Dammam, early evening

 

The bus takes us

grumbling spewing

smoking to a woman-only shopping mall

in Dammam, a typical Arab city.

Though we know its dangers,

more religious than Khobar, and

we want no trouble so no cameras.  We browse

and stare

at everyone.  We want to meet them,

come home with them. 

Women so gorgeous, abaya-less, without head coverings.

Designer threads, plunging

necks, breasts we can see

their fresh faces, their lipstick

choices, too much,

the most delicate shades.

Their soft skin, we cannot look away.  We gather,

with no choice but to get back

to the norm, the drab.  We step out

onto the sidewalk

awaiting our ride, to simpler

Khobar souks and streets.

 

Six unescorted women pacing, fussing

with not enough sense

to go back into the mall.  An

innocuous white car pulls up to our smiling faces,

an affont to the

religious police who we might have figured are

outraged, belligerent.

We can’t be on the street, we’ll be arrested or

worse.  Is there worse.  Are we whores?

People pass, calling names, in English, yes, because

(except for mom) who is in black from head to toe

we aren’t in abayas.  I blame myself for rejecting some good advice.  

I’d also like to blame her because

I am actually scared.  

Most of us are in our favorite shorts and short sleeves.

My dark colors and

long sleeves can’t save me from the wrath of the Muttaween.

Bury me in them then.  Like mom says at the time,

it’s not going to bring the tourists in.

Our bus pulls into the parking lot and we grab hold.