Read Online In the Land of Invisible Women by Qanta Ahmed - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Qanta Ahmed
Ads: Link
enjoy the scene, as they laughed, smoked, giggled, and generally had fun. Soon the conversation lapsed into Arabic, but our hostess never forgot to see that we were included in conversations in English whenever possible. All women there spoke perfect English, and many spoke excellent French too. Finally, hours after I had lost my appetite, around eleven p.m., food was served, elegantly displayed in silver trays and porcelain platters. Zubaidah had personally prepared much of the menu: hummus, tabouleh, kibbe, rice, motabbal, kebabs, babaghanoush, yogurt sauces; a dazzling array. The food was predominantly Lebanese, Mediterranean, and Jordanian.
As we started eating, Zubaidah's mother descended the stairs. She floated into view without intruding yet somehow immediately causing a stir. She was an elegant woman, wearing her hair short in a stylish, well-cut bob dyed a tasteful auburn. Smoking a cigarette, leaning one hand languidly on her hip, she greeted her guests with soft, liquid salaams. She had presence and superb dress sense. Tonight she was swathed in a chic outfit of neutral wools and silks, draping her tall figure in softly pleated slacks, a silk blouse, and a warm shawl casually thrown together with effortless precision. The generational contrast was intriguing. I wondered why Zubaidah had chosen a traditional Palestinian costume when her mother was much more MaxMara.
Zubaidah's mother spoke French with more ease than English, though she fluidly swirled between both. Eager to welcome me, she seemed to know about me already; being the first female physician in the ICU had apparently been some news. Immediately she enquired of my parents and then asked how I could leave them so far away. I was beginning to get used to my parental lineage as an opening gambit in any conversation in Riyadh. People wanted to know where I was from, but more importantly, to whom I belonged. Without family, I was an unmoored puzzle. Quickly however, and unbidden, she told me her memories of Riyadh before the Mutawaeen had become so powerful.
“Riyadh wasn't always so difficult, Qanta,” she began in a cultured, tobacco-bruised voice. “When I was newly married in the '50s, we never covered! No abbayahs, no scarves. I could go out alone without my husband.” She released a poignant gravelly laugh.
“Khallas, those days are over now,” she went on, sounding defeated. “The Mutawaeen spoil everything. These days it's really bad, Qanta, really bad.” She studied me for the full effect. “We hate them!” She looked suddenly defiant. “I still hate them. I am never used to veiling. My mother also never veiled. We are not from this orthodox Islam. We are not Wahabis!”
I was astonished to learn there had been a time before the menace of Mutawaeen and the mandate of monolithic religion.
“It started in 1979,” she explained. “In the Islamic calendar this was 1399, so at the beginning of a new century, the radicals believed this was to be the century of Islam. At the same time, you remember, Khomeini was taking control of Iran. The revolution was in full swing.” She stopped to expectorate a fruity, bronchitic cough.
Inhaling a drag on her French cigarettes to calm her spastic cough, she began a detailed explanation beginning with the assassination of King Faisal in 1975. 5 Shortly after that, in Medina, a new plot was suspected against the royal family, directly threatening the monarchy. The danger appeared to be coming from among the community of Wahabi clergy. They were looking for the right Muttawa leadership figure who could spearhead their cause. Zubaidah's mother snorted in distaste at various intervals in the story. I was surprised; Zubaidah's mother had a deep loyalty for royalty.
She continued explaining, mentioning Juhaiman bin Mohammed al-Otaibi, who had served in the Saudi Arabian National Guard for around 18 years. Together with the rector of the University of Medina (a man called Ibn Baz) they formed a group
As we started eating, Zubaidah's mother descended the stairs. She floated into view without intruding yet somehow immediately causing a stir. She was an elegant woman, wearing her hair short in a stylish, well-cut bob dyed a tasteful auburn. Smoking a cigarette, leaning one hand languidly on her hip, she greeted her guests with soft, liquid salaams. She had presence and superb dress sense. Tonight she was swathed in a chic outfit of neutral wools and silks, draping her tall figure in softly pleated slacks, a silk blouse, and a warm shawl casually thrown together with effortless precision. The generational contrast was intriguing. I wondered why Zubaidah had chosen a traditional Palestinian costume when her mother was much more MaxMara.
Zubaidah's mother spoke French with more ease than English, though she fluidly swirled between both. Eager to welcome me, she seemed to know about me already; being the first female physician in the ICU had apparently been some news. Immediately she enquired of my parents and then asked how I could leave them so far away. I was beginning to get used to my parental lineage as an opening gambit in any conversation in Riyadh. People wanted to know where I was from, but more importantly, to whom I belonged. Without family, I was an unmoored puzzle. Quickly however, and unbidden, she told me her memories of Riyadh before the Mutawaeen had become so powerful.
“Riyadh wasn't always so difficult, Qanta,” she began in a cultured, tobacco-bruised voice. “When I was newly married in the '50s, we never covered! No abbayahs, no scarves. I could go out alone without my husband.” She released a poignant gravelly laugh.
“Khallas, those days are over now,” she went on, sounding defeated. “The Mutawaeen spoil everything. These days it's really bad, Qanta, really bad.” She studied me for the full effect. “We hate them!” She looked suddenly defiant. “I still hate them. I am never used to veiling. My mother also never veiled. We are not from this orthodox Islam. We are not Wahabis!”
I was astonished to learn there had been a time before the menace of Mutawaeen and the mandate of monolithic religion.
“It started in 1979,” she explained. “In the Islamic calendar this was 1399, so at the beginning of a new century, the radicals believed this was to be the century of Islam. At the same time, you remember, Khomeini was taking control of Iran. The revolution was in full swing.” She stopped to expectorate a fruity, bronchitic cough.
Inhaling a drag on her French cigarettes to calm her spastic cough, she began a detailed explanation beginning with the assassination of King Faisal in 1975. 5 Shortly after that, in Medina, a new plot was suspected against the royal family, directly threatening the monarchy. The danger appeared to be coming from among the community of Wahabi clergy. They were looking for the right Muttawa leadership figure who could spearhead their cause. Zubaidah's mother snorted in distaste at various intervals in the story. I was surprised; Zubaidah's mother had a deep loyalty for royalty.
She continued explaining, mentioning Juhaiman bin Mohammed al-Otaibi, who had served in the Saudi Arabian National Guard for around 18 years. Together with the rector of the University of Medina (a man called Ibn Baz) they formed a group
Similar Books
