First Day at the New Job

Once I got back to Dammam, I was in a tricky sort of situation.  I technically had a week left to work at Dammam University.  But I was supposed to start with the new company this same week.  I did have 10 days of vacation saved up from my old job, so I was planning on using this to cover the days I would miss.  Still, it felt weird to be living in my old housing, but working at Al Khobar Female College.  To avoid having to explain this to my co-workers, who might accidentally tell the company who could still make my life miserable in regards to the exit visa and final pay and all that, I arranged for a taxi to pick me up and take me to the new place at 7am, knowing the bus would leave at 7:15 so I wouldn't have to see anyone.  Wouldn't you know it, while I was away in Riyadh, they changed the bus schedule to leave at 7am instead of 7:15.  So my careful planning backfired and basically guaranteed that everyone on the bus saw me not get on the bus.

Oh well, I would sort it all out when I got back that evening.  So, luckily, my Aramco buddy had taken me on a drive to see the new college, so I had a general idea where it was.  I also looked it up on Google maps and found the shortest way.  It should take about 35 minutes, and it didn't look that hard.  Basically you stay on this one highway and take the last exit before the bridge to Bahrain and from there I remember the way.  Since the college is brand new, I know he won't know the way, so I showed him on the map, and tried to explain it the best I could.  He said he knew the place and we were off.  I started to get a little worried when we took an exit.  It seemed to me too soon, because I knew we had to be on the highway for a long time, but he said he knew it, so I thought, ok, I guess I will trust him.  He is after all, the driver.   When this exit took us to the heart of downtown Dahran, I knew we had been led astray.  So I figured I needed a new strategy.  I knew I could get to it if I just found the Cornish road and we drove along there.  So I told him to go there and he thought I was crazy.  I kept saying keep going and he kept double checking, are you sure and I kept saying yes, yes, I am sure.  But the thing was, I wasn't sure, only about 75% sure.  But after my other recent cab trip where we were lost for ages, I didn't want to say I didn't know, and go through another three way translation, so I made myself sound more confident than I felt.

Eventually we got to the point where we would have gotten off the highway if we had stayed on the road I told him to take.  I pointed this out to him and he said, yes, if he had known we were coming here he would have stayed on the highway.  I didn't think it polite to point out that he did know we were coming here, or rather, I thought I had made it clear we were coming here.  After another 5 minutes or so, I spotted the school across this incredibly blue triangle of water.  The school is located not far from a desalination plant, and my guess is that this really blue triangle of water is part of that process somehow.  The building itself has three sections each one a different pastel color on the outside, pink blue and green.  From the outside, it is very impressive, until you notice that there is still no roof on one large section of the building.  But they are working on it.  We drove around the whole building to find an open gate, and I didn't see any cars.  The place looked deserted.  The driver asked me if I was sure this was it, and again, I said I was sure with more confidence than I felt.

I paid him and got out and walked up to the gate.  There was a man in a guards uniform and one in a thobe.  I wasn't sure who if anyone to address, or what to say.  Finally, I just said to the air in between them both, "I'm a teacher here?" and they both said yes of course and gestured toward the front door.  I walked to the doors, there were three of them, and I tried two before I came to the right one.  When I finally got to the one that was unlocked, because I expected it to be locked too, I pulled the door so hard it flung open.  Standing there was the Vice Principal and one of the administration ladies.  The glass on the doors was tinted so they could see out the whole time, but I couldn't see in.  So they had basically gotten to see my whole three stooges routine with the doors up close and personal.  Great first impression.

The inner courtyard of the Khobar Female College.  The circular  part on the far left is the Mosque

The first quote as you enter the building.

I was actually the first to arrive.  So I hung out with them in them in the lobby while we waited for the others to arrive and tried my best to redeem myself with intelligent sounding remarks.  Luckily, we didn't have to wait long.  A few other teachers arrived, and some more admin girls, so we were ushered through the college into the training room.  The college has an open courtyard area in the middle of the buildings with some trees and grass and some pretty cool round benches that I imagine will be a prime hang out spot once the trees get a bit bigger and provide shade, or when the weather gets cooler.   Then we passed into the three block buildings which are united by corridors.  The walls are all painted in pinks and purples and blues with fun asymmetrical geometric patterns and fun famous quotes about women and education.  It feels very fresh and young and exciting.  It has that new car smell even.

There are Arabic and English quotes

The classroom we were using had tables on wheels for easy reorganization of classrooms and comfortable but portable chairs.  It was just missing a white board and projector.  Apparently most of the furniture is currently stuck in customs, waiting for a bribe or something to get it through.  They are also still installing the internet, so there isn't any yet.  The toilets were also not exactly up and running yet either, so there were clearly a few kinks to be worked out, but overall, it was impressive. I felt really privileged to be here at the start of this project, and a part of me still couldn't believe it was actually happening and that I was really going to be done with my old company for good.  It just seemed to good to be true.

A terrifyingly ominous quote.....

The girls who were staying at the accommodation finally arrived on the bus.  We did a quick introduction exercise and they all seem like wonderful people.  There are six other Americans, but the other 22 or so are all from the UK, Ireland, or South Africa.  There are also a handful of teachers who still haven't arrived and are waiting on visas etc...  It's clear that they chose really seasoned teachers and I think it's going to be a great program.  I can also see already that there are some strong personalities that may come in conflict with one another.  We will see how it goes.

I'll keep this one in mind when with the job switch.

I was really excited to see Luiza, one of the women I worked with at Dammam University.  She was also hired from my old company, and because she was on her husbands visa, she didn't have the same problems with quitting that I did.  She came late because she had to turn in her leave notice to come to the orientation.  She came just as we were getting a tour of the college, which so far consisted of peaking into a lot of  empty rooms.  There were a few computer labs, a kitchen and a huge canteen as well.  I sneaked off during the tour to rescue Luiza from wondering around lost looking for us.  When we saw each other we hugged.  It felt like we were long lost prison cell mates who escaped and met up at the agreed upon rendezvous point.  We had both been secretly talking about escaping the old company for a while.  Neither of us had told the old company or any of the other girls we worked with about swapping over so it was a very hush hush operation.  It was good not to feel so alone since most of the other girls had arrived a week ago and already kind of bonded.

After the tour, we had a typical ice-breaker activity, and then we had an introduction to the company and the school and the mission, which was more or less off the cuff since the managing director was supposed to come and deliver these remarks, but was held up and couldn't be there.  Basically, the school is part of an initiative by the King called Saudization.  One of the biggest challenges Saudi faces is that half their workforce (women) traditionally don't work, and the other half only works if the job is management level or higher. Saudi's are extremely proud people, and feel very strongly about their superiority over others, so they  feel that any job below management level is beneath them. All the manual labor, retail, and other "low level" jobs are filled by third party nationals, mostly Phillipinos, Pakistanis, Bangalies, and Indians.  The goal is to slowly shift this trend so that more Saudi's work (instead of being on a sort of government supported free ride) and pay taxes, including women.  Plus as an added bonus, the foreign population would dwindle with no jobs available for them, so that Saudi can go back to belonging to just Saudis.  It's especially important to limit the presence of foreigners in the country because they are not always muslim and don't always follow the religious laws the way they should and they bring in all these western ideas that degrade Saudi society, very dangerous.  So, as part of this initiative, the government has created what they call "Colleges of Excellence" which are more or less job training centers targeting the students who didn't get the marks to get into University. It's a 3 year training program during which time they learn english, and a job trade skill, and at the end are placed with an employer.

Looking up at the central rotunda in the main building.

After that background information, we stalled for a while, taking yet another bathroom break.  I got the feeling they weren't really sure what to do with us since most of the agenda for the day had been built around things that weren't ready.  Like, powerpoints that couldn't be shown because the projectors had not yet arrived, or presentations no one could give because the presenter wasn't there.  Luckily, they did have food for us.  Our orientation meals were being catered since the cafeteria wasn't up and running yet.  It was really a very swanky set up.  The food was beautifully displayed and came in little serving sized cups on tiered platforms.  There were several kinds of salads, and then little mini sandwiches and finally a watermelon cut into the shape of a basket with fruit shish kebob skewers sticking out of it like a huge bouquet.  It was beautiful and tasty and healthy too.  Perhaps I am too easily impressed, but the food sold me.  So the company wasn't as organized as I might have liked, it was a brand new school.  Things were bound to have a bit of a rough start, especially in Saudi.  At least they cared enough to provide us with lunch while they were (not) training us.

