“Damn it, Jochen, I can’t take this any more. I come home tired from work, and you’re parked in front of the idiot box doing nothing. Couldn’t you at least clean up, pick up your stuff, do the dishes?” I don’t remember what else I said; I was furious. Every day was the same, and I’d had enough of it.

“Stop screaming your head off,” Jochen snapped back. “I’ve had enough of you. Go to hell!” He clambered to his feet, stumbled into the bedroom, and slammed the door.

I picked up my handbag and went off to see Gabi, my best friend. She could always expect to see me when I had problems with Jochen, and lately those problems had been unending. Gabi offered me open arms, listening ears, and a warm heart; I unloaded all my unhappiness and fears onto her. As I stood before her door, tears of doubt were already streaming down my face. “What’s happened?” asked Gabi. “You look so pale! Is it Jochen again?”

“Who else?”I blurted out. “I can’t take it any more, Gabi.”

I came inside, and through my sobs I told her how Jochen was starting to drink, and how he laid around all day like some apathetic bum. Both Gabi and other friends of mine had managed several times to find Jochen a job. But it never worked out, either because he didn’t like the position or because he lost it due to persistent lateness.

“Karin, you and Jochen need to take a holiday. Go away together for a couple of days, maybe that will help,” suggested Gabi as she tried to calm me down.

“I don’t know,” I replied hopelessly. “I don’t know if it will help. I’ll suggest it, but he’s so unmotivated. He just doesn’t want to try anything…”

I had fallen in love with Jochen five years earlier, when he was still full of energy and happiness. He had been in his mid-thirties, and I was in my late twenties. We lived together for two wonderful years, and then we married. He was an electrician, and I was a teacher. There was a difference in our educational levels, as well as in the rhythm of our working days, which led to ever-increasing problems. It wasn’t bad at first, but when Jochen became unemployed, we started to fight nearly every day.

A few days later, Gabi phoned me at work to tell me that she had seen an interesting job advertisement in a regional newspaper. She told me to drop by and take a look at it, so after school I went to her home. I read the ad, but it was doubtful that Jochen would jump for it. The job was in Saudi Arabia.

Gabi’s husband, Hadi, was Iraqi. He was against the idea, and told me that Saudi Arabia was a terrible country with a positively medieval regime. “Oh, come on,” said Gabi. “You know, Karin, all Iraqis have hated the Saudis ever since the Gulf War. The Saudis let foreign armies base themselves in their country in order to liberate Kuwait.”

I didn’t know anything about Saudi Arabia; all I knew was its geographical location.

I put the ad into my purse and took it home.

 Jochen, as usual, was flat out on the sofa. My blood pressure went up, but I put on a smiling face. I sat down beside him and prattled like a brainless kid. “Jochen, here is a newspaper ad. A German company is looking for electricians to work on a project in Saudi Arabia. What do you think? Would you like to give it a try? I’d come along with you.” Jochen had been studying the T.V. guide, and was annoyed at being interrupted.             

As his gaze transferred from the magazine to me, I pressed the ripped-out ad into his hand. He read it. He read it twice.

Then he asked, “So, where is Saudi Arabia? Isn’t it in the Far East somewhere?”

“It’s between the Persian Gulf and the Red Sea,” I explained. “It’s a big peninsula just east of Egypt.”

“Oh… yeah… That place. It’s all camels and sand, right?”

“And a whole lot of oil. Companies based in Saudi Arabia pay very well.”

I cuddled up closer to him and read the ad again. “Look, it says here that you’ll get a huge bonus for working overseas, a free apartment, and air tickets twice a year for both of us. That doesn’t sound bad at all.” I tried to animate him, to pique his interest.

“Yeah, but I don’t speak Arabic,” he countered.

“Oh, but you don’t need it. This is a German firm, and you know enough English to get by. Anyhow, this job is near Dubai. One of my colleagues at the school went on holiday to Dubai with her husband, and they really enjoyed it. We can also take a vacation there. And, you know, it will be fun to see a different part of the world. Why don’t we give it a try? If we don’t like it, we’ll just come home.”

After a lot of discussion back and forth, my powers of persuasion did their work,

and Jochen agreed to telephone the firm. He was interviewed, and then immediately offered a job doing electrical installations in Riyadh. Apparently the company was having difficulty finding candidates who were willing to work in such a culturally different foreign locale. Jochen signed a contract which gave him a generous salary, the use of a 200 square meter furnished house in a German residential compound, and an excellent medical plan. We were scheduled to leave in six weeks’ time. I arranged for a one year leave-of-absence from my school, bought books about Saudi Arabia, and got myself a credit card. We got inoculations against cholera and malaria while the company did the paperwork for our Saudi entry visas.

Jochen and I had always dreamed of living and working in a faraway, exotic land. However, I was more excited about moving to Saudi Arabia than Jochen. I not only wanted to experience a different culture and meet new people – I hoped that the change would refresh and restore our failing marriage. During those weeks of preparation, I made a lot of effort to emphasize that this would be a wonderful adventure for us.  I downplayed or denied anything negative about the country.  I collected publicity brochures full of glossy photographs of Saudi Arabia, and shared them daily with Jochen. “Look, how beautiful! So much sunshine! How wide open these endless deserts are! Jochen, you’ll be able to hit the gas pedal and drive like a madman. No rules, no stop lights, no traffic cops -- just flat desert. Your dream come true!” Jochen took some interest.

We decided to keep our apartment in Germany; Gabi agreed to look after the mail and the house plants. Our bags were packed, and off we went, flying with Lufthansa via Frankfurt to Riyadh. It was the first time we had ever made such a long trip together. A six-hour flight.

Before we landed, the pilot made a special scripted announcement. Anyone caught smuggling alcohol or drugs into Saudi Arabia, or consuming them while there, would be heavily punished with either a long jail sentence or beheading. Jochen became afraid. “What kind of people are these?” he asked. But the man who was seated on the other side of us whispered to him, “Take it easy. They give you a lot of leash. I’ve lived here a long time, and believe me, I have a drink every day. One of the Saudi princes arranges for alcohol to be smuggled into the country.”

“Then alcohol is available in Saudi Arabia?” asked Jochen, confused.

“You’d better believe it! The Saudis drink more than us Germans. But behind closed doors, of course.”

A stewardess who was serving us our “last round” then entered the discussion.

“It used to be mandatory that we stop serving alcoholic beverages once we entered Saudi air space. And after landing, we always received letters from the morality police admonishing Westerners for the evil practice of drinking. But none of that happens nowadays. We’re making progress.”

We were met in the airport by company representatives: a German, a Saudi, and a Pakistani. I had already noticed at the passport control that I was the only woman without a black abbaya. I knew that in Saudi Arabia I would have to wear one, even though I was a foreigner, or face problems from the morality police, who are strict Muslims. But, as a new arrival, I traveled without a problem to the German residential compound. It was the evening of March 18,1992, and over 30 degrees Celsius, but everything was air conditioned – the airport, the overpass to the parking garage, the limousine. Only after arriving at the compound did we realize that we were living in a sauna.

Our new home was fully furnished, right down to the cutlery in the kitchen drawers. The compound consisted of forty houses, exclusively for German nationals, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. The inhabitants lived a German life style and strictly conformed to German codes of behavior. There was a supermarket which sold German food and German products. Each family valiantly attempted to maintain a garden, in spite of the desert conditions. In the social hall, current German newspapers and books were available and alcoholic beverages were offered on the sly. In effect, it was a perfect German ghetto in the middle of the desert.

Jochen went off to work the next day. He seemed to enjoy it. I busied myself with housework and tried to personalize our home by buying pretty pictures and artificial flower arrangements. In order to do this, Jochen and I traveled to downtown Riyadh’s amazing shopping malls every evening. It was a consumer’s paradise. Endless luxury boutiques displayed high-end goods from the West and Japan, from Meissner porcelain to the latest high-tech appliances from top companies. The prices were lower than in Germany – hardly a surprise, since Saudi Arabia had no sales tax and its people didn’t have to support national social services. Even the cost of a loan was incredibly low. We bought a jeep and an all-terrain motorbike. After that, we often drove out into the desert, and every weekend Jochen enjoyed high-speed rides on his new bike in wide-open, apparently borderless freedom.

One day our jeep got stuck in the sand when we were far out in the desert, with no sign of human life anywhere. We simply couldn’t get the vehicle out, and Jochen started cursing his decision to move to Saudi Arabia. Then he discovered that the jeep’s battery was empty. “What is this?” he complained. “It’s brand new. The Saudis have cheated us.” It became dark, and the sky filled with stars. We were afraid to spend the night in the desert, and lit a campfire, hoping that someone would notice it. The weather was lovely, and I enjoyed the silence, but Jochen just stared angrily into the fire. Toward midnight we saw a small light on the horizon which looked like an illusion. But it grew bigger. A car was traveling in our direction, and was about to pass us by. So Jochen took off his shirt and waved it frantically in front of the firelight. We were lucky. The driver took notice, and came over to us.

Three Saudi men stepped out and greeted both Jochen and me.  I was immediately attracted to the driver. His name was Satam, and he appeared to be around forty years old.  He was tall and slim, with shiny black hair, dark eyes with thick eyelashes, a carefully trimmed beard and a sensuous mouth.  He opened the hood of our jeep and connected his car to ours with jumper cables. Jochen’s vehicle sprang to life, and we were filled with relief.

Satam was very sociable, and spoke excellent English. With typical Arab hospitality, he offered us a picnic: flatbread with a choice of hummus, cherry jam, yogurt or sesame puree, and Pepsi Cola. We sat around the campfire and got to know each other.

“So, where are you from?”

“Germany.”

“Oh, you’re Germans! We love Germans. They make the best cars in the world – Mercedes and BMW’s. You are hard-working, orderly, and responsible people.” It was nice to hear Satam’s praise.

“Really?” said Jochen, rather pointedly. “You’re driving a Japanese car.” Everyone laughed.

Then Satam proposed that we hunt a dhubb. “What’s that?” asked Jochen.

“Well, let’s drive around a bit to look for one. You’ll see for yourself.”

Satam attached a flashlight downwards from the side view mirror of his car and all of us drove off together. Shortly afterwards, he stopped beside a hole in the sand.  “A dhubb has to live in there. We’ll get him out.” He turned off the car, got a length of hose from the trunk, attached it to the exhaust pipe, and placed the other end in the hole. After running the engine for five minutes, he switched it off and waited for the dhubb to come out.

Slowly, very dazed, the giant lizard scrabbled out, and looked around at us with large, tired eyes. Then he pulled himself up, puffed out his leathery cheeks, and I clearly saw the rows of sharp teeth as he hissed a warning in anger and fear. The dhubb was over a meter long and some 30 centimeters tall. I was suddenly overcome by fear. I ran to the car and quickly shut myself inside. From there I watched the ensuing scene unfold, overcome by horror.

Satam called to me laughingly, “Don’t be afraid! He can’t run that fast!”

Jochen approached the dhubb to get a better look at it. “Don’t go any closer.” Satam advised. “If he bites, he doesn’t let go. We’ll have to rip his jaws out of your leg.”

Satam and his two friends gathered a pile of rocks. They started to throw them at the giant lizard. The first stones bounced off as if they had hit the surface of a tank. But the three men didn’t stop. They threw the stones at it until it died. Satam grabbed the animal, tossed it into the trunk of his car, and we drove back to the campfire.

Using a knife, he then sliced what little meat the animal had from its bones, put it on a skewer, and roasted it over our fire. They offered me a piece. I declined, and nearly vomited at the idea of eating an animal that had been tortured and killed in such a brutal manner. Jochen tried a piece, but immediately spat it out. The meat had a uniquely disgusting smell, was stringy, and tasted terrible.  But Satam and his friends ate the dhubb’s meat and appeared to thoroughly enjoy it. Later, much later, I was to remember their brutal treatment of the animal.

Satam prepared tea over the campfire. While we drank it, we chatted about wildlife in the desert.  Satam had happened to sit by me. He took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, wrote his name and phone number on it, and handed it to me. Jochen wrote down our phone number and passed it to him in return. Satam said that he would like to meet us again. “Certainly, why not?” replied Jochen.

The very next day, Satam phoned our house. He asked if Jochen and I had reached home safely after our desert mishap. 

“Thank you,” I answered politely. “We got back without a problem, and the jeep started this morning without any trouble.” Deep inside, I wanted to get to know this man better; I was curious about him. I didn’t know any Saudis at all, and Satam seemed to be a typical one, according to what I had heard.

“Do you like Saudi Arabia?” asked Satam casually.

“Up till now, it’s been fine. But I didn’t like the dhubb hunting.” Satam laughed into the phone. I then added, “Frankly, I know little about this country and its people.”

“No problem. I can show you Saudi Arabia and also tell you a lot about the Saudis,” he offered.

“That would be nice,” I responded, trying not to reveal my enthusiasm too much.

“Well, what are you doing today? I’ve got nothing planned. We could meet somewhere. Or I could pick you up.” Satam sounded friendly.

“Not today, I’m sorry. How about tomorrow?”

“No problem. I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?”

“In the German compound, in Rabua.”

“I know where that is. I’ll pick you up at ten A.M.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

I leaned back in the armchair and considered whether or not I should tell Jochen about the outing. But Jochen was easily roused to jealousy. He would probably make a scene; there would be a fight. I would tell him afterward. After all, did he expect me to sit around the house all day? I wanted to learn about this country and its people. Later, I’d be able to share all of this with my friends back home.

