flame was lit beneath. Soon water bubbled and bricks glowed, perfuming the air with roses. Women puffed on the hubbly-bubbly, offering each other the same mouthpiece, each carefully wiping it before passing it on. As I sat, flanked by the Irish nurse and the Canadian peacekeeper, the hubbly-bubbly was offered to me. I was surprised to find myself taking the long, purple, silk-covered hose between my fingers. Even if I was a lung specialist, finding no excuse to refuse and not wanting to offend my hosts, I inhaled deeply. Someone snatched a photo documenting my efforts. It was surprisingly pleasurable, leaving a brief race of nicotine pounding in my chest and a soft aftertaste of rosehip. So I had engaged in smoking—a macrue activity (undesirable, but not forbidden) in Islam. These women were not at all rigid, in the way I expected. Already they had me pushing my boundaries.
I passed the pipe on to the next guest, satisfied that I was participating in the joviality rather than just spectating from the sidelines. I settled back to
Sara carried on, oblivious to my rising anxiety. She pulled out a small packet of dusty gray bricks, each smaller than a deck of cards, unwrapped the colorful paper enclosing them, and placed them carefully on a steel tray to one side. She piled them up loosely like a short, fat tower. Then she lugged the vessel of vases, which was by now almost as tall as she was, into the deep sink, filling the base of the cylinder with tap water. Finally, I could see, she was assembling a giant kettle; it was a “hubbly-bubbly,” a hookah. Tonight women would smoke!
I looked at Sara more closely. No more than twenty-six, weighing less than one hundred pounds, her darker complexion was nearer mine in color, not as fair as Zubaidah. She was well made up; her well-dressed darker skin concealed scars from recent teenage acne, carefully covered in camouflage makeup. Sara's features were more Indian than Arab, and there was a coldness in her vivacity. She knew the power of her beauty already at a young age. Her widely arched eyebrows and wide-set, dark eyes imparted a feline appearance, compounded by her elegant, efficient movements. She too was wearing a stylish ensemble, a short skirt ending above the knee accompanied by a slim-fitting sleeveless sweater. Clicking heels added to her momentum. The body-hugging clothing revealed a lean, enviably streamlined figure.
Sara, like all the other women aside from Zubaidah, was dressed in entirely Western clothing. She would have looked right at home in New York City. What then was the Saudi national dress for women? These women didn't look anything like my patient Mrs. al-Otaibi or her relatives. In fact I noticed from my observations so far, though Saudi men were umbilically rooted in the Medieval magnificence of robes, immutable across centuries, the modern Saudi woman was much more Neiman Marcus than Najd.
As I watched her critically, Sara scurried amid peels of laughter and placed the hubbly-bubbly down on the floor by the spineless sofa. Clearly she was expert at doing this. The steel tray of charcoal bricks was now at the apex of the glass tower and, with matches, a flame was lit beneath. Soon water bubbled and bricks glowed, perfuming the air with roses. Women puffed on the hubbly-bubbly, offering each other the same mouthpiece, each carefully wiping it before passing it on. As I sat, flanked by the Irish nurse and the Canadian peacekeeper, the hubbly-bubbly was offered to me. I was surprised to find myself taking the long, purple, silk-covered hose between my fingers. Even if I was a lung specialist, finding no excuse to refuse and not wanting to offend my hosts, I inhaled deeply. Someone snatched a photo documenting my efforts. It was surprisingly pleasurable, leaving a brief race of nicotine pounding in my chest and a soft aftertaste of rosehip. So I had engaged in smoking—a macrue activity (undesirable, but not forbidden) in Islam. These women were not at all rigid, in the way I expected. Already they had me pushing my boundaries.
I passed the pipe on to the next guest, satisfied that I was participating in the joviality rather than just spectating from the sidelines. I settled back to
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