More than that though, unlike the old company, which openly didn't care about student outcomes, other than how they looked on paper, this company (at least so far) really seems to be trying something new to help Saudis.   Though students do get a degree at the end of their 3 years with us,  the degree is not the point.  The point is that they will be able to find and keep a job.  So in years 2 and 3 they have 120 hours of internship work in addition to the classwork they have to complete.  Then, they will be placed in a job upon graduating.  The company gets paid if that person stays in the job for 3 months, 6 months, even a year.  Sure, it's still a numbers game, but these numbers are real achievements.  It means women actually working in Saudi.  If this works the way they want it to,  instead of changing marks on exams and papers to boost numbers, we will actually be changing lives and boosting not only numbers, but whole future generations of Saudi women and their children.  We are going to be teaching them English, sure, but also basic skills like, showing up on time, or even, showing up at all.

There were over 10,000 applications for the 650 available slots this trimester.  The girls want to be here.  They want to learn and try to do something more than what their mothers were able to do.  I'm excited to be a part of this initiative to help them do that.  It's a tall order.  We will be expecting a lot from these girls, and from ourselves.  It's a risky business.  It could go either way.  The girls could rebel and demand the kind of treatment they are used to getting; low expectations, apathetic teachers and corruptible administration, because it is a system they know, and one they know how to work to their own advantage.   They could carry on considering school to be a social hour, and waste their time here instead of at home or at the mall because at least they will be with their friends.  Or they could surprise us all and rise to the challange we put before them.  They could be just waiting for some tiny bit of direction and inspiration to begin to grow into stong, intelligent, and capable women who will change society from within.  I hope it is the later, but only time can tell for sure.

Tutoring Gig

One of my colleagues from my old job had previously offered to help me find side work as a tutor.  While I was in Riyadh dealing with the job change mess, She put me in touch with a Saudi family with 2 daughters who would need tutoring.  We agreed to meet at the mall and have an introduction as well as discuss tutoring needs, times, and money.

We had agreed originally to meet at 6:15, which was perfect for me since our weekly shopping trip bus dropped me off around 5 and would pick up again around 8pm.  Then, the mother texted me that morning to change the plan.  She wanted to meet earlier, at 4pm.  This was not a problem, it just meant that instead of heading there for free on the bus, I would have to take a taxi there earlier.  I figured it would take a bout a half an hour to get to the mall, then added another 15 min in case of traffic.

At 3:15 I caught a taxi and asked to be taken to gate 4 of Dahran Mall.  The malls here are so large, you have to specify meet up locations by gate number.  I believe Dahran Mall has 14 gates.  Things seemed to be running on schedule until we hit a lot of traffic.  Then I started to worry.  At 3:45, the mother texted me to ask where I was and let me know they were already there.  This was not good.  The one time things weren't running on Saudi time was when I was actually going to meet a Saudi family.  Is there anything worse than knowing you are late but not being able to do anything about it?

When we finally pulled into gate 4, I was only about 5 min. late for our 4pm meeting, but the family had already been waiting for 20 min, so I was in a hurry to find them.  It was only when I started looking around did I realize how crazy it was to try to meet a family you have never met before when every woman and girl over the age of puberty is dressed exactly the same and all you can see is their eyes.  I called them, and asked if they were inside or outside, which narrowed it down some, but then we had to play a strange mix of hot or cold to narrow down the location further, until I finally saw a woman on the phone waving at me.

Relieved I walked over to them and apologized for being late.  The oldest daughter, who I had been communicating with on the phone and through text since her mother did not speak English, introduced me to her mother and her younger sister.  She asked if I wanted to talk here, on a bench in the entryway of the mall, but it was crowded and there were lots of people around so I suggested we go for coffee instead, hoping it would be more quit.

So we began walking through the mall, which was more crowded than I had ever seen it before because school was starting up again the next day so a lot of people were out buying school supplies.  We walked for a while, because evidently gate 4 is no where near the food court or any coffee shops.  Finally we got to the food court, but all the tables in the family section were really full.  Interestingly, the mens seating area was practically empty, but we couldn't sit there.  So we looked around for a bench like the one we had left at gate 4, but every time we thought we spotted one, someone sat in it before we could.  Part of the problem was that it was nearly prayer time, and when prayer starts, the stores all close down and no one can do any shopping anyway, so everyone just sits down to wait.

We managed to squeeze our way into a Cinnabon cafe just before they closed the doors.  We commandeered a chair from another table and the oldest daughter, mother and I sat squeezed into a tiny corner table for two while the youngest daughter half sat half stood on her mother's lap.  It was loud in the cafe and hard to hear, but it seemed like it was the best we were going to get.  So we settled in to make do.

Through her daughter, the mother explained that she wanted someone to help her daughter with English, Math, and Science, 5 days a week, for  2 hours a day.  This seemed like a lot to me, and I clarified in case she meant to say 3 times a week instead, but she wanted someone 5 days a week.  She explained that occasionally, she would also need me to help her older daughter, the one translating with some things.  She asked me how much I would charge, and I told her 100 SAR an hour (I had been told by others who had tutored before that the going rate was between 100 and 150 an hour).   She asked me how much per month, so I did the math.  It came out to 4,000 SAR a month.  She said it was a lot and she didn't think she could pay that much.  When you put it in monthly terms, it did seem like kind of a lot, so I told her I could do it for 3,000 SAR, which I felt was a significant drop.  The mother countered and said could she pay me 2,500 since she would take care of a driver for me.  Since I knew it would probably cost me around 60 round trip each time I came by taxi, meaning I would really only be earning 40 an hour if I got my own driver, I figured that was fair.  I told her we should agree to give it a try for one month, to be sure that her daughters liked me and that I could handle all the extra work with my new job starting and everything.  She agreed and it was settled.

So, that finished and decided, we agreed that I would begin tutoring the following Sunday.  I wasn't sure yet where I would be living at that point since I hadn't yet moved into the new accommodations, so I told her I would text her with directions, and my GPS location when I settled in.  We said our goodbyes, and I told Joury (the youngest daughter) I would see her in a week.

That settled, I now had about three and half hours to kill before the bus arrived.  I've never much cared for shopping or malls, so I wasn't really looking forward to it.  But I decided that at least I could walk around, and that would be good exercise for me.  So I started off heading in the opposite direction of gate 6 where the bus would get me, since the mall is really a giant loop and I would make it back to 6 eventually.  On the way, I passed a SACO store, which is kind of like a Home Depot and IKEA rolled into one.  I do like a good Hardware store, so I wondered in to admire the tools and gadgets.  I noticed a second floor with lawn furniture, and figured it might be nice to try out some of the front porch swings they had just to pass the time.  I made my way to the escalator and noticed the  warning sign at the bottom when you get on that normally says watch your step or hold on to small children or tie your shoe laces in the states... here the sign showed an abaya trapped in the stairs and \ being violently ripped away from a terrified stick woman with the helpful words: Please be careful of your abaya.  That was enough to make me almost not want to get on the escalator.  But I braved it anyway for the sake of cushioned indoor swings.

There were a few other families hanging out in the lawn furniture section trying out the swings, or resting their feet.  Most stayed 10 or 15 minutes at most.  But one set of grandparents with a little girl stayed for at least an hour, so I didn't feel that bad about being a squatter myself.  I tried to pick a more individual sized swing far away from everyone and settled in.  I took out my kindle to read for a while, but not before I set my phone alarm to remind me to leave in time to catch the bus.  Then I just laid back and relaxed.  I may have even napped some. (Don't worry, one of the employees was snoring in the swing next to me, so I didn't think it would be a problem). I have to say, that is the best time I have ever had in a mall.  Ever.  Thank you outdoor furniture section of SACO world.

Resigning: Day 5

 I woke up feeling desperate and discouraged. This was my last chance to get my passport before the weekend, and I really really really did not want to stay in Riyadh (as nice as the apartment was) for the weekend. I was missing all of my friends, and despite it's many faults, my crappy apartment had started to feel like home. Besides, My new company wanted me to start with orientation on Sunday, so If I didn’t get my passport, I would have to wait until December to start and since I had already given my notice with my old company, I would be left without a job for three months.  The stakes were high, and every time I thought about how much I really wanted this all to work out, and how unlikely it was that it would, I felt myself tearing up with frustration.  I knew there was a high risk that I would lose it today, and I kept having to remind myself to stay calm and not get angry or emotional.  I needed to be calm and firm to get what I wanted.

So I spent the morning planning a strategy. I had the phone numbers of several lawyers, and the number refering to the section of Saudi law that says employees must be allowed to keep their passports. I hoped I wouldn't have to get nasty, and reminded myself that those who got angry rarely got what they wanted. I told myself over an over to stay calm, but my nerves were warn pretty thin by this point, and everytime I thought about what I would do if I didn't get my passport I felt tears of frustration start to well up in my eyes. I was still researching labor laws and official complaint procedures in the lobby of the hotel when 9am came and went. I hadn't seen any bus to the office yet. I asked at the front desk, but he knew very little English. Finally, I spotted Wajda's husband and I asked if there would be a bus to the office this morning. He told me yes, but we were waiting for his wife to come down. This morning there were about 5 new male teachers. Wajda finally came down at about 9:15 and we all made our way to the bus, including a woman from the lobby that I hadn't seen before.

