I was desperate to keep both, so I proposed concessions, one after the other, but whenever I offered a concession in return for his changing his mind about Aramco, he flung back another demand. We never reached a compromise, and it seemed we never would.
After the ceremony, I took some time off for vacation, during which K. reminded me daily that I should wear the niqab or consider our relationship finished. I had been wearing the black abaya in the workplace, but I had covered my hair with a colored shawl in place of a black veil. I had thought long and hard and was finally persuaded that it was okay for a Muslim woman to show her face. K., however, was ashamed for his wife to reveal her face in front of other men. I bought a niqab, barely believing that I was going to wear it again. How would I make presentations? How would I participate in meetings? How would I keep my colleagues’ respect? One day showing my face, the next appearing in a niqab. Perhaps it was a blessing that I was moving to a new department for a temporary assignment.
Just as K. demanded, I returned to work after our April 1 marriage ceremony with the black niqab over my face. The news spread quickly to my old department, and I received emails from some of my old colleagues: “Congratulations, Manal, on having chosen the right path.” How odd it is that we judge a woman by her clothes and the place she eats lunch and the subjects she talks about with her colleagues on her coffee break, yet we don’t judge a man if he doesn’t grow his beard or if he works with women or speaks to them. Why do Saudi women allow subjugation to a man and adhere to men’s rules and conditions? Why did I?
The niqab had a bizarre effect on me; without intending to, I became more and more introverted. I should have been competing with my workmates when we delivered presentations, but I found myself holding back. I no longer fearlessly entered into debates: such behavior didn’t seem to fit with my new attire. Because no one at work could see my facial expressions, I would even carry a card with a happy face on one side and a sad face on another, so I could display my feelings. Otherwise, the niqab numbed me.
K.’s dominion over my life continued. It seemed that he wanted to change everything about me. “Don’t walk quickly like a man does, don’t talk in a loud voice, don’t talk to your workmates about anything except work. You will not make the next business trip on your own. Your brother will accompany you.” Sure enough, my brother was forced to leave university for a full week to accompany me on a business trip to Hanover, Germany; he was twenty-one years old, still considered a minor under Saudi law and needing Abouya’s permission to get a passport, but his job was to supervise me. Married life was supposed to be joyous, but I was very unhappy. My misery increased when we set the date for our official wedding, and with it, the date of my resignation.
One day, K. passed by my office at lunchtime to see me talking with a man from the office next door. That was when we hit rock bottom. The subject of the conversation was perfectly ordinary—a film I had seen with K. over the weekend in Bahrain—and it was conducted from behind the niqab, but it was not related to work, and that meant it was strictly prohibited. I was only aware of K.’s presence when I saw his shadow leaving. My heart sank, and I timidly proceeded to his office.
“Out of my office, slut!” he screamed, his words like a physical blow. He raved as if he had caught me in an act of great betrayal. Worse, his colleagues in the adjoining offices could hear everything.
I tried to talk to him after work; I sent a text message to apologize. His reply was stinging.
I thought we were finished, but I persisted, and he finally deigned to visit me. “If your intention is to divorce me,” I said, “then divorce me and release me.” And he said the words “You are divorced.” Under Islamic law, uttering those words is all that is required for a man to divorce his wife.
I wanted my torment to end. I taunted him by making the sounds of zaghareet, a call we traditionally make during times of celebration. “Please leave the apartment,” I told him. “I don’t want to see you ever again.”
But then, next day, when I began to gather up his gifts—I wanted him out of my life completely—the yearning for him began to return. I called another friend, Alia, whose first engagement had ended in separation: I knew that she’d be the most understanding of all my friends.
“Alia, I don’t want to be weak,” I said. “I want to forget him, I don’t want to call him and beg him to come back to me, like I have done every other time. I still love him, but it’s a dangerous love, the sort of love that makes you hate your life and hate yourself.”
Alia took me to Khobar Corniche. As we walked along, I remembered, here was where we once sat; here we saw a flock of migrating flamingos, resting; here we ate popcorn . . . everything reminded me of him. I gave Alia my mobile phone; I didn’t want to give in and call him.
After a week, my tears and my longing began to subside. I busied myself with my work and decided that I would remove the niqab when I returned to my division at the end of the assignment. I would pass by every man who sent an email congratulating me on my choice, and greet him so that he saw my face.
Then I received an email from K. It was a letter of apology, his first ever. He wrote to me of how he had been reckless, of how he still loved me and could not live without me. He wanted us back together, he said, and he would have no other wife in the world but me. I deleted his message without replying. I was not going back to him.
Next, I received a call from his older sister, a religious woman who was a professor at the university. Up until now, K. and I hadn’t disclosed our problems; they had escalated in private and ended in private, without a single person knowing. This had given a false impression to everyone—including my family—that we were happy. On the phone, K.’s sister listened quietly to my side of the story.
She advocated patience. “If a woman marries a man, it is her duty to change her personality and her life to align with his,” she told me. She told me of how I was at fault for speaking to men about things that did not concern work: “A man’s jealousy must not be underestimated.” Her words transported me back to the religious lectures of my schooldays, to when we had sat on the hard ground of the school courtyard as we listened to the sheikhs, with no carpets for cushioning. The sun would blaze down upon us, until our clothes were almost too hot to touch. K.’s sister quoted from the hadiths, the sayings of Prophet Muhammad (PBUH), which compel women to obey their husbands, and reminded me that my entry to paradise was inextricably linked to K.’s satisfaction with me.
I felt extremely guilty, but I told her that my mind was made up. “I’m waiting for my papers,” I said. “Please ask him not to delay them.” I hung up, convinced that I could never atone for my sins.