This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
“This is up to me.”
“If you say so,” answered cousin Remy, as he dropped me off in front of Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle airport, Terminal C.
I was not entirely sure what I was signing up for.
A terrorist group had rampaged through the Saudi capital a short while ago. Westerners no longer felt safe. The consulates were frantic and garlands of barbed wires had bloomed around every compound. What better time for me to move to Jeddah, a city near the Red Sea, a crucial milestone for traveling pilgrims on their way to Mecca.
There, they said, laid Eve, Hawwa.
My family had tried to talk me out of it, but it was too late. All the contracts were signed, my suitcases packed and ready to go.
I had graduated from a Paris design school. One of my classmates was Fahd, a Saudi who had no interest in becoming a civil servant or banker. His father had not objected to it, a small miracle that had enabled him to enroll in the same courses as me. He was a gifted young man who kept mentioning great “opportunities”. Arabia was reaching out to the world, money was pouring in and we were, he said, talented enough to make a fortune there.
Both of us had specialized in furniture design. He had nailed it on the head. Economies were booming throughout the Middle East and the Saudis were building huge properties thanks to oil money. Those mansions needed furnishing. They fancied a style I dubbed “Arabaroque”.
Without complacency, but rather with delectation, we went on to design outrageous pieces of furniture, made-to-measure.
Budget was never discussed. Our clients’ fantasies always set the limit. We were bombarded with extravagant requests—seats adorned with falcon heads, entire living rooms ornamented with gold, and red couches stamped with the royals’ portraits.
Money was good and greed overtook our creative ethics. It was then I decided to launch a limited edition of light-colored armchairs covered in Arabic scriptures and calligraphic patterns warped along sensual lines. A knowing eye had little trouble making out a woman’s curves.
Akin to Renaissance artists who defied the morals of the day with the ambiguity of their creations, we too enjoyed adding a touch of malice here and there. What started as a playful gimmick soon became a trademark. These subtle provocations were the key to our success.
Word-of-mouth worked wonders and our business grew quickly. A wealthy prince with countrywide influence caught wind of our achievements and offered us a deal that would enable us to further our ambitions. That is precisely when I grew bored and began doubting the relevance of our work. Yes, money was good, but how was I supposed to enjoy it? We were busy working night and day, bent over drawing boards or prospecting in the overloaded living rooms of wealthy locals. Fahd was over the moon. It was a consecration for him, the fulfillment of his childhood dreams. He had broken free from his father’s clutch, at last. I did not share his perspective. My work had become monotonous. Something was missing. I was desperate for a sign that things could change.
The messenger came to me in the guise of Kader, a Tunisian photographer for the Dubai Select who had come to shoot us in our workshop. The Emirates’ most prestigious magazine wanted to write a cover story about us. Fahd was ecstatic. He kept swaggering like some peacock from the sheikh’s gardens, parading in front of the camera. The journalist was genuinely interested in our work and asked very relevant questions.
We went along with the agreed-upon narrative. We were to symbolize the artistic rekindling between East and West. We would tear down the walls of ignorance and be known as the crafty inventors of a new Arab style. We lacked neither cheek, nor arrogance.
During the break, Kader and I talked a bit. He told me how he worked and disclosed the theme he had chosen for his next exhibition in an up-and-coming art gallery.
“Dubai Select is my bread and butter,” he told me, somewhat apologetic. “Today is a welcomed change from the usual inaugurations and jet set parties, where everyone’s ugly and drunk most of the time. No fancy filter could ever remove the sweat from their cheeks, the vulgarity of their outfits and the sheer stupidity in their eyes. And yet, I have to make them look presentable, desirable even.”
“And how do you go about doing that?” I asked.
“I wear my diving suit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Back when I lived in Paris, my neighbor used to throw huge parties. From my window, I could see the guests wiggling and dancing, having fun, getting intimate. My apartment was soundproof and the music itself was not a nuisance. But one night, it got louder than usual, so I had to wear earplugs. I walked to the window to watch this all-too-familiar show, but my entire perspective had changed. I was in awe. It felt like observing colorful fishes from outside the confined space of an aquarium. They were completely unaware of the world around them. I was impatiently waiting for the next party. I declined my neighbor’s invitation. I wanted to dive in once more, to study the living from the outside. From that day onward, I go to cocktail parties without apprehension.
“Do you still wear the earplugs?”
“Of course. It’s part of the outfit.”
He showed me his equipment—mask, camera, snorkel, flash light and his oxygen bottles—the heavy backpack holding his batteries and lenses.
Kader and I became friends. He opened my eyes to photography. He taught me what he knew and “trained” my sight, as he called it. I had a knack for it. What I lacked in technicality I made up in spontaneity—seizing the frailty of a moment, a glance, feeling the movement. Photography soon became my only hobby.
Your “shoddy,” as Fahd kept calling it. He feared this growing passion could end up threatening our business. He was spot on. I was giving very little thought to our upcoming collection and a whole lot more to my next getaway. It was becoming a compulsive, recurring need. I was always on the lookout for the most bewildering subjects, for that one unique moment my camera would freeze forever in time.
I was careless. Taking pictures of women as they went about their daily life could lead me straight to jail. That feeling of danger was exciting. I had got my hands on a very sophisticated camera used by reporters. And a very powerful zoom to top it off. The hunt could begin.
I fancied myself a wildlife photographer. The most crucial step was finding the right location, from where to see without ever being seen. I hung out near women-only parks, looking for a hideaway that would allow me to observe and be spared any untimely intrusion.
Women were all wearing niqabs. Away from the men, out of sight behind the high walls of the park, they became more audacious. Some would briefly uncover their faces to grab a bite. Others would open their tunics wide, revealing lush, sophisticated and sometimes very arousing undergarments. My curiosity was piqued for good. It felt like capturing moments of privacy and intimacy kept out of sight by their traditional garment. The kids were my only clue as to what their faces might look like. When a father came to pick up his family outside the park, I was able to compare everyone again, to see whether my intuitions were right. This voyeuristic approach to Saudi customs was very satisfying. Jeddah was an ideal playground.
Jeddah was an odd city. Some unhinged mayor had let a bunch of novice sculptors showcase their ego on each of the city’s roundabouts. They had delivered beyond all expectations.
The end result was mighty confusing. They had built giant octopuses, huge earthenware pots, ship replicas and gigantic globes. Only the limited size of the roundabouts seemed to have somewhat restrained the street artists’ creative fervor.
All along the Red Sea shores, playhouses rivaled in ingenuity to draw the kids’ attention. Mothers and children were zigzagging from one booth to the next. Hanging like baits in the midst of this urban whirlpool, blow up dinosaurs and RC cars teased the young passersby. The women were all dressed in anthracite niqab. The austerity of their garb—the uniformity of it all—came in stark contrast with all the colorful toys made in China.
In time, full black had come to prevail, advocated for by religious bigots. In some Muslim countries such as Yemen, women dressed in black so they would not be mistaken for prostitutes. I had read the Quran, following Fahd’s advice. It clearly stipulates that married women of great beauty should never draw the attention of other men. The Wahhabi had followed the writings to the letter and had turned them into law.
A law that, among so many others, had paved the way for the rise to power of the dreaded Muttawa vice squads—but the vices themselves paled in comparison to our Western turpitude. Here, some fundamental rights were regarded as major crimes.
During my first six months in Jeddah, I came to the bitter realization that relationships between men and women were utterly biased. They had to be cautious when they met. Very seldom did they speak. Talking to a man outside one’s family circle could send a woman straight to jail.
First, I had to find out where and how people got in touch. When I did, it came out of the blue, and it left me speechless.
It was in the suffocating heat of a Saturday afternoon. Jeddah’s inhabitants flocked inside air-conditioned malls across the city to cool off and do some shopping, the very reason I was there myself. A box of cornflakes was giving me a hell of a time. Because it was cheaper, it sat at the very top of the shelf. I heard the swishing of a robe and smelled a strong scent of oud. A very tall woman grabbed the cornflakes, making sure to bump into me as she did. Then, she leaned forward and whispered in my ear: “You are hot, but are you naughty?”
I was so confused. What was I supposed to say? It was all so sudden, so unexpected. She could tell I was not exactly privy to Jeddah’s little sex tricks. She had written her name and number on a small piece of paper before quietly handing it out to me. I felt intimidated. I turned to face her and give her a good look. Her black eyes were drowned in eyeliner. She gave me a wink, then she left. I watched her tall silhouette fading in the distance. Was I supposed to follow her? Did she expect me to say something? My gut instinct was telling me to stand by and wait.
I mentioned that little incident to Fahd soon after.
“That was the right move,” he said.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Precisely what you did. You didn’t follow her. You didn’t reply. She made a move on you, then she left. Now you can call her, if you like.”
“It’s all so sudden, don’t you think?”
“Here, the very notion of time is foreign. Everybody’s watching out for the Muttawa. There’s no tip-toeing, it’s straight to the point. Let me tell you, your little sweetheart went old-fashion on you.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Nobody goes around handing out papers anymore. There’s text messages, emails, dating apps. New technologies have saved the youth. She should have sent you something via Bluetooth, it’s cooler and it’s a lot safer. She’s probably a bit too old, perhaps you shouldn’t call her back…”
He burst out laughing.
“So that’s how it is? Either you make a move on someone, or someone moves on you, then you quickly give your answer?”
Fahd picked up his phone to show me some messages he had saved. There was no beating around the bush. “I want you,” “You’re mine,” “I’m crazy about you already,” and the ineffable “My heart is free, my body is yours to take”—or was it the other way around?
“Saudi women are like no other. They have this unique kind of romantic and provocative prose, the result of Internet culture. Their generation is well-read but mostly communicates by codes.”
“Why meet in supermarkets?”
“It’s convenient and safer. Malls would be ideal hunting grounds, honestly, but the Muttawa is always around the corner. They don’t bother with supermarkets. Shelves are high, aisles are narrow. Standing next to someone doesn’t look suspicious. If you must cross an entire department store before you can meet with a girl, you’re likely to get caught.”
“Any other places?”
“Wait, are you saying you don’t know yet?”
“I don’t. Enlighten me.”
“Well, some ladies do enjoy a walk by the waterfront, preferably at night. They go two by two, sometimes sisters, sometimes cousins. A brother is often there too, acting as both accomplice and confident. He is also on the look-out. Together, they single out potential targets.”
“Go on.”
“Then, they meet up with other groups and if it matches, they exchange details.”
“And the Muttawa?”
“You see them coming from miles away. They’re fat, slow and careless, with a huge beard and prayer beads they keep twitching nervously. Kinda hard to miss.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating a little?”
“Don’t ever forget. The Muttawa is a haven for losers and zealots. To their credit, I thought they’d be even more perverted. I thought they’d infiltrate dating websites. The higher-ups are telling them to hold off, that’s my guess.
I had to see it for myself. I drove to the promenade along the Red Sea, by the international hotels. And indeed, I witnessed a peculiar ballet. Young people were strolling around in pairs, at regular intervals. When two couples met, they quickly exchanged looks. If contact was positive, they slowed down their pace. They proceeded to exchange a few words, sent text messages. Then they left the promenade and went back home. A phone call would be enough to arrange the next meeting.
I had to step inside the arena. I parked my car near a fruit stand and started walking. The atmosphere was intriguing. In the dark, the strollers were invisible, blurry shapes. The waves covered the sound from car engines. They also covered the few voices in the night. Add in a bit of mist and it looked like a typical horror movie. Not exactly ideal, if you ask me.
In the distance, I could make out two black shapes. My first date. As we got closer, tension built up a notch. Their impatient gestures were an obvious sign of nervosity. With only a few steps between us, they slowed down. One of them whispered: “Do you wish to know me better?” It was her way of reaching out to me. An arousing invitation to reveal her intimacy to me. All these things left unsaid, the constant game of hide and seek—it made more sense to me, now.
Soon after, she sent me a text with her number. It was signed Warda. I was officially the lucky owner of a young woman’s contact details. Although I had no clue what she looked like. That was the only real advantage women had over men.
“They can evaluate the product immediately, whereas bad surprises are often in store for us. The thrill of discovery can leave a bitter taste in one’s mouth. You’d better believe me,” Fahd had warned me. More often than not, the niqab opened on a world of disappointment rather than wonders.
“Beauty isn’t the only thing kept away from prying eyes,” he added.
I kept up the pace and received a dozen messages that evening. None of them really stood out. Choosing one was a tough call. Fahd had mentioned luck, and rightly so. Dressed in full black, they all looked the same. It was impossible to judge based on appearances alone. I knew for a fact the ladies from the second group were rather plump. I wrote them off my list. I was left with nine numbers. A nickname caught my attention. It spelled Basma, meaning “smile”. I thought it was clever, as her smile would remain hidden as long as she was covered up. I did not call immediately. I wanted the toing-and-froing to last a little while longer.
The following day, I chose a spot further away from the luxury hotels. Although the little game remained, the silhouettes had changed. There were more men than women. First, I thought they were here to chaperon. Turns out they were also looking for potential partners. I received as many messages from men as I did from women. Their aliases, Harba or Jazzar, left very little doubt as to the nature of their intentions.
Fahd had to acknowledge, slightly ashamed, that most of his fellow citizens were bisexual.
“The youth is desperate to get some,” he had commented.
The following week, I was forced to concur.
I had yet to call Basma. I was on the coastal road once again, picking up numbers and deleting most of them. Fahd had left me with this warning: “Tread carefully.” A prophetic warning if I ever saw one.
A white Jaguar pulled over as I was waiting for a cab to take me home. The driver, a young Saudi with a remarkable English accent, offered to give me a ride. The Saudis were a hospitable people, and this was a common way of showing it. They were also very curious about foreigners. I stepped into his car and gave him some general directions, but kept my address a secret. He was driving slowly. He gave me the usual treatment, asking what my nationality was.
“Where are you from?”
“From France.”
“Fransawi, very good… Chanel, Yves Saint-Laurent…”
I nodded.
“Are you married?” he asked.
I shook my head. He seemed pleased, but that did not make me the least suspicious. He got on the freeway, took to the left lane and started speeding up. I looked at him questioningly. That was when he put hand on my thigh.
“I like you,” he said.
“Yes, but I…”
He did not let me finish.
“Say no more. I know you want me.”
He sped up again, leaving the city behind us as we headed towards the desert. Such speed was incapacitating. I had to do something, quick. I turned to him: “I want you too, but not right now. We should have dinner first.”
He seemed upset. He pondered for a second and came up with a good address. Hopefully, it was in town. I did not want to have to denounce him at the next crossroad. The police would not believe my story, and would likely accuse me of being the tormentor rather than the victim.
He chose an Italian restaurant. He thought the place was romantic. To me, it was simply chilling. He asked me what I wanted, and made it clear he would pay the bill. I thanked him and went with the chef’s tasting menu. I had to keep up the act, so he would think I wanted to spend the rest of the night with him. I had to be of pleasant company, and answer his flirtatious advances to the best of my ability. After the main course, I cut our lovely conversation short and excused myself to the restroom. He asked whether he should come with me. Thank God, he was not being serious.
From the restroom, our table was out of sight. I ran out of the restaurant as quickly as I could. I jumped into one of the many taxis waiting in front and told the chauffeur to drive me to Fahd’s. I did not feel like walking around my neighborhood. Without being aware, I had been very cautious. No address, no phone number. He had nothing on me. But he would be looking for me back where we had met. Thus, I steered clear of the coast for a couple of weeks.
I needed some physical activity to keep me on the move, otherwise I would turn into a sedentary, overweight middle-aged man. I contemplated swimming. But, swimming in the Red Sea was strictly prohibited in Jeddah, because it implied showing some skin.
I have always disliked public swimming pools, so I ruled out swimming altogether. I ordered a pair of rollerblades online and went back to the coastal road. I could not let the thought of that lone driver in the night scare me anymore. I did not want to become paranoid.
Cruising along the coast with my rollerblades felt amazing. I was going fast, and the gusts of wind coming from the sea were intoxicating. One day, I decided to keep going well into the evening. Although I was not in a flirtatious mood, I was forced to admit that the rollerblades were increasing my chances tenfold. The game remained unchanged. Take a stroll, slow down when coming up next to a small group of people, exchange details and move on to the next. Only this time around, I was going a lot faster. I picked up twice the amount of numbers. The passersby seemed to love my new technique. One of them even offered her rump as I was rolling by. I could not believe my eyes. I did not touch it, so she insulted me.
Again, Basma was among the list of mysterious names I had picked up. Was that a sign? I called her.
“Hello, Basma?”
“Good evening roller-man,” she said without hesitation.
“How can you tell it’s me?”
“You’re the only Westerner I’ve seen around in the last six months. Your French accent isn’t fooling anyone, either.”
“So, you do remember me?”
“Of course I do. First you were coming onto us on foot, now you’re rollerblading, who knows what’s next?” she added.
“A camel…” I answered, without thinking. It was a stupid joke, but she laughed. I was on the right track.
“Your rollerblades look cool. Could I borrow them?”
“I would not lend my rollerblades to a stranger…”
“Don’t worry, soon you’ll know me by my smile.”
“That’s not what I said…”
“But that’s what you meant. Let’s meet on Saturday, by the cliff. I’ll bring a friend. She’ll keep her distance and watch out while we talk.”
“Fine by me. What’s your name? Your real name, I mean.”
“You’ll find out come Saturday,” she answered.
It was exciting. I felt like a kid desperate to open his gifts on Christmas Eve. What an agonizing wait! I had no clue when or where we would meet. I felt helpless, but I suspected she would get in touch at some point. On Friday, she sent me a text message.
“Tomorrow, 6 pm, in front of the great roundabout with a caravel.”
I was there first. I did not have to wait very long. An American car pulled in front of me. Two women came out. I could not tell which one was Basma. She saw I was confused, and she stepped forward.
“Hello. I am Basma.”
I greeted her, hand over my heart as a sign of respect.
The other woman introduced herself. Her voice was deeper. Either she was older, or she was a heavy smoker.
Basma was a lot more relaxed than I was. She walked along the promenade with a firmer step. Local urban planners had built concrete alveoli, a perfect spot for picnicking families, a breeding ground for a multitude of cats and, on rare occasions, a few loving couples.
Basma inquired about my country, my job, my living conditions. She was pleased to learn I was single.
I could not ask her a single thing. Every question I had seemed inappropriate, but I could tell my silence came as a surprise to her. We had just made it to a romantic alcove filled by the sounds of the rising tide. Basma’s friend kept watch further up on the path. Basma took my hand so I would join her against the shelter’s wall. She took off her veil and smiled at me. She was not particularly beautiful, but her smile was magnificent, and eyes very light for this part of the world.
“Disappointed?” she asked, with a bit of anxiety.
“Quite the opposite, I find you very attractive,” I dared.
“Then I’ll show you the rest,” she said with disturbing self-assurance.
She opened her niqab slightly and I saw what she wore underneath, a translucent white blouse and a black mini-skirt. She had a gorgeous body. I smiled back and put my hand on her shoulder.
“Not here,” she said.
I took my hand off and asked what her real name was.
“Noura.”
Thus began our relationship. I experienced first-hand the codes and dangers of flirting on Holy Land.
We would often stand by the cliff. Our meetings were short, but intense.
The coming and going intensified on that cliff and, to my surprise, rollerblades became more common.
“You’ve started a trend, a new way of flirting. Jeddah’s youth owes you a debt of gratitude,” Noura told me.
I wanted her, badly. How much longer would our little foreplay last? Sometimes, unable to control myself, I grabbed her hand in public, or hugged her too close on the escalators. One night, we met up in a mall near the city center. I hated that place. The Muttawa’ stench was everywhere.
We sat at a coffee table. I was nervous, upset. I was constantly reminded of my high school years, when touching meant nothing, when kissing was easy and making love was the most natural thing. I took her hand under the table and held it tight. Moments later, two men came up to us. They addressed Noura, without so much as a look in my direction.
“Show your papers. Is he your husband?”
Noura said no. They asked us to follow them. They took us to the police station in two separate cars. I asked the driver whether I could use my phone. He was not opposed to it.
I called Fahd and told him everything. He took care of it.
A few hours later, I was free.
Fahd was the equivalent of what the Saudis call “vitamin W”.
W stands for wasta, meaning “influence”.
“You won’t survive around here without some vitamin W,” he had told me once. “If you see a woman going about her business uncovered, rest assured she’s got friends in high places. No one would ever even think to bother her.
Noura had her own bottles of vitamin W.
Shortly thereafter, she recounted her police questioning to me. They had asked why she had fallen for a man wearing shorts and jewels—meaning the worthless ring on my finger. I thought that was hilarious. I promised I would only wear trousers. They had also asked her why we were holding hands. The Indians walked hand in hand in public, and the Saudis kept touching each other as a sign of friendship, so what was the big deal? The Muttawa was not amused by that answer. The conversation was cut short.
There were other difficulties during our time together. After dating for many months, we had yet to do it. Noura was not a particularly devout Muslim. She had no desire to stay a virgin before her marriage. She had been with other men. She wanted to do it again. The problem was finding some place where we could do it. Such a headache. It was reminiscent of my youth, when my girlfriend and I could not afford a hotel room and we ended up at the back of the family break, twisted in ways that were not exactly pleasurable.
It felt just the same. Going to my apartment or to hers was simply out of the question. Too many potential witnesses, too many traps in our way. And I refused categorically to do it in the car.
There was this three-star hotel close to the city center, where I had stayed for a few weeks before moving into my apartment. The owner, Afez, was a kind man, originally from Syria. He and I smoked the shisha together. We were friends. I called him to tell him about my predicament.
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” he said with a laugh.
“What do we do, then?”
“Just rent a room like a regular customer, she’ll come quietly through the back door. There’s a service elevator.”
Everything went according to plan.
Noura joined me in the room after having received the signal, a text message sent by Afez once the hallway was clear. It takes accomplices to get laid in Jeddah. First, a good friend acting as a chaperon. Then, some hotel manager willing to look the other way.
Noura threw herself at me. She undressed neglectfully, tossing her niqab at the far end of the room. She had finally found the long-lost key to her chastity belt. We did not bother with foreplay. It had been going on for months, after all. Our embrace was brutal, intense. She screamed, and her shriek paralyzed me. But I was so aroused, I kept moving inside her. She was twirling like a snake with its head cut off. She screamed a bit louder, and I heard knocking on the wall of the adjacent room. I ignored the warning. Noura was letting herself go. She was moaning with pleasure. She was loud—it was her way of making love.
Noura was about to climax when the telephone rang. I did not pay attention to it. It stopped. Noura’s body was possessed, and I could hardly keep up. She got a violent spasm and howled again. Someone knocked on the door. I rushed to the door and eyed through it. Afez was standing there. He had a bad look on his face and seemed rather impatient. I put on a bathrobe and opened the door.
“You have two minutes to get the hell out. I’ve had three or four customers complaining, one of them a religious man on his way to Mecca who said he’d report you to the authorities. I’ve had to apologize. I told them you were a married couple reunited after a long break. I even blamed nature’s call, and the lack of soundproofing. You don’t want them asking you personally where you plan on going for the honeymoon, so be quick about it.”
I briefed Noura. She looked worried. We put our clothes back on and went out through the backdoor. That incident put an abrupt end to our relationship. Noura feared they would identify her. It would bring shame on her family. We could not see each other ever again.
I offered to drive her home. Cabs were scarce at that time of night. We arrived at her place. She stepped out of the car without even looking at me. She was deeply ashamed. She was mentally erasing me from her memory. It was heartbreaking. It had taken forever for us to bond sexually. Yet a minute-long lecture had been enough to separate us for good.
I never heard from her again. I never tried getting in touch. Haunted by the unfortunate outcome of this liaison, I put an end to my nightly roaming. No more rollerblading. No more clandestine meet-ups by the sea. I did go back once as a passive observer, out of curiosity. I did not take the coastal road. I sat on a bench to get a sense of this lovers’ carousel. For the first time, I noticed a different kind of ballet, that of cars with chauffeurs. It felt like walking up the steps in Cannes. An unending trail of black cars parked in front of palaces. Women stepping out, being careful not to crease their evening gown. The niqab stood in lieu of designer clothes and accessories.
I had witnessed the same ballet of drivers dropping passengers in front of malls. Fahd had explained to me that Saudi women often dated their chauffeurs—most of them from Pakistan. They were Muslims and kept to themselves. The promiscuity inside the vehicle made things easier.
One of the kingdom’s best kept secrets, according to him.
Women are not allowed to drive, because being able to move freely means paving the way to licentious behavior. One of my clients, Khadija, a wealthy Saudi, was very vocal about her outrage. “We are all Bedouin daughters. Who in his right mind would think that riding camels was forbidden to Bedouin women?” Khadija was among the few public personalities to openly condemn the unequal treatment of women. Her finances lived up to her temper.
