A Surprisingly Good Year

My students have the habit of asking me a lot of questions. They ask general questions about my life and my job and what I do with my free time. They ask more complex questions about my opinions on Saudi Arabia or to confirm facts they have heard about the United States. From class to class these questions almost never change in terms of form and substance because there's little thinking outside-the-box, which is what happens when life is guided by strict social norms and where cultural variance is discouraged. 

This means I know exactly what's coming on any given day. Are you married? - Why aren't you married? - Do you have a car? - Do you go to Bahrain? - Is all of America cold right now? (An appropriate question considering it is winter.) Do you go to the desert? - How is Las Vegas? (followed by) Is it a nice city? - Do you like drifting? (Fast and the Furious; the favorite movie of young Saudi men.) Do you drink? - Do you like Arabic coffee? 

But two favorite questions of mine among the countless pointed ones I get from my students go something like this. 1) "Teacher, why did you come to live in Saudia? Saudia is…" at which point many fumble for an adjective and instead flick both wrists toward the floor and stick out their tongues with a smile. "America is good, number 1!" Another hand gesture; this time a thumbs-up. or 2) "Teacher, why do you live here alone? You should bring your family here. Jubail is boring if you don't have family." My answer to the first question is always "for the experience" but they believe they see right through that and add "and big salary!" Uproarious laughter ensues. Before I can lay out my complex answer the second question, I am usually cut off by a student in Arabic who counters by saying my family probably doesn't want to come to Saudi if they live in America. Why would they? 

In truth, they are probably right. I haven't seen Saudi Arabia on anyone's travel bucket list. Casual travel to the Kingdom is only for completists—those who simply must have that passport stamp; a goal that was so attractive in my twenties but feels overrated now that I'm approaching 40. In fact, I bet a straw poll among my Western friends and colleagues here would reveal that no one really figured they'd end up working in a place like the Kingdom, much less stay for a long period of time. 

Yet, they come anyway. And not only do they come, they also stay.  Most individuals I've acquainted with here are not short-timers like me. Instead, they have lived here for 5, 10, even 15 years. I've met men and women who leave and return. And I've spoken with a few who said they planned to fulfill a two year contract and then leave, only to stay one more year, and another, and another. Next thing they know, they're on their 7th year in Saudi Arabia.

Not that we don't have the occasional "runner" to gossip about. Since the Kingdom is a completely closed country—there are stringent requirements for entry, and exit is no picnic either—and contract laws favor the employer, people unhappy with their choice to live here might fake a vacation to Bahrain, Dubai, or Qatar over the course of a weekend and simply never return. I hear about runners every three months or so. Stories abound from the 1970s and 1980s of Westerners with flush bank accounts racking up outrageous debt to buy luxury cars, BMWs, Mercedes, Bentleys, only to abandon them at an airport when they felt like abandoning their jobs. But if Saudi Arabia was only about the tax-free salary, then I'd end this post right now.   

I suppose the good news for me is I've never felt like running. I've had my share of frustrations, but not once have I even remotely been so fed up as to cross the King Fahd Causeway to Manama or catch the hour flight to Dubai and leave the Kingdom in my rearview mirror. Quite the contrary, life in Saudi Arabia has been, well, good and easy.  

About a year ago, this "sabbatical" (as I'm calling it these days) started quite inauspiciously when my flight from SFO to LAX was delayed because of fog. I landed in Los Angeles and pressed my nose against the window only to see my connecting Saudi Arabian Airlines flight on the runway en-route to Jeddah. Three days and two lost and retrieved bags later, I was back at LAX savoring my last beer and bacon cheeseburger for the foreseeable future. Over 18 hours later, I was standing in the new arrivals line at customs, bleary-eyed but ready for the adventure to begin. Though, hadn't it already begun when I decided six months earlier to pursue this crazy idea?

Now, 12 months later I am once again a short-timer reflecting on what I've learned and gained during this surprisingly good year.

Control-Alt-Deleting an Uncompleted Opportunity

Cheryl Strayed hiked the Pacific Crest Trail. Gregory David Roberts escaped to Mumbai. Under far less extreme but still unusual circumstances, I ended up in Jubail, in the heart of Saudi Arabia's petrochemical industry, teaching males aged 18 to 45. I had no clue what a Jubail was before I landed in Saudi Arabia. So try and imagine what went through my head last February in Riyadh. 48 hours on the ground spent in virtual limbo because the company for which I was supposed to teach literally had no idea what to do with me. A meeting was set up with a general manager in charge of the English program, somewhat surprised that I even made it to Saudi in the first place—there is a healthy rate of no-shows that management accounts for.  After 20 minutes of deliberation they shrugged and decided they wanted me to stay in Riyadh. Call it a growth moment, but I refused based on facts I gleaned from a former teacher as well as instinct and maybe even a desire to exert some assertiveness. "Riyadh isn't going to work for me." I stated firmly. "What else do you have?" A few phone calls and five minutes later they relented, "Fine,  maybe you can go to Jubail. You leave in four hours." 

The last 12 months of my life are filled with moments like this, and I'm oft reminded of time in the Peace Corps in Uzbekistan some 10 years earlier. Had I not been through that experience, as well as several lengthy spans in therapy, there's a good chance I would've crumpled into a sobbing, anxious, and infuriated mess. At least 10 years ago I had a support system built into the journey. This time, however, it was me against whatever Saudi Arabia threw at me.  Not only am I happy to say that victory is almost at hand, but I feel that I was also able to come full circle on a Peace Corps experience that wasn't quite fulfilled because of frustrations with my job assignment at the time followed by an unceremonious and stressful evacuation from country. Saudi Arabia provided an upgraded version of the Peace Corps, just with a heftier "salary" and modern plumbing. The universe really does provide when you want it to. 

Rediscovering My "Likes"

I turned 38 years old this year and, tbh, I still find myself trying to figure out what I like. This has been an issue since I was a child, simply because I always saw myself as one of those people who likes most everything. Nothing was ever really mediocre or disappointing. The eternal and optimistic fire that burns white-hot inside me has always tried, for better or worse, to see the good in all things. But if all things are equal, then can you truly like anything or is it all just diluted? 

Life in Saudi Arabia has a tendency to throw dislikes in my face in blunt and rapid succession. The result is my likes are amplified and, even better, I've become more appreciative of the opposite of my dislikes. I shan't dwell on these dislikes too much, but I feel clearer and readier to point them out. I tsk tsk my students' overtly misogynistic comments and firmly explain, as opposed to quietly stew, why they are not allowed to use the N-word in reference to African Americans in my presence. I demand to see a plan of action when it comes to organizing my classes or when I foresee having to sidestep through some bureaucratic nonsense, instead of "going with the flow" which was my previous MO. (Some battles are, however, unwinnable because the clashes of culture here resemble the irresistible force paradox. I keep trying though, mainly in an attempt to satisfy my conscience.) I politely call out litterers like a crazy person and I harass my chronically late and absent students, who in turn look at me with a mix of mild amusement and shame. I scold line-cutters and I call out bad behavior in general. In other words, I'm challenging the dormant side of my personality that deals in assertion and resolve.  

As far as my likes go, these may seem basic. But when do we truly have the time or the space to revisit what carries us through our day? I really like what I'm listening to on Spotify and iTunes these days. Because of the complete lack of music in public—forbidden, according to the Kingdom's interpretation of Islam—I ravenously seek out new music or revisit songs that I used to play obsessively. If you follow my Insta (go ahead and do so; zenliveshere will love it) then you might see I'm still at my photography game. With endless thanks to a gift from my favorite newly-minted married couple #cortopher, my Kindle is one of my best friends here. I really appreciate what Saudi Arabia has taught me as far as understanding my own likes in travel. A quest to cross into Kuwait or Qatar is now tempered with a strong desire to return and camp in Big Sur, or hike in Yosemite, or wander the streets NYC, especially after I share stories about how special these places are with my students. Solo travel now, for me, is overrated. Yet finding solitude is underrated. Shortly after I bought my Trek bicycle at a discount during the August furnace when temperatures would easily top 110°F, I would often return from rides with feelings of buyer's remorse, not to mention physically feeling on the edge of heatstroke. As of January I'm cranking out 30 to 40 kilometer afternoon rides every other day against unrelenting headwinds in gorgeous 60°F weather, surrounded by turquoise waters and laughing my way through quiet neighborhoods as I listen to Serial or This American Life or the Savage Lovecast or SYSK, reveling in the bubble of Americana that I've formed while at the same time avoiding getting crushed by a drifting Toyota Hilux. I charge into each day and class with the energy of an extrovert, but I make sure to end my days savoring time that I reserved for me. 

