The comments hurt. Some left me shocked, others simply disappointed, but I learned a valuable lesson. I saw that people preferred scandals to the very real plight of Saudi women. I saw too that people criticized me and the other women behind the Women2Drive campaign because they were afraid, afraid of any real change. I had miscalculated how much effort our opponents would put into switching the focus to me and away from the movement. I trained myself to ignore them.
The other girls would send me links to the pages that attacked me and Women2Drive, but I told them, “Forget about these people. They are just noise.” Day by day, I toughened myself. I kept all my thoughts and emotions inside, I stayed quiet, and I moved on. I think that’s one of the things that puzzled our opponents. They thought they could break me with what they said, with what they posted. Even at work I was harassed. But I always stayed polite. I always kept a smile on my face. I kept saying respectful things, emphasizing that I am a Saudi, that I am proud to be Saudi, and that I love my country. I just want to change this custom. My strategy was never defend and never attack. Educate people and get more supporters, that’s what I told all the girls.
I began to see that there would be a price for standing up for my rights, as there had been for Saudi women before me. But I could not have foreseen the full consequences. I would soon learn that nothing upset Saudi men and the entire Saudi ruling order more than the simple act of women driving. The decision to take action in real life was what really scared our opponents. There had been talk of driving before, but women across the country had never just picked a date and said, “That’s it. We’ve had enough. We are going to drive.”
We were still trying to get media attention. One of the first journalists to reach out to us was Maysa, a TV host and blogger; she is Saudi but was living in the United Arab Emirates, a collection of seven principalities bordering Saudi Arabia. The friend who had convinced me to get on Twitter grabbed my phone one day and sent Maysa a message saying, “This is Manal from the Women2Drive campaign. I’d like to speak with you.” Maysa called me immediately, and later I realized why. Maysa had publicly stated that she would not return to Saudi Arabia until women were allowed to drive. (Her father had died before her eyes because when he fell ill, no other man was at home and Maysa couldn’t drive him to the hospital.)
One contact led to another. As well as interviewing me, Maysa put me in touch with Abdullah Al Alami, a retired Aramco employee who had been the head of employment. Mr. Al Alami had many contacts among Saudi journalists and officials and had been very involved in previous struggles to change the culture, particularly regarding women’s rights. He and I arranged to meet at the Aramco dining hall near my office. For nearly an hour, the older, elegantly dressed Saudi man, who came prepared with a thick file of papers, listened carefully as I explained the goals of the campaign. He didn’t interrupt once, just repeatedly nodded his head.
After I had finished, he said, “Listen, Manal, I want to tell you what happened in 1990 to those women who challenged the driving ban.”
At first I was put off, thinking, I don’t want to hear about those women again. I wanted nothing to do with them. But, as he continued to speak, I realized he was trying to offer me his insights. He relayed in great detail what happened to the forty-seven women who attempted to challenge the ban on driving, showing me a stack of old newspaper clippings. Sitting there, listening to him, I realized I had been wrong. Instead of blaming these women and accepting the lies that had been told about them, I saw that they were my sisters, my role models. They had understood, long before I did, that the only way to challenge Saudi restrictions was to organize and demonstrate; the only way was to drive.
After he was finished, he said, “You must be prepared emotionally and politically for what might happen if you go through with this. We have to go through some possible scenarios. You must be ready for the worst possible reaction.”
Mr. Al Alami explained that serious mistakes had occurred in 1990 and tried to tell me in detail how to avoid repeating them. After we discussed some of the potential outcomes, he looked me in the eyes and asked, “What is it you want, Manal?”
With no hesitation, I said, “I want to challenge the ban on women driving. I want women to drive in this country. I want to write a letter to King Abdullah.”
He looked down at his two phones, searching for prominent people to introduce me to. By the end of our meeting, he’d given me the numbers of some lawyers, people on the Shoura council (an unelected advisory council for the king), and several other high-profile individuals. He didn’t discourage me from writing a letter to King Abdullah, but he told me to expect two possible reactions: either a resounding no or no response at all. Despite his cautionary words, I did not feel discouraged. I left feeling supported and reassured.
I began in earnest to try to meet with anyone who had connections or had some kind of public profile and an interest in women driving. I knew that if we had supporters, especially if they were prominent Saudis, we had a greater chance of success. I spent nearly every day trying to arrange meetings with people who could help us promote the June 17 campaign. My meeting with Mr. Al Alami had convinced me that there was enough public support among common Saudis, including forward-thinking men, to achieve a very different result from what happened in 1990. Though there were still people telling me that I needed to be careful, I pushed all that aside. I believed in this campaign.
One of the people who gave me moral support was Wajeha al-Huwaider, the Saudi woman and seasoned activist who had posted a video of herself driving back in 2008. Wajeha and I both worked and lived in the Aramco compound, yet we’d never met. I sent her an email, asking her to meet for coffee. I didn’t tell her the purpose of our meeting: she’d probably heard murmurings of our campaign, and she said yes. We were to meet at the café inside the compound. As soon as I arrived, I realized I didn’t know what she looked like. I searched the faces of everyone sitting at the tables outside the café: a few women in full abayas and hijab and one lone woman in jeans and a blue T-shirt, her hair tied back in a ponytail with thick bangs across her forehead. I finally texted, “I’m here, where are you?”