Wajda's husband reminded us ladies that we should sit in the back so that no men would have to sit next to us. This was especially important because Wajda had told me the story of how one woman had gotten angry when someone asked her to move before so he wouldn't have to sit next to her. Wajda's husband had tried to explain that it was for her own sake, so he didn't accidently touch her as the bus went over bumps or anything. But the woman was angry about being told what to do and having her rights infringed upon. I can understand Wajda's husbands point of view that it is easier if the sexes don't sit together just to avoid potentially embarrasing situations, but I wondered why the men got to sit up front closer to the air conditioning? Really, any row of seats could be designated male or female, just so long as they weren't sitting directly next to each other. So the three of us women sat in the very back, and the men sat in the three front rows. As we were pulling away, the third woman received a text from some other women who also wanted to go to the office. They had just missed it. We asked the driver to go back for them, and two more women got on and squeezed into the back row. Now there were only two seats left. One in a row with women, and one in a row with men. There were two more women who were apparently supposed to be on the bus as well. But they had agreed to meet in the lobby at 9:15 and it was now 9:30.  The boys made the argument that we should leave them because we didn't have enough "female" seats left for them anyway.  Wajda pointed out that we could easily switch around so that she was sitting next to her husband leaving two "female" seats vacant, enough for both of them.  The other girls argued we should leave them because they were late and not answering their phones.  We waited another 10 minutes or so, and when no one else arrived we took off.  I tried to pay attention to the conversations around me with some of the new women.  I even tried to get excited when a truck full of camels passed us.  But it was only going through the motions.  My head was spinning with ideas and what if scenarios.

I decided that what I needed was a plan.  Plan A was to bypass Mohammad’s office this morning and head straight to the government relations office and ask for my passport.  If they had it I would know for sure Mohammad had been lying about the company representative having it with him over night.  If they didn’t have it I could go back to Mohammad and figure out a plan B.  So I went upstairs and knocked on the glass.   At first the men ignored me.  After a few more knocks they waved to signal they were coming.  One of the men was in the middle of texting someone and the other was checking something on his computer, probably facebook.  I waited another ten minutes or so before they finally came to the window.  He asked for my name and I knew right away my plan wasn’t going to work.  He recognized my name and said, no, we don’t have it, ask Mohammad.  So they were in cahoots!  I wasn’t going to be dismissed that easily.  I asked him for copies of the paperwork they were submitting to the ministry of labor on my behalf.  He said they didn’t make copies.  I asked him where the originals were, and he told me the only copy was with the company rep at the immigration office.  I asked him to clarify.   “You mean you never make copies of any applications you submit to the ministry?  No copies whatsoever?” Nervous and noncommittal affirmative nod.  “So what happens if he looses it?  Or the Ministry looses it?  What do you do then?” 

He decided he should switch tactics.  “Well, it’s all online.” He said.

“Great!,” I said, if it is online, you should be able to pull up my application by reference number and show me the status and everything that has been done so far.”  He shook his head and said that it was a paper application.  So I asked again for copies.  He said they never made copies.  I asked him if he was in charge, if he would make copies of important documents before they sent them off to be processed.  I could tell I was exacerbating him.  He and I both knew that they did have copies, but they had been instructed not to give them to us.  We had a stare down, which was ironically broken by a man coming into the office to make a photocopy of an official looking document.  He wouldn’t even look at me after that, he just kept saying, go see Mohammad. I was trying to ask for clarification about where my passport was and who had it and when I could get it back, while he was trying desperately to get me to leave and go downstairs to Mohammed.  A man passing by must have heard this one sided exchange while passing by.  He approached the window and stood next to me.  “Do you want me to help translate?” He said.  I shrugged.  I knew it wasn’t a communication problem so much as a policy problem, but I thought maybe there was something I was missing, so I said, “sure, go ahead.  Ask him when I will get my passport and to please give me the photocopies of my application for Iqama so far.”

The man translated and the guy behind the glass got angry and said something in Arabic that I took to mean, “Butt out you jerk, I can speak English just fine, this lady is just asking for something I can’t give her.”  I’m not sure what it actually meant though because the helpful guy retreated saying, oh, sorry, I guess you have it under control.  The man behind the glass shouted one more time for me to go see Mohammad and then he also retreated to an inner office.

I decided it was time for plan B.  I went to Mohammad.  Not surprisingly, he was busy dealing with a new crisis.  They had said before that they would pay a week holiday during Eid, but now after everyone got back, were suddenly deciding that no, they weren’t going to pay anyone after all.  So there were about a dozen teachers all demanding the pay.  It was as if they were kids lining up outside the principal’s office saying “No fair! No take backs, you said….” complaining that the bully promised to give them all a quarter if they did this one thing, and then when everyone did it, the bully said, well, I had my fingers crossed so it doesn’t count. 

Mohammad called me to his desk and then leaned in conspiratorially.  “Here is what you will do.  Go to the head of HR.  Tell him you need to speak with him.  Then tell him they are lying to you and won’t give you your passport.  But don’t tell him it was my idea to send you.  Just go.”  So I went.  His door was closed and someone was inside, so I asked his secretary If I could see him.  He said sure, just have a seat.  So I sat.  I sat for a long time.  And while I sat, I stewed.  I stewed over the absurdity of it all, over the chances I would get it sorted out, and the more I thought about it, the more concerned and frustrated I became.  I could feel tears starting to well up in the bottom lids of my eyes, so I took out my kindle to try to read a book and take my mind of waiting.  It was a good plan since It ended up being just shy of an hour before he finally emerged from his office. 

I stood up and waited for him to invite me into the office.  He didn't, so I just stood there and started telling him the situation.  He didn't wait for me to finish, he just nodded a few times and then walked away.  I turned to his secretary to see if he could tell me what had just happened, but his English wasn't great.  He motioned for me to have a seat again and said “I think he is going to help you now.”  I would have felt a lot better if he had left out the “I think” part.  I sat down and felt the tears coming on again.  I hated this feeling of being at the complete mercy of people you clearly knew were not interested in helping you at all, but were only interested in how much money they could scam from you.  The secretary must have seen how close I was to crying, because he slid the tissue box across his desk over to me.  I might have been able to keep it together, but that one small gesture, that one small sign of kindness put me over the edge.  All the stress and frustration and anger and fear I’d been holding in the past week came pouring out.  It felt good and part of me wanted to just cry and cry.  But the other part of me was keenly aware of the scene I was making and was trying to pull it together and stop crying. So then it was like a laughing in church kind of scenario, where the more you know you shouldn't the less control you seem to have.  Of course, the whole office seemed to have chosen this moment to come looking for the HR manager.  At least five people came in and stared at me crying.  A few of them asked what was going on and did what they could to try to help.  One guy said he would let the vice president know what was happening.  Another guy offered to call his friend in the Labor Office.  I thought, man, If I knew tears would get me this much help I would have cried on Sunday and skipped the whole long ordeal.

 Eventually, after another 45 minutes or so, the HR manager returned.  This time he asked me into his office and offered me a chair.  “Ok,” he said, “Here is the problem.  Your visa was issued in the name of our company as a company.  Recently we changed our name to be in the name of our company institute.  So we can’t get your iqama for you until we get that changed.”

He seemed to think he had done me some great favor by divulging this information to me even though Mohammad had already told me this.  “And so,” I said, “When can I have my passport?  I have waited for this name change to happen for five months now and I won’t wait anymore.  I need to have my passport.”  He made a few calls and asked about when my final day was, which I explained was on Sept. 4^th, but because of my vacation days could actually be any day.  He told me that legally, the company had two weeks from my final day to process everything and get me my final exit papers.  “I promise that by Sept. 18^th you will have your passport and final exit and everything you need.”  I told him that legally, the company had to give us both our passport and our iqama to keep at all times and they hadn’t done that.  He didn’t respond but asked me to trust him and told me everything would work out.  I told him I wished I could trust him, but since day one when they changed my contract the company has been doing nothing but lying to me, so he would forgive me If I didn’t believe him.  I told him he needed to show me copies of all of the paperwork they had submitted to the ministry of labor on my behalf.  He told me he couldn’t do that because there were too many employees and if everyone asked for this it would be too much.  I asked if he was worried about the paper.  I told him I would bring my own paper if the cost was too much for the company.  He said it wasn’t about the paper, they just couldn’t give me any of the documents.  I asked him if that was because they hadn’t submitted anything for me.  He insisted they had done all the proper paperwork.  I insisted that I be allowed to have copies of it.  He told me no.  I said that my lawyer (I didn’t have one) told me I had the right to have copies of the papers.  As soon as I said lawyer, he changed.  Ok.  He said, forget the papers, I will get your passport back to you.  Then, when the iqama is ready, you can send it back to us by courier.  No, I said.  I will not give you back my passport again once I have it.  If the iqama is ready, I will come in person, and go with the company representative to the labor office to process it, but my passport will not be out of my sight again.  He said, ok, fine, you can come if you want, it is no problem.  You will have your passport by 2pm.  I asked again about documentation of my paperwork for the ministry and he said, you have your passport so you don’t need the papers. 