A New Perspective… 

It's not lost on me that I'm in an fascinating area of the world at a unique moment in history. In a few years, I could be staring at a live feed of a region that is either triumphantly emerging or descending into more chaos. Either way, tears will be streaming down my face because of the attachment that happens when you immerse yourself in a place and gain perspective from inside the borders of a country. From the lens that I look through right now, I see a lot of people rooting against the Middle East, and Saudi Arabia in particular. Whether I'm cursing myself for peeking at the comment section following a news piece on Saudi or listening to the inanity of Islamophobes spew bile, I see angry, hateful people who would be completely satisfied if the whole region were to collapse. But the vast majority of people I interact with on a daily basis (and I'm talking 99.5%) are just trying to get by. And I'm doing my best to root for them. 

Then, I look back through the lens at the United States and I gain a difference perspective. I proudly answer questions from my students about anything American, and I wear my Americanism on my sleeve with pride and without fear. But I'm also infuriated by the politics and cultural nuances that make America look like an insane asylum to the outside world. We're as free to be exceptional and as blindly bullheaded as we want to be, and damn anyone who accidentally steps into our path. There are many Americans who understand that our actions in the global community have consequences, and are conscientious of that fact. But sadly, there are just as many who would just as well say "tough luck. 'Murica." It's that latter perspective that makes me unsettled and angry because those attitudes are not without consequence. Yet I am grateful that I've been able to use this experience to reevaluate and reform my opinions on many issues, including politics, Islam, the West, and my home in the USA. 

…And Renewed Gratitude

I'm thankful for the ability to renew my passport at the US Consulate in Dharhan, which should allow me to return home in one to two months (exit visa and extra work pending.) I'm thankful for the ability to travel for a short while after this trip and visit some close friends in Hong Kong and Taiwan en route back to the United States. I'm also thankful that I don't earn 1000 riyals ($266 per month) pumping gas so I can in turn remit most of it home to my family in Bangladesh and use the rest to pay for a room that I share with 6 other guys. What a seemingly absolute stroke of luck that was born into the privilege I now enjoy. I'm thankful that my job has revealed how awesome teaching and/or counseling students is as a profession and that I should try and stick with it because, damn, I'm good at what I do. I'm thankful that Saudi Arabia has allowed me the space to revisit and do what I like to do best. I'm thankful for my driver, who I found on a complete whim and whom I have been able to trust from day one, especially considering I hopped in his SUV outside the Sharq Hotel in Jubail on the blind faith that he, and his friend that lurked in the backseat, didn't want to deliver me into some murderous death and instead wanted to buy me a cappuccino and a donut. I'm thankful for the completely gracious and adorable American couple who opened their apartment and welcomed me as family into their home and for the perspective they offer as two individuals who are the opposite of me in politics and religion, and yet, believe it or not, we share a happy space together. 

And finally, I'm grateful for this, a Once in a Lifetime Experience, because when I get that exit stamp there's really no coming back to Saudi Arabia. In the travel book 1000 Places to See Before You Die, there's a historical site called Mada'in Saleh, which is the only entry in the book for Saudi Arabia. Mada'in Saleh is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and is similar to Petra in style; a pre-Islamic archaeological site, with the bonus that it is allegedly cursed and therefore many Saudis are wary of going. On one hand, it's unfortunate that I won't have the time to visit Mada'in Saleh, which means it will only have to exist in my mind through pictures.  But after this year, I'm thankful to have developed the wisdom to say, "you know, I'm ok with that. There are plenty more adventures ahead."

Fridays in Jubail

Weekend mornings here in Saudi Arabia are like what Sundays used to be in America in the 1950s. Completely dead. No one on the streets. And most everyone is asleep. Since the roads are clear of cars, I can ride my bicycle without fear of being smashed into a bloody pulp by some maniac driver. My mind, normally laser-focused, even if I'm riding on the sidewalk, runs a bit more free.

Since I can't exactly crack open a couple of cold beers after work on Thursday evening—instead I usually gorge myself on stuffed-crust pizza from Pizza Hut—and because there is absolutely nothing else to do I wake up early, even earlier than I would wake up to go to work. I pack my orange REI bag with the following: my wallet with a debit card and iqama, which is my residency permit that has information about my work sponsor, age and DOB, and, yes, my religion; a mobile hotspot that turns the 4G network into WiFI and are an ubiquitous item among the smartphone obsessed Saudis; my Kindle (thank you very much #cortopher;) and my phone with a cracked screen in two places that makes my Saudis students wince and ask why I don't want to buy a new one. I tell them it works fine and to stop being so vain. 

I bike to Starbucks, which is about 2 kilometers from my apartment complex. Starbucks is open because the Westerners are awake and they want coffee. A few motivated Saudis are there too, but it's less common to seem them out and about before 9am. The Starbucks occupies a space on the bottom floor a rounded building that has a couple of fast food chains, including a Little Caesar's Pizza, an indoor amusement park for kids called Sparkey's, and a bowling alley. The front of the Starbucks has a fine view of the corniche, an expansive stone boardwalk that runs north to south along the Arabian Gulf. You don't call it the Persian Gulf in Saudi Arabia for reasons that lie about 200 kilometers northwest of me. The Starbucks has wide bay windows and comfortable plush seats from which to take in the view of the corniche with a group of your fellow coffee drinkers. This section, including the view, is only for "singles," or males. The "family" section is tucked away further inside the building. Men can take their wives and children to this section, and single ladies can gather to drink and eat here too, but no single men are allowed inside the family section. Compared to the singles section, the family section has no view and the windows are tinted black. 

I go to Starbucks because, well, I like Starbucks. I liked it in the States and I like it here. The offerings are almost the same, except no ham on the sandwiches and they don't keep the cream out for self service because milk is expensive. I suppose I could partake in the custom of drinking local Arabic coffee, but after a week of teaching rambunctious Saudi students I enjoy a complete indulgence in the somewhat familiar. 

The baristas are from India and the Philippines. They recognize me on sight now and offer a friendly greeting. I always make it a point to greet them with equal enthusiasm and ask about their morning. Employees in food and drink service make good money in Saudi Arabia, but they are seen as beneath many of their customers and often treated accordingly. The counter is split down the middle with a large wooden wall which separates the singles section and the family section. Behind it I can hear the voices of a few women chatting in English and Arabic, children playing, and babies crying. 

I order the usual: coffee with milk and a cheese croissant. Lately they've been trying to up-sell me on Pumpkin Spice Lattes and as of last week the Toffee Nut Latte. I joke they have too much sugar and that's why we are all fat. They look at me with polite but confused smiles. Incidentally, they are also selling the controversial Starbucks red cup. Tis' the Season, even in Saudi Arabia. 

I occupy a seat near a window where I can keep an eye on my bike; call it a habit carried over from living in urban America. Like anyone would even consider touching it lest they lost a hand, which is a real punishment over here. On typical day I people-watch and read till about 10:30am when the baristas usher out all patrons and the shop shutters for the Friday prayer—the most important one of the week. But today would prove to be far from typical as I notice a Saudi man looking at me while I'm in line. He overhears me order and we make eye contact. I smile and say hello. A huge grin appears on his face and he says "I hear your English and it is perfect but I cannot place where you are from." 

Now I've reached a fork in the road of my morning. Depending on how much I reveal, I will be invariably sucked into the same old conversation I always have with most non-Westerners here. He inquires as to whether or not I'm Turkish, maybe Syrian…no, Lebanese! I cut his guessing short with, "no, actually, I'm from America." His response, mashallah (meaning, God—Allah—has willed it.) and he invites me to sit with him. "Come, let us drink coffee together."