The next morning, Satam arrived at the compound gate. I was paged. “A Mr. Satam Al Jamil is here to see you?”

“Yes. Please admit him.”

Satam drove in, and picked me up at the house. He proposed that we go to the Sheraton Hotel’s coffee shop. The morality police weren’t allowed to enter its premises to check who was sitting with whom and whether all the women were veiled. We would be comfortable there.

We chose a secluded corner table. I ordered coffee. Satam then said, “I’ll have a whiskey, please.” We both had a good laugh, since alcohol was forbidden – at least in public. He settled for tea.

“Unfortunately, many things are forbidden in Saudi Arabia. But the majority of Saudis are against all these restrictions.  We want to live normal lives, like other people. The muttawas – morality police – and other fundamentalists dictate how we have to live. They’re running the scene. Because of them, foreigners get the impression that we’re strictly religious and very conservative. But it isn’t true at all.”

“Would you sit here with your own wife unveiled?” I challenged.

The question irritated him, but he answered, “Certainly. But that doesn’t depend on me. It’s up to my wife and all our relatives. They tend to be conservative, and put the pressure on me, too. Well, it’s true, I’m a little conservative, because I was brought up that way. But I can be liberal in my outlook when I’m with Westerners. I know a lot of Westerners, mainly English. I work in a hospital, and I get to meet many people from the West.” Impressed, I listened attentively.

Satam suggested that we make a city tour together. “I’d especially like to show you the old city – you Westerners like that. You can snap a couple of photos. I see that you’ve brought your camera along. Why don’t you start by taking my photo?  I’m like the old city – an old guy,” he teased, and we both laughed.

We left the hotel. I began to consider whether I should do this. I hesitated before the open door of his car. “What is it? Are you afraid? Oh, I know what’s bothering you. You think I’m going to kidnap you. Shall I give you my driver’s license?”

“Oh, come on!” I interrupted, and got into the car. I was willing to risk it. Satam’s charm had calmed my fear.

As Satam negotiated through the traffic, he told me, “You know, women aren’t allowed to drive in Saudi Arabia, which is absolutely ridiculous. I have to be a chauffeur for my own family. Well, it’s true that I employ a driver, but nevertheless I have to chauffeur my wife and children a lot. And the muttawas really dislike it when an adult woman is being driven around in a car with a man who isn’t her husband. They say that a devil of temptation sits between every man and a strange woman. So, you see, there’s a little devil sitting between us right now.” We laughed.

Judging by the way the men handled their cars, I was amazed not to see a major accident every minute. “Let me tell you,” I remarked, “even if I was allowed to drive in this country, I wouldn’t do it.  It’s totally dangerous.”

“Oh, you get used to it,” said Satam, concentrating on the road. “…I’d love to take you to visit the Museum of Traditional Folk Art, but it can’t be done.”

“Why?”

“Men and women are only allowed to visit the museum on alternate days. Some of us call it ‘gender apartheid’, you know. Certain days are reserved for families. Today is a family day. But, unfortunately, you and I aren’t a family. But if we lie, we can go in,” he craftily proposed. I found the visiting regulations totally bizarre.

After a drive around Riyadh, we were ready for a meal. “I would like to invite you to eat in the family section of a traditional Saudi restaurant. You’ll experience traditional dishes,” my host proposed.

“What a lovely idea! Thank you!”

“But first I’ll have to buy you an abbaya – you know, like a bathrobe, but in black. Women really must wear it in Saudi Arabia if they don’t want to attract anger and sexual looks from men here.  I’m surprised that you don’t have one. Oh, yes… I forgot that you’ve only recently arrived.”

“I’m sorry. I actually do have one, but I forgot it at home. I’m simply not used to going out wearing a disgusting black tent.”

“No problem,” said Satam. Shortly afterwards, he pulled over in front of a shop and asked me what size I wore.

“Thirty-six,” I answered, about to step out.

“No, no; just stay in the car. You’ll make the muttawas angry. I’ll go buy one for you. It’ll only take a minute.”

In less than five minutes, Satam returned with a lovely piece of shiny silk curtain material.

“Try it on,” he said, opening the car door for me.

As I slipped into the abbaya, I asked him how much I owed him. “Nothing. This is a gift from me to you.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I replied.

“Of course it is. Saudi tradition, Saudi style, made in China; the least I can do is pay for it.”

I thanked him with a smile.

“How about something for something? When I visit Germany, you can buy me a pair of those short leather pants,” he joked.

Just a few meters down the street, Satam parked again, in front of an oriental-looking house with a large sign on it in both Arabic and English: “Saudi Restaurant”. Satam knew the restaurant, and conducted me directly to the family section. The waiters greeted Satam, and ignored me. We sat at a table behind a moveable screen, and Satam explained the menu.

“Have you eaten Arabic food before?”

“No. Go ahead and choose a meal for me.”

As an appetizer, he ordered a salad of parsley, chickpeas, and eggplant paste, which was to be eaten with flat bread; for the main course, rice cooked with almonds and raisins, placed on top of grilled meat. Nearby I observed a Saudi woman eating her meal. Every time she ate a mouthful of food, she lifted her veil outwards with her left hand, shoved the fork in, and then dropped the veil while she chewed. Normally, the waiter would have stayed behind the screen to take our order, but because I was a Western woman with an uncovered face, he came to our table.

Later, Satam ordered a second main dish. “It’s a meat dish called ‘mandi’, he explained. “The recipe was developed by the desert Bedouins. First of all, the raw meat is rubbed down with spices and placed in cardamom sauce for twenty-four hours .Then a hole, about half a meter wide, is made in the desert sand, into which hot coals are placed. The meat is wrapped in a cloth and buried in the hot sand to cook. It’s ready to eat after two hours. Delicious.” Satam licked the food from his fingers; he was eating with his hands. “Today, that dish is prepared in utensils specially manufactured in Japan.”

“Isn’t it sad, how modern appliances are taking over from the traditional?” I commented, and tried to eat my meal with my fingers, like Satam.

The other families in the restaurant sat at their tables behind the Spanish walls. The waiters stayed out of sight. They were only allowed to speak to the male customers, and took the orders from behind the screen. Dinner plates, cutlery, food and drink were deftly handed around the barrier. When a waiter wanted to indicate that he wished to speak to the people at a particular table, he grabbed the top of the Spanish wall, so the guests would see his hand. I kept an eye on these goings-on, and was amazed by this method of communication and service. Satam ordered a lot to eat, and afterwards a dessert, so that I wondered if he expected me to try every Saudi dish in this one meal. After an aromatic cup of mocha coffee, I told him, “Unfortunately, I really must go home now. If I eat any more, I’m going to burst!”

“Well, we don’t want that to happen! So let’s meet another time when you’re hungry again,” bantered my escort. He paid, and we prepared to go out. A waiter passed me, and I said, “Goodbye”. Satam snickered. “You undoubtedly made that waiter very happy. A woman said ‘goodbye’ to him! He never hears that from a Saudi woman!”

“Why is that?” I asked, taken aback.

“Well, some Saudis, as well as our religious leaders, believe that a woman’s voice is a sexual organ. And, just like any other sexual organ, you don’t expose it in public. You may as well have been showing him something else.”

When we got to his car, I decided to go home by taxi.

“Why?” asked Satam with a smile. “Am I such a bad driver?

“No, no; not at all; on the contrary. I just don’t think that it would be right for my neighbors to see us together. What would they think of me?”

“Oh! Are German women just as conservative as the Saudi ones? I had no idea,” he marveled.

“Well,” I explained, “in Germany, just like here, it doesn’t make a good impression if a strange man drives a married woman home.”

“Hey! Tell them I’m your new chauffeur.”

“Look, you have to understand that my neighbors don’t know me well. I’m new here. …You know what? Forget it. It’s none of their business. Feel free to drive me home, but please… just to the compound gate.”

At home, I lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. A stream of thoughts about Jochen ran through my mind: “He has, actually, never treated me with love and affection, especially after he became unemployed, when his behavior was often simply insufferable. In the last few years, we seem to be just living in the same house. He has lied to me. He has cheated on me, which I found out purely by chance. Jochen and I have become friends; we are no longer lovers. I can’t even think about love when I hear his name. We couldn’t talk to each other about love even if we tried.”

 I stood up and went into the kitchen. I had to pull together a dinner for Jochen. In my mind, I could hear him complaining that a hot meal wasn’t waiting on the table. When he had been unemployed, I had cooked for him every day after teaching school. He couldn’t cook. He refused to learn to cook. Macho man. Just another jock.

Jochen came home in a bad mood. He complained about the Saudis; they were lazy, and when they actually did their work, the results were shoddy. A Saudi had ruined a machine by filling it up with petrol instead of diesel fuel.  I tried to calm him down and cheer him up, but he suddenly became enraged. “It was your idea to move to this shithole of a country. Not mine!”

 I suddenly needed to get back at him. I answered in an even voice, “Better than being unemployed, Jochen.”

“I’d rather be unemployed than work for these bloody Saudis.”

I tried to make sense of my experience with Saudis compared to Jochen’s. “I think… we Westerners have to be patient with them. They aren’t technologically as developed as us. But, in human terms, they know how to live properly. They’ve got it right. They’re decent.”

“How in the world would you know that?”

“Well, think of the men in the desert; the ones who rescued us.  I bet Germans wouldn’t be that kind. They probably would have passed us by.”

“Saudis are also brutal and unkind. Didn’t you see how they treated that lizard? You yourself said that it was disgusting. Now you’re saying that they’re decent people. You don’t know what your own opinions are, Mrs. Teacher!”

I swallowed hard, and thought, Jochen’s reverted to his old self. Narrow-minded. Judgmental. Impatient. Always looking for a fight. Flipping out over nothing. 

I picked up a book I had brought from Germany and started to read.

Jochen felt shut out. “So where’s the dinner, anyways?” he demanded angrily.

“It’ll be ready soon.”

“What do you mean, ‘soon’? You had all day to get it ready.”

“Well, look at it this way. When you were unemployed in Germany, I didn’t exactly come home to a hot meal. Not only did I have to cook, but I also had to do the cleaning and the laundry. …Anyhow… the meal is ready. Stop screaming.”

Jochen got up and left our small house. I waited all night, but he didn’t return. I became really worried and couldn’t sleep. In Germany I had friends I could have phoned. I would have gone to Gabi’s. But here? I didn’t know anyone.

The next morning, I phoned Jochen’s workplace. My call was answered by Mr. Schmidt, the director of the project. I asked to speak to Jochen.

“Sorry, he’s outside at the construction site just now. Shall I get him in here to take your call?”

“No, no… That isn’t necessary.  Excuse me, but how long have you lived here in Saudi Arabia?”

“Seven years. Why?”

“Pardon me for my curiosity, but I want to ask you if you like it here?”

“Yeah, sure thing. Me, my wife, and the kids.”

“That’s lovely. Listen, my husband and I are new here and we hardly know anyone. Particularly Germans.”

“Why don’t you and Jochen come over to visit tonight? My wife would be happy to meet you two. We also live in the German compound, in House 21A. Tell you what, I’ll tell Jochen when I see him.”

“Why, thank you. Till tonight. Bye.”

Jochen came home after work and apologized to me for “losing it” the day before.  He had checked into a hotel and spent a sleepless night. Yesterday had been a tough day at work. Then he said, “Everybody who comes here from Germany has these reactions in the beginning.” He was looking forward to visiting the German boss and his family.

I wasn’t very impressed by his apology. Same old thing: he flipped out, and then asked for forgiveness.  We sat down to a take-out Chinese meal which Jochen had picked up on the way home from work as a peace offering.

In the evening we made ourselves presentable and walked over to the Schmidts’. They welcomed us with warmth and kindness. Mrs. Schmidt had prepared a refreshing fruit cocktail using local dates, which was served by their Indian housemaid. It had been a scorching hot day – over 40 degrees Celsius in the shade – but their home was pleasantly cool. Mr. Schmidt took it upon himself to initiate the evening’s conversation.  “You know, the first days and weeks are always the worst when you move abroad. You get used to all the differences very slowly, but, yes – in the end, you do adapt. When we came here seven years ago, everything seemed so desolate. But we’ve gotten used to it. For example, there are almost no cultural activities. If you want to live your life freely, you do it behind the closed doors of your house, in secret and closed clubs, at the homes of friends or else out in the desert.”

“The good thing about living here,” said Mrs. Schmidt, “is that you can earn more money than back home in Germany. You can also afford to take a lot of trips, including trips back home, on a regular basis. We travel four times a year just to Germany. There we visit our family and friends, and we go to the movies, to the theater…”

“In recent years we’ve hardly ever gone out to a movie or the theater,” I mentioned. “So we hardly miss those activities.”

The Schmidts shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “We also have a lot of friends here in Saudi Arabia,” continued Mr. Schmidt. “We’ll introduce you to them soon. The German Embassy has a “Happy Hour” once a month. There you will meet many other Germans, as well as a few other foreign nationalities.”

“Do they serve beer?” asked Jochen plaintively, half-jokingly, half in earnest.

“Yes, of course… That’s why we all attend! Alcohol is forbidden in Saudi Arabia, but if we are able to assist the Embassy in any way, we get our thanks in the form of one or more bottles passed under the table.”

At this point I commented acidly, “But surely one can give up alcohol for some time.”

“I agree,” said Schmidt. “The Saudis live without it, and they aren’t at all unpleasant people. True, it’s a Bedouin society, and they are still nomadic Bedouins at heart in spite of the modernization which started with the discovery of oil.