I told myself to pick the battles.  The passport was enough, even though it was clearer than ever  that there was definitely something shady going on with the visa and the iqama situation.  So I said, 2pm?  I will be waiting.  If I don’t have it by 2pm, I will call my lawyer.  He agreed and I went downstairs to wait.  Not exactly relieved yet, but slightly more confident.  I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if it didn't arrive, so I focused on channeling my energy into positive thinking in the hopes that it would arrive.

I went to Wajda’s office and we talked some more which was a helpful distraction.  We talked about how it seemed strange that so many good Muslims allowed themselves to be a part of the deception and cheating the company was involved in.  Wajda said her husband figures that it happens so often, that everyone becomes immune to it.  No one really cares anymore.  I preferred to think it was out of desperation to keep the job more than simple apathy. Wajda’s view was that they would get their reward in the hereafter, and that the deepest pits of hell fire were reserved for the leaders and the business people at the top of the chain that allowed these kinds of things to happen.  Then she described what she imagined paradise to be like, where we would all be 30 years old no matter how old we were when we died, and we would be reunited with all the important people in our lives.  She said there would be green everywhere and we would have an infinite variety of food and every bite we took would be better than the last and we would never have to use the restroom or have any bodily functions ever again and everything would be perfect.  There would never be any conflict or confusion and we would know everything.  I didn't want to say anything, but heaven was sounding kind of boring to me.  I tried to imagine a life without out conflict, or challenge, or where I already knew everything and it just seemed monotonous and repetitive.  I guess it might seem weird that given my current life of chaotic conflict, the last thing I would want in paradise would be conflict, but I just think life would be completely uninteresting without it.  However, Wajda looked so happy when she was describing it, It was almost possible for me to believe that it wouldn’t be so bad.

Since it was Wajda and her husband’s final day before the moved to Al Jouf to finally begin teaching, they wanted to do something nice for the office.  So they ordered a ton of food for the whole office.  They had ordered it to come around noon, but as with everything in Saudi Arabia, it didn’t happen on time.  A few minutes before 2pm, two things arrived at once, my passport, and the food.    I had just left Wajda to head to the bathroom, when one of the helpful teachers who was carrying in the food told me Mohammad was looking for me.  I found him on his way up the stairs and he gave me my passport and made me sign for it.    I ran back to Wajda and showed her my passport.  I even did a little crazy dance.  I couldn't stop smiling!  I wanted to head off right away for the train station, but Wajda convinced me to stay and wait for the food and eat with them.  I hadn't eaten all day, because I was too nervous and worried about getting my passport, but now that I had it I was suddenly hungry and wanted to eat.  The men ate in one room, while Wajda and I, the only two women, ate separately in her office.  We ate our food Saudi style.  We spread a tablecloth out over the table and poured the rice out on the table clothes.  Then we used our hands to eat the chicken and the rice.  It was absolutely delicious and a wonderful way to say goodbye, even if we were only saying goodbye to each other and not any of the office staff.  The guys didn't even get to have a proper sit down last meal together either, they came in ones and twos whenever they could because the office was so busy.  Wajda and I had a lot left over and she insisted that I take it with me to have something to eat on the train.


I didn't think I should wait any longer If I wanted to take the 5pm train.  I asked Mohammed if they could send a driver to take me to the train station.  I didn't think he would do it for me, but in the end he said sure.  But then he got busy and forgot, so I went up to the drivers room and asked for one myself.  After a half an hour of waiting, they gave me a driver.  He had never been to the train station before, but he knew generally where it was.  The thing about the train station (and most things in Saudi) is that there is a big wall around the whole thing, so there is only one way in and one way out, and it is sort of hidden.  I had only been there once before, but I remembered how the other driver had had to take this road all the way around it and then do a u-turn to get back to the entrance.  I could see that this guy was not sure exactly where he was going, so I told him where to go, and at first he didn't seem to want to trust me, but he did and we finally arrived at the station a little before 4pm.  I didn't really want to carry a whole tray of left-over kobsa food with me on the four hour train ride, but Wajda had insisted I take it, so I still had it with me.  I thought that the least I could do was give it to the driver to take home. So I offered it to him.  I should have thought about the fact that there might not be seats left on the train so soon to departure, and I did a little bit, but I knew there was also a 9pm train, and I thought, worse comes to worse, I can take the later train.  So I didn't even think about asking him to wait until I bought the ticket to be sure it would work out.  I just handed over the food, thanked him, and got out.

Inside, I went to the ticket counter, and the man asked me where I wanted to go and looked at my passport and then did something for about 10 minutes on his computer and walking over to another window before coming to tell me that all the trains were fully booked.  I asked him if there wasn't anything at all?  Nothing in any class?  He told me there was one seat left, but it was only from Riyadh to Al Hassa, a little more than halfway.  I asked about the next train to Dammam, which wasn't until the next day.  They had one first thing in the morning, and one at about 1pm.  The morning train cost double that of the afternoon train, and I figured, a) I had waited this long to get there, what was a few more hours? and b) Did I really want to get up and have to look for a taxi at 4am?  So I decided to book the afternoon train.  Which took another 10 minutes or so while the guy searched around for something and then finally took the money and printed the ticket.

Now I just had to find a way back to the hotel.  I was pretty sure my room would still be available to use, and hopefully they would still pay for me to stay the night, because Mohammed had told me that he didn't think I would be able to take the train today (I should have listened).  So now all I had to do was try to figure out how to get to the hotel.  I had absolutely no idea where it was, or even what it was called, so I asked Mohammad to give me directions.  He texted me the following:  Exit 8.  Right, 2nd left.   It didn't seem super helpful, but I figured that if he could at least get me in the general vicinity of the place, I could remember the way from there.  So I found a taxi driver and negotiated with him.  He wanted 60, I talked him down to 35.

At the time I was really proud of  my bargaining skills, but later, I felt guilty.  We made it to exit 8, but there was a left exit and a right exit.  I had no idea which one to take... The taxi driver kept asking me which way and I said "left" in Arabic, only I actually said "Right".  I had gotten the two mixed up in my head which was actually okay because once we turned right and went a little ways, I recognized the intersection.  Whew, thank goodness for my inability to tell left from right.  We took our first right, and then we went down two lights and took our second left.  Nothing looked familiar.  The taxi driver kept looking at me, but I couldn't help.  I tried to call Mohammad, but I had run out of credit on my phone.  Finally the driver pulled over and started asking around, I thought I remembered the name of the hotel, kind of.   He asked one guy who didn't speak Arabic, so I told him where I wanted to go, and he thought he knew it, but couldn't tell the driver who only spoke Arabic, so he went to get a friend, who spoke Urdu and Arabic, and he told his friend in Urdu who then translated back to Arabic to my driver.  Turns out, we should have taken the literal second left, not the second stop light left.  So we went back and sure enough, as soon as we turned down the street, I recognized it and told the driver where to go. I think he may have been even more relieved than I was to find the place.

I paid him, and climbed the steps to the hotel for (hopefully) the last time.  Even though the staff had been very helpful, and I had met a lot of really wonderful people during my time in Riyadh, I was very very grateful to be going home the next day.  I got into my room, and admired my passport some more before falling asleep.  It was the first solid nights sleep I had had since arriving in Riyadh.

Resigning: Day 4

This morning Wajda and I were joined on the morning bus by Jennifer from Texas. We tried inform her of what she was in for without scaring her so that she could at least go into her experience with the company with eyes wide open. When we got there, Mohammed wasn't in yet.  Faisal said he came in late a lot, and probably wouldn't be around before noon. Jennifer got her contract and read it over.  I was holding my breath.  I wanted to tell her not to do it.  I wanted to say, get out now while you have the chance!  Instead I just cringed and said a silent prayer that everything would work out well for her as I watched her sign her life away.

Driving around the PNU campus

After she signed, there was nothing she could do without Mohammed.  Wajda needed to return a laptop she had been given by Princess Nora University before she left on Sunday to start work in Al Jouf.  She asked if Jennifer would like to go with her since more than likely she would be working there.  Jennifer said sure, and I asked if I could tag along also.  I knew there would be no news before 3pm, and seeing where I might have been working would be a lot better than sitting around the office all day.  Wajda said no problem and the three of us went downstairs and one of the drivers agreed to take us to PNU.  It took about 30 minutes to get to the campus and then another 10 or 15 to drive around the perimeter and find the right gate.  PNU is so large that it has 10 entrance gates and a monorail that goes around the whole campus to help students get from one area to the other.  We were dropped off at the main gate for employees which has a huge fountain in front. Inside the walls all the streets are lined with palm trees. The sudden switch from the dull tan of the surrounding area makes the green inside PNU seem like paradise.