My Friday is now officially interrupted. I was looking forward to drinking my coffee, eating my croissant, and enjoying the column of Western oil workers that come through the door. Many of these guys are from Houston, and wear Astros or Texans hats, Harley Davidson shirts, or drab nylon shirts from brands that are not sold at REI but at Bass Pro Shops or Cabela's. With thick Texan accents they order machiattos and cappuccinos and americanos and the baristas repeat back the orders in their Indian or Filipino accents. And I find the whole scene to be very amusing. But now I must sit and drink my coffee with this perfectly nice yet pushy man who has already occupied the table where I put my bag because he spied the conversational pushover in me. He invites me to sit at my table with the same wide grin, "please, let us talk."

I suppose I could've politely said no. If I was back in the States, I would've assuredly said no, had I not been in the mood to talk. But I'm a guest here and by refusing this gentleman would've lost face as a result, and Jubail is a small town. Since I could very well run into him again, I didn't really have a choice. Plus, I always hold out hope in situations like these that someone who is a little bit eccentric will strike up a conversation with me; and by eccentric I mean normal for me as a Westerner which means completely out of character for a Saudi. I meet those people in about 1 out of every 20 encounters I have, like the gentleman from Ann Arbor who works at Bechtel and rolled up one day to Starbucks on his ancient Raleigh bicycle. But today is one of those regular encounters. 

He asks where I'm from. I repeat that I'm from America, specifically California but my family is in Colorado now. He brightens again and says, "Califooooooornia!" He tells me he was certain I was from Turkey or Lebanon or Syria. I tell him, "yes, I remember you said that." Then, out of habit and to clear the mystery that I envision is swirling around in his brain, and since I'm clearly in this conversation indefinitely, I throw the curveball that my grandfather was from Pakistan. Now the knowing look comes and he says, "I knew it," followed by the statement, "so, you are a Muslim!"

Rarely is this a question. Because my grandfather was from Pakistan he must be Muslim and so must my father and so must I, is the thought process that goes on inside his head. I have to remind myself that Islam isn't just a religion as we think about religion in the United States. It's a way of life as well as a brotherhood and sisterhood, so in one way we are all connected. But I can't be deceitful so in a few words I distance myself from the brotherhood by saying, "no, actually I'm not Muslim." He counters: "so you are Christian?" This time, the inflection in his voice is more quizzical, puzzled. I smile and say, "nope, I'm not Christian either." He then throws me a curveball by asking if I'm atheist to which I quickly answer no, mainly because it's highly illegal to declare oneself as such. Christians and Jews at least worship the same god as Muslims. To be an atheist is to deny the very existence of the person I am talking to. 

I tell him (his name is Mezar, by the way) that my one grandfather was in fact Muslim and my other was Christian. I further explain that my father was sort of Muslim, I flatten my hand in front of him and tip it side to side; the universal gesture for so-so. Same thing for my mother. He nods again in understanding and quickly moves the conversation away from my misguided past, my neglectful parents, and focuses on bringing me back into the fold. 

I think most people would find this conversation exhausting, but there is something truly genuine about Mezar's approach that is flattering. He calls me "friend" and "brother" even though we just met, but he is 100 percent sure about his convictions. I have strayed from the righteous path and it is his duty, as it is everyone's duty, to get me to come correct. He quotes the Quran. He offers his wisdom. He challenges me with logic. And he even offers to bring me some literature so I may be moved to learn more. He defends his arguments by telling me to watch some YouTube videos on Islam. 

Flattering yes, but otherwise I am completely and utterly unmoved. Conversations like these reveal the vast cultural divide that exists between me and a world where most everyone feels I am some sort of long lost connection. 

I'm not doing much of the talking here as, aside from trying to guide me, he's also using this as an opportunity to practice his English. I pay him several sincere compliments as his English is quite good, but he waves them off in modesty even after revealing he lived in Santa Barbara and Boston. 

One medium coffee later and he invites me out of my seat to enjoy my bike ride. Maybe this was all just a fantastic ruse to steal my prime spot? I don't balk at the opportunity though, but instead I take my leave and wonder where in the hell I am going to relax and read. So, I exit the Starbucks… 

...only to see a peleton of about 10 bicyclists race by on the street.

Unlike my encounter with Mezar, seeing a group of cyclists on the streets of Jubail is not a normal occurrence. So I pull myself together, hop on my Trek, and give chase. Lucky for me there are still few cars on the streets, so I can aggressively stalk them until I am about 10 meters back. All of the riders are wearing cycling kits of varying styles, pro helmets, and bike shoes. I recognize a red Cofidis jersey, which is the sponsor of a French professional cycling team that competes in the Tour de France. Then all of a sudden I see a lime green jersey that says "Jubail Cycling Club" on the back. 

I've now committed myself to discover more about these wonderful cyclists and where they came from. "These guys," I think to myself, "are my people." Just then a horn blares to my left and passing me in a white Toyota Land Cruiser is Mezar, waving and gesticulating happily in my direction. I give him a curt nod and focus on my peleton as Mezar zooms off at a reckless speed. 

About a kilometer or so later as I'm making a move to talk to the trailing cyclist, two of the riders crash in a sandy spot. The peleton suddenly halts. I approach and ask if everyone's ok. Because my sensitivity to nationality is so heightened here, I immediately recognize that they are all from the Philippines. Apparently the Cofidis rider is one of a few others with a pro kit from off the rack. The other riders are wearing custom-made jerseys and shorts. One is gray and black, with the Philippines flag emblazoned on the back and the word kabayan on the sides, which in Tagalog means "fellow countrymen" and is a sign of welcoming in addressing other Filipinos. Another is wearing a jersey with the Chevron logo, which I assume is his place of work. Yet another has the logo for the Saudi iron and steel company, Hadeed. Each rider is of various shapes and sizes and I immediately fall in love with each and everyone them. I want to be a kabayan. 

The leader, a tall, muscular fellow named Victor, explains when the club meets and that I should definitely join if I want to. Looking me up and down he says, "though, you will probably need some bike shoes and a jersey. We can have one made for you for about 300 riyals" (or about $80.) I come at him all Californian and say, "dude, that would be AWESOME" and several of them giggle. 

"Can I take your picture?" I ask of them. "I brought my fancy camera with me today," and pull my Nikon out of my bag. A chorus of "oohs" and "ahhs" erupts and they quickly fall into a line, posing with their bikes. I hear one of them yell at me, "habla espanol?"

I respond with, "un poco… ¿cómo se dice "queso" en inglés?" The Filipinos roar with laughter and I smugly smile to myself and think that out of all the weirdos I meet here on a daily basis, occasionally I stumble upon my people. And that's one of the most comforting feelings, especially when you're so far away from your own. 

Is It Safe Over There?

I think it’s time to address a couple of questions and concerns that, apologies in advance, might be a little overdue. When I started to think about this grand adventure last year, there were several appealing destinations on my travel list. Considerations for my decision included, in order of importance, the following: what I would gain from the experience, geographic location, the students I would be teaching, salary, and lifestyle. 

I must admit, how safe a place would or wouldn’t be wasn’t on the list. 

On the whole I am not a risk averse person. Part of the reason I’m not is because I like a little adventure in my life. But another, more consequential reason is I am opposed to living within a culture of fear. Many of my life experiences have shown me that cultures of fear aren’t based in reality and, as Spock would put it, highly illogical. Of course, that truth is also skewed by a brutal irony. A more sinister way a culture of fear affects me is by triggering the very latent anxiety that exists just under the surface of my brain matter. Because past bouts with anxiety have been completely crippling experiences, my tendencies are to give myself space from those who say you can’t or shouldn’t do a given thing. My brain does enough of that irrational thinking on its own. And not doing something because there may be a remote possibility of an unknown factor occurring is not an excuse to avoid leaving the house to see what’s out there.  

While I’m not going to court danger for the sake of teaching English overseas, I feel I am capable of looking at a situation and reasonably assessing whether or not I’ll come out intact. Saudi Arabia ended up meeting my criteria, beating out the trio of “T” countries on my list: Turkey, Thailand, and Taiwan. Perhaps somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious I decided that it was a perfectly safe destination for me to spend my year as an “accidental” teacher, an adjective I often use to describe how I ended up where I am in my life.  

Ok, but if you’re still wondering whether or not it’s safe here, I can say that, categorically, Saudi Arabia is one of the safest places I’ve ever lived.* (I’ll get to the asterisk in a moment.) 

Let’s check off some of the risk factors and see how they apply to my safety here. When people ask me, “do you feel safe?” I’m pretty sure the underlying context to that question concerns whether or not I should be worried by threats from extremist groups. Since just before Ramadan began, there were three suicide bombings that targeted mosques. Since then, the Kingdom’s security apparatus swept up a number of suspects who were said to have been associated with the Islamic State. Disconcerting? Of course. Reason to panic? Hardly. If I found myself in a situation where I was in the middle of some sort of attack, it would just be a terribly unlucky case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Luck is a factor in any sort of risk, just as if I was in the United States and a gunman decided today was the day to spray bullets inside my local coffee shop in the middle of an espresso order. 

We can add another risk factor to that same equation. I’m an American, which means I could be a target. The Kingdom has had its fair share of attacks since the 1990s, many against Western targets, but they are far, far rarer than any sort of isolated shooting or mass shooting that happens on the regular in the United States. Saudi Arabia has a vested interest in keeping its expats safe—they oil and grease (pun intended) the country’s economy. 

How about a more sensitive topic that underlines a lot of our thinking these days: tension between the Muslim world and the West—the United States in particular. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t say this line of thought wasn’t on my mind. In a future post, I’ll write a few more words that outline my ideas on why a level of mistrust and a void of understanding exists. But for now, let’s just say that out of all the people that I’ve interacted with since I arrived, I have yet to meet someone who was angry or took an aggressive posture when he realized I was an American. Quite the opposite, most individuals I meet are welcoming and fascinated by America. Some simply inquire as to what life is like. Others look at me as if I don’t have my head on quite straight and bluntly ask why I would give up all that freedom to come here. And many, my students especially, ask with a dreamy smile and look in their eye if they can come visit me someday. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve been asked about U.S. foreign policy. On the rare chance anyone throws any criticism my way, it’s only that the U.S. government is bad; the country and the people are great. 

But Zain, you’re only a few border crossings away from the terrible and scary conflict that is happening in Iraq and Syria. And what about the war in Yemen? Since I covered the internal security situation above, this calls for a little geography. Mosul, the largest city controlled by the Islamic State is about 1400km away, or 870 miles. That is more than the distance between San Francisco and Seattle. The capital of Yemen, Sana’a, is almost 1770 kilometers, or 1100 miles, away; the driving distance between Denver and Los Angeles. My corner of Saudi Arabia is one of the most heavily defended areas of the country, because of its strategic importance. For added insurance, the U.S. 5th Fleet is headquartered about an hour and a half south of me in the country of Bahrain. 

Kidnapping, robbery, muggings, or even harassment? In the world I live in, those crimes are virtually nonexistent. Saudi Arabia enjoys one of the lowest crime rates in the world. There may be a heavy-handed presence to it, but is designed to maintain order whether I agree with it or not.  

What about being a woman? This is a question I get. I suppose if I was a Western woman I would carefully consider the pros and cons of living here. The handful of expat women I know who live here live comfortably. Restricted, yes, but that’s only outside the walls of their “archipelagoes.” Inside the compound walls, women lead normal and unrestricted lives. Harassment can happen, just as it does in the United States, but authority is swiftly brought down on perpetrators who dare cross the line.

If I was unfortunate enough to have a chronically weak stomach, then perhaps I would have a problem eating out, especially at local Indian, Pakistani, or Filipino restaurants. But waterborne and food-related illnesses are rare. I also have my choice to dine at any type of derivative American “family” restaurant just in case I wanted to ensure a clean kitchen, though my overall health probably wouldn’t thank me. On the topic of healthcare, Saudi Arabia has excellent medical facilities (for those who can pay; and I can) with highly trained doctors and nurses. Even going to the dentist was a less-scary experience than it was back home. 

*There are two issues that could affect my safety. And here’s where that asterisk comes in: 

There is Middle East Respiratory Syndrome, or MERS; a coronavirus that can cause acute respiratory distress, fever, cough, and shortness of breath. Unfortunately, it can affect men and women with healthy immune systems, and has caused a number of deaths in the Kingdom and in the Middle East. But it is not widespread nor is there any sort of quarantine, yet. Epidemiologists say people who are at risk include healthcare professionals who are treating MERS patients. But my veterinarian-extraordinaire Dr. Katie scoured updates on the disease and informed me there is a chance that contact with camels could also expose me to MERS. Sadly, that means no drinking of camel’s milk, camel urine (yes, that is a thing which you can Google yourself,) or eating of camel meat. I will probably avoid riding random camels, as you do, unless I can find an authorized outfitter in Dubai or Oman.

Then there are the road accidents. A sad fact about living in Saudi Arabia is the country has a higher-than-average vehicle accident rate. Speed limits are ignored, no one wears their seatbelt, and aggressive driving is the norm. The good news is the government has invested a lot of money is campaigning for safer driving. The bad news is they still have a long way to go. A lack of public transportation means everyone is on the road. I am lucky that my driver takes good care of me and (generally) makes precautions to keep us out of accidents. Still, when I get my driver’s license so I can free myself on weekends, I will have to be extra cautious on the road. Times like this make me glad I learned how to navigate traffic in New York City.

I think the one factor that keeps me über-safe is a little cross-cultural understanding I learned in the Peace Corps. Seems simple, but it’s key to my whole well-being: get in good with the people. Saudis on the whole are gracious and welcoming. Their approach to education may not be as rigorous as some would desire—this is a country that opened its first university in 1957 with a national literary rate that barely scrapped 60% in 1972—but my students are as warm as anyone I’ve met. Make nice with the locals, learn how they do things, and realize you’re a guest in their home, and they will return the favor by bending over backward to offer you help, hospitality, friendship, or even just driving the speed limit when you’re a passenger in their car. It’s that protection that allows me to live in a worry-free environment, even though turmoil and instability may appear to rage around me.

photo: on the road to Jubail from the airport after landing in Saudi Arabia.

Six Months In

Had I not scheduled a test on the calendar for my students today, the date marking my halfway point in the Kingdom would’ve come and gone without me even realizing. In a country like Saudi Arabia, the Western notion of “time” is often undefined. As a teacher, this can create some infuriating problems when trying to corral 15 students into five consecutive 50 minute sessions. The only timepiece that matters to most of my students—whether they regard its religious implications or are simply adhering to the society’s strict cultural norms—is the one handed down via the Quran that is required of all Muslims: prayer five times a day, specifically before sunrise, just after midday, mid-afternoon, just after sunset, and from dusk again until dawn. 

You begin to shift your life around prayer from the moment you land in country. I first discovered this as I was fighting off jet lag during my first night in Riyadh following the 15-hour transpolar flight from Los Angeles to Jeddah. Around 4am my fitful slumber in silence was disturbed by the deafening sound of a muezzin making his call to prayer through a loudspeaker at a local mosque, which happened to be right across the alleyway from my hotel room. It was shocking, but, from what I had already understood about living in a Muslim country, not surprising. 

My second encounter with prayer turned out to be a far more dumbfounding moment; a clear reminder that said “yes, you live in Saudi Arabia now.” My plan of action whenever I arrive in an unfamiliar location is to walk concentric circles outward from my home base (in this case, a hotel in central Jubail) until I get a lay of the land. By day three I had exhausted the most appealing room service options and decided to set forth on an adventure for some legit local food. A friendly Nepali porter told me about a Pakistani restaurant—seemingly harmless advice that turned out to be foreshadowing—nearby. I made the five minute walk, without checking the time, and arrived at the restaurant’s entrance only to be ushered directly back outside. “Salat, salat” insisted one of the waiters. I joined some equally confused looking Filipino men on the street and a few seconds later, an unmistakable voice made tinny by amplification rang out in Arabic for the call to prayer just down the street. The Filipinos shrugged and sat down on the restaurant’s stoop to stare at their phones. I made a mental note to check for an app that would be of use to schedule my meals and errands. Turns out there was. And apparently salat meant prayer. 

When I was back in the United States this summer, most everyone quizzed me about what my life is like over here. But I often found it tough to vocalize my thoughts on the subject. There’s an ambivalence to my daily life that only can be described by experiences like I first had in dealing with prayer. To me, it’s a fascinating inconvenience. And it’s one of myriad observations and encounters during my first six months of living in this area of world. Here are a few more: 

You are defined by your nationality. Remember that Nepali porter with the restaurant recommendation? He didn’t offer that suggestion because it was a particularly good restaurant. But he knew my face and, more importantly, knew my name. By adding those factors he figured all signs pointed to a Pakistani looking for food. I would later ask him why he decided to choose that restaurant, and he confirmed my theory immediately. Sir, I think you are Pakistan from your face—an expression, I might add, that I now hear on the regular. Telling him I was an American was irrelevant because without European features I can’t really be American. Such is the worldview that I’ve witnessed here on many occasions. 

Take my students, for example. They refer to anyone who isn’t Saudi by their nationality, even if they know his name (except of course, following an exhaustive lecture on my family history yours truly.) My English director is referred to as “that Sudanese” as are those Filipinos, that Indian, that Pakistani, these Bengalis, that Egyptian, those Jordanians, and this Syrian. Anyone who looks European is just “English” unless you establish that you’re not. The minor identity crisis that I faced during my first month has morphed into a common but stumbling conversation about how I could possibly be a true American if my father is from Pakistan, and now, even more importantly, why my father would allow me to be raised as a non-Muslim. I suppose the underlying message to that line of questioning is: why did your father (a man) allow your mother (a woman) to have so much influence. 

I live alone on a cultural archipelago. This may sound lonely (and it sometimes is) but the metaphor that best describes my life here is akin to living by myself on an island. My encounters with people of other cultures and nationalities are frequent, but a void still exists that creates distance, awe, confusion, and the occasional misunderstanding. 

Here’s what the archipelago looks like. The Saudis occupy the biggest island, and people that live on the outlying islands commute back and forth from it for work. Non-Saudi Muslims—this could be anyone from the Middle East or the Arab world, Indonesia, Malaysia, Pakistan, or Western converts to Islam—are on the second biggest island. Adherence to Islam means they possess a strong cultural connection with the “main” island. They work in a range of service industries such as healthcare, hospitality, education, and—a term I use without irony—manpower. Indians have the third biggest island, and with many serving as the archipelago’s engineers, merchants, and administrators. Filipino men are on the fourth biggest, and work in areas like their Indian counterparts, but also dominate food service and preparation. Filipina women have their own island, and work exclusively as nurses, medical assistants, and housekeepers. Poorer islands are crowded with Bangladeshis, Sri Lankas, Nepalis, or Indians from Kerala, often eight or ten packed into a single living space, primarily serve as drivers, laborers or servers or, as a 45 year-old man at my work is referred to, “tea boys.” Westerners (those from North and South America, the EU, or any Commonwealth nation) as well as Russians, Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans live on exclusive man-made sand spits that would resemble the Palm Islands in Dubai. As highly trained professionals, they have easy access to the Saudi economy but for all intents and purposes live in walled-off oases. 

As for me? Well, TEFL teachers outside the university system aren’t really afforded the luxury of compound life, nor can we tap into an readily available social system. Working at a big company provides that opportunity, but I don’t work for a big company. For the first four months I was literally alone on an island by myself. I was able to make visits to a few other islands inhabited by fellow English teachers, but for the most part I was on my own, aside from when I was connected to friends and family via the lifeline that is the Internet. I now live on a slightly roomier island with two other fantastic English teachers, But they, too, have created their own little piece of Americana; shielded from an outside world that is virtually impossible to integrate into, even if we tried. One of the most restrictive aspects of living on this archipelago is, outside my island I can’t be or truly express myself. My thoughts on topics such as progressive politics; beliefs in gender equality; opinions on atheism; love for the United States; and an undying penchant for pork and alcohol—as random and frivolous as some of it may sound—are, for the most part, ideas I don’t nor can’t readily air or share. 

I’m confused about what I need. I discovered this in the Peace Corps, but it dawned on me one day with my driver that, apparently, my colleagues and acquaintances think I am somehow too naive to know what is best for me. After all, Saudi Arabia is far different from my home. As a culturally ambiguous Westerner, I do not know as of yet what is best for me. Our discussion centered around where I was living, which was in a small but adequate studio apartment within walking distance of the city center. For me, it was perfect. Close enough to restaurants and stores, but far enough from the crowded bustle of humanity that lived there. My driver believed it to be totally inappropriate for a person of my status (i.e., an English teacher from America.) 

Sharif: Why do you live in that apartment?

Me: Should I be living somewhere else?

Sharif: You need a less expensive space. With more room.

Me: But I have the room I want, and the price is well within my budget. 

Sharif: You can find a nice big room attached to a family apartment with a separate entrance and bathroom. 

Me: But what about a kitchen?

Sharif: You can share with the family. 

Me: Meaning, they would have access to my room?

Sharif: Yes, but they would not enter. 

Me: Sorry, not interested. 

A similar conversation arose with a colleague a few days later. 

Khan: Sir, you are paying too much for your apartment (word about my rent got around.) You need cheaper accommodations. 

Me: Yes, but it is furnished, month-to-month, and I don’t need a lot of space. And most importantly, it’s in a great location and within my budget. 

Khan: Sir, I pay 700 riyals ($187) for my apartment! 

Me: Is it furnished? Month to month?

Khan: No sir, but a bed is cheap! And you only pay 4200 riyals for a six-month lease.

Me: Do you live with others?

Khan: Yes, I share a room with four others!

Me: Exactly. 

Living arrangements aside, apparently I need a car. I need to learn Arabic (even though it’s almost unheard of to meet someone who doesn’t speak, at the very least, broken English.) I need an account with one particular bank and no others. I need to invest in a business. I need to drink the coffee that was just handed to me. I need to eat more. I need to lose weight. I need to consider following Islam. I need to start a business. I need to bring my family over. I need to move to a better company with a bigger salary. I need to get married and have children now. I need to visit Bahrain. At least with that last one I can find common ground with the overbearing advisor. 

It takes a while to get your bearings, as it did the first four-and-a-half months I lived in the Kingdom. Now, with a magical summer in Europe and America come and gone, life is back to routine and a new normal for the next six months. My frustrations during the first six months have given way to knowing how to play up my nationality without being insensitive or paternalistic; understanding how to appreciate my little “island” as a place to be myself outside the routine of not being myself; thinking how I know exactly what I need here and what I don’t need here; and showing assertiveness while at the same time making the choice to act deferential in situations that often demand it in the culture in which I am immersed. In the meantime, the clock doesn’t really tick in the background so much anymore as the times of prayer, strictly guided by the position of the sun in the sky, carry me through another day and into tomorrow.

photo: camels and refineries, somewhere in the desert of Saudi Arabia's Eastern Province.

Seven Life-Altering Changes

A few weeks ago I managed to escape the Kingdom for a quick weekend getaway to Dubai. Because the lifestyle that exists here in Saudi Arabia is, as a fellow teacher best described it, “monastic,” escape is exactly what many expats who have the means do. The exodus begins on Thursday night (the start of our weekend here) for destinations that are more culturally liberal, Dubai and the tiny Kingdom of Bahrain being two popular choices. The former is an hour flight away while the latter is even closer to Saudi’s Eastern Province: only a 20 minute drive across the King Fahd Causeway; that is, if there isn’t any traffic which, invariably, there always is. Saudis, too, enjoy taking advantage of Bahrain’s openness. 

