Daring to Drive by Manal al-Sharif

Author:Manal al-Sharif
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

On the morning of Wednesday, October 9, 2002, my parents saw me off at the Jeddah airport, and I promised them that I would live up to their expectations. In my head were a thousand questions—not least of which was where I would spend the night when I arrived; in my wallet, I had just 500 riyals. When I worked in Aramco’s Expatriate Recruitment Unit, we had a very specific protocol for how we welcomed our new foreign employees. We would meet them at the airport, show them where they would be working, and then give them a complete tour of the compound, so they would be oriented and feel at home. “Here’s the bank,” we would say, “here are the supermarket and laundry facilities; here are the post office and the barber, and here are the cinema and the restaurant.” Finally we’d stop at the housing office, where they would receive a key to their house, equipped with everything they could possibly need: new towels, shampoo, toothbrushes, dish and laundry soap, and enough food for a week. I was looking forward to receiving the same kind of treatment when I arrived; after twenty-three years as a woman in Saudi Arabia, I should have known better.

I landed at Dammam airport and collected my small bag. Everything I owned—clothes, shoes, all my possessions except for a few books—fit into one small suitcase. There was no one there to meet me, not Uncle Ali or anyone else. I took one of the airport taxis and asked for a receipt to give to the employment office in Dhahran. There was nobody to greet me there, either. I felt lost. The only thing I could think of was to head to Abdulhadi’s office. He’d been so helpful to me during the summer; perhaps he could be again.

He greeted me warmly. “I don’t know where to go from here,” I explained. “I don’t even know where I’m supposed to work.”

“Don’t worry, Manal,” he reassured me. He asked Uncle Ali to drive me to my department and told me to call if I needed anything.

“Actually, I don’t even know where I’ll be staying tonight,” I confessed. “Aramco won’t provide me with housing.”

He told me that my department was obligated to provide a hotel room if I needed one, but he wasn’t sure how it would be done, since women weren’t permitted to rent a room without a mahram or guardian. Thanking him for his advice, I headed to my new office with the driver.

When I reached the area belonging to my department, it looked deserted. It was isolated from the rest of the Aramco complex, and the collection of single-story, prefabricated buildings was not very inviting. Their cheerless sandy color did nothing to help. But at least I had arrived. Gathering myself, I entered building 3133 and asked for the Information Protection Division. I already knew two men in the division. The division planner, a man in his forties, was the head of the Planning Group. He escorted me to the office belonging to the head of the Compliance Assessment Group.

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