Document in hand, my father walked toward the royal court gate, where a security guard asked him what he wanted. As Abouya told me later, “As if he was expecting me, he eagerly took the envelope from my hands and asked me to wait. He was gone for some time. I was standing there in the sun, just outside the gates, and for the first time I was full of hope. After a while, the guard came back, saying, ‘Oh, good man, His Majesty’s secretary says you may come in today, but you must wait your turn.’?”
The king—whichever Saudi monarch is in power—receives people in his palace in Jeddah. Friday is the traditional reception day. Anyone (so long as he is male) can walk into the palace that day without an invitation. Hundreds of people line up in long queues in front of the main gates for a turn to meet the king. But even on a Monday, there was a long line of people waiting to conduct business with the king and one of his chief advisers. My father, his chief, and his cousins took their place at the back of the line.
When it was time for the al-Sharif tribal representatives to present themselves, the four men moved forward one by one. The green-and-gold meeting room was vast: it was a long walk to the far end of the room where King Abdullah himself sat, supported by cushions on a low sofa covered with green silk. He was wearing a soft brown woolen robe with gold brocade trim, and though his trademark goatee was neatly trimmed and dyed a shiny, youthful black, up close, my father thought that the nearly eighty-seven-year-old king looked tired and rather frail.
The king did not rise to greet them. He had done away with the old custom of bowing and hand kissing. Visitors were instead told to kiss his forehead and wish him long life and health, the same type of greeting that Saudi children give their fathers and grandfathers.
As each visitor had before them, the four al-Sharif men approached the king one after the other, kissed his forehead, and wished him a long life. Then the al-Sharif chief spoke. He opened with praise for God and the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH), which was followed by a reaffirmation of the tribe’s loyalty to the king and to the country. Then came the heart and the purpose of his words: an apology for my actions, which had disturbed the public order, and a promise that this would not happen again. He concluded with one last elaborate formal apology from the tribe for my driving. After the recitation was finished, there was a brief pause, and then the king spoke. Abouya told me that the king uttered two words: “Advise her.”
He said those same words three times.
But my father, the chief, and his cousins left with the promise that they would hear good news soon.
At 5:00 p.m. that same day, Monday, May 30, 2011, I was called from my cell and escorted to the guards’ room. The prison head was waiting for me behind a desk, dressed in civilian clothes. A soldier in uniform stood next to him, holding some papers.
“Manal,” the general said. “Are you enjoying your stay with us? Would you like to stay here longer?”
Immediately I was wary. I did not know if this was a trick, but I was determined not to sound weak or groveling. “I don’t like to sound offensive,” I replied, “but if you might join us for one day inside you would know the answer.”
“I know these buildings are old and falling apart, but this is all we have right now,” the general said. “I promise you, in a few months, we are moving to newer and cleaner facilities. I wished you had delayed your driving campaign a few months. But I can tell you, you are a free woman now. I just received the orders to release you.”
I had been rehearsing for this moment every single hour I had spent behind bars. I had been imagining it, anticipating it, waiting for it. Every day, I had dressed in my abaya to show my belief that this was the day I would be released. And yet, in that moment, it felt like any other routine bureaucratic transaction; it was as if I had been kept waiting an extra thirty minutes to file a set of official papers. I smiled slightly, and asked, to be sure I had heard correctly, “You mean I can leave this moment?”
“Unless you would like to enjoy another day here?”
“No, sir,” I said. My body felt almost weak from the combination of adrenaline and relief.
“Can I ask you something before you go?” the general added, almost as an afterthought.
I nodded. “Please go ahead, you have been good to me.”
“I know you talked a lot to the other prison guards about the prisoners’ conditions here, and I promise to do my best, maybe with your help, too, to make the prisoners’ life better. You can’t blame us for all the limitations we have here—we are trying our best with whatever we have. I know you want to go out and talk about those women, but I ask you please not to, it’s embarrassing to everyone.”
“Will you allow me to help the women who need plane tickets to go back home?” I asked.
“If you find people who are willing to buy them tickets, you will be helping us a lot by making this crowded place better. I will do my best!”
The prison head gave his orders to the female prison guard standing outside to bring me my belongings. Then he wished me luck.
“Stay away from trouble” were his last words to me.
After he had walked out, I let fall my tears of joy. I made sujood, a special prayer thanking Allah. I thought of Aboudi’s face. I thought about removing my dirty, filthy clothes, taking ten hot showers, and sleeping with Aboudi in my arms.
When I lifted my head up from the prayer, my eyes still filled with tears, I saw the prison guard crying, too. She gave me a hug. “Manal, you will be missed,” she said.
I had to call my brother to ask him to come and sign my release papers. As a Saudi woman, I needed a guardian’s signature to be able to leave jail, but because my release had come from the king, in my case, a mahram was acceptable. He was very quiet when I told him I was free.
I couldn’t leave without going inside the prison one last time to say goodbye. By then I knew the story of almost every woman—or at least of those who were willing to tell me theirs. I remember the joy and the tears, the goodbyes and the hugs and the requests: “Don’t forget about us, please.” I couldn’t take my clothes with me, so I gave them to Maysara, the woman who had given me her bed on that first dreadful day. I gave her my unused phone cards and my food booklet, too. I later bought her a plane ticket home. I never heard from her again, but I will always remember her kindness toward me.
When my brother arrived, he was wearing the traditional white thobe, although without any head covering. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him wearing traditional dress. At Aramco, he always wore Western clothes to work and he did the same at home. He was smiling and gave me a hug, oblivious to the surprise of the male guards around us. (Saudis are not known for showing affection in public.) After signing some papers, the last gate opened. I gave a final look back at those high towers, the guards with guns, and the dirt yard.
Then I turned my head, and it was gone.
I asked my brother if I could use his phone. Mine had been returned to me, but the battery was dead, and anyway I was nervous about my number appearing on the recipient’s screen.