Before I came to Saudi, I tried to mentally prepare myself for daily life over here. I studied the culture, questioned former residents, and came to terms with the idea of living in a country that is starkly different from my own. When I arrived in February, I felt my preparations had lessened the inevitable “culture shock”–the personal disorientation that one feels when experiencing an unfamiliar way of life–to a degree. Sure I missed my loved ones (and beer) but overall the transition met my expectations. But three and a half months later when I stepped off the plane in Dubai, boy, was I walloped with a dose reverse culture shock; a phenomenon that exists when trying reintegrate yourself into a culture with which you are familiar (more on that experience later.) 

My trip to Dubai got me thinking. At what times in my life did culture shock or reverse culture shock shake me to my core? What, if anything, did I gain from it? After a quick synaptic trip where I tried to recall every major life experience I have had, I came up with seven unique cases that have made profound impression on my psyche.

1986: Arriving in Lagos, Nigeria

My earliest memory from an overseas experience. After our Pan Am flight from Paris landed at Murtala Muhammed International Airport in Lagos on a rainy afternoon in July 1986, I remember being whisked from the stifling humidity inside the terminal past heavily-armed and stern looking soldiers (my first time seeing machine guns up-close) into an air-conditioned white Chevy Suburban with bulletproof windows. My next memory is passing through the gate of one of the embassy’s residential compounds, where a group of kids roughly my age were playing soccer in the rain and mud underneath a crop of coconut palms. What that first experience led to was the beginning of a love affair with international travel. In fact, you might recognize this familiar feeling: every time you visit an airport, you wish you could just drop everything and hop on an flight to anywhere.

1994: Returning from Outward Bound

At the height of World Cup mania in 1994, I begrudgingly left my friends in suburban Northern Virginia (i.e, my entire world) for the remoteness of the Smoky Mountains on a month-long course through Outward Bound. After many firsts–rock-climbing, white-water canoeing, reconnoitering, wilderness first responder training, and solo camping–my ragged camp-mates and I returned to civilization and descended upon a diner near the Asheville Regional Airport. While we devoured everything on menu, we celebrated our victories as well as what we had faced head-on: severe bee-sting allergies, rain-soaked marches, forced vegetarianism, camp toilets, no showers, and occasional infighting. Upon arriving home, my mother took on the unenviable task of washing my mildewed clothes (thanks, Mom) while I sat around trying to readjust away from life outdoors. Playing street hockey and hanging out at Fair Oaks Mall didn’t seem nearly as enticing as going back into the mountains. So, I headed to Estes Park the following month and spent two weeks rediscovering my childhood stomping grounds in Rocky Mountain National Park with my godfather. You’ve heard that runners get runner’s high. I now get my fix as I emerge from any extended period outdoors, whether it’s making it to the top ofHalf Dome or returning from a three day backpacking expedition around theMaroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness. 

1996: Leaving the Netherlands to study at an American university

I wasn’t too thrilled about going to college. My senior year was spent enjoying the freedom of the Netherlands with an intimate group of new friends from all over the world. Now I had to face the prospect of attending a large American university without much motivation to study and insecurities about who I was and what I wanted to do with my life. Sure, I was matriculating with two other close friends from the American School of the Hague and I knew two other excellent theater geeks from my days at Fairfax High School, but overall I couldn’t shake an overwhelming feeling of dread. Coupled with trying to fit into an environment where I felt different both in name and culture, I languished (academically speaking) for five long years until I finally graduated with a dismal 2.1 GPA. Socially, I managed to adjust and even thrive, discovering acceptance among another fantastic group of lifelong friends. But it took me until my junior year to hit that stride. It wasn’t until years later that I realized the culture shock of entering college triggered a dormant and crippling inner turmoil that runs within my family’s genes: anxiety. 

2004: Serving in the Peace Corps in Uzbekistan

No amount of physical and mental preparation can ready any prospective Peace Corps Volunteer for what might lie ahead during their service. My desire to experience life in post-Soviet Central Asia didn’t exactly exceed my expectations. The richness that I found on the former Silk Road in places like Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva was also drowned in a bath of vodka, cottonseed oil, and a societal structure that had been warped by 67 years of communist rule, and then stagnated by 13 years of dictatorial rule. Uzbekistan could be tough on the psyche as well as the body for most people, including me. But despite the hardships, the nostalgia I have for Uzbek life remains as strong as it ever was. And I know many former volunteers who are compelled to return. One of the biggest reasons being…

2005: Being evacuated from Uzbekistan

One fine day in June I was assisting an Uzbek teacher at an art camp run by my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers. Several days later, our entire group was being debriefed at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service National Conservation Training Center in Shepherdstown, West Virginia, wondering “what happened?” While most of us saw an evacuation coming, none of us were prepared for the process of gathering our personal belongings within 24 hours and flying out of the country under a number of claims, the most suppositious, or even spurious one being that we were threatened by terrorism. I said goodbye to friends in Khiva that I knew I would I never see again and spent the rest of the summer shellshocked with the question “what now?” running over and over again in my head. 

2009: Exploring Tokyo

For me, travel is a stress-free experience. I don’t worry about the unknown when I’m on the road; in fact, it’s not knowing what you’ll find that gratifies me. But one time I ended up meeting my match: Tokyo. On a trip back to the United States from Thailand, I made a stopover in Japan to see an old friend from my Peace Corps days. I booked a hotel near Tokyo’s Shibuya district and made the smooth transit from Narita International Airport; that was until I got downtown. Confusion set in when I attempted and thrice failed to find the correct mass transit line. Frustration set in when I realized I didn’t have any Japanese yen and my debit card, which worked perfectly in Thailand, was useless at many ATMs in Tokyo. And panic set in when I couldn’t get anyone to understand what I needed, as helpful as Tokyoites are wont to be. I managed to scrape together enough information to realized that the Yamanote Line would get me to where I needed to go. Upon arriving to Shibuya, I felt as if I was experiencing Times Square on acid. Young, ultra-hip city denizens breezed effortlessly past me as I gawked at the bright lights and billboards and tried to remind myself that I once lived in New York City, I can handle this. After checking into my hotel, I spiraled around Shibuya looking for a place to eat and grab a drink, but unfamiliar signage and a lack of cash forced me to retreat to my hotel where I ordered two Sapporos and some self-heating ramen out of a vending machine (a first.) I took a Shinkansen the next day to Niigata Prefecture–where I got lost again and almost boarded a train going in the opposite direction–feeling defeated but inspired by Tokyo and craving a return trip. I also realized that as much travel experience as I have under my belt, there will always be another destination on the horizon that upends my worldview.

2015: Trading KSA for the UAE

And back to where I began this story: Dubai. My flight landed in Dubai International Airport and I was immediately drawn to the duty free shop where I picked up a couple of bottles of wine and a 12-pack of Heineken. Ahead of me in line were a group of British expats who were also loading up their carts full of booze and a gentleman I can only assume was Emirati who asked me what type of wine I liked better: pinot noir or cabernet sauvignon–a bizarre question to hear after being dry for months. My hotel in Deira put me in the heart of Dubai’s old financial hub, now a multicultural mecca. Within the course of an hour after midnight, I probably saw people of 20 different nationalities. The next morning as I stood in line at a local McDonalds a Russian man was ordering breakfast next to a woman from somewhere in East Asia. Our cashiers were from the Philippines. Behind me were two Sikhs and an elderly British couple. Behind them were two people who happened to be staying at my hotel and I later discovered were visiting from Ghana. The next day, I visited historic Bur Dubai and spied even more nationalities: Americans, Nigerians, French, Brazilians, Australians. I even eavesdropped on two women who I suspect were from somewhere in Central Asia. Later that evening, my best friend arrived from San Francisco and we ate an Italian dinner served by Bengalis and hit up an Irish pub for beer served by twenty-something Irish men and women. Dubai’s diversity is astounding.  

The shock that registered during my three day trip to the United Arab Emirates was the rapid reintegration into, what for me, is welcome and familiar instead of the cloistered existence that I’d gotten used to. I was reminded that, despite the initial shock, travel experiences that challenge my ideas and rearrange my preconceived notions are what create those profound impressions on my psyche. As my good friend and fellow writer rojospinks put it “these are the settings I feel most comfortable in.” Wherever I’ve managed to get my footing, whether it was my first experience as an expat kid in Nigeria or my erratic journey as an undergraduate, life-altering experiences that come with change are and will be among most valuable things I’ve ever collected.

photo: looking out of my hotel window toward Tokyo’s electric Shibuya district, December 2009.