No Men Allowed

We got out and asked the driver to wait just 15 minutes while she returned the laptop. A huge sign in front of the door made sure everyone knew this was a no man zone. Inside the building was crowded with girls waiting to take placement tests, sitting in long rows Indian style like we used to in gym class. This was orientation week and classes would begin the following week, so there was a lot going on. Wajda led us through the security and upstairs, then out across a patio to another building and then upstairs again through a long hallway of classrooms and then finally to the faculty offices. Everything was clean and new and had a nice sleek design. the colors were orange and silver and cream and it was a strange mix of modern and old style Arabic geometric designs. the classrooms were smaller than I would have thought, and we passed at least two prayer rooms on our way to the offices.

 Jennifer and I sat on some orange couches to wait while Wajda returned the laptop. She wasn't gone long before she came back down the hallway she had disappeared to and passed us to go down the opposite way. a few minutes after that, she passed us again, going back the other way. Finally she came back a third time. It reminded me of watching everyone in the company offices going upstairs and downstairs and back again, bouncing from one office to the next. I guess I hadn't escaped the hectic office after all. The woman she needed to return it to was in a meeting and no one else wanted to take responsibility for the laptop. So she would have to wait for her to come out of a meeting. Wajda called the office to let the driver know he didn't have to wait.

Monorail around PNU's Campus

Wajda & Jennifer take pictures
of the clock tower.

I suggested that we take a ride on the monorail while we waited. So we went upstairs to the platform and got on the train. It only had two cars, but it was really neat. The track was raised above the whole campus at least 2 maybe 3 stories high and made a giant oval. We passed the library and the clock tower and even a whole mini-suburb where the Arabic teachers lived. This place had everything.

Mini -city inside PNU campus, complete with mosque, grocery store and teacher & student housing.

After we finished our loop tour, there was still no word from the woman Wajda needed to return the laptop to, so we went to the food court, which was actually three stories worth of food and even had a pharmacy and a small supermarket. It was incredible. But the best part was something called the tranquil rooms. These were a series of circular rooms lined with soft benches and pillows with a TV on one wall and little curtains over each doorway. They looked inviting and calming, and I peaked in one and saw three girls laying down with legs and arms dangling over the edge of the benches. I couldn't think of a better name for these rooms than tranquil rooms, and I wished we had one in Dammam. But then again, it would always be full and then people would be fighting over them, which wouldn't be tranquil at all so maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all.

We went back to the office again and this time someone told Wajda where the meeting was, so she went off to find the woman and we sat back down on the orange couches to wait. By thins time I was getting anxious to get back to the office and find out what was happening with my passport. About a half an hour later Wajda returned laptop free, and we downstairs to see if there was a driver or call and wait for one to come if there wasn't. Surprisingly, our driver was still there waiting for us. Apparently, he never got the message from the main office. We felt bad for making him wait, but I suspect he was perfectly content to do so. He had been taking a nap with the engine on to run the AC. We had been gone almost 4 hours. It doesn't seem to matter much here how much gas you use because the petrol costs almost nothing.

By the time we got back to the office Mohammad had turned up and had a line of people waiting. Eventually it was my turn. By now it was almost 3:30 and the office closed at 4pm. I asked him for the news and he told me it still wasn't ready. I asked him If I could have my passport then and we went upstairs together to the government relations office, but they told him my passport was still out with the company representative. I told Mohammad I wanted it back, and he told me that it was too late, the guy couldn't get back to the office before 4pm. He said it was better this way anyway because then the guy could go with it first thing in the morning and try to get it done one more time. I was so frustrated. "You promised me I could have it back today, Mohammad." He shrugged and said, "Tomorrow, inshallah." I was worried that if he said inshallah to me one more time I might either burst into tears or hit him in the face. I asked him if we could at least take care of all the other paperwork for leaving tomorrow, even if we didn't get the exit visa, that way I wouldn't have to come back to Riyadh next week and could just be finished. He said lets see, and led me across the hall to the finance department.

The guy in charge of the Dammam finances was praying at the moment so we couldn't see him. While we waited for him to come back, I made Mohammad promise again that he would get my passport back for me tomorrow, with or without an exit visa or an iqama. He promised me again, but by now, his word wasn't worth much to me. It was worth even less when the finance guy returned from prayer and Mohammad asked him about my situation. For my benefit he asked him in English if everything could be settled by Sunday, then he switched to Arabic. I don't know much Arabic but I have managed to learn the days of the week, and I will tell you the word I kept hearing Mohammad say to the finance guy was not Sunday, but Tuesday. The finance man gave a couple of short nods and a noncommittal shrugs, and then Mohammad turned to me and said, "Sunday, it should be easy. You will be paid anyway because it is the end of the month, so it will be simple." I was out of energy to fight and out of time. It was already 4pm and I didn't want to miss the bus back to the hotel.

At the hotel, I met Sara, who was another woman whose iqama hadn't been processed, and another teacher whose name I don't remember. We commiserated for a while together in the lobby, and eventually decided to move our rants upstairs to one of their apartments for tea. We had earl gray and smoked shisha and traded war stories. Sara had previously lived in both Afghanistan and Iraq, and she said that even though they were developing countries, and Saudi was first world, our company was far more disorganized and less efficient than anything she had experienced over there. The latest scandal was that the company had decided not to pay people for their Eid vacations even though before the vacation, they sent emails saying they would be paid. Also, they were planning on moving them out of this very nice hotel soon because apparently the company was several months behind on the rent for the building. I really don't know how this company is still in business. Eventually, we said goodnight, and they supplied me with soap and tea and food to take with me since I had come with nothing. I told them I would really only be here one more night, but they insisted, saying that I would probably be stuck here forever. They said it with a smile, as if they were joking, but we all knew there was more truth to it than any of us were comfortable with. They invited me to come up anytime if I needed anything, and told me they would be happy to take me out if I was still there this weekend. I thanked them, but insisted with more confidence and hope than I felt, that I would be headed back to Dammam tomorrow night.

Resigning: Day 3

 The next morning I woke up early to sit in the lobby and use the Internet because the signal was really weak in my room. I was surprised to see a young woman there with no abaya on. It's amazing how quickly something that used to be perfectly normal becomes jarring when you haven't seen it in a while. She saw me, and came to ask me some questions. Her name was Jennifer, from Texas and she had just arrived from the airport where no one from the company had come to meet her, so she had waited there 5 hours. Finally, she found the driver just by chance, and he brought her to the hotel where she had been waiting to be checked in for nearly 2 hours. Apparently the front desk couldn't check her in without confirmation from the company and no one was at the office yet to confirm. She was jet lagged and confused and worried because no one from the company had told her what to do when she arrived, or where to go. I told her not to worry, and that she could come on the bus to the office with me at 9am if she wanted, or she could take a day to sleep and catch up on jet lag and go in the next day and it wouldn't make any difference. She asked me some questions about the company, and since she already seemed nervous and frightened, I didn't want to scare her too much, but I told her whatever you do, don't let them have your passport. Finally, they gave her a room, and she went off to sleep and recover from the 36 hours of traveling she had just done to get here.

Wajda and I were on the bus to the office together again that morning and we chatted about weather and camels and traffic problems and hijab wrapping and all the typical Saudi conversations you find yourself having. I'd only known her a few days, but I really felt good around her. She was calm and friendly and warm hearted and understanding and I found myself wishing we had ended up together in the same city instead of just meeting by chance like this in the office. I had been told by a few people that I should bring the guys in the office small gifts. Not bribes exactly just small things to show I appreciated them. Since I knew Osama had kids, I'd gone out the night before and bought some balloons to make balloon animals for them. I also bought a whole stack of sticky notes for Faisal (I wanted to get him different colors, but all they had was yellow). I couldn't think of anything really special for Mohammad, mostly he talked about his dodge charger, so i got him a car freshener. It was pretty lame, but it was something.

