So, just because, I thought I'd post a few of the pieces of writing that I did during this, my first semester in graduate school.

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My Desert Experience

Not long after I returned to the States after teaching English to university-aged women in Northern Saudi Arabia, my friend and I found ourselves inside her silver Lexus, with little boxes of ticky-tacky flashing by, pondering what I had learned over the previous two years.

While we talked, I looked out the window and wondered, where are the camels? Was that reflection me? Where in the world was I? Psychologists call excessive blinking and trying to make sense of it all, culture shock. I lacked narrative; I called it confusion.

“Perhaps Saudi Arabia was your desert experience.” My friend suggested.

Not understanding, I asked. “What is a desert experience?”

Subjugation

Still on the ground, seated at a plane window with New York blurred in gray, life was hope unheard, unanswered. I squirmed to count women passengers on my Riyadh flight with their heads not covered, “one, no, no, no… OH.” Besides myself, buttoned to the neck, only one other women wasn’t utterly concealed in black. And to think! I had felt conservatively dressed before boarding.

After stewing in discomfort, I grabbed my wadded-up abaya, headed for the back of the plane, slid home a bathroom bolt, and locked eyes in the mirror as my shoulders, my breasts, my waist, the v at my thighs, my knees, and my ankles all disappeared under shapeless black. I wrapped a matching length of black material around my head, felt unbearably stifled, and immediately ripped it off. The put it on. And ripped it back off. . When I self-consciously emerged with my head still uncovered, a waiting Saudi lady praised,

“How pretty you look now,” with a smile in her voice. But, of course, I never saw her face.

Survival

Even if one prefers oceans, the Arabian Desert provides glory in bittersweet orange sunrises and peace in its flushed pink sunsets. In daylight, white camels plod across the desert, leaving prints in sculpted sand. After dark, men cry, “Allah Ahk-bar.” Stars hang in the sky, touchable, as if dangling from an infant’s mobile.

For me, in far-away Sakaka, walking became a means of surviving my post in remote desert. Wrapped in nearly unbearable black, my friend and I’s daily walks enabled an all-to-brief respite from the gun-toting guards and barbed wire that surrounded our compound. During one walk, two men in stiff white collars and checkered red headscarves, veered their truck off the road to chase us across the sand calling, “Hello! Kiss me!”

But most of the time, we women were left alone to vent and rail against what was happening in our lives and what was not happening in our lives. We walked, broiling, damming the powers that be, and collected black fossil-like stones. When summer arrived, another type of escape became a necessity: at night I slipped into my garden’s pool. The guards could not see the moon silver my naked flesh.

Strength

To survive that summer, I needed a break, away. So, in order to comply with my employer’s mandates for good womanhood, I sought permission before purchasing a weekend plane ticket to the city of Riyadh, and arranged for our bus to transport me to the airport. Then, also like a good woman, I warmly thanked them for providing.

Still, one scant hour before take off, they still forced me into an argument.

“No bus.” One boss said.

“Are you saying that I cannot use the bus that my contract pays for?” I asked.

“Take a taxi.”

“Not one taxi in this city - in this bloody province - will drive an unmarried woman. You know this!” I countered, indignant.

Another boss said. “Ok, you can go. But you will first give me your passport, until you return.”

I closed my eyes. I was not going to cry. They were not going to win.

I said. “Sir, I am getting on an airplane. That is fact. I have a ticket for Riyadh that I will use tonight. Or, tomorrow, you will buy me a ticket to the United States. Either way, I am getting on an airplane, with my passport. You, however, may choose my destination.”

A good woman would thank them for allowing her to travel during her break. I did not.

Salvation

I am not the first to travel from subjugation to salvation, hopeless to confident. My friend explained, “In Old Testament days, the Israelites were slaves in prosperous Egypt doing ‘harsh labor with brick and mortar.’ The Israelites became so low in spirit that God took pity on them and convinced Moses to lead them away.

After 40 years of hardship in the desert, the Israelites finally entered their promised land. God commanded, love “with all your heart, soul, mind and strength…”

Today, hope answers my confusion. And that’s a narrative that I can build a future on.