Who, or What, is an Expat?

One of the best things about being a teacher is the inspiration you receive from your students. I had been hopelessly stalled out on this post for the last few weeks; that was until, during a lesson on the past perfect tense, a student raised his hand and asked, “Teacher Zain, I know this is out of subject, but what is this word “expatriate” mean?” Without even blinking an eye, I replied, “Me. I am an expatriate. An American expat to be specific.” He smiled and nodded and we continued the lesson.

Since I arrived in the Kingdom, I’ve probably used the term “expat” more times than I can count. I’ve heard it used by co-workers, newfound friends, acquaintances, hotel and restaurant staff, and (now) students. Before I arrived, I scoured sites such as Expat Blog to get intel on the teaching and living environment. I found my driver, who literally refers to the both of us as expats every single day, on a site similar to Craigslist called expatriates.com. And when I reflect on where I grew up, I associate expat with the formative years that took me to Nigeria, Brazil, the Netherlands, and eventually Uzbekistan. So I was caught by surprise when I stumbled upon a conversation that described the term expat as a colonial holdover with racial and prejudicial connotations. 

It started with a friend who posted an article from The Guardian on the lexicon used to describe people who work away from their countries of origin. The author, Mawuna Remarque Koutonin, who first posted this semantics challenge in Silicon Africa, said that expat is a term exclusively reserved for people of European origin, while everyone else gets stuck with the term immigrant.

“There are still hierarchical words,” he wrote, “created with the purpose of putting white people above everyone else. One of those remnants is the word ‘expat.’”

Koutonin cited a Wall Street Journal blog entry from late 2014 to support his case, saying that one’s social and economic class as well as cultural background determined whether or not you’re an expat” or immigrant” or even “guest worker” or “migrant worker.”

Now, I don’t doubt the existence of a double standard as it pertains to pretty much anyone of color from sub-Saharan Africa on a variety of topics, including this one. But I’ve had a different perspective in Saudi Arabia these past two and a half months on what it means to be an expat. 

Simply put, there are those who were born here, those who hold Saudi citizenship and, by law, must also be Muslim. And there are those who aren’t. Whether you’re fresh off the plane or you’re a seasoned veteran of the energy industry from the United States or the Commonwealth of Nations, you’re an expat. If you’re a Pakistani or Indian who has lived here for 10 years and knows the life, the language, and the culture in and out, you’re an expat. If you’re a Filipino who has established a profitable business serving Saudis and fellow expats alike, you’re an expat. If you’re from Bangladesh or Sri Lanka and you’re making ends meet by washing cars on weekends after laboring in the petrochemical industry during the week, you’re an expat. 

I suppose the thing we share is we’re part of Saudi Arabia’s unique expatriate archipelago; a tapestry that, to me, is as diverse as many American cities. I could walk out my door and if I didn’t know any better think I was living back in Queens, New York–the most ethnically diverse place on earth. And like Queens, the term “expat” offers doesn’t divide us into the haves and have-nots. Instead, it provides some level of egalitarianism that puts us all on the same playing field–even though in reality we may be living very different lives. Expats all of us, with one foot in Saudi Arabia and one foot back home. 

photo: British “expats” in India, circa early 20th century.

A Minor Identity Crisis

No sooner had I wrote about being a Stranger in Two Lands upon my arrival in the Kingdom than three separate conversations about American identity occurred. As you can see in the image above I hold an American passport, or, as I’ve heard it described, the “Blue Book.”

Blue Books are a source of fascination among many people I encounter. “How can I get one?” or better yet “can you get me one?” is a fairly common question. I first gained experience deflecting this exhausting query as a volunteer in the Peace Corps with a somewhat vulgar quote from Bart Simpson: “sorry, the country is full,” which, despite the rude context, always seemed to trigger laughter. Nowadays, I’m far more diplomatic in my answers. But possessing a Blue Book isn’t about wide-eyed covetousness; far from it, in fact. Instead, it’s about the perceptions of where Americans come from–notions that we aren’t readily exposed to while living in the US of A.

One such conversation materialized with a coworker, a gregarious and quirky Yemeni whom we’ll call Faisal, as he was giving me a lift home from work one Thursday afternoon. (Faisal uses exaggerated hand gestures when addressing me has developed a tendency to stretch my name out to his own amusement using a very nasal pronunciation, “Hi Zaaaaaain! What’s up Zaaaaain?”) We were discussing how Saudi Arabia is home to millions of expats who do everything from operate oil refineries and teach English to build houses and serve families. Eventually, our chat drifted toward America where, in the estimation of my colleague, we’re all expats.

Faisal: In America, everyone is foreign. 
Me: How so?
Faisal: They are all from Europe! English, German, Irish, Spanish…
Me: Not everyone. America is home to people from every country and ethnic group the globe. Some for a few years, and some for generations. 
Faisal: See? They aren’t from America.
Me: Well, it’s not that simple…
Faisal: 95% of Americans aren’t from America! Only 5% Americans are…

He fumbled over a few words until his eyes lit up, at which point he awkwardly twisted his hand behind his head and pointed his index finger skyward. A crude sign of someone wearing a feather.

I laughed nervously and pointed politely to the steering wheel as we were doing about 90 mph down the freeway. But as we drove I pondered his thought process and decided to take note of where others believed Americans were from.

A few days later I spoke with another colleague. Khan, a Pakistani from the region where my grandmother was born, believes me to be a sort of comrade-in-arms. He also calls me “sir” and whenever we greet each other, he darts his eyes around and looks over his shoulder before leaning in to explain something to me as if it were in confidence. This time, the conversation was about my father’s origins.

Khan: Sir, your father is from Pakistan, yes?
Me: Originally, but he immigrated to the United States in the early 1960s.
Khan: But, sir, he is Pakistani, yes?
Me: Ethnically, yes, I suppose so, but he is an American citizen.
Khan: What nationality is in your passport, sir?
Me: Nationality? American, of course.
Khan: It doesn’t say Pakistani?
Me: No, because American passports don’t list a person’s ethnicity.
Khan: I see, sir.

I don’t think he actually saw, but I decided to let it go. Explaining why American passports don’t list ethnicity would only add to the list of topics to clarify with Khan: why I don’t speak Urdu; why I’m not Muslim; why I’ve only been to Pakistan twice, and then only as a child; why I’m not married; and, of course, why I don’t consider myself to be from Pakistan.  

But the most intriguing conversation I’ve had about American identity in the four weeks I’ve been in the Kingdom was with another teacher who is American only because his passport says so.

While I think the “where are you from?” question poses some difficulty for me, Rich’s life story makes mine seem insignificant in comparison. I met Rich at a gathering with some other Americans and, for the life of me, I could not place the origin of his accent. It wasn’t Commonwealth (British, New Zealander, Australian, or South African) but it wasn’t exactly American, even though his pronunciations and tone might suggest there was some sort of American influence. After some pizza and a discussion about local politics, I managed to blurt in edgewise with the question, “so, where are you from?” Everyone began to laugh. He smiled and replied, “where am I from, or how am I classified?”

He went on to explain a life born to American parents in Papua New Guinea, raised in Southern Africa–mainly, Swaziland, Lesotho, and Botswana. Wanderlust seemed to take him through East and Southeast Asia, where he eventually found work as a teacher before ending up in the Middle East–a decision he attributes to “being sick of being poor.” While he has loose family ties on both the East and West Coasts, he doesn’t identify with America culturally nor has he lived in the U.S. for any extended period of time. And while he also possesses a Blue Book, he is one of those rare yet true global citizens. Or, in his words, “unclassifiable.”