Think of how much progress Germans have made in the last two hundred years alone.   Saudi Arabia has had only forty years. A society requires time to ripen. And, to tell the truth, right now Germany needs a country like Saudi Arabia – incredibly wealthy but very undeveloped, a society that frequently messes up as it muddles through a process of learning and development.  We can sell them a lot and we can earn a lot. It may sound cynical, but that’s the truth. Every German car which they smash up on their roads requires a replacement. They are a benefit to our economy.”

“They are terrible drivers,” I mentioned. “They don’t follow any rules, and they don’t show any consideration for others.”

“Actually, it’s gotten better,” commented Mrs. Schmidt.  “When we first arrived here, the Saudis didn’t even pay attention to the traffic signals. They would drive straight through red lights. Every time we traveled by car, we took our lives in our hands. But is this so surprising? These people made the transition from camels to Mercedes Benzes in less than thirty years.”

“Driving on the streets of Riyadh is still downright dangerous,” said Jochen. “You really need to have strong nerves, a talent for improvisation, and the agility of a tightrope walker. Listen to this: I was driving on a four-lane street when a local driver – I think he was a Saudi – came up from behind, passed me on the left at high speed, and then suddenly cut in front of me and took a right exit. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. How can they drive like that?”

“There are no rules of the road,” replied Mr. Schmidt. “…Well, no, that’s not exactly true… The rules are: be selfish, self-assertive, sneaky, and have a strong engine. Every second that you’re behind the wheel here, you have to expect the unexpected. That’s why there are so many car accidents.”

“What about automobile insurance?” Jochen asked. “When we bought our car,

the sales rep told us that it wasn’t necessary. Is that true?”

“In theory, none of the cars in Saudi Arabia are insured. The religious experts are against it because the money collected is deposited into interest-bearing investments, which according to Islam is sinful. There are some authorized insurance companies; they are foreign, and under the control of one powerful Saudi prince or another. They very seldom pay out any benefits. Luckily, anyone who has the misfortune to be in a traffic accident, whether he is insured or not, will receive equal treatment. His car will be fixed without charge, and he’ll get free medical attention,” Schmidt explained.

The evening was so pleasant that we forgot that we were actually in a foreign country. The discussion with the Schmidts cheered us up and entertained us as we learned a lot about Saudi society. As we were leaving I commented, “You know, if another society is difficult and strange, it’s a lot easier to live in it if you understand how it works.”

The next day I met Mrs. Schmidt – Veronica – for a coffee. As we sat and chatted, a real and meaningful friendship grew between us. I learned that Veronica’s sister was happily married to a Saudi, and was the mother of three charming black-haired boys.

One day when I was visiting Veronica she proposed a visit to her sister, Inge. She lived in a villa in an affluent district of Riyadh. Her husband was a doctor at the university clinic. After contacting Inge, Veronica had her chauffeur drive us over for a visit. During the ride, I shyly mentioned that I found it unusual that they could employ both a maid and a chauffeur. Veronica replied that capable servants in Saudi Arabia could be hired at very affordable rates

Inge was pleased by our visit. Her husband and children had just arrived home from work and school, and they all greeted us in German. Her husband had studied medicine in Bonn, and the boys were growing up bilingual.

We sat in their spacious living room and discussed life in Saudi Arabia while we drank tea served by a Filipino housemaid. All of a sudden the theme of the discussion became “marriage to an Arab”.  I summoned a little courage and asked, “Could you tell me, Mrs. Assaf (for that was Inge’s surname), I don’t want to intrude on your privacy, but I have heard and read a lot about what it’s like to be married to an Arab. Mostly I have heard that it’s a bad idea for a foreign woman to marry an Arab, and a Saudi in particular.

I also heard that Arabian women leave their father’s jail only to enter their husband’s jail. What do you think of all this? I mean, what’s it like for a German woman married to a Saudi husband?”

“Well, if you marry an Arab, or a Saudi, your relationship has the same potential for happiness or unhappiness as with a German.”

“Of course,” I agreed.

“It depends on the circumstances of the decision to marry, and it depends on the type of man involved. Think about it: if he is modern and liberal in his thinking, independent of his family, and can afford to live alone (because most Saudis live with their parents), then, if the couple understand each other, why wouldn’t the marriage succeed?  Then, if you choose to live in this country, you accept that there will be certain restrictions. As a woman, you have to come to terms with the fact that you have left your own society behind, with all its hustle and bustle. You now live far away from your parents, your brothers and sisters, your friends, and everyone else.  But think about it… Here, over a period of time, you can also establish friendships and piece everything together until you feel that you actually feel that you have a new homeland. I myself am happy here in Saudi Arabia. I’m happy with my husband and with my children, while I’m hearing about friends and acquaintances in Germany whose marriages are falling apart.”

“True,” said Veronica, “but we have to remember that not all German women who are married to Saudis are happy. Think about Sabine. She is deathly unhappy with her husband, who continually threatens her and treats her like a slave. She’s on the verge of suicide or a mental collapse.”

“Quite right,” I said. “Not everyone can be as fortunate as you, Mrs. Assaf.”

We noticed that Inge was being distracted by the needs of her children, so we said our goodbyes and returned home to the compound. I felt considerable sympathy for our chauffeur, who had had to wait for us in the Schmidts’ car during our lengthy visit. But 

Veronica replied that he was used to it, and had probably passed the time snoozing or working on puzzles.

Back home, I went to the kitchen and started preparing the evening meal, because Jochen would return at any moment. Suddenly the phone rang; it was Satam. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Where were you?” he asked.

“I was visiting an acquaintance. She’s the sister of my neighbor, and she’s married to a Saudi. I spoke with her husband, but only briefly.”

“I bet he was shy.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Probably he was in a hurry.”

“All Saudi men are shy.”

“Well, you aren’t!” I laughed.

I heard a noise at the front door and said, “I can’t talk now. Phone me tomorrow. Bye, bye.”

Over dinner, I told Jochen about my visit to Veronica Schmidt’s sister. “And how was your day?” I asked.

“Not too bad. Okay, actually. By the way, the German guys are going to meet at Henrik’s place tonight to play scat.”

“How boring!”

“Well, why don’t you go over to Mrs. Schmidt’s?”

“Because we were together nearly all day, that’s why!”

“Well, what do you want me to do? Just go to work and sit at home every evening?”

“Forget it. No problem. I’ll just stay here and watch T.V. or read.”

But, in truth, I was annoyed. I had wanted to spend the evening alone with Jochen. “Wouldn’t it be nice if Satam decided to call,” I considered, as the evening hours crawled by.

At midnight, Jochen came home, drunk and stinking of beer. The taxi driver had to help him into our house. This reminded me of our years together in Germany, when he had often come home in the same condition.

The next morning, I had to wake him, and he crawled out of bed with difficulty. Half asleep, he went through the motions of washing and shaving himself. The company’s bus driver had to knock on our door and escort him out to the waiting vehicle.

Right after breakfast I got a call from Satam. It made me very happy.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, in a loving, caring voice.

I couldn’t hide my happiness that he had phoned. “Oh, yes! Yes, thank you!”

“What are you doing today? Can I invite you to a Saudi coffee shop? They serve the most delicious Saudi desserts there. Please, don’t say no!”

“Fine! It’s a wonderful idea!”

“That’s just great. I’ll pick you up.”

“No, please don’t. I’ll take a taxi.”  I was afraid that Veronica Schmidt might happen to see us together.

“As you wish. Where shall we meet? How about in front of the Sheraton Hotel?”

“Good idea. See you soon.”

One hour later, we met as planned.  I was so pleased to see him; his face radiated happiness and good cheer. I wanted to get into the front passenger seat of his car and sit beside him, but he stopped me. “No, Karin, please sit in the back. Oh – I’m so sorry for using your first name. Well, now that I’ve done it, may I continue to call you Karin?”

“Why not? After all, we are dating each other,” I replied lightheartedly.

“By the way, I only want you in the back seat to avoid any problems with the muttawas. I want to protect you from them, no matter what.”

“If that’s what’s best, I’ve certainly no objections. Anyhow, there’s lots of room to stretch out back here.”

Satam started the car. A song was playing on the car radio, and he sang along.

“Do you like music?” he asked me.

“Yes, but Arabic music sounds a little strange to my Western ears!”

“You’ll get used to it.”

I enjoyed the ride. There were lots of people out and about in their cars… admittedly, all of them were men. The day was very hot, but Satam’s car was pleasantly cool due to its well-engineered air conditioning system.

It didn’t take long to reach the coffee shop. We got out of the car and entered. The décor was oriental, and all the waiters wore oriental costumes. I was completely charmed.

“Would you like to sit on the floor, Bedouin fashion, or on those lounge chairs?”

“I’ll try the floor.”

The restaurant was hung with intimate and authentic camel hair tents, and the floor was strewn with fine desert sand. In the middle of each tent was a large copper tray covered with glowing live coals. Nearby stood coffee pots, tea pots, glasses etched with Bedouin motifs, and a basket of assorted types of fresh dates. Around the walls of the tent were long mattresses and many pillows covered in colorful hand-woven wool. In front of each tent stood a potted palm tree. In the background, Arabic music played softly over loudspeakers. There were other guests in a few of the tents, but it wasn’t possible to see them directly.

Fortunately, I was wearing my blue jeans under my abbaya. We positioned ourselves on the low mattresses on opposite sides of the blazing coals. Satam ordered  tea, coffee, and desserts. In this restaurant, which was visited by many Europeans, the waiters were allowed to enter the tents regardless of whether the women were veiled or not. They were even allowed to speak to female guests. 

The place evoked in me an atmosphere of the Thousand and One Nights. Somehow Satam grasped this instinctively, for he suddenly said, “I feel that I am the Sultan, and you are my Scheherazade,” which made us both laugh. Then the waiter stepped into our tent with the food and drink.

As we sat there together, my thoughts wandered back to the reality of my life, and I couldn’t suppress the anger and unhappiness caused by Jochen the previous night.

“You look sad. What’s wrong?’

I struggled with the idea of revealing my marital problems to Satam; it could be misinterpreted. Yet I desperately needed someone to talk to. I longed for security, and maybe Satam would somehow provide that.

“Actually, you know, I’m having problems with my husband, Jochen. Last night he came home drunk. He drinks a lot, and I’m so afraid that his company will fire him if he keeps this up. Back in Germany he was fired – twice – for drunkenness.  I thought that there was no alcohol in Saudi Arabia, so he would learn to live without it. But it looks like there are more drunks here than in Germany.  Satam, one of my brothers is an alcoholic. It has destroyed his life. When he’s drunk, he hits his wife and his kids. My family has tried everything to stop his addiction, and nothing has worked.”

“I have a glass of whisky once in a while, but I never let myself get drunk,” said Satam.

“I don’t know what I should do,” I sighed.

“I would like to help you, but I don’t know how I can. Our hospitals have special departments for alcoholics. Do you want me to inquire if they’ll consider him for a therapy program?”

“Jochen claims that he doesn’t have a problem with alcohol. I don’t think he’ll cooperate.”

Our excursion was now overcast by a sense of gloom and oppression. Satam tried to lighten the mood by telling jokes, but I could scarcely pay attention to them; my thoughts were already at home, thinking about what I could pull together for the evening meal.We left the Arabic café.

As we stood outside, Satam said to me, “Listen, if you need me at any time, day or night, just call this number.”He handed me a slip of paper. “That’s my pager. You will always be able to get hold of me.” I thanked him, and stepped into a taxi.

“I’ll phone you tomorrow,” he said, and shut the car door.

Back at home, I entered the house and went into the bedroom to change. To my surprise, Jochen was lying in our bed.

“What is it? Aren’t you well?”

He rolled over and replied weakly, “I took sick leave.”

“Do you want some tea?”

“No. I just want to sleep.”

I went into the living room, stood there, and didn’t know what to do with myself. So I lay down on the couch, covered my eyes with my arm, and fell asleep. When I woke up it was already dark. I switched on the lights and went into the bedroom again. Jochen was still out cold. So I went back to the couch and tried to sleep some more, but it proved impossible; I was wide awake. I pulled together a pile of newspapers and magazines, and read until the small hours of the night.Then, suddenly, Jochen called out my name.

“I’ve got terrible pains. Can you make me some tea?”

I brewed it and brought it to him; he drank a little, and then rolled over onto his other side.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Should I call a doctor?”

“I dunno.”

I went into the living room and dialed Satam’s pager number. He phoned back almost immediately.

“Yes, it’s me. Can you send a doctor to our house? Jochen is really sick.”

“Of course. Right away.”

 Half an hour later, Satam was at the door with a doctor.

“Please come in.”

I took them into the bedroom. Jochen looked pale and was very weak. The doctor examined him and advised him to go to the hospital; his liver didn’t seem to be functioning correctly. Satam and the doctor waited in the living room while I helped Jochen into his clothes. Ten minutes later we were all in Satam’s car, speeding off to the hospital where he worked.

 Jochen was examined, x-rayed, and put through tests. True enough, his liver function wasn’t normal, and he had to remain in the hospital.  During the procedures Satam had me wait in his private office. He showed a great deal of concern for Jochen and made sure that he got the prescribed medicines. He also looked after me, ordering in coffee and offering the use of a nurse’s night bed if I was tired.  Satam demonstrated energy, initiative, and concern for every detail. I was really impressed; I hadn’t expected so much of him.

Then he offered to drive me home.

“You need your rest. Let me take you back to the German compound.”

“No, you don’t have to do that, but thank you. I’ll take a taxi.”

