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Stranded on another Planet
A night in a Saudi Airport
by Monique Filsnoël
      

     Do you think I really have to wear this black scarf?” I asked the Arab-looking man seated next to me. In the dark cabin of the plane coming in to land in Riyadh, I fiddled with a square of modesty-ensuring muslin.
     “Well, you know, I’m Lebanese and we’re not so strict,” he answered. “For me, religion lies in a person’s heart, not what they wear. Anyway, I don’t like the idea of covering women up.”
     It was great to learn his philosophy, but it wasn’t of much practical help. Never mind. I buttoned up my red mackintosh and knotted the black scarf firmly under my chin. I was arriving in Saudi Arabia for a two-week business trip, and my colleagues had warned me that this dress code was a serious matter.  . . .
     As I gave my passport to the stone-faced immigration official, a smiling, black-mustached young man introduced himself.
     “Your office called this morning to ask me to assist you,” he said. The Swissair badge shining on the jacket pocket of his dark blue suit reassured me.
     Then the immigration official stamped my passport and put it aside. “I keep your passport until your sponsor arrives,” he said.
     “What? I beg your pardon,” I said as politely as I could. “Could you please give me my passport?” The muslin of my scarf was scratching my chin. I could feel the heat invading my body. I was exhausted. It was well past midnight, and I had been on a plane for six hours.
     The young man from Swissair whispered, “When your sponsor arrives, your passport will be given back to you.”
     I moved to an empty space. I had no passport, no sponsor and I’d had no contact with anyone from the office. I could disappear and no one would know.
     The smiling young man was able to speak more openly once we were away from the immigration desk. “You see, you need a sponsor to release you,” he explained. “It is very dangerous for a woman to be alone, once out of the airport. When does your sponsor arrive?” he asked.
     “Surely my sponsor is already waiting for me,” I replied. “Her name is Leila. She’s the manager of our office here in Riyadh. Why don’t you look for her in the arrival hall?”
     “She had better come with a man,” he said grimly . . .

 


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