Unfortunately that morning, Mohammad was late, Osama was in a meeting (as usual) and Faisal was running around trying to cover both of their jobs. So I  went with Wajda to her office instead and we continued our chat while I drew a small stick figure in the corner of each page of the post-it pad so that when you flipped through it it looked like he was doing jumping jacks. I thought Faisal would get a kick out of that. Around 11, I went back in and Mohammad was there so I asked him for an update about my passport, and he told me it was with the immigration office, and that if all went well, I would have it by 3pm. I asked him to check on my vacation days for me, and if I had enough if we could move the final date up to end immediately, and that way I wouldn't have to wait till Sept. 4th (I knew the other job really wanted me to start as soon as possible). He told me that I would be foolish to do that because no matter what my final date was, they weren't going to issue me a final exit visa until the iqama had been processed. "Right now you are getting paid, but once your final day comes, you won't be paid anymore. So, since you have to wait anyway, wait and get paid." This seemed more or less logical to me, so I didn't push the issue. I did wonder what would happen though if my last day came and went, and I still had no iqama. Would they issue a final exit without it? Wouldn't it make more sense never to issue the iqama? I wanted to ask him these things, but he had already moved on to the next person in line.

I settled into my usual chair to wait, and pulled out my kindle to pass the time. I will tell you something though, it is impossible to concentrate when all around you people are desperate and anxious and frustrated. Every conversation you overhear is loaded with barely hidden tension. The teachers are all keenly aware that they are being screwed somehow or another, and the staff is doing their best to mediate a system that is inherently problematic. It's almost an us, them, them dynamic where the English speaking staff act as go betweens for the Saudi staff upstairs that handle finance and government relations. They say to us, we are trying for you, but it is out of our hands, the people upstairs will take care of it. Sometimes that is true, and sometimes it isn't. I've seen to many stacks of paperwork shoved to the bottom of piles after heated arguments to think otherwise.

Today I met a man who was here with his wife and two kids. He had a flight in two days, and had his kids Iqama's but he and his wife's were missing. He wasn't sure if the company had them or not, and neither was the company. There were discussions about the possibility of bribing an official to make the three week process of replacing a lost iqama shrink to two days, but even the Saudi's seemed doubtful. He was remarkably calm about it all, but I suppose he had been through it all before. He said he had been trying to leave for three months. And that he had worked here for over 3 years, so he knew his way around. He asked about my situation and I told him what they had been telling me, that my passport wasn't even here, it was with the government offices. He laughed and said it was so untrue, which I had suspected. He said they never hold passports at the immigration / processing office. The company rep went with a stack of passports and applications, the guy processes them, or rejects them and returns them all to the company rep. The whole thinks takes like 15 minutes and the passports are never out of the company reps sight. He told me they have to at least show you your passport if you ask to see it.

"Come with me," he said, and took me upstairs to visit the government relations office. There was a little glass window with a hole in the bottom like a bank teller window or something. He told me to ask for my passport. I told him my name, and he went back into a little room and came back a few minutes later with my passport. He held it up for me behind the glass, and I said, no, I want to take it with me. He asked for my iqama (you are supposed to do an even trade). I told him I didn't have one yet. He told me I couldn't take my passport then. I told him I needed it to take the train home, which wasn't a complete lie. A copy might be enough, but there was no guarantee. He shook his head and made a tisking sound. The teacher who had brought me up here said something in Arabic, and the guy turned and came out of the office with my passport and began walking downstairs with it. He never said anything to me at all about where he was going or why, but I followed him and all three of us went back downstairs to Mohammad. The two of them discussed something in Arabic, and the teacher kept looking at me and giving me looks that more or less said, they aren't saying anything. Finally, Mohammad said, "They can't give a final exit without an iqama."
 And I asked, "They can't, or they don't want to?"
More discussion in Arabic, and then Mohammad said, "Can't."  I asked if it was because they had let my visa expire and would have to pay 10,000 riyals if I left without the iqama and Mohammad said, "Don't worry about the cost, the company will pay for everything." The helpful teacher started to tell me something, which I didn't even hear properly because Mohammed cut him off and started yelling at him. "This is not your issue, we are here trying to help her and you keep butting in and telling her things that aren't true, we never said anything about 10,000 riyals and now you have her worrying about this... Go away."
The helpful teacher muttered, "I was just trying to translate for her," and walked away, giving me a meaningful look that I took to mean 'I will talk to you later'.

In reality, he hadn't told me about the 10,000 riyals, it was something that I had read online. I asked Mohammed again and said, "It isn't about the money, I'm worried about the time. It has been 5 months already and I will not sit around and wait another 5 months while you guys sort out my iqama just to leave." There was more discussion, and all the while I was eyeing my passport which the government relations guy had given to Mohammed, who was waving it around and pointing while he talked. Finally, Mohammed said, "No, don't worry, he is going himself tomorrow and everything is ready now so he will have your iqama by 3pm." I asked if I could see my passport. I wanted to check and see if they had renewed my visa and they let me touch it and look through it, and I asked them why the visa wasn't renewed and there was more discussion in Arabic, and in the meantime, the helpful teacher was gesturing to me from the hallway to pocket my passport while they weren't paying attention. So I slipped it into my bag and waited for them to finish. Mohammed said, "There is no need to renew because the application for the iqama was started before it expired so it's ok." While Mohammed was explaining this to me, someone grabbed the government relations guy and took him off to another room. I thanked Mohammed and snuck off to Wajda's room to wait for the bus back hoping no one would notice I still had the passport.

 In Wajda's office I made the balloon animals for Osama and impressed her and another teacher. I even taught her how to make a giraffe. It was a big hit. I carried them into Osama's office and told him they were for his kids. He laughed and said they would love them. Then I dropped the post-it pad on Faisal's desk and he looked up and said, "You! It's been you delivering post its, to me!" He gave me a huge smile, and I told him goodbye and then I hung the air freshener from the corner of Mohammed's computer and he gave me a quick smile and thumbs up before resuming the heated discussion he was having with a teacher who hadn't been paid in two months. Then I made my way downstairs to get on the bus. I was starting to feel lighter and happier, I was almost out of here with my passport, and it didn't seem like anyone was going to try to stop me. I was halfway down the stairs when Mohammed ran after me. "Do you have your passport?", he said.
"Yes." I said.
"Give it back," he said.
"No." I said.
"Jennifer," he said, "Please, you can do nothing with your passport without the exit visa. He is going tomorrow to get it first thing, so he will take it with him tonight. Walla we need it, just give me one more day to get it for you and after tomorrow if there is no iqama, I will make them do everything for you. One more day. Please, Jennifer."
I asked, "Do you promise me tomorrow I will be able to have my passport, even if the iqama isn't ready?" I said, giving him that 'Don't you dare screw around with me' look I sometimes give students who I know are trying to pull one over on me.
"I promise." he said.
So I reluctantly, in one of those slow motion moments you end up replaying with regret over and over in your mind, I took my passport out of my bag and gave it to him. I made my way to the bus, and got on it. One more night, I told myself, one more night.

On the bus back with me today was the woman I had met yesterday with the baby and her husband. I could see that he was livid. She and I talked a little in the front seat about the progress (or lack thereof) with our situations while I oohed and awed over the baby. Her husband said, "I hope you don't mind if I but in, but I want you to know, what they are doing here is not Islam. I can't bear to think that you will leave here thinking that all muslims behave this way. We believe that we must be honest and just and fair in our business dealings or we will be rewarded with hellfire in the next world. That company is full of men who are not acting in accordance with the principles of islam and yet they claim to be Muslim. It is not only wrong because they are lying and breaking contracts, it is wrong because they are ruining the good name of muslims who are living the words of Prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him). Do you know that lying is one of the worst things you can do in our religion?"

 I told him, not to worry, I understood that this was a business, and that the business practices were not a reflection of their religion, and I wasn't going to take the companies behavior as an example of the character of all Saudi's or all Muslims. "But that is just the point," he said, "we believe our religion is part of everything we do. If we do not honor him in all things, we do not honor him at all. There is no separating one part of our lives from our faith. I wish I had a way to tell everyone that what you are seeing in there, what you are dealing with, that is not Islam, those men who are lying to you are not true Muslims, and they will face the consequences in the next world." He would have gone on, but we had arrived at my hotel and I got out. They were staying at another one of the company housing apartments, so I wished them luck and I said goodbye to the wife and headed inside.

 I hadn't thought about the shady way the company operates before in terms of being a Saudi run company, and therefore, it being an Islamic company, and therefore a company whose reputation was a reflection on all Muslims. I wondered what that meant for the individual employees as religious people. Like everywhere else, I'm sure there are good people and there are bad people. But I wondered how the good people felt about what they were doing. Did they know they were breaking laws and screwing people out of money they earned? Or was the system so broken and convoluted that no one was really sure what was happening? Could they be that unaware of what was going on? If I had been in the office only three days, and seen all the politics, lying, scheming, forged signatures, whispered conversations to change this or that, etc... Then, could they really not see it? If they did see it, how did they reconcile that with their beliefs? Or was the job so important that they felt they had no choice but to turn a blind eye, and then get sucked into the system themselves?