“As you wish, Karin. I’ll phone you tonight with an update on Jochen’s condition. Don’t be worried. Everything will be all right.”

Satam escorted me to the taxi stand.

“Get home safely.”

“Thank you. See you later.”

When I got home, I immediately went to bed; I was really tired. Barely two hours later the phone rang. It was Satam, asking how I was. Still tired and half asleep, I answered, “Fine. I slept well.”

“Jochen has improved. But I’ve spoken with his doctor, and he says that Jochen must stop drinking. Complete abstinence. Otherwise, his liver is going to give up on him.” 

“I’m not sure that information will convince him. Generally, he doesn’t take advice from anyone,” came my doubtful reply.

“Well, the doctor will tell him face to face. In any case, look after yourself. Tonight I’m invited to dinner at my neighbor’s, so I’ll phone you tomorrow to tell you when they decide to let Jochen go home. Just remember – phone me anytime. Do you need anything?”

“No, but thank you. You’ve already been a great help.”

“Well of course; I’m always here for you.”

“Thank you for that.”

“I’ll phone you tomorrow.”

“Bye. Till tomorrow.”

The next morning I went back to the hospital by taxi. I inquired after Satam, but he wasn’t there. Then I entered Jochen’s private room. He was still asleep, but a nurse happened to be present, so I asked her when he’d be released.

“Tomorrow morning, I would think,” she replied, making a professional guess.

Jochen moved in his bed, and as I shut the door behind the departing nurse, he woke up.

“Good morning. How are you today? Feeling better?’

“Yeah.”

“You’re going home tomorrow.”

“That’s great,” he replied in a hoarse voice.

A different nurse brought him a calculatedly small breakfast, and she told me to make sure Jochen ate only light meals and drank only pure juices once he got home. I helped him to sit up. He ate a little, and then asked, “How is it that the Saudi guy we met in the desert knows that I am sick?  Is this a coincidence, or did you phone him?”

“Oh… you mean Satam… I called him, actually. You left his number on a piece of paper by the telephone, and I remembered him saying that he works in a hospital. So I phoned him. He’s nice, isn’t he? He’s really helped you a lot. We have a lot to thank him for.”

“Yeah, nice guy,” mumbled Jochen.

Someone knocked, and I went to the door. “It’s Satam!” I exclaimed joyously.

 He shook both my hand and Jochen’s, and told him, “Tomorrow you’ll be back on your feet and on your way home.  I hope that you’re already feeling better? You look much better today. Your wife was really worried about you.”

The Satam turned to me. “I’ll leave you two alone now. I have a few things to do. But please do phone me directly if you need anything at all. I’ll be in my office. See you later.”

Jochen gazed at Satam in a dumbfounded way and as soon as he was out the door, he asked, “Why was he holding your hand for so long?”

“What? Really? I didn’t notice.” 

“Strange. I’ve read it, and I’ve even seen it: Saudi men do not shake hands with women.”

“I’m sure it’s different if the woman is a Westerner.”

“I don’t think so,” said Jochen. Then he settled himself on his side, and shortly fell asleep again.

I went out to visit Satam in his office. As soon as he saw me, his face lit up, and he ordered coffee for the two of us. A couple of minutes later a nurse came to tell Satam that he was urgently needed in the pharmacy. “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”

The nurse looked at me quizzically and asked, “You’re his new colleague?”

“No – my husband is an in-patient here.” I smiled and asked her, “Have you worked here long?”

“Five years.”

“Do you like it?’

“Well, it’s not bad. I get paid a lot more than I would back home in England, and the professional environment is okay. Satam is the manager of the Outpatients Clinic, and he’s very kind. Please excuse me; I have to go.”

I waited in his office for over half an hour. It was boring, and I wanted to go home. I wrote him a brief note, left it on his desk, and took a taxi home.

I’d barely walked in the door when the phone rang.

“I’m very sorry that I stayed away so long.”

“Think nothing of it. No problem.”

“What are you doing this evening?”

“Nothing special.”

“How would you like to get acquainted with a Saudi family? The family of my oldest sister?  They would be delighted by your visit.”

“Thank you – that sounds wonderful.”

“Okay, then. I’ll pick you up at six o’clock.”

He came to get me and we drove to the home of his sister Sheika, who was in her mid-fifties and had eight adult children. Her oldest son was already forty; she had married at the age of fifteen. She lived with her children and grandchildren in one huge house. All the family members, except the men, were lined up to greet us. The children stared at me through wide eyes; they’d never seen a blonde woman up close before. A few of them tried out English words and phrases on me. My reception was loud and heartfelt. Coffee and dates were served.

“So, what’s this, Satam – a new love?” asked Sheika, both lethargic and bluntly acerbic in her tone.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Her husband’s in the hospital, and she needs a little distraction.”

“… And you need love.”

“Why not?  At my age, not much happens.” 

“Well, you know what you’re doing. She’s pretty and quite pleasant.”

“I know.”

I was busy with the children, and didn’t hear this conversation. Anyhow, it was held in Arabic, which I hadn’t learned. As a former teacher, being able to interact with children again brought me joy. They ranged in age from four up to twelve or thirteen. I was completely taken by the love and harmony which bound all the family members together.

Then dinner was served – in two locations. The men ate in one room, and the women and children in another. I found the situation very uncomfortable. And I was expected to eat with my fingers; there wasn’t any cutlery. Sheika noticed my discomfort and brought me a knife and fork.

 We said our goodbyes at 10 o’clock. 

As he drove me home, Satam explained that Sheika had been a widow for over twelve years now. Her husband had died of a heart attack. “Ever since then, I have been their financial support. In Saudi Arabia, widowed or divorced women don’t get government assistance. They rely on help from their parents and brothers.”

As we approached the German compound, I considered whether I should invite Satam in, or not.

“Well, here we are,” he announced. “Let’s talk on the phone tomorrow, okay?  And don’t bother to come to the hospital. I would like to help Jochen with the check-out procedures, and then personally drive him home.”

“I think it would be better if I was there. But we could bring him home together. You know, he’s a little sensitive.”

“As you wish, Karin.”

Before I got out of the car, I leaned over and gave Satam a goodnight kiss.

The next day we brought Jochen home. We helped him into and out of the car, and when he was in his own bed, I made tea and the three of us sat together. Satam and I chatted with each other, because Jochen refused to join in. As soon as Satam had finished his tea, he got to his feet. “Jochen, get lots of rest. Everything is fine now.”

I accompanied him to the door.

Two days later, Jochen was on his feet and back at work. I began to chat with Satam on the phone at least twice daily, and I often got together with him. I avoided spending time alone with Jochen. I often struggled with the desire to move back to Germany. I wanted to get away from Satam and this emotional bond that was drawing us closer and closer together.  Deep in my heart I truly loved him; I longed for him; I wanted to speak with him and see him every day.  But what would come from this relationship? How would it develop?  At the same time, life with Jochen became increasingly more intolerable. I wanted to return to Germany and divorce him. For some time I lived in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

From time to time Jochen spent his weekends playing skat with his colleagues. He renounced alcohol and reined himself in for a while. On one of these weekends, when the clock showed one or two o’clock in the morning and Jochen hadn’t returned, I became nervous and concerned. Suddenly the phone rang.

“This is the police. Is your husband Jochen Holz?”

“Yes,” I replied in total shock.

“He’s been arrested for drunk driving.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yes. So far.”

“Where is he?”

“In detention in the Al Wafa Police Station. Tomorrow he’ll be sent to jail.”

“Which jail?”

“I don’t know!” replied the policeman, and hung up.

Totally agitated, I phoned Satam and explained the situation. He immediately drove to the police station and phoned me from there. “Jochen is fine, but for the time being, he has to stay here.”Then he drove over to our house, where he told me that he would phone influential connections in the morning to assure Jochen’s release. Just after eight in the morning I phoned the German Embassy, but no one answered. “This is the weekend,” Satam reminded me. He then left to plan his day visiting individuals with the kind of pull we needed. He phoned me in the evening. “I haven’t been able to reach the right people yet. I’ll keep trying.”

The next morning I was able to speak to the German Embassy and explain the situation. The secretary replied in a cold voice, “I am sorry, but we cannot formally help you in such a case. However, it might be possible for us to reach a private agreement. Please understand that we can’t promise anything. Give me your number; if there are any developments, I’ll phone you immediately.”

One week passed, and Jochen continued to be held in the police station. I wasn’t allowed to visit him. Neither the Embassy nor Satam could affect his release. Through a friend in the police force, Satam found out that Jochen’s punishment would be one year of imprisonment, to be served in a jail somewhere in the south of Saudi Arabia. Secretly, deep inside, I was happy about this; maybe it would finally get him off the bottle.

Jochen’s employers at the company believed he would be quickly released and immediately deported to Germany.

Veronica Schmidt came to visit me.

“I am so sorry about what has happened with Jochen. My husband and I are ready to assist you in any way. Please don’t hesitate to call on us.”

“Thank you.  You’re really kind. In my situation I appreciate any offer of help.”

A difficult choice lay before me. Should I return to Germany with Jochen when he was deported, or should I stay in Saudi Arabia with Satam?  He was already married. I had never discussed marriage with him. Maybe he didn’t want to marry me. Actually, I didn’t even really know if he loved me… but I believed that he did. I decided to talk to him openly.

I decided to begin with a test. I invited him to visit me at home. “Our friendship is coming to an end. I’ll have to return to Germany with Jochen,” I told him.

I had never before seen Satam look so unhappy. He looked deep into my eyes and said, “The idea of being separated from you – for any reason – fills me with deep sadness. Please tell me one thing. Are you happy in your marriage to Jochen?”

“You know that I’m not. You’ve seen that. Our relationship has gone from bad to worse.”

“Karin, I love you.”

“I love you too, Satam.”

“Stay with me. Don’t leave. Let’s get married.”

“You are already married,” I pointed out.

“That’s nothing. I’ll get a divorce.”

“I don’t want to make your wife unhappy

“My wife and I haven’t been getting along for a long time now.”

Satam stood up, came over to me, and embraced me. We kissed each other passionately.

That same evening I wrote my husband a long letter telling him that I was going to get a divorce and stay in Saudi Arabia. I gave it to Satam and asked him to pass it to Jochen. Satam phoned his friend in the police force and asked for permission to visit Jochen. He was already being held in the deportation area of the airport, waiting for the final paperwork and a flight to Germany with an available seat. Satam spent the night at my house.

The next morning I regretted my decision to sleep with Satam. Not because he was a bad lover – on the contrary, he was passionate and full of excitement – but because I had recalled a conversation with Veronica Schmidt about marriage to a Saudi. She had told me that if a woman agrees to sleep with her husband before marriage, he considers her to be a loose woman who would go to bed with any man. I decided not to discuss this with Satam. After breakfast, he left for the airport to bring Jochen the letter.

Satam returned in the afternoon, looking depressed.

“What happened? You couldn’t find him?”

“Yes, I found him.”

“What’s his problem? Did you give him the letter?”

“Yes. And when he read it, he fell apart. Even before I spoke to him I could see that he was in a really bad condition. I don’t think you would have recognized him. His face was haggard and pale, and he could barely stand and walk. The minute I saw him, I was sure that he’d been tortured. He told me that the muttawas came to his cell and wanted to convert him to Islam. They tried to force him to recite Muslim prayers. He refused, so they had him beaten. I saw blue welts on his face and back. He showed me everything. His feet are swollen, probably from direct blows. And he can barely see out of his left eye.” Satam’s face glowed with anger. “All that was done in the name of Islam. I am ashamed to be a Muslim and a Saudi.”

I couldn’t stop my tears.

“Jochen says that he refuses to give you a divorce.”

“That means we can’t get married.”

“Of course we can. In Islam a man can marry many women, and he can be married to more than one woman at the same time.”

“It’s not like that in Germany.”

“What’s important, Karin, is that you stay here. I need to see you every day.”

I had felt the same, but hadn’t had the courage to say it aloud. I needed to be near him. Without him, happiness was unimaginable.

It was late – close to midnight. Satam was not making any moves to go home. I yawned to show him that I was tired.

“Go to bed. You’ve had a stressful day. I’ll sleep here on the couch,” he said.

“Satam… I don’t think we should sleep together until after we’re married…”

“Why? Didn’t you enjoy last night?”

“Yes, oh, you know I did. But think about the neighbors. When they notice that a strange man is spending his nights here, how will I look?”

“I thought that Germans were used to such things.”

“No, Germans don’t approve when a strange man spends his nights with a married woman.”

“But Karin, we’ll get married soon.”

“Yes. But until then, we have to live separately. That’s what your culture expects, too.”

“My God… you’ve already become a Saudi woman!”

“We have to respect our cultures,” I replied with an indulgent smile.

“Good. Whatever you want.” Satam got up to leave.

“Please, Satam, don’t be angry. This is better for both of us.”

“Do you want me to go, or not?”

“Yes. But kiss me first.”

He gave me a brief kiss and went out.

“Phone me!” I called from the doorstep.

The next day he didn’t phone. I was upset. I tried to reach him, but an impersonal recorded voice always reported that the party was not available. In the evening, I took a taxi to the hospital to look for him.

Satam was sitting in his office with a nurse, which piqued my jealousy. I walked right in. He stood up and greeted me in a restrained manner. The nurse left.

“Why didn’t you phone me? I’ve waited for your call all day. I tried to reach you many times.”

“I was really busy.”

“Were you busy, or are you angry with me?”

“Well, actually, both; but not any more. Let’s go somewhere and eat. I’m starving,” he replied with engaging charm.