The first day we met, she came to greet me in a light-pink Chanel suit. She told me all about her days in California, Europe and Australia. As an ambassador’s daughter, she had been able to confront the Wahhabi’s misogynistic paradigm to the realities of the West. While we were reviewing potential designs for a sofa, she happily digressed to tell me about her student life in Berkeley. It is safe to say that Khadija significantly increased my vitamin W intake.
When lunchtime came, Khadija excused herself and briefly disappeared. She came back wearing an abaya, stood in front of me and shouted “Ninja!”
I would have expected that kind of humor. Her wittiness had cemented our friendship. I wanted to stand by her side in the fight against obscurantism.
Khadija was on every front. As a businesswoman, her social status kept her safe from the Muttawa’s constant harassment. Although she struggled to keep up with this daily farce, she refused to leave for Europe. Often, the stubbornness of the patriarchy upset her greatly: “And to think that in the Middle Ages there were no SUVs, no satellite TVs…”
She was leading the resistance, jumping on every occasion to raise awareness about women’s living conditions in Jeddah. The members of her movement wore flashy skirts underneath the hijab.
“It has to come from Jeddah, because it is so close to the Red Sea. Seaside cities are the most reformist, it’s been proven time and time again. Ships, tankers, merchandises… They open our eyes to the world. Every city should border the sea.”
Khadija enjoyed a powerful network of intellectuals, Berkeley alumni she had met in Dubai. They gave her great moral and logistic support. A small piece in the papers, a provocative blog post, anything was good so long as it furthered the cause of Saudi women.
Every Friday afternoon, I was invited to her villa to take part in debates. What seemed inconceivable in the outside world—women openly engaging and debating with men—was customary in the private salons of this influential businesswoman. I always arrived just in time for drinks.
One day, with all the guests gone, Khadija took me to a remote corner of her villa. She wanted to step things up. “No violence. Just a peaceful, fun way to mess with the censors.”
Her idea was a bold one. I knew right then and there why she needed my help. All dressed in black, some women from the group would have their pictures taken in situations that would upset the Wahhabi code of ethics. I became their accomplice and helped stage realistic compositions that defied what the kingdom so stupidly and vehemently prohibited.
I began by photographing Zeina, a young student, the daughter of Khadija’s friend. She was the boldest in the lot. The prettiest, too.
Zeina wanted to pose as a truck driver.
I requisitioned one of the vehicles we used for delivery. That was the easy part. Zeina and I traveled South. Medina was up North, with Mecca in the East. We had to steer clear from these places. How was one to justify the presence of a woman driving a truck at such a short distance from the most sacred places? Way too much trouble ahead. The French consulate was not exactly swift, and my stock of vitamin W would never suffice were I to be caught in such a compromising situation.
Zeina was dressed like a Pakistani delivery man, her short hair hidden underneath a dirty cap. She had a rough pair of jeans on and an equally rough pair of shoes. She spit as soon as she got out of the truck, but did so in such a clumsy way I almost burst out laughing—it would have been the end of our trip.
With my green eyes and dark skin, I had little trouble looking like a migrant from Peshawar. I had grown a full beard and bought a traditional garb from Pakistan. The resemblance was uncanny.
All we had to do was drive as fast and as far as we could, heading straight towards the desert. Which we did, with surprising ease.
No checkpoints, no controls, no questions—even when we stopped to fill up our tank and Zeina did not answer the gas attendant who spoke to her in Urdu.
We left Jizan highway and took a detour that led to nowhere. Just perfect.
We drove an extra 6 miles and found the perfect spot, an abandoned farm where no one had been in a long time. Behind the farm, a great hill made of red sand kept us out of sight. If a car was to come near, we would hear it from miles away and see it on the main road followed by a long stretch of red dust.
Zeina undressed in the cabin. She let go of her male clothing and put the traditional niqab back on. I could not help but look at her. I could see the top of her back, and her shoulders. Her partial nudity left me speechless. She turned to me and smiled. Her innocence was subjugating. I looked away, thinking to myself: “Dear God, not again.”
Zeina sat behind the wheel, looking more resolute than ever. I was sitting atop the farm. At any moment, I could have slipped through the rusty steel sheet. I found a stable position and began immortalizing Zeina’s feats. The sun was coming down, shading a crimson hue over the desert. A red hill with purple sky, a black 15 ton truck and Zeina behind the wheel, looking like some mobster, her right hand sweeping through the air like a cowboy. It was in the bag.
We drove back. Night was creeping on us. Khadija had warned Zeina’s parents that she would come home late. She had been invited to dinner along with some other friends.
We arrived at a respectable time and nobody suspected anything. I went home to upload the pictures to my computer. I was frantic. It was so perfect: the colors, the truck, Zeina’s pose and attitude, the Pirelli calendar feel of it all, the fake Arizona-like backdrop and, underneath a stern cocoon, Jeddah’s most beautiful pinup.
“They don’t want us to feel as we truly are, so they won’t see us at all! This veil they’ve imposed on us will stop their investigations,” said Khadija triumphantly.
She often traveled to the US for business. Sneaking the picture out of the borders turned out to be easy. She could not share them online from Jeddah. The whole kingdom was strictly monitored, with only a few hundred thousand Saudis allowed to use the Internet daily.