I thought about us teachers, and how we had learned that we needed to "work" the system of not reporting absences and making up grades to avoid being fired, and how all the girls surely knew that when they didn't earn a grade, they could buy it with daddy's influence. I knew I had already thought about what I would do when teaching started, about how I knew the grades that would eventually be reported would not be a true reflection of student work and progress since they would be largely controlled by administrative decisions. I thought about how I had justified it for myself by choosing to focus on making sure that learning happened, rather than focusing on how it was documented. I realized we are all corrupted by our circumstances, by the systems we live in, and the only question seems to be how far you are willing to let yourself fall into it. Where is my line in the sand?  Where is yours?

Resigning: Day 2

 As if to pour salt on the wound, the company housing they put me in was like a four star hotel. Or at least it definitely seemed that way to me after the housing in Dammam. The living room of the apartment alone was bigger than my whole apartment in Dammam. There was a built in stove top, and the kitchen came fully stocked with pots, pans, plates, cups, a kettle, everything. The bathroom even had a bathtub and a built in hair dryer and one of those mirrors on telescoping arms so you could pull it close to you and see better.

There was a king size bed in the bedroom, and an iron and ironing board. and best of all, there was no sewage smell. I was amazed and grateful that they had given me such a nice place to stay, but it made me all the more angry about the housing situation in Dammam. I went back to the office the next morning after a good nights sleep with a renewed sense of injustice.

The internet in the Lobby was a lot stronger than the internet in the room, so I woke up early and sat in the lobby to write emails and try to do some more research about my rights according to Saudi Labor law, which was helpful to know, but since they weren't enforced, wasn't all that helpful in the long run. For example, according to the labor laws, the employee should be in possession of his or her iqama and passport. The company should not hold on to either one. However, common practice with all companies is to keep one or the other at all times. So, the information is useful to have, but not necessarily useful in the practical sense that it will get you what you want. I must have looked pretty knowledgeable in the lobby looking up all of this information because a woman in a leopard print scarf came down and asked me if I knew when the bus for the interviews was going to come. I told her I didn't know but that there would be a bus to the office at 9am. She said no one had told her where the interviews would be, at the university or at the company office, and that no one was answering her calls to clarify or tell her when the bus would arrive. I told her that no communication was typical with this company, and in my head I said "Run! Get out now while you can!" but out loud all I said was, "If lack of professionalism, disorganization, and misinformation bother you, you should think very hard about weather or not working for this company is right for you."

When the bus did arrive, I was joined by a woman named Wajida, who had arrived in April around the same time I did. Because it was too late in the academic year to place her, she and all the other teachers who arrived later were asked to work in the office. They wanted them to help with filing, answering emails, and general stuff around the office. Wajida was sweet and helpful and very sympathetic. Since she had been working in the office she knew first hand what kind of stuff went down and how disorganized everything was. She had seen and heard it all before. She and her husband were finally being placed in teaching positions in Al Jouf. I was a little surprised that they had agreed to go since they knew about the conditions in Al Jouf from all of the emails sent by other teachers. She told me she was worried, because she knew that if they had any problems, they would not be able to get them resolved in Al Jouf and would have to come to the office in Riyadh (a 10 hour bus ride) to get it sorted out. However, she was excited to begin teaching, after all, that was what they had been hired to do, and she was hoping that the 5 months they had spent working in the office would give them some sort of an advantage in getting things processed from afar. I hope she is right.

The morning was slow for me. Mohammed told me the guy would not return from immigration until after 2pm, so there was really nothing I could do but wait. In the meantime, I helped myself to a cappuccino. There was a nice coffee and hot chocolate dispenser in the office available for anyone to use anytime, which was probably the only perk to being in the office. I soon found out that the interviews were being held in the office, and Wajida received several panicked phone calls from teachers who were scheduled for interviews at 10am, and it was now 10 to, and still, no bus had come. While she sorted out transportation for them, the woman conducting the interviews was rushing around looking for paper. Just like at the university, paper seemed to be in very limited supply. The finance guy, Faisal, who is the only one who I had seen constantly rushing around and looking like he was doing his job, kept post it notes in the pocket of his thobe, and kept his printer paper under lock and key so they wouldn't go missing. He used post it notes a lot. Every sheet of paper on his desk had a post it note. and there were several on the desk and wall around him also. I admired his attempt at organization in all the chaos.

I went to get a second cup of coffee, and when I came back, Faisal and Mohammed were both gone, presumably dealing with some new crisis. I saw that Mohammed had a stack of post it notes too, and so I borrowed one and a pen and wrote Faisal a thank you note for being the hardest worker in the office and stuck it to his computer monitor. I figured he deserved a little appreciation. Then, because no one had returned yet, and I was bored, I grabbed another sticky note and made Faisal a To Do list that included: take a break, get a coffee, smoke some shisha, and take a nap. I had never seen him do any of those things, even though many others in the office did pretty much nothing but that. I hoped he had a sense of humor.

When Mohammed and Faisal came back, Faisal saw the note. He smiled and looked around.
"Did you put this here?" he asked Mohammed.  Mohammmed shook his head. Faisal patted his thobe pocket just to be sure his sticky notes were still there, and no one had stolen them to leave the note, and then smiled again. A few minutes later he found the To Do list. Again he accused Mohammed. Mohammed said "Walla (I swear) I didn't do it!" and he looked around again. He saw me and asked if I had seen who put it on his desk, and I just shrugged. I asked him what it said. He proudly told me someone thought he worked too hard. I said, "You do work hard, and by the way, when will I get my visa and medical cost reimbursed?" So, we made some more copies of my receipts (this would make the third time they had been submitted), and I filled out the form again. This time Faisal went to the head office in finance himself and gave me a signed note that it would be in my next paycheck. See, it pays to butter people up, even if they don't know it is you doing the buttering.

Mohammed asked me to come with him a little after 1pm. He said, I want you to talk to the Human Resources manager. He said, "We don't want you to go. Please just talk to him. He will help you." So we went and waited outside his office, as he was in a meeting still. I needed to go to the bathroom, but I didn't want to miss the chance to speak with the head of human resources. Mohammed and I were waiting, when someone came in and grabbed Mohammed to take care of something else. Meanwhile, two men came out of the Human Resources Office shaking hands, and the first guy looked briefly at me sitting and waiting but them went back into his office. I wasn't sure what to do, should I just walk in? I didn't want to miss my chance, but I didn't want to be rude... Just as I was standing up, trying to decide if I should walk toward his office or toward a bathroom, Mohammed returned and brought me into the office. The Human Resources manager asked me if I would stay if they gave me the housing allowance and let me move out. I told him only if they also gave the housing allowance to all of the other women in Dammam. He seemed surprised by this. He told me they would move the teachers in September. I told him to show me some proof of that. A signed lease for a new building, or proof that they had cancelled the lease of the old building, anything. He said something to Mohammed in Arabic, and Mohammed thanked him and pulled me out into the hallway. "Well, we tried." he said. I asked him where the bathroom was (those two cups of coffee were really getting to me) and he looked around quickly and said, go in here and lock the door behind you. It was a big bathroom with three stalls, but he told me to lock the main door. There is no women's restroom, he told me, just use the men's one and lock it so no one comes in. I was surprised. I asked him what the women who worked her did, or all the teachers who came like me? "There are only two women who work here," he said. I asked how many men worked here. "Oh, 75 or 80." he said. I shook my head and went in, locking the door behind me.

When I got back, Mohammed issued me into Osama's inner office. I was excited thinking that maybe they had my passport or my Iqama or something. It was wishful thinking. Instead they were sitting around eating lunch, and they had gotten me a chicken sandwich. That was very nice of them. We sat around, about 5 or 6 guys from the office and I, eating chicken sandwiches and feeling awkward. They wanted to talk in Arabic, but felt bad doing it in front of me. So they searched helplessly for safe topics in English. Finally we talked about their kids. Osama has three kids. Mohammed has a four year old. I don't remember the names of all the other guys, but kid antics are always a winning topic. After lunch, Osama asked me if I was sure I wanted to resign. I said I had been sure since I first submitted it in Dammam. He told me he hadn't sent the paperwork to HR yet. I asked him why not. He told me because he wanted me to stay. I said, I was sorry, but if they had really wanted me to stay, then they wouldn't have ignored my emails and phone calls for 5 months, and the requests of teachers to leave the housing for over a year. He said he understood, then he said, last day, Sept. 4th? I said sooner if possible. He said, Sept. 4th, and I said ok, because I didn't want to push it seeing as how I had already fudged the date. He said he would give it to HR that day.

With nothing to do but wait for news of my iqama, I sat down again in the waiting chairs. I had another cup of coffee, and I wrote Faisal a few more post-its. By this time he was frantically going about asking everyone, did you write this? Did you? All the while grinning from ear to ear. I had to find someway to keep myself entertained, and watching Faisal try to piece the puzzle together was the most fun I'd had in 2 days. A woman in full niqab and even gloves to cover her hands came in to wait for Osama. As usual Osama was busy, and then when he finally emerged, he ignored her. I thought perhaps he hadn't heard her, so I helped her get his attention. Osama yelled at me, "No Jennie, I will not see her. You know, I have seen her a thousand times? I will not see her anymore."