“My God, you’re too sensitive. What is there to be upset about? Come over to my place. I’ll cook you something nice, something German.”

“Fine. Whatever suits you.”

Satam unlocked a cupboard and took out a shopping bag. There were three bottles of wine in it.

Back at my house, I took two portions of rolled meat out of the freezer and heated them in the microwave. I prepared a salad and a delicious sauce. I set the table and put a red candle in the middle. We ate, drank, and enjoyed ourselves, focusing only on pleasant topics. “Marriage can be wonderful if the couple understand each other,” I said with a smile and a little sigh.

“True, very true. But sometimes we burden our lives with worrying about what the neighbors think.”

Both of us laughed. After dinner we went to bed.

I decided that, no matter what, I didn’t want to lose Satam. It no longer mattered to me what others might say about my relationship with him; I had seldom, hardly ever, enjoyed my life as I did now with this man. And a few days later, I learned that Jochen had been deported to Germany. From then on Satam often stayed overnight with me.

One day we arranged to meet in the old downtown marketplace so Satam could buy me a gold necklace; he wanted me to choose it myself. I took a taxi to our meeting point. As we entered this conservative district of Riyadh, the taxi was stopped by three muttawas. The religious police don’t like to see a woman traveling alone in a taxi. The driver and I were detained and taken to an investigation center run by the religious police. In addition to having committed a sin, I didn’t have valid papers with me. They checked up on me in their computer, which was linked to the Ministry of the Interior, and discovered that I had overstayed in Saudi Arabia; both Jochen and I were listed as having invalid, expired visas. I requested permission to telephone Satam.

“Who is Satam?” asked the Chief Investigator in broken English and a threatening tone.

“A friend of mine,” I replied, lightly and with pride.

“Oh, you have a ‘friend’? You are a whore?”

“Excuse me, but I don’t put up with insults.”

“The whore is insulted! Did you hear that?” came the sarcastic response, directed to the other muttawas.

“I want to speak to the German Embassy!”

“In our country, whores go to jail.”

My face turned red with anger.  “Damn you,” I shouted, “I want to talk to the German Embassy!”

“Who is damned? Your own religion is damned. You Christians will burn in hell. But before you go there, here in the sacred land of Saudi Arabia you will live through a small piece of hell, just to get you ready for what you’ll experience after you die. You can’t damn us in our own land, because whoever talks like that gets beheaded by us. Understand?”

A strong muttawa in a white robe which barely reached below his knees (because they believe that the Prophet Mohammed wore something similar) walked up to me; he punched me with full force in my face.  He hit me repeatedly until the blood ran. I began to scream and scream. My face throbbed with pain. I was filled with hatred of these men.

The Chief Investigator dragged me by my hair into the next room and raped me. I was screaming, and the muttawas in the neighboring room laughed hysterically. Finally, when I was about to pass out from shock and stress, I was pushed into a prisoner transportation van with an inside temperature of over 40 degrees and driven to the women’s prison. The van didn’t have a window, it didn’t have air conditioning; there was only a small opening in the roof through which the hot outside air wafted in. I had no idea in which direction we were traveling. It seemed to me that I was inside for an eternity, suffocating and streaming with sweat. Then the van stopped and the doors swung open. I could barely stand up, let alone climb out. A policeman pushed me out of the vehicle like livestock.

The women’s prison was a run-down building far away from Riyadh. High walls topped with barbed wire encircled it. The interior was dingy, moldy, and littered with trash. Since the sewage system was open, it stank of urine and excrement. Flies and every other conceivable type of insect crawled over the garbage heaps. You could hear the buzzing of the insects, and the moans and cries of the prisoners. I was pushed into a cell which held many women. It was very dark. A small hole in one wall admitted a little light. The oppressive heat and the stink made me throw up. The women sat around the walls apathetically, like people in a madhouse, all of them dressed in black. One woman stood up and began to pelt me with hardened feces from the open sewer, as if to say, “There are already enough of us in this room… why did you have to come?”Another woman, who was quite old, approached me and began to kiss me unceasingly. Some of the women were groaning in physical pain; medical care was not provided.  I was wide awake. I shut my eyes and tried to convince myself that this was some kind of nightmare, and that shortly I would wake up to a normal life. The muttawa had told the truth; I was still here, in Saudi Arabia, but living in an unimaginable hell.

The Muslim call to prayer was heard. All the women in the cell lined up into rows, but I stayed in my place against the wall. A female prison guard entered the cell and hit me with a heavy stick. “Criminal, get up and pray with the other women.” I did as I was told. After the prayer, I was punished with kitchen duty. A mountain of plates and spoons used by the five hundred inmates were waiting to be washed. Rats swarmed in the kitchen, animals the size of cats. I tried to scare them away, but my efforts didn’t make the least impression on them. They were completely fearless.

At night I slept on the floor with the other women; not on mattresses, but on greasy and grubby mats. Because our cell only had natural light, as soon as it got dark we had to sleep. At sundown, a woman approached me who wanted to lie down beside me. She reached her hand between my legs. I pushed her away with a shriek and stood up. But where could I go? The room was full of human bodies and diseased minds.  I felt like my very soul, my sense of personal dignity, was being raped. The experience of being there was more demeaning than anything I had ever have imagined.

Nine days passed, and I heard nothing from Satam. Later I was to learn that he had looked for me everywhere. He had inquired about me in the German compound; he had asked his friends in the police force to try to locate me; he had alarmed the Germany Embassy. The Embassy in turn had made a half-hearted attempt to get involved by telephoning the Ministry of the Exterior, but received no response. And according to the airport police, I had flown back to Germany with Jochen. In fact, the police officials at the airport had been given both Jochen’s visa and mine. Without paying any attention, they had simply cancelled both visas. Satam was forced into the open: “That’s simply impossible. I had an appointment to meet this woman downtown. And, shortly before our appointment, her husband was deported.”

“Really?” came the crisp, slightly sarcastic reply from the voice at the German Embassy. “Well, maybe the Saudi Embassy in Germany will look into it.”

Satam continued his search. He told everyone at the hospital and asked for advice. One of the nurses advised him to try to locate a women’s prison south of Riyadh. She explained that a nurse who worked in another hospital had decided to take a taxi home alone at midnight, and had been put in that jail. The mention of the taxi caught Satam’s attention. He phoned a good friend with the police force and asked him to find out if I had been arrested.

One hour later he finally knew where I was. 

He quickly put a plan into action. He gathered two male witnesses and went to see an elderly sheikh, who married the two of us in my absence and without my consent, with the legal date of the marriage set at one month previous. The terms became perfectly agreeable as a gift of money was slipped across to the old man.  In any case, it is completely legal in Saudi Arabia to get married without the bride being present.  Satam took the marriage certificate and headed off to the prison.  When he finally located it, he went to see the Director and demanded the release of his wife.  As soon as he read the certificate, the Director apologized for keeping me in detention for so long. He told Satam that, if he had known that I was married to a Saudi, he would have been immediately informed. But he also gave him some advice, since he was a new husband: to pay closer attention to my comings and goings, and never let me travel alone.

I was called into the office and suddenly treated with great respect, because my husband was a Muslim and a Saudi. “We just wanted to give you a little lesson. You should know that a Muslim woman must never be alone in a car with a strange man. The devil will tempt them. It is written in our religion!” Then he shook his finger at Satam. “…And one thing more. You wife has a boyfriend! A highly respected muttawa in Riyadh informed me of this out of the goodness of his heart. Remember that women from the West, from places like Europe, can’t be trusted. Islam has no place in their societies. Men and women associate freely and shamelessly in their countries. It’s a scandal. The devil will follow this woman every day. Watch her, watch her carefully.”

When I was first called from my cell, I experienced a panic attack, believing that something worse awaited me. I could barely walk from fear. When I saw Satam I jumped into his arms, held him tightly, and burst into tears. I was afraid it might be a dream, because I had dreamed of this meeting so often during my days in the cell. I stroked him repeatedly and kept rubbing my eyes. I was so weak and so happy, that by the end of our interview with the Director I fell unconscious to the floor. Satam had me taken to a hospital by ambulance, where I was examined in the Outpatient’s Clinic. Apparently the doctor had stepped out of the examination room afterwards to inform Satam of my condition. “I have two things to tell you. First of all, your wife is suffering from exhaustion and a gastric inflammation. She’s going to need rest and a lot of vitamins. And now for some good news: your wife is pregnant.”

I was transferred to a hospital room, but Satam was not allowed to visit me. The nurse greeted me kindly. Satam stayed in the hospital; he went to the cafeteria, where he drank coffee and chain-smoked cigarettes. From time to time he inquired about me. “She’s in a deep sleep,” replied the nurses. “A good sign.”

He was allowed to visit me the following day. I looked a lot better and was overjoyed to see him.  I could hardly believe that my nightmare was over.  He sat beside me and stroked my hand. I began to cry, and wanted to embrace him.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” he whispered into my ear. “I promise to never leave you.” And he took me in his arms, although this was strictly forbidden in Saudi hospitals.

“Oh, I am so happy that you are here!”

A few minutes later, Satam asked me if the doctor had told me the good news.

“No. What news?” I asked, with tears in my eyes.

“You are pregnant!”

Unconsciously I pushed Satam away and replied, “What? What did the doctor say?”

“What’s this? Aren’t you happy?”

“Yes, but…” I stopped speaking and sank into my own private thoughts. I hadn’t slept with Jochen in months. The baby’s father was either Satam or the muttawa who had raped me. Then, more out of duty than conviction, I said, “Yes, I’m very happy,” and smiled.

Satam stayed with me. After three days, I could walk again unassisted. On the fourth day, just before my release from hospital, he brought me a beautiful dress and an abbaya, since my own clothes had been soiled and ripped and stained.

In the car I sat quietly beside Satam, but my thoughts and emotions were in a turmoil which I did my best to hide. I was pensive and deeply depressed, but I definitely did not want to share anything with him. So much had happened: I had been raped, I had endured one of the worst prisons on the face of the earth, I was pregnant. It was too much to accept. I was bitter and deeply wounded. I profoundly regretted coming to this country. No where else in the world did such brutality and barbarism exist. A place where women were raped, with great pleasure, in the name of Islam. And when I recalled the prison, I became nauseous and began to tremble. Why didn’t people in the West expose the human right abuses practiced in Saudi Arabia? There were no human rights here. None at all. People were simply walked on. Was it the oil that made Western governments so blind? Why wouldn’t they fight the Saudis?  Because they would turn the taps and shut off their oil exports?  And what had happened to Jochen? He had been tortured. Was he all right? Had he recovered?

 How would I forget or suppress these terrible memories? Would it be possible? That would only be determined in my future. The only thing that I needed to know at that moment was how Satam had found me.

He explained the whole story. He told me that we were now legally married.

“What?  How was that possible? I wasn’t even there!”  I replied in outrage.

“Look, I had to do something! Without that marriage certificate, how would I have gotten you out of jail?” And anyhow, you know how much I love you.  I wanted to marry you, Karin.”

“Yes, but how is something like that even possible? I’m not even divorced from my first husband!”

“Well, according to Islam, a man can have more than one wife…”

“Well, that’s not the case with us.”

“Look, Karin, you are now a Muslim woman who is married to a Muslim man. Everything is legally in place.”

I was completely amazed. “This is totally absurd.”

“Tomorrow you’re going to get new official papers and permanent resident status here in Saudi Arabia.”

“I don’t know about this. Everything is happening too quickly.”

“Darling, stop thinking about it. Let’s go somewhere and have a nice dinner.”

Back in Riyadh, I was anxious to get back to my house in the German Compound to see if everything was in order. “Well, we could drive by and take a look,” suggested Satam. I took the house key out of my purse and tried to open the door with it, but at the same moment the door was opened from the inside by a strange woman. “May I help you?”

“Excuse me,” I replied in shock. “Do I have the wrong place? I thought this was my house.”

“Oh, you must be the lady who lived here before. Please come in. My husband was given your husband’s former job, so we were assigned to your house. Your belongings are in storage with Mrs. Schmidt. Do you know where she lives?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, and went with Satam over to Veronica Schmidt’s. 

“Karin! Where have you been? We looked for you everywhere!” she exclaimed, hugging me.

“It’s a very long story. I’ll have to tell you later.”

“We thought that you flew back to Germany with Jochen when he was deported, that you didn’t have time to say goodbye. We kept your belongings here and waited for you to contact us. Then Jochen phoned us and we learned that you were still in the country. We’ve been so worried!”

I introduced Satam. “This is Satam,” I said – not “this is my boyfriend”, or “this is my husband”.

“Mrs. Schmidt, tomorrow I’ll come by to pick up my things.”

“Karin, you are welcome to stay here tonight. We have a guestroom.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary…”

“When are you planning to fly? Shall we make a reservation for you?  Lufthansa has a flight going out the day after tomorrow.”

“I have to see. I’ll take care of it myself.” I said goodbye.

“All right, then; see you tomorrow, Karin.”

Satam and I got back into the car. I was in a state of confusion and anxiety. I didn’t know if I should fly back to Germany, or stay in Saudi Arabia. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Do you have somewhere for me to stay?”

“Of course,” replied Satam. “We are going home.”

After a while Satam started to slow down. “We’re almost there,” he explained. He parked his car beside a house with high walls. We went in through the gate. It was a two-storied home, and the smell of roasting meat hung sharply in the air. A few small children opened the front door and called out, “Daddy! Daddy is home!” Satam kissed each one of them. They greeted me with shy handshakes and asked, “Who is she, Daddy? A new housemaid?”

 “She’s pretty!” said a little boy.

I didn’t understand anything. Laughing, Satam translated all their comments for me. I replied with a weak smile.

Satam cleared a path through the cluster of children to the living room, where he told me, “Temporarily, we’ll have to stay here, until I rent another apartment. I didn’t expect the marriage to be so sudden.” I didn’t reply. I just sat down on the cushions placed on the floor.

Satam went upstairs to talk to his wife, who was with her three adult daughters. She already knew that her husband had brought a strange woman into the house.

“Who is she?” she exploded, skeptically, aggressively.

“The wife of a friend. She’s having big problems. She lost her husband, and was put into jail. I can’t give you all the details now. But I married her to help her get out of the situation.”

“What’s this? You married her?”

“Pay attention! It was only to help her out! It’s a marriage of convenience until she’s able to legally leave the country. The Prophet Mohammed himself did that. He married women temporarily, until their own husbands returned from war or long journeys. A Muslim man must always help women. But please… don’t tell anyone that I have a second wife. It’s better for you, it’s better for all of us,” he told her, and came back to me.

“Karin, let’s go upstairs to meet my family. Remember, we’re going to live together somewhere else. And if she doesn’t like it, I’m going to divorce her as soon as I find somewhere for us to live.”

“How long will I be here?”

“Not long.”

I accompanied Satam upstairs. He introduced us in a formal, reserved manner. His wife had gray hair which she had attempted to dye black some time before. It was tied back, and a few unkempt strands hung loose around her face. She was wearing a loose housedress covered with a pattern of huge, bright flowers on a loud green background. Her feet were bare.

An Indian housemaid entered the room carrying a tray with both tea and coffee on it.

To relieve the tension Satam said, “It looks like the family has become bigger,” and most of us smiled.

“Father, none of us speaks English. How are we going to understand this lady?” said Khaula, his oldest daughter.

“No problem. You teach her to speak Arabic, and she’ll teach you English. Or, even better, German.  But maybe that’s not a good idea, since I don’t speak German.”

The daughters giggled. His wife sat stiffly in her place. Then she got up and went into a neighboring room. Satam followed her.

“Listen to me. If you don’t accept this woman, I’m going to divorce you. Is that clear?”

I started to come to grips with my new situation, and to show my good will I offered to give Satam’s children their first language lesson. They fetched pieces of paper and pencils, and I taught them a few English words. The older daughters, Khaula, Najat, and Nadia, especially paid close attention. They were eager, enthusiastic, and had fun.

Satam returned and was pleased to see us getting along in friendly manner.  He told Khaula to set up and organize a spare bedroom for me.

The next morning, Satam left early for work. I had had a terrible, sleepless night, plagued by nightmares, and woke several times bathed in sweat. The hell I had experienced in the women’s jail had penetrated to the core of my being. I wasn’t able to really fall asleep until dawn, and I was wide awake a few hours later. I got dressed and left the bedroom. The housemaid, Mimi, was in the hallway, and I discovered that she spoke very good English. She directed me to the kitchen.

Satam’s wife was there. She gave me a withering and hateful look, and told me to get out of her kitchen. Mimi translated this with embarrassment. I returned to the bedroom, phoned Veronica Schmidt, and asked if I could come to see her.

I ordered a taxi and left Satam’s house.

“How are you?”

“Truthfully? …Not good.”

“What ‘s bothering you?’

“A trauma. I’ve experienced a terrible trauma, Veronica, and I can’t deal with it. Whenever I think about it, I start to tremble…”  And then I told her the truth about the previous weeks.

“This is disgusting! Simply disgusting! Unimaginable!” she exclaimed. “…And what do you want to do now?”

“I don’t know.  I’d like to return to Germany, but I’m afraid Jochen will terrorize me.  He did that once before when I decided to divorce him. My life was a living hell. On the other hand, I love Satam. He’s my new love. But I don’t want to be his second wife. And, frankly, I’m afraid of his first wife.”

“Is he willing to divorce her and keep her away from you?”

“He promised me that. But I don’t know if he’s actually going to do it.”

“Well, wait a bit. Give him a chance.”

“Veronica, he married me without my knowledge while I was still in jail. Furthermore, I’m still legally married to Jochen. What kind of unbelievable mess is this?”

“I don’t believe that this is allowed,” she said.

“In Saudi Arabia? ...Yes, it is!”

I asked her if I could phone Satam to come and pick me up. When I spoke to him, his voice was acid with anger when he heard that, once again, I had traveled alone by taxi.  He asked me when I would learn that that was dangerous, and told me to never do it again.

Shortly, Satam arrived in his car. He loaded my belongings into it and we headed back to his house. During the drive I told him about my encounter with his wife in the kitchen.“Look, she’s an idiot; an absolute idiot. But have a little patience. I’ll divorce her soon.” Then he added, “I have a request to make of you. Please – never leave the house alone. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll drive you there.”

I got through the boredom of the long days inside the house by watching the English language television channel and reading books on Saudi Arabia and Arabic culture and literature. I learned Arabic by pointing at objects and having Satam’s daughters tell me the words. They also tried to teach me to read and write. On weekends, I often went to visit Mrs. Schmidt; Satam drove me there. I began to be completely, utterly bored. I started to sleep a lot and to spend more and more time in my room. I felt like a prisoner in my own skin. Satam would often go out with the whole family, and I stayed behind all alone.  I asked Mimi to bring the meals to my room. From time to time, Satam took me out to a restaurant in the evenings. I drank a lot of coffee and smoked a lot of cigarettes. Satam bought me a water pipe, since his first wife also smoked one. For the most part, I only communicated with two people: Mimi, the housemaid, and Jawaher, a younger sister of Satam who was married and lived in the neighborhood. Jawaher taught me a lot about the life of a woman in Saudi society. She had been married for over ten years and worked as a teacher. She was intelligent, and, to my surprise, believed in women’s rights. One day, after we had spent an hour or two together, she actually gave the following speech.

 “Saudi women don’t live normal lives. Both tradition and religion keep us ignorant and uneducated. We only realized this after satellite television was introduced. Before that, we thought that all women in the world lived like we did, huddled together on the dark side of the house, with a wall separating us from the men’s quarters. Now we know that men and women can caress each other, can kiss each other with passion and love. Now we know that there are actually men in the world who can treat a woman tenderly and kindly. Our men appear to be serious and strong, but in reality they are shallow, fragile, and naïve. They hide these characteristics behind serious faces which look like they are carrying all the world’s problems. And consider the fact that we practice total segregation of the sexes from the onset of puberty. This means that women have no idea what a man is thinking. And, in my opinion, our men don’t have any idea what a woman is thinking, either. They think we are only useful in bed or for cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry. I have never, in my lifetime, spoken freely with a foreign man, but when I watch men and women talking on television, I wish I could do the same. At the very least, I’d like to get to know my own husband. I don’t know what his thoughts are. I don’t know my brothers, either. My husband comes home, wants his dinner ready and waiting, asks how the children are, and that’s it. I don’t know what he does at work. I don’t know what kind of problems he faces. And, in turn, I never talk to him about my work in the classroom. We just don’t communicate. After dinner, he takes a two-hour nap; then he goes out to visit his relatives and friends, who are all men. But this is not just my story. Most of the wives in our country, rich or poor, have the same lack of connection to their husbands.  I would love to love and be loved in return!  I want to be seductive and playful! But I don’t even know how to do that. Sometimes I dream that I am looking into the eyes of a handsome strange man, which will never happen in reality. We look outside and see the house walls. When we go beyond them, everything is obscured by the black cloth of our veils. We can’t even breathe fresh air because of that cloth. I want to be like you. I don’t want to wear a veil. On the television, I’ve seen people walking dogs on leashes. Sometimes I think that Saudi women are kept on leashes, too. That’s why, in this country, more women than men get sick.  And you know, my mother’s generation had a better life. Because they believed that every woman in the world lived exactly like they did. That women all over the world existed only to serve men. You are lucky – so lucky – that you’re not a Saudi woman.  To tell the truth, I’m surprised that you love him so much. I think he’s just another chauvinist.”

“In that respect, you’re wrong. Satam is very kind and loving,” I retorted.

“Maybe that’s because he works a lot with Western men and women. That’s changed him. And, as a man, he can look for love wherever he wants. Imagine what would happen to me if I had an affair. I would be stoned to death.”

As time passed, Satam lost interest in me. He came to sleep with me less often; he seldom drove me to Mrs. Schmidt’s, or anywhere else, for that matter. Sometimes he came home very late, or not at all. Apparently he was very busy at work. He didn’t divorce his first wife. We fought loudly and often.

One time, when Satam didn’t come home by late evening, I phoned the hospital where he worked. He wasn’t there. I asked his daughter to locate him, but she had no idea where he might be. Finally, late in the night, he showed up – drunk. When I asked him where he had been he laughed hysterically, slapped me on the side of my head, stuttered a few words in Arabic, and collapsed into a deep sleep on our bed. It brought back memories of my relationship with Jochen. I could barely sleep. I agonized over my situation all night, totally depressed and disappointed, overwhelmed with regret at my decision not to fly back to Germany.

The next morning, I asked Satam once again where he had been.

“What is this? Are you trying to control me?”

“No. I was worried about you.”

“You didn’t need to worry about anything. See; here I am. I had a lot of work to do, and afterwards we had a little party in the hospital.”

“Satam, I have to tell you something. I feel like I’m living in a jail.”

He became furious and snapped back, “I should have left you in the jail! I saved your life, don’t you remember? You’ve got everything you need. What more do you want?  You don’t know what you want – that’s the problem.  I’ve had enough of you, you thankless bitch!” He slammed the door and left.

I collapsed into a chair, sighing in deep resignation. I felt so alone, helpless, and empty. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by a new idea: that all the love and charm which Satam had shown me had been merely theatrical, simply a mask hiding his vulgar meanness. But now I had seen his true face.

Satam’s first wife was pleased by these goings-on; Mimi told me. She had put a cassette of Arabic music and singing into her tape recorder, punched the start button, turned up the volume, and started to dance. And she thought out a plan. She sent her children and the maid on a visit to one of her sisters in another city. She knew, from experience, that when Satam was angry, he stayed away from the house for a few days. She also knew that I was pregnant, and wanted me to lose the child.

 Around midnight, she crept into my bedroom and slammed a massive stick down onto my stomach. I jumped out of bed in shock and screamed for help. “No one is going to hear you, whore!” she yelled, and swung at me again and again. I grabbed a chair and managed to throw it at her in such a way that it hit her directly. She fell to the floor and had difficulty getting up. I used the opportunity to throw on my abbaya, grab my purse, and run in the direction of the house door. I ran to a main street and waited for a passing taxi. Two minutes later, I flagged one down, and had him drive me to Mrs. Schmidt’s.

Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt were horrified. I had to return to Germany; they were adamant. I spent the night at their home, and the following day Mr. Schmidt booked me onto a flight. “Thank God,” he said, “I’ve got you a seat going out the day after tomorrow.”I cried incessantly, and Mrs. Schmidt told me to calm down. On the day of the flight they accompanied me right to the passport control, and planned to stay in the airport until the plane took off.  But I received a paralyzing shock when I presented my passport; one which I hadn’t even imagined. As the wife of a Saudi, I was forbidden to travel alone. I needed my husband’s consent.

We were all left speechless.

Mr. Schmidt phoned the German Embassy. The Consul said that he would try to intervene, and told us to stay at the airport. It was getting late. The flight was delayed to see if anything could be done on my behalf. Nothing. The plane left.

On the trip back into Riyadh I felt that I couldn’t breathe properly, I couldn’t swallow, and I couldn’t think straight. We went to the German Embassy and met with the Consul.

“I am sorry that you couldn’t leave the country,” he told me. “We’ll try to get this taken care of, either by approaching your husband directly and securing his consent, or by dealing through our contacts in the Ministry of the Exterior.  Could you give me your husband’s telephone number, Mrs. Hotz?”

“Certainly. This is it.”

The Consul phoned Satam and attempted to convince him, in a friendly manner, to let me travel to Germany.  Satam wanted to know where I was, and why I hadn’t informed him that I wanted to travel abroad. He said that he was quite willing to give his consent, but that first I should come home to have a little talk with him and say goodbye.

I was afraid of being locked in the house and facing another attack from Satam’s wife. I didn’t want to return. The Schmidts said that they would accompany me, but I only accepted their offer reluctantly.

They reached Satam by phone, and when we arrived at the house, he was waiting for us. His greeting at the door was friendly, and he escorted us to the living room. Coffee, tea, and cake were served. Satam then began to speak. He told us that it is normal for family members to quarrel and fight from time to time. He loved me very much; that’s why he had married me, in spite of the family difficulties it had caused in consequence. He wanted to divorce his first wife and live with me in a different apartment, but at the moment he didn’t have enough money to do this. Somehow or other, however, he would get the money and we would move out. He promised to treat me well. Unfortunately, his family would very much disapprove if I ever traveled alone. Therefore, if I wanted to visit Germany from time to time, he would be happy to accompany me. In that way he could get to know my homeland and the members of my family. 

At this point I dug in my heels and insisted that he provide me with my own apartment. I couldn’t live in that house again; I was afraid – so afraid that I was having panic attacks.

 “All right,” said Satam. “Let’s make a compromise. I’ll get you your own apartment now, and the trip to Germany will come later.”

I instinctively hesitated and held off. But then I said, “That’s all right, then. I accept.”

“Good. Tomorrow I’ll go to the bank and arrange a loan to cover the cost of renting and furnishing your new apartment.”

