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.
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.”
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. 4th, 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. 18th 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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment