For the first time, I saw people reading in public. They would sit with a book under the trees, in subways, in cafés, in waiting rooms, on the bus. I was mesmerized. I started carrying a book with me everywhere I went. I found the public library in Nashua and signed up for a library card, which I still have. I borrowed many books; it was the first time I had ever been in a public library.
Slowly, I became Americanized. I dressed up for St. Patrick’s Day, shocked to discover that even though the Saudi flag is green, I had nothing green in my closet. I learned that when I took out my credit card after a meal, I should say “Let’s split it,” or else I would end up paying the whole check. I quickly learned that ordering one meal in a restaurant would provide enough leftovers for a whole week. As a Saudi flying in the US, I also learned what a “random check” means at the airport. I learned that men kiss women on one cheek in greeting, but women do not kiss each other like that, basically the extreme opposite of home.
I also learned many things that I never expected. All my young friends in Boston, in their late twenties and early thirties, were overwhelmed with college debt. They were very educated, but at what price? Even those who had what could be considered good jobs often worked second jobs as waiters and waitresses to try to pay off their enormous student loans. I had friends who waited for free microwaves to be posted on Craigslist because they couldn’t afford to buy new ones. That shocked me. They lived with roommates and would circle around the city for an hour looking for a parking space on the street, rather than pay to park in a garage. I never thought about paying for parking. If we went to a restaurant, they looked at all the prices on the menu before they ordered. I realized that this debt would rule their lives for years, while in Saudi Arabia, I had been paid $300 a month just to study at my university.
Everything was expensive. I could not believe that a friend of mine, who was between jobs, had to pay $800 for a visit to the hospital emergency room after he cut his finger. I could not believe that it was impossible to buy only high-speed Internet access without cable. (I hated watching American television: there were so many ads.) You can’t, the cable man told me, it only comes as a package. I could not believe that I had to pay for garbage collection—to pay for the ability to throw something away. And I was very puzzled by the taxes. In Saudi Arabia, we don’t have taxes, but my friends who lived in Boston paid as much as thirty percent of the money they earned in taxes. New Hampshire, at least, had no state income tax. But sales tax surprised me too; the price of what I wanted to buy was never the same at the register as what was marked on the ticket or the shelf. All of these things did not make sense.
Since it was 2009, less than a year after the housing market crash, the economy was really hurting. People were losing their jobs and their homes. Steve, the guy who came to fix my computer, was laid off the very next day. I came into the office and he was gone. That night, I went home and turned on the news. CNN was breathlessly reporting on Tiger Woods’s mistresses. It was like that night after night. When I watched CNN in the States, I would think, is this really the news? It seemed more like gossip. The real problems were completely neglected, and people were kept in the dark. CNN International is entirely different. There I would learn what was actually happening in the world.
But there were other things that truly opened my mind. I read about Rosa Parks, the black woman who refused to move to the back of the bus. She had lived for a while on Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama. Because it was a federal military instillation, it did not permit racial segregation, and Rosa Parks could ride on an integrated trolley. As I read this, I thought about Saudi women and the Aramco compound. Aramco was like Maxwell, a place where outside restrictions did not apply. Of course, when Rosa Parks left, she would want to ride in the front of the bus, just like everyone else. I saw so many parallels between what I’d experienced in Saudi Arabia and the American civil rights movement. Saudi women and African Americans were both victims of segregation, unable to have any say in the most basic aspects of their lives.
When I came to the United States, I was against gays, against Jews, against many other things. Living there forced me to rethink many of my opinions; it opened up my mind. I had conversations with people who likely would never have been permitted to visit Saudi Arabia, people I otherwise would never have met. I had one friend, Naomi, whom I met through dance parties. We really enjoyed each other’s company. Once, when we were sitting in a restaurant, I saw two very obviously Jewish people walking out the door. As a joke, I said, “Those people are Jewish. We know each other from the nose,” because both Arabs and Jews are known to have prominent noses.
She looked at me and said, “Yeah, that’s right, you and I, we are cousins.”
And I said, “Who is ‘we’?”
And she said, “Us, the Jews.”
I could not believe it. I had no idea that she was Jewish. And if I had known she was Jewish at the start, I never would have talked to her. Because I had been taught that all Jews are our enemies.
But the true culture shock occurred not when I landed in America, but much later, after I had returned home.
11
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Driving while Female
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In the United States, I stopped covering my head with a hijab. Before that, in public, at work, or out with friends, I wore my hijab. Sometimes they were brightly colored or white, rather than the traditional black, but I still wore them. My hair was hidden, my face encased in cloth. But in private, things were different: I wore it; I stopped wearing it. I put it back on; I took it off.
When I returned to Saudi Arabia, I decided I would keep my hijab on for work. But outside of the office, I would leave my head free and uncovered. (I later learned that many of my Saudi girlfriends outside Aramco were doing the same thing in secret in their homes.) The last to know was my brother: I didn’t want my parents to find out, because it would cause them tremendous embarrassment and very deep grief.
One day, when my brother and his wife were visiting me at the Aramco compound, I decided to go out with them without my hijab. I wore very modest clothes: a long, flowing blouse with long sleeves and very loose pants. But my brother was still horrified. He told his wife that he would tell me to put the hijab back on. But his wife took my side. “Manal is an adult,” she told him. “You cannot control your sister.” In truth, as my mahram living closest to me, he could control me in many ways. But, with his wife’s prodding, he grudgingly gave up.