“Until it’s ready, Satam, I’m going to live with Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt.”

“Okay,” he replied with a dry smile, a habit of his which I had been seeing more and more of since our marriage.

I went home with the Schmidts, and stayed there for five days.

The apartment was rented and furnished. I was happy to hear that I would be moving in. It was small and not really in good condition, but I decided that I could decorate it and make it a pleasant place to live.  This kept me busy and preoccupied for a time.

Satam’s wife continued to harass and terrorize me. She often telephoned and launched into a tirade of verbal abuse. She spread rumors that I had a boyfriend who secretly came to visit me. Once, when Satam was at my place, she arranged for a friend of her younger brother’s to telephone. He asked to speak with me, and told Satam that he was my boyfriend. She had made an agreement with him; if he could get Satam to kick me out, he would get my apartment. She arranged to be driven past the entrance door to my apartment with her daughters in the car.  This young man, with his face hidden by an Arabic headscarf, pretended to be leaving my place and running nervously away just as the car passed by. The daughters reported what they had seen to their father.

Satam didn’t fall for these tricks. But he began, increasingly, to neglect his duties as the man of the house. I received less and less money for household expenses; he neglected to pay the rent for months; I had to withdraw money from my bank account in Germany to cover costs. I wasn’t allowed to go out alone. I wasn’t informed about what was going on, and often he didn’t come to see me or even phone for days on end.

My only support was the Schmidts, who visited me occasionally.  My friend in Germany, Gabi, sometimes wrote me a letter. She told me that Jochen walked around in filthy clothes – he had become emotionally distraught. My replies were long and detailed, as I explained everything I had endured since Jochen’s deportation. Gabi now took to heart her husband’s warning and advice not to be lured to Saudi Arabia.  But she also gave me courage, and she encouraged me to find some way to get out of the country as soon as possible.

My pregnancy was advancing, and doing the housework became more awkward and difficult. I asked Satam to send his first wife’s housemaid, Mimi, over to help me out. Satam arranged for her to come two days a week to clean and do my laundry. At first I was very happy – I regarded her as an old and trusted friend, and it was a joy to see her again. Satam’s wife was furious with this arrangement, not only because I was getting the use of her maid, but also because Mimi and I liked each other. She plotted to destroy at least one of us.

She observed the house on the days when Mimi worked for me, and noted that I would sometimes send the maid out to the tiny grocery shop next door. Then she contacted a muttawa, a member of the religious police, who regularly patrolled our district, and denounced the girl. She claimed that Mimi slipped into the store for a secret romantic tryst with the two Indian shopkeepers, usually during the prayer times, when the store had to be closed and shuttered. This reference to behavior insulting to the Muslim religion – in addition to the accusation of fornication – was designed to arouse the muttawa’s wrath.

The muttawa wanted to know where the shop was, and he wanted to have evidence that Mimi went to shop there.

One day shortly before noon when I sent Mimi out to buy fresh bread and vegetables, Fatima, Satam’s wife, was waiting for her in a taxi. She paid the driver, dismissed him, phoned the muttawa, and entered the shop. She greeted the surprised housemaid and let her make her purchases. Then she engaged her in a long, friendly, detailed conversation. Mimi was puzzled by her behavior, and waited patiently for Fatima to finish speaking.

Suddenly three muttawas entered the shop. They were strong men with long unkempt beards which reached practically to their navels. Fatima announced in a loud voice, “This is she!” and pointed at Mimi. One of the muttawas grabbed her by the back of the neck, just like an animal, and bundled her out toward their waiting car. Mimi began to scream incessantly, and she was heavily slapped twice across her face.  The other two muttawas handcuffed the two bewildered Indian workers.

The muttawas then thanked Fatima for her vigilance in protecting the purity of their religion.  “May Allah praise you for your actions. The girl has sinned against God, and will be stoned to death,” said one of them.

I was upset and confused when Mimi did not return. Four hours passed. Finally, I phoned Mrs. Schmidt.

“I simply sent her out for milk and a few tomatoes.”

“Maybe she went to visit friends,” suggested Veronica.

“She doesn’t have friends in this neighborhood. And anyhow, she wouldn’t do that without telling me. What should I do?”

“Call Satam’s wife. Maybe she went back there.”

“Not a chance. I’m afraid of that woman.”

“Then speak to Satam. And phone me back when you find out what’s happening.”

I was afraid that Mimi had been snapped up by the muttawas, just as I had been.

Satam came home, and I immediately asked him about Mimi.

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s disappeared!”

“Disappeared?”

“She’s been gone since morning, Satam!”

Satam phoned Fatima, who snapped back that she hadn’t seen Mimi since he drove her over to my place. “You swore to me that you would destroy that girl. So let’s hear the truth. What did you do with her?” 

“To hell with you, and to hell with your maid!” she replied, and hung up.

Satam was furious. He drove over to her house and demanded an answer. Without meeting his eyes she replied that both Mimi and I were having illicit relations with men. That we were carrying on like a couple of whores. That the muttawas had caught Mimi in the act in the back store room of my neighborhood food shop.

“That’s a lie, you stupid woman. You denounced her to the muttawas yourself, didn’t you?” He hit her in the face and left the house.

Back at my apartment, he decided to contact his friend who worked for the police. The policeman phoned back soon with information: Prince Salman, the Governor of Riyadh, had already passed sentence against Mimi. She was to be stoned to death.

“For what reason?” Satam demanded.

“Probably for fornication.”

“Where? When? With whom?”

“I’ve got no idea,” he replied in a bored tone. “I’ve got to go now.”

When Satam told me the details, I collapsed onto the living room couch, distraught and totally paralyzed by shock. I could feel anger rising in me like a river. When I looked up at Satam, I realized that he was just as stunned and unbelieving. After a period of silence, I begged him to do something to save Mimi. He began to pace the living room with the frustration of a man locked in a jail cell. “After Prince Salman signs the death warrant, no one – absolutely no one – can do anything to get it changed.”

“My God, is a sentence of death passed so quickly in this country? Can’t there be an appeal?”

“Damn it, Karin, we’re not in the West.  We don’t have proper courts, and we don’t have a justice system. The Prince makes rulings on everything.”

“What kind of country is this? How can it be run like this? There was more justice in the Middle Ages.”

The two Indian shopkeepers were each sentenced to one hundred lashes. The sentence was carried out on Friday, the Muslim day of rest, after the noon prayers, in a large public square outside a magnificent mosque in central Riyadh. Naked from the waist up in the scorching heat of the early afternoon, they were roped to concrete posts with lengths of chain which encircled them from neck to ankles to ensure that they couldn’t even attempt to avoid the whip. An Islamic cleric read the Prince’s sentence aloud to the gathered crowd in a cool, official tone. His speech was scattered with phrases from the Koran. To conclude, he proclaimed: “In the name of Allah, and according to the laws of Islam, the two Indians Farhat Sahti and Jeved Iqbal will now receive one hundred lashes for fornication with a woman. Begin now.”

A tall, muscular man began hitting the men with all his strength. The lash of the whip was made from wool and metal. A couple of times, the whip hit their faces. The men’s faces and backs ran with blood, so that their pants were soaked and dripping bright red.  As the punishment was carried out, some men in the crowd shouted from time to time, “Allah akbar! God is great!”  and others exclaimed, “Long live the justice of Islam!”

The following Friday, Mimi was stoned to death. Before that she was taken to a hospital for a medical examination – not to determine whether she had indeed slept with the men, but to determine that she was not pregnant. If she had been, they would have killed her only after the birth of the child. The Egyptian doctor ascertained that Mimi was not pregnant.

On the day of her execution Mimi was brought to the same place at the same time, dressed in black from head to toe, and with her hands bound behind her. She couldn’t walk, so she was dragged to the middle of the square by a chain attached to her neck, as though she was the carcass of an animal. Her head was positioned on a pedestal, face up, and tied into place with wire. Once again, the sentence was read out to the assembled crowd. “It has been determined that Mimi Wardllah is guilty of fornication. She is sentenced to death by stoning.” Verses from the Koran were read, and the cleric then declared, “Begin the stoning!”

A large pile of stones had been bought to the square by a dump truck. The men, who had just come from their noon prayers in the mosque, rushed to the pile and chose the best they could find. They threw them at Mimi’s immobilized head, while shouting “God is great!” in jubilation. Everyone strove for a direct hit.

Mimi soon lost consciousness. Her head and body soon lay motionless under a pile of sharp rocks. The men continued to shout and pelt her until they were informed that the condemned woman was dead. One hour later, a doctor was summoned to take her pulse and make a medical declaration.“The stoning has been successful!” announced the cleric, with pleasure in his loud voice. “Thanks be to God!” commented a representative of the Ministry for Religious Affairs. “Last time we had to wait over two hours for the whore to die.”

One day I experienced sharp pains. I called Satam at work, and he hurried home to take me to the maternity hospital. I was in labor for many hours, but in the end, I delivered a baby boy with no complications. Satam and I were filled with joy. I felt very lucky to have had a son. I couldn’t imagine what life for a daughter would have been like in Saudi Arabia, as I remembered my arrest and imprisonment, and the stoning of Mimi. Now, at last, I felt that I could understand why Saudi couples in this sexist society were truly sad when they had a daughter. Satam, being a man and therefore responsible for all family decisions, decided to name our son Harun. 

One week after the birth, Satam brought us home. Sheika, Satam’s sister, came over to visit with her two daughters and Satam’s daughters by his first wife. In accordance with Saudi tradition, they brought gifts for the baby, and spices for the mother. Sheika prepared mint tea with walnuts for all of us, and presented me with a small kettle full of cooked garlic cloves, telling me to eat them to get my strength back. I ate one or two, and refused the rest. Sheika told me that Satam had already arranged for the circumcision of Harun and one of his newborn nephews on the very next day. “A circumcision?” I asked, puzzled. 

“Yes, according to our traditions and religion all baby boys must have their foreskins removed.”

“No – I’m not going to allow this.”

“That’s impossible. Your son must be circumcised.”

The next day, Satam drove me and the baby to the circumcision ceremony at Sheika’s house. A crowd of Satam’s relatives attended, and we were segregated by sex into two separate rooms. The house had the atmosphere of a bazaar: everyone was laughing and speaking loudly, and the aroma of cinnamon, cardamom and coffee hung in the air.  Harun was circumcised by a doctor in the presence of the men. He screamed and cried, but I wasn’t allowed to go to my own son, because he was with the men. After the cutting of the foreskin the men cheered, congratulated Satam, and threw gold pieces in the direction of the baby. The women in the adjoining room ululated.  Finally, Satam brought Harun to me. I began to breastfeed him and attempt to calm him down. I found the circumcision abominable and completely unnecessary.

Some time later I was obliged to attend the genital mutilation ceremony of one of Sheika’s daughters, which only occurs when a girl is ten or twelve years old, at the onset of puberty. I found it inhuman and in complete violation of human rights. An older woman who had learned this “profession” from her own mother presided at the ceremony. While the women trilled and sang, the girl was brought out into the middle of the room, stark naked, where she was forcibly laid down on the floor. Four heavy women held the girl immobile by sitting on her outstretched arms and legs. The terrified girl violently tossed her head from side to side, begging the women not to do this to her. As the woman in charge began the operation, the girl began to scream and weep from the extreme pain. Immediately, the women in the room sang and trilled as loudly as they could to drown out her voice. The head woman, who was also a practicing midwife, sliced off the girl’s clitoris. She then stretched out the two lips near the girl’s vagina and quickly pierced both of them, well in from their edges, with a needle. She tightly stitched the two lips together and then, taking the same sharp razor used before, she amputated the soft flesh above the stitches. The wounds were then dabbed with a solution of bright red iodine. Afterwards, the women continued to sing and dance. Sheika received hearty congratulations, and accepted presents on behalf of her daughter. I asked a woman sitting beside me what the purpose of this was.  She replied that it helped the young husband to enjoy the sex act more. Amputation of the clitoris and labia made a woman sexually frigid, so it really didn’t concern her how demanding (or undemanding) her husband would be in bed, or how well he performed, for that matter. Then she gave me a smile.

At home I was preoccupied by the baby. One morning I phoned the German Embassy and requested to have him registered as a German citizen.

“Is the father German?”

“No; he’s Saudi.”

“Then please bring us his birth certificate and a statement from the Saudi Ministry of the Interior proving that your child has not been registered as a Saudi citizen. If he has been registered, then we’ll need a statement that the parents have legally removed his Saudi citizenship. Germany does not allow dual nationality.”

When Satam came home, I told him about this.

“Well, it’s out of the question, of course. He’s been registered for a long time, and that isn’t going to be revoked.  Saudi Arabia also doesn’t allow dual nationality. Harun is Saudi, and he’s going to remain a Saudi.” And he glared at me in such a way that I knew further discussion on this point was out of the question.

I was deeply disappointed, but eventually I began to view the situation differently. I decided that, as long as Harun learned to read, write, and speak German, he would be a true German – whether he had official papers or not. Most important would be to keep him healthy and teach him all about German culture. The rest I left to the winds of chance. The baby gave my life a sense of purpose and brought me joy. Looking into his adorable little face, I forgot all my problems with Satam.

Like a typical Saudi, Satam took little interest in me or Harun. If the baby woke up crying in the middle of the night, Satam rolled over in bed and went back to sleep. He became surly, claiming that my apartment was too small, and he much preferred the spacious home of his first wife. There, if the baby had cried at night, he would be able to just go and sleep in another bedroom. For this reason, he slept at my place more and more infrequently. Formerly he had kept my fridge stocked with food; now it was empty. He stopped paying my rent again. He refused to discuss financial support for me and our son. He claimed that he was broke. But, in fact, he had lots of money – for parties, restaurant meals, and even alcohol.