I was shocked. The woman rolled her eyes. They were all I could see of her. She tried to explain her situation to me. Which seemed to boil down to the fact that she arrived in Saudi 5 months pregnant (which the company had to have known about because part of the medical for the visa is a pregnancy test) and then when she arrived, none of the universities would hire her because she was so very pregnant. The company couldn't technically fire her, but they pushed her to resign only she refused. So they fired her anyway saying that she didn't disclose she was pregnant when they hired her (she has emails that prove she had). Meantime, her husband is also working for the company, so she stayed in Saudi (also because by now she was 8 months pregnant and couldn't fly back to the UK) so she ended up giving birth prematurely here, but because the company brought them over on single visas instead of married visas (no one is sure why they do this except that presumably it is less paperwork), none of the medical costs were covered (because there is no such thing here as unmarried pregnant women - at least not as far as the insurance is concerned). So now she is trying to get the money they owe her for medical costs, and her husband hasn't been paid in 2 months (separate issue). They wanted to get a lawyer, but they couldn't afford to pay one which is what the company counts on. They assume (usually correctly) that foreigners are ignorant enough about the laws here, and separated enough from any support, and jerked around so much that eventually they give up and leave without the money they are entitled to just to escape the nightmare. It is absolutely crazy to me how this company is even still in business, and even scarier if you believe those who say that this company is the best of the worst companies.

Three o'clock came and went, and I was still waiting for news about my passport. Mohammed took me up to the government relations office and spoke with someone there whose official line was that the computer system at the immigration office was down today, so they didn't get the iqama. Mohammed said, inshallah, tomorrow, and even though I felt like tearing my hair out in frustration, I smiled and said "Yes, inshallah." "Stay another night, we will pay," Mohammed said, "Don't leave without your passport."

 I hadn't planned on it. But I also hadn't planned on being there more than one day. I went to find Wajidah, who consoled me and offered me chocolate, which even though I don't really like it, made me feel a lot better. "Tomorrow is another day," she told me as we took the bus back to the hotel. That night, I did all my laundry in the sink. I figured I would use the hairdryer in the bathroom to dry my clothes, or at least my underwear to have something to sleep in. It was a perfect plan until I noticed that the plug for the hairdryer and the outlet in the wall did not match. And because the hairdryer was permanently mounted on the wall, I couldn't move it to another outlet. I just shook my head. It figures. Then I remembered the iron and ironing board. So I got them out and watched Al Jazeera naked while ironing my underwear dry. I had been feeling pretty helpless all day, and even though it was an absurd situation, It felt good to finally be able to do something to fix a problem, instead of just hoping it would work itself out. I wouldn't say naked ironing was my proudest moment in Saudi Arabia, but it was surprisingly high on the list.

Resigning: Day 1

I walked into the office and remembered that Osama and Mohammed's offices were upstairs, so I went upstairs. Then, I seemed to remember that the offices were upstairs on the right, so I went to the right. I poked my head into several offices, none of which were familiar, and all of which were full of men in thobes looking at me suspiciously. Finally I broke down and asked a friendly looking cleaner to point me to Osama's office. At the back of the hallway, we turned left down a dusty hallway lined with airport lounge chairs and a bookcase and there on the right, hidden behind the bookcase, was the office. It was crowded with people waiting to see Osama. In the outer office, Faisal - the finance guy, and Mohammed - the guy who seemed to handle a little of everything had desks and a few chairs for people waiting. Osama was in the inner office with a sign saying 'meeting in progress' permenantly attached to the door.

Luckily, one of the chairs was empty, and remembering my two hour wait when I first arrived, I settled in to wait. There were two guys waiting and another woman waiting with me. As you do in these situations, we traded war stories. The girl was offered a position in Al Jouf, but decided not to take it. She was waiting to tell Osama that she didn't want to go, and see if they could get her an in interview at Princess Nora University. Another guy was trying to get his final exit visa before his iqama expired. A third guy had just returned from his yearly vacation, only to be told that they were terminating his contract. Why they didn't terminate it before he came back to Saudi, or better, before he left to go on vacation, is beyond him. He was fighting for his job back since he had just renewed his lease on his apartment and had a car here and a lot of other loose ends. We moved on from our specific circumstances to the worst case horror stories we had all heard. Someone hadn't been paid in 4 months. Someone else had been waiting for a final exit for three months. One woman had been waiting to leave for just under a year, and eventally left without having been paid at all for the whole year even though it was their fault she couldn't leave. This wasn't boding well. We moved on to discussing details of the recent contract losses. We all agreed that the company was a sinking ship. They had lost over half of their contracts in the last month. Next year, they would have even less. Within five years they would have none. One by one we watched each other go in, and come out again. Their faces betraying the various degrees of success they were having or not having.

Finally it was my turn. Mohammed brought me in, and sat me down with Osama. They asked me what they could do to get me to stay. They said they didn't want me to leave. They said they knew I was a good teacher, and that I should stay. I wondered why they were laying it on so thick. For one thing, Mohammed did not even recognize me when I arrived. For another, in the 5 months I was working, I'd only taught one session of summer school, in which no one ever observed my work. I didn't know what they could possilby be basing their praise of my teaching skills on. Still, it felt nice. Compliments, even empty ones go a long way. They told me they wanted me to speak with the Vice President about the housing situation. They told me if they knew people were quiting because of the housing, maybe they would change it. I told them I was happy to talk with them about it but I didn't think it would make a difference for me, since housing was only one of the issues I had.

He said to try anyway, and Mohammed walked me downstairs to the accommodations manager. He whispered to me conspiritorilly the whole way downstairs coaching me on what I should say to him, reminding me, as if I didn't know, about all of the problems with the housing. He told me I should go in alone, because if he went in he wouldn't listen and would just tell Mohammed to make another report. But he told me he would see me for sure. I went and knocked on the door. I even went in, but he was not there. No problem, said Mohammed, we will see him later. So we went back upstairs to try to find the Vice President. He was in a meeting and couldn't see me now, but said to come back between 2 and 2:30 to speak with him. So there was nothing to do but wait.

I waited and struck up a conversation with the other people who were waiting. I met a guy from Canada who was hoping to transfer his Iqama to a new company. We discussed the likelyhood that this would happen, and what he would do if he didn't. There was also a guy called Abdula who was hoping to get a final exit before the iqama expired in three days. We talked strategy and wasta the arabic word for respect/power/clout and who had it in the company and how to get their attention to get it done. We talked about why we came (the money) and why we stayed (the money) and what he would do if he left (get a PhD in islamic studies / get a better job with another company). And we wished each other luck. It was the kind of bond you formed in the trenches fighting a common enemy.

By 1:50, Mohammed was in the middle of runnin around solving problems for more people. So I went to the VP office on my own. The door was locked and no one answered my knock. So I went to the accommodations manager who still wasn't in. I went upstairs to check the VP office again and on the way ran into Mohammed, who took me back downstairs to talk to the accommodations manager again. This time he was in. Mohammed said a lot of things to him in arabic, and then asked me to say my piece. I told him I was sure he had heard all the stories, and he told me he had been himself and knew it was unacceptable. He told me they had ended the contract with the building we were in, and were looking in Khobar for a new place to stay. He told me they were forming a search committe. I told him they had been saying the same thing for over a month and that I was sorry, but I was only seeing talk and no action and to forgive me if I didn't believe they would be able to have us out of the building before the end of next month. Mohammed was asking me if I would stay if they got new housing. I told him, if they could move us into a new place by Sept. 4th my final day I might consider it (though I wouldn't). I figured it was a safe bet since we all knew there was no way they would move us out of the housing. He told me if he were in my shoes he would feel the same.

We left his office and headed back upstairs. I asked about my iqama again and we went upstairs to the government affairs office to ask about the iqama. They told me that my passport was with a guy who had taken the passport to the immigration office to try to get the iqama. The word was it still wasn't ready. But that he would go again first thing tomorrow. I told Mohammed I couldn't wait until tomorrow. I told him I had to go back to Dammam tonight because I had nowhere to stay. He told me the company would put me up in housing tonight and inshallah everything would be ready tomorrow morning. I asked again if they were going to pay for my housing. He said yes, they would pay. Ok. I said, tomorrow morning, we will solve everything. The office was closing and there was nothing more I could do that day. I was grateful to have somewhere to stay, but not optimistic about the chances of my iqama magically being ready the next day. I got into the company bus, and headed off to the accommodation, defeated for today, but not ready to give up.