Thanks to her friends from Berkeley, Khadija was able to share it all over the social networks. It had been her plan all along: bypassing the press to focus on viral online campaigning. Our work was met with great enthusiasm and this little farce gained momentum.
Between photo ops and open flirtation with Zeina, life was good for me back then. She came from a wealthy family. Her father was a senior civil servant and her mother, a refined woman, taught at the University. She looked kindly upon our relationship. She was happy that her daughter got to experience true feelings.
I liked Zeina. She was a real beauty with a sharp mind. Also, she was very mature for her age, in a country where most young adults have a teenage mentality. But I was cautious. I made no plans for the future—I merely seized the day.
She thought I was patient, gentle, caring. She said I knew how to handle myself and treat her with respect. Her mother was our greatest ally. She made it easy for us to meet up, with the tacit agreement that we were never to venture beyond the limits of decency and good behavior. In other words, sex was strictly prohibited. If we wanted to do it, I would have to become Muslim and take her for wife. Zeina was aware that relationships between men and women in the West were far simpler, with far less obstacles standing in the way of love. She felt guilty about it and tried her best to soothe my pain.
One night, I took her to a remote restaurant her mother knew well. Zeina was glowing. She looked so thrilled to be with me. I guess she felt some sense of freedom, at last. It was a wonderful night and we were laughing our heads off. When I asked for the check, the waiter made it clear it had been taken care of. I turned to Zeina. She said: “I don’t want you to pay for anything, because I don’t want you to feel remorseful.”
I really liked her. Was it love? The bond between us was undeniably strong. I did not want to admit it, but I was getting used to her cultural ways. Fahd had offered me a copy of the Quran. I went back to reading it. I was actively learning the language, too. I read a lot and gradually morphed into an Arab myself. My love of everything Arab meant I was attuned to this society, to the delight of my friend Fahd. He said my designs were more daring than ever. Bolder but more conformist, I thought to myself.
I could easily win over Zeina’s heart if I became just like the rest of them. I thought about converting so that she could be my wife. We would spend the rest of our days in Saudi Arabia. But the exact opposite happened. As I became more and more Arab, Zeina gradually lost interest in me. It was a mystery to me, but to Fahd it was clear as day.
“She fell in love with you because you were different.”
“All I ever did, I did for her, so we would be closer together.”
“And now you’re no different than the rest of the Saudis. Zeina is smart, open-minded, passionate. This new ‘you’ looks nothing like the man who seduced her a while back.”
Fahd was right. By becoming one of them, I was sacrificing my own identity. Zeina had felt it. Our meetings were not as frequent, and our feelings were slowly fading away.
I wanted to turn things around, to explain myself, but I was caught in a whirlwind working for Khadija. I escaped, but not unscathed.
In the following months, a lot more pictures got published. Insolent but never inappropriate, such was our code of conduct.
For safety reasons, we put some distance between our meetings and the publications. The last work I did for her caused a great deal of commotion in the Middle East.
We had recreated a coffee-shop, a most common sight in Europe, but here in the peninsula, it was considered indecent.
We were in the villa of Khadija’s best friend. She had a great garden, a vast terrace with high walls to keep us safe from prying eyes. It was a Friday afternoon, and Khadija’s friend had been able to send her personal staff home without raising suspicion.
We had to recreate and stage a coffee-shop scenery with three women as customers and a waiter in traditional clothing taking their orders. A wig and makeup did the trick. The ladies were having a blast.
“When I think of all those men wearing abayas to get a glimpse inside women’s public restrooms… Now it’s our turn to play the transvestite,” Khadija boasted.
The disguise was very convincing. I assessed light levels and took the picture from an angle that would not betray our location.
That picture awakened dormant rebels all over the kingdom. We had been bold enough to do it. The women became more vocal and their numbers grew. A journalist filmed herself driving a car in the suburbs of Riyadh, to denounce the absurdity of misogynistic laws and to call for the international community to pressure the regime.
The response came in no time. The Muttawa henchmen multiplied their crack-downs and raids. They abused their power in the hopes of catching the sinners in the act and humiliate them publicly, which was by far the deepest wound they could inflict.
The police came to our workshops. I had not been careful enough with that last picture. The details on a sofa we had designed and sold to a couple hundred customers had given us away. The police was about to cross-check every one of their owners.
Picture in hand, with the help of our order backlogs, inspectors drew the list of suspicious residences and searched them. But our clients were important people. When they realized the chief of police was among them, the case was dropped and they never came back.
But suspicion had taken its toll on our business. The Muttawa had managed to punish us without ever questioning us. Our original designs, once tolerated as the expression of two brilliant creative minds, became the target of a smear campaign. Praised and lauded at first, then dragged down in the mud, along with my reputation and Fahd’s. The local papers were furious. I think some muezzins even dedicated their Friday sermons to both of us. This is not the kind of publicity anyone should ever want.
The very nature of our business was fit for the privacy of boudoirs, not the over-exposure of public controversy. Khadija had enough influence to bend the narrative and counterattack in local papers to defend the artistic value of our work. But it would have been suicide. The police would have linked us all together.