There were times when I didn’t see him for weeks, and seldom got a phone call from him. In the mean time, I got acquainted with a number of Germans and other Europeans. They all lived in a beautiful new Western complex, equipped with an amazing range of amenities: swimming pool, children’s playground, health club, hair salon, restaurant and supermarket. Saudis were strictly forbidden to enter, as the owners did not want the muttawas to get access to the building.

One day a foreign nurse at Satam’s hospital mentioned that she had visited people who lived in the complex during the weekend.  She described a German lady who had a young child whose father was probably Arab. The mother and son had been in the pool, and she remarked on how well the toddler swam. Apparently the two of them went swimming there every day. Satam suddenly became attentive, and said, “That was my family. So, where did you say you saw them?” 

“In the Sahara Towers over in Al Olaya District. It’s a really lovely complex,” enthused the nurse.

Satam dropped his work and went to the Sahara Towers. He drove up to the parking lot barrier and honked the car horn impatiently. The porter would not admit him; it was a private complex, and he could only enter by invitation. Satam told him that he was there to visit friends.

“Who are they?” asked the gatekeeper. Satam didn’t answer. He backed up, parked beside the building, and walked over to the pedestrian entrance. When he was challenged by the security guard, he attacked him. After a short scuffle, Satam punched him so soundly that he fell to the floor.

He ran into the complex and looked for the swimming pool. 

There were a lot of people at the poolside – children, women, and a couple of men, all in scanty Western swim wear. Satam certainly looked odd in his long, white Saudi gown.  I spotted him, and came over.

“Hi!” I said with a smile. “Have you come for a swim?”

Satam came at me with fiery eyes and slapped me with full force across my face. “Where’s the boy?” he yelled. “Where’s Harun?”  Many people observed this, and stood paralyzed and speechless. Monica, one of my friends, spirited Harun quickly up to her apartment. Two women rushed to my side to help me as I began to collapse. Satam spun around and ran out of the complex. I was hurt, frightened, and deeply humiliated.

I was afraid to go home.

Two of my friends, Monica and her husband Gert, advised me to stay in the complex, since God only knew what would happen to me if I went to the apartment. I agreed to stay. Now, more than anything in the world, I wanted to get back to Germany.

But I needed my passport.

Monica suggested that her husband Gert could go to my apartment to pick it up. But I didn’t know for sure where I had put it away. They offered to accompany me, but I declined.

“Listen, let me leave Harun here with you for a few hours tomorrow morning; I’ll go there by myself while Satam is busy at work.”

“Out of the question! I saw how he assaulted you in public! What will happen to you if you find yourself alone with him?  We’ll leave Harun here with the housemaid, and we’ll go together.”

“All right; if you insist…”

The next morning, Gert drove Monica and me to my apartment. He waited in the car while Monica and I went up. I quickly looked for my official documents – and found nothing.

“Karin, come on, give it up. Let’s get out of here. The Embassy will issue you a temporary passport,” said Monica, who was becoming afraid.

“The pig! The pig! He’s taken my passport, all my jewellery, and my money!” Tears ran down my face. I grabbed a few belongings for myself and Harun, and we rushed out to the car. Gert started to drive back to the security of the complex, but then

decided to head to the German Embassy instead. “Let’s request a new passport right now.”

“Good idea,” Monica agreed.

In the Embassy, I asked for a passport for my son as well.

“That’s going to be difficult. Your child is not registered as a German citizen. He needs a Saudi passport, and, as a minor, the written permission of his father. And you, as the wife of a Saudi, will need permission to travel.”

“No, I don’t, because I’m going to divorce him.”

“If he agrees to that, and you become an independent German citizen, you’ll be free to travel.”

“How do I apply for a divorce in this country?”

“This isn’t Germany. I’m afraid. Here in Saudi Arabia the decision to divorce is made almost exclusively by the husband alone. A woman who requests a divorce will have to wait many years to even see her case presented in the courts. And most of the time, it’s rejected.”

“Okay. What if my son and I leave the country under a different name?”

“We can’t falsify a passport!”

“You could do it on humanitarian grounds,” interrupted Monica.

“That’s simply impossible. We would get into trouble with the Saudi Ministry of the Exterior. And secondly, it won’t be possible because the data in the airport computer system won’t match up. You’ll be asked when you entered the country, and they’ll check it in the system. The Saudi Ministry of the Interior is really well organized. The system was built by German technicians.”

“Bad luck,” commented Gert.

The Consul turned to me. “You’ve only got one choice. Get your husband’s consent.”

“If I meet with him, things will go badly,” I predicted.

I considered my options. I didn’t want – under any circumstances – to meet with Satam. My heart had turned to stone; I hated him. He no longer took any interest in me. He hadn’t remained a good lover, and he hadn’t become a good husband. But how could I convince him to divorce me, how could I twist his arm? I had to do it without provoking his anger. The entire situation was under his control.  Maybe, I thought, I should send Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt to meet with him. At his previous meeting with them he had been charming and quite flexible. If he behaved in the same manner with them again, he might accept the idea of divorcing me. 

Gert drove Monica and me back to their apartment in the Sahara Towers Complex. There we discussed the next step. I suggested involving the Schmidts. Monica phoned them, and they decided to come over. One hour later, they arrived.

Mr. Schmidt was prepared to talk to Satam, and without further ado simply phoned him up and arranged a meeting later that evening. His wife decided to go along, just to “soften up” the atmosphere. I was told not to come; if we saw each other, we would simply see red.

They met in the Sheraton Hotel’s coffee shop. Satam arrived first. When the Schmidts arrived, they greeted each other, shook hands, and ordered coffee. Satam looked both disgruntled and sad. He began to discuss the situation without waiting for the Schmidts to make the first move.

He was very angry that I was visiting the Sahara Towers without his knowledge and consent, swimming in a pool with strange men who were almost naked. This was not normal behavior, and was forbidden by Islam. Mrs. Schmidt kept quiet, but she really wanted to tell him that he almost never came to my apartment and wasn’t providing us with support money. She was pulled back from her thoughts when Satam announced that I should return home, since he wanted me back and wanted us to have a happy married life together.

“Why don’t you take a holiday in Germany with your wife and son? You’ll recover from all this stress and your marriage will get back on track. Karin will give you a tour of the country; it really is very nice. I remember the last time we met – you promised Karin a holiday in Germany. This would be a great time to honor that promise,” said Mr. Schmidt in a flattering and easy tone.

“Of course, but not now.  Harun is still too small; we won’t enjoy the trip. Maybe in a year.”  

“Well, let Karin make the trip on her own. She’s homesick, you know.”

“I understand. But not now.”

“She’s having a hard time. She’s on the verge of a break down.”

“That’s her problem.”

“Listen, Satam, why don’t you consider divorcing her. Karin would agree to it.”

“I can’t do that. She has to raise our son first. When he’s grown up, I could consider it.”

The conversation started to become tense and more aggressive. They had reached a dead end. Satam then announced emphatically that he was sorry, but that he was in a hurry to get home. 

I lived in Monica’s apartment for a week. I thought to myself that, somehow or other, this has to reach a resolution. I couldn’t continue to live without getting a job. My German savings account was almost empty. I inquired if I could get work in the German Embassy or German International School, but nothing was available.

Mrs. Schmidt phoned Monica to tell her that Satam was looking for me. He had just come to the Schmidts with two policemen, and was now heading for the Sahara Towers. He wanted me back. Gert wasn’t home from work yet. Monica spoke to a Swedish friend of hers in the same complex, who agreed to hide Harun and me in her apartment. We quickly gathered our belongings and made the move. 

The porter spoke to Monica over the intercom, telling her that policemen wanted to come up to speak to her. She replied, “No; my husband isn’t home yet.” Two hours later, a policeman phoned and asked for “Mr. Gert”. He picked up the phone.

“Can I help you?”

“We are looking for Mrs. Karin Holz and her son. Is she there?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Where can we find her?”

“I don’t know. I can’t help you.”

The policeman hung up.

Harun and I moved back in with Monica and Gert. Three weeks later, the German Embassy contacted me. They had received a letter for me from the Saudi Ministry of the Interior. It read as follows: “At the request of Mr. Satam Al Jamil, his marriage to Karin Hotz is terminated.  Mrs. Hotz must leave Saudi Arabia within 48 hours or serve up to one year in jail as punishment.”  It was signed by Prince Nayef Bin Abdulaziz, the Saudi Minister of the Interior.

I was filled with ambivalence. On the one hand, I had succeeded in getting the divorce; on the other hand, I would have to abandon my son. I was overcome with horror at the realization that I might never see him again. Only a mother can imagine the terrible emotions which ripped me apart, and my hatred of this brutal system which could cold-heartedly deprive me of my own child. That night, as I put Harun to bed, I couldn’t stop kissing him. I held him in my arms. I tried to suppress the reality of our separation, fearing that my heart would break. I broke into tears, and Harun, feeling my distress, also began to cry.

Because I had become a “foreign national” in Saudi Arabia once again, the German Embassy had dutifully informed the police where I was living.  The phone rang. It was a policeman, warning me to fly out today, or face imprisonment. I didn’t believe him; I was sure this was a set-up pulled together by Satam.

“We had better get Harun to a safer place,” advised Monica. I moved him in with Gudrun, Monica’s Swedish friend.

That evening, Monica, Gert and I sat in their living room, discussing my situation, but finding no way out. Suddenly the doorbell rang. Gert looked out through the spy hole, and whispered to us, “It’s a policeman!”

He began to pound with full strength on the door. The noise was unbearable. Finally Gert gave in and opened it; there were two policemen there, and they didn’t say a word. They just handed him a warrant for my arrest. Monica went into the front hall, saw the situation, and rushed back to me in the living room. I ran and locked myself into the bathroom.

The policemen pushed their way past Gert, paying no attention to him. One of them said, “No English.” They searched the rooms, and noticed that the bathroom door was locked. They hammered on it; I shook with fear, but kept quiet. Then, after a quick, quiet discussion in Arabic, they started to break the door down by force.

Monica was afraid that I would be injured when the door collapsed inward on me. She went to the door and shouted, “Karin, open the door. They’re bashing it in. You’ll get hurt!”

With tears streaming down my face, I unlocked the door and came out. Monica grabbed me and hugged me tightly.

One of the policemen made a quick phone call.  A few minutes later, three more policemen and a Saudi man in civilian dress, probably a detective, stepped off the elevator. All three of us were handcuffed. I resisted, and was hit across the face. The detective spoke English. He asked Gert where the child was. Gert said that he didn’t know, and angrily asked what was going on.

“Really? You don’t know?” commented the detective. “Shortly you’ll be the one telling us everything.”

“I want to use the telephone!”

“Not allowed.”

“I want to speak with my Embassy, damn it!” yelled Gert, absolutely furious.

 The three of us were lead out like criminals. Many of the neighbors – mostly Europeans – had come out due to all the noise, and were gathered around our apartment door. The murmur of conversation rose into anger and shock when they saw us in handcuffs. Some of them shouted aloud, “Barbarians! Get out of here! Get out of our building!”  A Dane telephoned his embassy, and asked the secretary to quickly convey the news of what was happening to the German Embassy. Outside, we were pushed into the back of a police van, and driven to a police station.

We were put into separate cells and called for questioning separately.

“Where is the child?” they asked, over and over.

Gert was slapped and punched. The blood ran, but he refused to answer them.

That evening, the German Consul came to the police station and met with the officer who had arrested us.  He was told, point blank, that no German citizens were being detained there.

The next morning we were taken to the airport and forced onto a plane bound for Cyprus. Without any legal papers, without our passports, without our money – it was the perfect way to dispose of us. Gert, Monica, and I sat on the plane in stunned silence – we couldn’t find any words to describe what had happened to us. It didn’t match my previous experiences, and it didn’t match anything else we might have imagined.

Satam still didn’t know where Harun was, so he decided to take the law into his own hands. He drove to the entrance gate of the German compound where the Schmidts lived and waited there. As soon as the school bus arrived, he boarded it and asked which student was their son, Thomas Schmidt.  He grabbed the seven-year-old out of his seat and got him off the bus so quickly, that the driver couldn’t think how to react. Satam bundled him into his waiting car and sped away. The Schmidts were in a state of panic, and contacted the Embassy immediately.

The next day headlines screamed across Saudi newspapers: a mentally ill German woman had attempted to abduct a Saudi child and take him abroad. Her plot had been found out and she had been deported, but she had hidden the child. The police needed help to find the little boy. Anyone who detected anything suspicious, any possible trace of him, should contact the closest police station.

Not one word was written about the abduction of Thomas Schmidt.

Satam phoned the Schmidts. He told them that their son was in “safe hands”. If they located Harun and passed him over, Thomas would remain unharmed. If they contacted the police and told them that he was the man who had taken the child off the school bus, something extremely unpleasant and regrettable would happen to Thomas.

The Schmidts went to the Sahara Towers and soon discovered that Harun was staying with Gudrun. They drove him back to their place and waited.

Satam phoned again. He told them to take Harun to his first wife’s house and wait there for his call – in return, he would tell them where they could find Thomas.

They went to Fatima and gave her my son.

The phone rang.

Satam reported that their son was already inside their house in the German compound. Veronica Schmidt quickly dialed her own home. Thomas picked up the phone.