I’ve met many individuals stateside who claim several towns or cities as their home, are bicoastal, or have deep ancestral roots in one state but have adopted an entirely new home base–San Francisco; Harrisonburg, Virginia; or Missoula, Montana, to name a few. Expat life, however, seems to open up a wealth of completely new categories. Lifelong expats, like my uncle who is retired in Thailand; diplomatic expats who move every two or three years to American embassies around the globe, with brief check-ins back home; long-term expats who may have adopted a country like Spain, Japan, or Taiwan for two, five, or ten years; and recovering expats who are live back in the United States, but are strongly tied to a country they once resided in such as Brazil or the Netherlands.

On the inside of my passport, my Blue Book, it states “place of birth: California, U.S.A.” A warm reminder of the state that is most dear to my heart. But as I ease back into (temporary) expat life here in the Kingdom, I’m once again reminded that one’s roots are much broader than whatever is stamped on the front or on the inside of whatever color book you carry. Even more so, the perceptions that others have about my origins play a big role in sparking thoughts about my own existence. My desire to connect to a broader regional or even global culture, even if it’s just for the short term, fulfills what has been instilled in me throughout my life, and what this whole overseas experience is really all about: the value of getting to know and understand individuals from all walks of life so you can put your own identity in perspective.

photo: an older version of the Blue Book, specifically, mine. 

A Stranger in Two Lands

For as long as I can remember my name has been both a source of pride as well as frustration. While virtually every part of my formative upbringing was American or Americanized in some fashion—born and raised in California; summers with Midwestern grandparents in Colorado; overseas life as a U.S. embassy “brat” attending American schools; college in Virginia—all my personal history is chucked out the window whenever I meet someone for the first time and they hear my name. Brief salutations are inevitably followed by the quizzical, “so, where exactly are you from?“ 

Sure, I like that my name is distinct, but the question can also be exhausting. I sometimes suspect that among a handful of acquaintances or even people I consider good friends, my name seems to signify while I may be American in accent and character, I’m invariably associated with a land I know little about: Pakistan.

(By the way, here’s the short version: my father is originally from Pakistan, but was, for the most part, raised in the United States. He attended Columbia University and spent much of his working life in New York City. He doesn’t have a trace of subcontinental accent. My mother is from Missouri. She does have an accent when she’s catching up with friends on the phone from St. Joseph. They met in Karachi by chance in the early 1970s. A couple years later, I was born. Occasionally, I like to cook Pakistani food and my aunt and cousins on that side of the family are absolute riots—and they are all Westernized themselves.)

Being an expat only magnifies that association, especially in an Muslim country where my Arabic name is easily recognized.

Since arriving in Saudi Arabia earlier this week, I’ve met many people (all men, of course) who recognize the meaning of my name in Arabic (which apparently is “beautiful”) and naturally ask where I’m from. Syrians, Egyptians, Sudanese, Jordanians are all curious as to why I have a perfect American accent, yet something is amiss. ”But you don’t look American and your name is Arabic. Why is this?” they will say.

When I offer up my 20 second explanation, their eyes light up as if they’ve met a long-lost brother. A deluge of other questions follow: “Where is your wife?” “Where is your family?” and sometimes the statement-question: “You are Muslim.”

The last is both the most difficult to answer. When I smile and say I’m “non-Muslim,” a confused face stares back at me. “But, your father is Muslim, yes?” The air now taken out of their questioning, only a few half-hearted attempts are made to win more information before the conversation shuts down, albeit politely, from there.

No place have I experienced such a visceral sense of feeling like a stranger in two lands in name, culture, and appearance than last week upon my arrival Riyadh. I arrived at the customs area, which was divided into two lines: re-entry visas and new arrivals. Making my way to the second line, I soon found myself quickly surrounded by hundreds of faces, all awaiting entry into the Kingdom to undertake the umrah—similar to the hajj except it can be performed any time of year—to Mecca. A sea of humanity both men and women, wearing traditional clothing, donning caps or coverings that offered clues to their regional origins, and holding retail bags, most likely filled with the only personal belongings they had. Imagine packing up your possessions for international travel in a white plastic Target bag. Printed on the sides of each parcel were some familiar names: Peshawar, Lahore, Rawalpindi, Islamabad, Karachi. 

An elderly gentleman nudged me and asked in Urdu why his phone wasn’t receiving service. I shrugged and muttered “sorry” in English under my breath and a look appeared on his face that knowingly realized I wasn’t going to be of any help. My gaze turned to the customs officials wearing crispy pressedthobes and red keffiyeh, the Arabic signage in the customs hall, the Pakistanis who leaned forward around me to figure out what was holding up the line, and finally to a familiar sight. On a 42-inch big screen TV on one of the walls, a Tom & Jerry cartoon. A Cat Concerto, where Tom is a piano virtuoso at a concert hall whose playing disturbs a sleeping Jerry.

I stared at the television for a good 15 minutes as the Pakistani travelers pressed around me and thought to myself, “that cartoon is probably the one thing I can relate to in this entire airport at the moment.”

A customs official then signaled that I was next. Grabbing my belongings, I headed to him and handed over my passport. He flipped to my information page and to my visa. He quickly asked “name?” to which I replied in full. Then, I was fingerprinted and photographed. He handed my passport back, looked at me above the rim of his glasses and said, in what I swore was California-accented English, “Welcome to Saudi Arabia. I hope you enjoy your teaching assignment.”

photo: natives of a Sindhi village drench a European tourist with cold water from a well to beat the summer heat (1973). 

2015: Adventure in "Arabia Deserta"

In 26 BCE, a Roman prefect named Aelius Gallus under the reign of Augustus led a rather disastrous expedition to a region of the known world the Romans described, with a tinge of irony perhaps, as Arabia Felix, or “Happy Arabia.” The Greco-Roman geographer Ptolemy would later subdivide this remote expanse into two additional parts: Arabia Petraea, now known as modern-day Jordan, and Arabia Deserta, most of which encompasses the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

Starting in February, my own journey once again takes me away from the United States to the Kingdom for a year-long teaching assignment. While I don’t expect my journey to be fraught with the hardships that Aelius Gallus and his expeditionary legions faced (quite the opposite, in fact) I am prepared for the dramatic change of scenery that Saudi Arabia will bring, both figuratively and literally.

How I got to where I am today doesn’t feel entirely unexpected. It was 10 years ago that I was entering my second year of Peace Corps service in Uzbekistan; struggling with the notion of being in a fruitless environment for health education and not doing what I thought I should be doing as a volunteer: teaching English as a foreign language and counseling students. After my fellow volunteers and I were summarily evacuated from the country in June 2005, I came back to pursue a writing career with mild to moderate success. But I couldn’t find satisfaction in the fast-paced worlds of advertising or mass-media in New York City, and I more often felt I was stumbling rather than succeeding in the burgeoning start-up world that has since consumed San Francisco.

On a trip to Mexico in late 2012 where I was re-centering myself with some activities that I thrive upon–climbing mountains, eating street food, taking photos, and existing abroad–I experienced, with help of my long-time mountaineering partner and fellow wanderer, an epiphany. It was in the thin air on the slopes of Pico de Orizaba I came to the realization that I should pursue a path that I had been bouncing off of for years. 

Two years, one TEFL certificate, hours of personal reflection, a Mile High elevation change, and months of patiently waiting for a visa, I’m about a week away from departing on yet another overseas adventure. I’m returning to life as an (relapsed) ex-pat and diving into new career path that isn’t exactly new considering my first job out of college was a substitute English teacher. 

What this change will also allow me is the space to work more diligently on my creative pursuits. In our image-saturated world, I plan on balancing my photography game with my writing game. I’ve had friends (and strangers) ask me “but why Saudi Arabia?” to which I can offer more detailed answers in a later post. But one of the big reasons is geographic proximity to a couple of places that are high on my bucket list to explore, such as India and Burma, and re-explore, namely my largely unfamiliar ancestral homeland of Pakistan and my adoptive country of Uzbekistan.

If you’d like to see what I’m up to, feel free to follow along here or check me out on Instagram. And if you’d like a postcard from the Kingdom, message me and I’d be happy to oblige. I guarantee it will be more than Augustus received from Aelius Gallus.

photo: National Geographic map supplement from May 1921 - “The New Asia”