It is never easy to get arrested for wrong reasons in a land where the policemen can communicate only in their native language
I HAVE lived in Saudi Arabia for 10 years. And all I’ve heard from expatriates around me is their fear of the Saudi police. “There’s nothing worse than being stopped by the police. They speak no English. They have a one track mind and you cannot reason out with them.”
These words came rushing to my mind as I was stopped by a policeman. It was my fault. I had committed a cardinal sin. I took a photograph of a factory in connection with a story I was planning to do.
“Why you take photo?” a policeman asked me in broken English. It was then that I realized, I wasn’t too far away from the police station. I explained that I was a freelancer with a Saudi-based newspaper. “Show me paper.” I opened my purse and the perils of being a woman hit me. Too many purses ... I had left everything in the bag that I had previously used. I was carrying no documents. I felt the colour leave my face, but when I took out my mobile phone to call someone from the newspaper to verify my identity. I was surprised to note that my hands were trembling so hard that I was having difficulty making that call. I was even more surprised and even embarrassed to realize that my whole body was actually shaking.
A posse of policeman came up to me. None of them spoke English; the one who did had gone inside with the camera. They searched my bag and were very curious about the tape recorder and confiscated it. Now they proceeded to search the car and interrogate the Pakistani man, Ziaul Haq, who acted as my driver. His name amused some of them and they laughed.
“Siddiqat?” (your friend) they asked, pointing to Ziaul Haq. “La, siddiq zojati” (My husband’s friend). I knew the consequences of having a male friend in the Kingdom.
Then the gravity of the situation dawned on me. I was in a van, which had tinted glasses. Ziaul Haq had a big beard; I had no ID and was taking pictures. (Note police are very suspicious of tinted vans because that is what terrorists have been using) “Wasta, wasta” (sifarish) my mind thought. The only higher up I knew was editor-in-chief of the newspaper I was associated with. But his phone was not responding. He was out of the country.
By now Ziaul Haq was expressing profound anger (in Urdu) at my stupidity and how I had managed to drag him into that mess. He had to pick up his kids from school. I felt real guilty. I even thought of pleading and begging. But dignity and limited Arabic came in the way. “Let him go. He is miskeen. Bazoora fil madressah.” (Kids are in school) I switched to broken Arabic when I saw English making no sense. “No, no” a very strict looking policeman said to me and said, “Maafi kalam, ijlis min sayyara,” (Don’t talk, sit in the car).
Suddenly I felt a great need for God. Luckily, by then it was time for namaz-i-zuhr. I told the police I needed to pray. They let me inside an office. I also asked for drinking water, I felt my whole body had dried up. “Maafi saim” (not fasting ... it was 11th Ashura, a day to keep voluntary fast) “maafi alyom, lakin ams ana sayam,” I spoke in broken Arabic (Not today, but I was fasting yesterday).
When I prayed, it was like all dams had broken loose. I was surprised how much I sobbed during the prayers. “Oh, God please rescue us, especially Ziaul Haq. He is such a good Muslim.” I felt God was the only Arabic speaking entity on my side. I didn’t want the policemen to know I was crying. But my reddened eyes perhaps told them. One of them, (the kindest of the lot) gestured towards me to wipe my tears. He said, “Inti muslima, maafi khaif.” Then he asked if I was a Pakistani? And I said, “Asal Bakistani, lakin jinseya Amreeki.” (I’m a Pakistani with an American nationality)
‘Amreeki’ seemed to be the magic word. He said, (then) I had nothing to worry about. He said that they would not listen to me if I was a Pakistani, but if I was an American they would not only listen to me but won’t even argue with me. He told me to ask my husband to bring my American passport along. He also called 905 on his cell phone and got me the American Embassy’s number in Riyadh and offered his mobile for making that call. But I didn’t want to involve the embassy yet, I knew my office was sending them a letter. I mustered up courage to call my husband.
I was avoiding calling my husband because I knew he was in an important meeting and I also knew the Pathan in him would explode. When I called him, I didn’t tell him that I was detained for taking photographs. “Just bring my passport and hurry up.” By now word had spread that I was an American citizen. A few policemen came and asked me if I really was an Amreeki. One of them came and said if I knew the Americans once loved Osama bin Laden. This must be a trick question, my paranoia warned me. So I said bin Laden was not a good person. The policeman raised his arm in the air and said that bin Ladin was a good man and a good Saudi whose brothers and mother lived in Riyadh. Then he added, “Bakistan koiz,” (Pakistan is good) and uttered some words against President Bush and America which I didn’t understand but knew from his tone that it was nothing good.
Ziaul Haq and I were then taken to the south and then north police stations in a police car. The man drove so fast that Ziaul Haq uttered the slogan written by the police on signboards, “Surra Qatila” (speed kills). What a time to be sarcastic, I thought, but the policeman laughed and he became quite friendly with us. He kept telling me, “When the cabataan (captain) talks to you, just say, ‘Ana Amreeki, maafi ma’alum’.” And that was the truth. I took the photo thinking a factory without a boundary wall was a public thing and no big deal.
At the south and north police stations, I was asked the same question over and over again. I was so exhausted that at one point I said, “I was stupid that is why I took the picture. Maafi mukh.” (no brains) then as the man glared at me, I quickly pointed to my own head. I was afraid he would think I was calling him brainless.
By now the letter from my office had arrived. My husband too came with my American passport and the minute he saw me he snarled, “You took pictures also. I knew it had to be something stupider than not having an ID.”
But that day I was so grateful to be married and to have a salesperson for a husband. As he spoke to the policemen, I could see them softening up. They all smiled at him and shook his hand and complimented him on his sweet Arabic.
We were shown off to our last stop — the interrogation room. The accompanying policeman dropped my brand new digital camera on the marbled floor, giving me a heart attack. I asked my husband to check the camera and he uttered, “The camera can go to hell, and so can you.” That was when I realized my husband was feeling the stress also.
The interrogation lasted for an hour. It was basically the same old thing. The policeman took notes in long hand. I was made to sign the document and then the stuff that I had was returned to me. On the way back, paranoia struck me once more. I had signed something I didn’t understand. I called the American consulate and told them what had happened. A certain Mr Kamal assured me it was a routine thing. I had simply signed an affidavit of my story and agreed not to repeat my mistake. He assured me he would double check by calling the police station. (He informed me later that my case had finished and would not proceed any further).
No kidding, I will never repeat that mistake. Will I retire my camera? Heck no, but I will get permission and will have the ID, if I’m ever stopped by a policeman again, they will certainly know who I am, a terror perhaps, but no terrorist. The funny thing is the police never deleted the photo I took.
It is never easy to get arrested for wrong reasons in a land where the policemen can communicate only in their native language