I was put through the wringer. My friendship with Fahd did not survive. My newfound passion for photography had split us apart. Our media setbacks had finished the job. One of us had to go.
Logically, I decided to leave Jeddah. I sold my shares to a Lebanese friend of Fahd, a retailer from Beirut with great business acumen. Now I had to choose my next destination.
It was an easy call. I wanted to stay in the Middle East, but I had to find a city where I could be myself and make a living out of photography. The cosmopolitan city of Dubai, always reinventing itself, was the obvious choice. A haven for democrats kicked out of neighboring dictatorships and a base camp for terrorists looking to recharge their batteries. Yes, it would be Dubai—that small nugget of individual freedom nestled within the world’s most dangerous of straits.
Back then, French citizens were not a common sight in Dubai. The Brits had been there first.
For the most part, my fellow countrymen lived a comfortable expatriate life in Abu Dhabi’s suburbs, near the foreign embassies. Their support was unlikely. I was but a pioneer on Creek’s banks, that small inland sea that has seen the birth and rise of Dubai and so perfectly encapsulates its fragmented history.
Switching careers and starting all over again would be very demanding. Furniture design was now a thing of the past. I had to begin from scratch.
Photography became my profession. Dubai would give me an opportunity. Demand was there, and growing. There were not many of us professionals. With little competition, all I needed was to prove my worth. But first, I had to build a portfolio.
Showing stolen pictures of Saudi women was not the cleverest of moves, reputation wise. I could not afford that kind of controversy.
At first, Dubai seems artificial and tasteless. It struggles to engage you on a personal level. It feels like another Singapore or Geneva, a sanitized city so obsessed with tidiness and order it becomes inhospitable—soon, one feels like an unwelcomed guest in its midst. But the comparison does not do Dubai justice. It is far too dirty. Sandstorms cover the city with dust and give it more humane features. Though fragile, uneven, submissive, I was beginning to tame it. I began to embrace its failures, its scars. Underneath the erected buildings, glowing like poorly scaled fish, I could feel tremendous vulnerability. With caution, I kept looking for a crack, a way in, and by doing so, stumbled upon my very first subjects.
Abandoned homes were a favorite of mine. Old mansions covered with weeds, with stray cats roaming about—living memories of a not-so-distant, potentially painful past. Not everything was brand new in Dubai. People had lived in the city long before the wealthy Russians and the Saudis in their fancy neighborhoods. I took pictures of homes with a history. The first one I shot was by the sea, a little fisherman’s cottage without windows and a rusty garden swing as only proof that a family had once lived between these shattered walls. There was an opening in the wooden fence. One could peep through, just like a keyhole, and see the sea. I saw a sailboat in the distance. Soon, it would meet my line of sight. I took the picture.
Another time, I went walking around Satwa, one of the oldest, most authentic parts of the city, full of Filipinos, Indians and low class Emiratis who have been around for centuries. Satwa was Dubai’s truer soul, a stark reminder of all the pain and sacrifices that had been required to reshape the city into a modern metropolis. Satwa was a collection of small, white, often ill-designed shacks. To someone with wealth, they would have been fit for temporary accommodation, at best. Yet to most, they symbolized what it meant to have lived a successful life—despite their crooked shapes. Real estate developers had sought to rebuild parts of this neighborhood. To them, Satwa was no more than a dirty stain on Dubai’s land register. “Rebuilding” meant kicking families out of their homes and tearing down the walls to build luxury villas near a golf course.
The inhabitants had been kicked out, the doors had been sealed, windows shattered, blue crosses and ID numbers drawn on every front wall. The bulldozers would finish the job.
This part of Satwa looked like a war zone. A war for profit. A few houses still stood around the edges, waiting for their turn to come. Small houses in the front, triumphant towers in the back. I snapped a picture.
I took my best shots during the great fire of the Al Qamar theater. It was the place for Bollywood films. The early Friday screening saw hundreds of young Indians rushing to the booths to buy a ticket. If a celebrity was on the poster, local police came to assist the theatre staff in their struggle to contain the overly excited crowd. True fans had already learned all the songs in the movie by heart. The carefully crafted ballets on screen were echoed by a giant karaoke in the projection room. As soon as the lead actress appeared, you could see hundreds of pairs of eyes shimmering in the dark. The word admiration does not do it justice. She was idolized like a goddess. The men were not themselves anymore. Every time I was amazed by the look on their faces. They were hypnotized by the screen. They could no longer behave or act rationally. Anything could happen, I thought to myself.
Alas! I was right. One evening, Indeya’s latest film was being screened. She was a superstar from the state of Kerala, a gorgeous woman who had risen to the top and had become a queen in Bollywood. Most of the Indians in Dubai hailed from Kerala. Indeya held a special place in their hearts. After the first dance, the whole room was in a trance. Some guy forgot where he was and lit up a cigarette, except he did not put it out properly under his seat. The fire caught quickly. Fortunately, the whole crowd got out in time. The next day, nothing was left of the theater but a burnt black carcass. The seats’ frames were still standing. The screen was completely burnt and the smoke had etched spectral shapes on the wall behind. It was now a theater fit for ghosts. I took a lot of pictures.
The director of the Mathar