In the late 1970s, a number of Pakistanis, who had struggled to raise a family in Pakistan, came to the Gulf during the economically booming years. The discovery of oil had allowed many Gulf states to emerge from poverty almost overnight. My dad was one of those who came from the small town of Sahiwal, Pakistan to what is now the metropolis of Riyadh. He left Pakistan seeking solace and prosperity for his loved ones whom he left behind.
This love was perhaps both a boon and a bane. While he was happy to send remittances back home, he had to face draconian labor laws which in essence were shades of modern slavery. He tells me, every now and then, how he could not travel to another city, let alone another country, without the permission of his sponsor, known as a “kafeel” in the Arab world. He also tells me about the astonishing amount of irregularities, discrepancies and discrimination he had to endure. When some of these ludicrous happenings are mentioned to citizens of the “free world”, they make them laugh to the point of crying. Perhaps that kind of emotion truly describes the contradictory state of affairs in the Gulf. Yet, my father continued to serve with a sense of compulsion to earn a handful of riyals for more than 20 years, without a raise of course, that kept us happy back in poor Pakistan.
In the late 1980s we emigrated from Pakistan to Saudi Arabia. I was a child and I remember going to private multi-national schools and meeting many children from different countries of the world. On weekends, mostly Thursdays, we used to eat out at a restaurant and then sit in a park till the late hours of the night. Those were happy days, and I now perceive them as some of the best days of my life. I couldn’t imagine a happier place for me to be. I used to love playing soccer with my multi-lingual friends - we mostly communicated in English - and everything in life was, well, elysian.
This love was perhaps both a boon and a bane. While he was happy to send remittances back home, he had to face draconian labor laws which in essence were shades of modern slavery. He tells me, every now and then, how he could not travel to another city, let alone another country, without the permission of his sponsor, known as a “kafeel” in the Arab world. He also tells me about the astonishing amount of irregularities, discrepancies and discrimination he had to endure. When some of these ludicrous happenings are mentioned to citizens of the “free world”, they make them laugh to the point of crying. Perhaps that kind of emotion truly describes the contradictory state of affairs in the Gulf. Yet, my father continued to serve with a sense of compulsion to earn a handful of riyals for more than 20 years, without a raise of course, that kept us happy back in poor Pakistan.
In the late 1980s we emigrated from Pakistan to Saudi Arabia. I was a child and I remember going to private multi-national schools and meeting many children from different countries of the world. On weekends, mostly Thursdays, we used to eat out at a restaurant and then sit in a park till the late hours of the night. Those were happy days, and I now perceive them as some of the best days of my life. I couldn’t imagine a happier place for me to be. I used to love playing soccer with my multi-lingual friends - we mostly communicated in English - and everything in life was, well, elysian.
As I grew older, I was enrolled in a good international school, thanks to the extra riyals my mom was earning, and I started studying the British curriculum. Looking back now, I sometimes think that the British curriculum was one of the best things that happened to me. It gave me the freedom of thought which I could not find anywhere else. It sowed the seeds within me that would give me the courage to at least question the status-quo. It also helped me grow closer to Islam, and as ironic as that might seem today, it is nevertheless true.
After A-levels, I went back to Pakistan to study in a leading engineering university in Islamabad. My initial reaction to Pakistan, in what was my first “real” experience there, was ambivalent. There was obviously a difference of standards. What was considered normal in Riyadh was considered extravagant in Islamabad. Living in Pakistan was, therefore, an experience based on self-restraint. Restraint was important so that the society you moved in accepted you. During my four years there, I used to come back to Riyadh whenever there was a holiday, escaping as if I were more Saudi than Pakistani. I never understood that. It was as if Saudi Arabia to me was more home than my real home.
However, as this life of seamless contradictions progressed, I reached my final month at the university. During that last month, I had a small quarrel with a local bank official over some transaction irregularity. I eventually forced him to accept his mistake and make it right. And as I went out of the bank, I had an epiphany. I realized that during my past four years, I had been constantly fighting for my rights and as hard as it might be to imagine, I fought for those rights in Pakistan. So here I was at the climax of my studies and yet contrary to my earlier view, I felt at home in Pakistan because of this freedom.
When I returned to my family in Saudi Arabia, I finally began to realize why my feelings, in the past, were full of contradiction. It was a struggle of acceptance. While it was easy for me to talk to locals in Pakistan, it was an arduous task to do so in Saudi Arabia. While it was easy for me to talk to people at my school in Riyadh, it was very hard for me to do this with Saudis. While I could quarrel with the local police in Islamabad, I could not even dream about doing the same in Riyadh. And thus it appeared to me that Saudi Arabia was made up of two worlds, one for native Saudis and one for expats. It was and still is a struggle of acceptance.
With the recent introduction of systems, like Nitaqat, and the recent announcement of a cap on the expatriate workforce, the Gulf states have failed to accept a strata of their societies which could have and would have served them happily and productively. They have let go a class of people who, provided the circumstances, could have initiated multiple, innovative businesses strong enough to support and diversity the local economy. Yet the course being taken is still the same as always; the approach more protectionist, the laws more draconian and the freedoms more suppressed.
Over the past couple of years, I have asked my family to move back to Pakistan. With the rise of popular leaders like Imran Khan, I believe I have a part to play in a society in which I am accepted, a society which I began to love recently and a society in which I have a stake. I wish the same good for the Gulf, but perhaps the Gulf does not wish the same for me. Some might consider this a hate rant; I would consider it the mere rumination of an observing mind.
As my father nears retirement, he prepares to leave Saudi Arabia in pretty much the same state of affairs as he arrived. Harsh laws, less respect, more money is still what defines the Gulf. And for most of us, it is still a “struggle of acceptance”.
The article was published in the Saudi Gazette on 26th march, 2014.
After A-levels, I went back to Pakistan to study in a leading engineering university in Islamabad. My initial reaction to Pakistan, in what was my first “real” experience there, was ambivalent. There was obviously a difference of standards. What was considered normal in Riyadh was considered extravagant in Islamabad. Living in Pakistan was, therefore, an experience based on self-restraint. Restraint was important so that the society you moved in accepted you. During my four years there, I used to come back to Riyadh whenever there was a holiday, escaping as if I were more Saudi than Pakistani. I never understood that. It was as if Saudi Arabia to me was more home than my real home.
However, as this life of seamless contradictions progressed, I reached my final month at the university. During that last month, I had a small quarrel with a local bank official over some transaction irregularity. I eventually forced him to accept his mistake and make it right. And as I went out of the bank, I had an epiphany. I realized that during my past four years, I had been constantly fighting for my rights and as hard as it might be to imagine, I fought for those rights in Pakistan. So here I was at the climax of my studies and yet contrary to my earlier view, I felt at home in Pakistan because of this freedom.
When I returned to my family in Saudi Arabia, I finally began to realize why my feelings, in the past, were full of contradiction. It was a struggle of acceptance. While it was easy for me to talk to locals in Pakistan, it was an arduous task to do so in Saudi Arabia. While it was easy for me to talk to people at my school in Riyadh, it was very hard for me to do this with Saudis. While I could quarrel with the local police in Islamabad, I could not even dream about doing the same in Riyadh. And thus it appeared to me that Saudi Arabia was made up of two worlds, one for native Saudis and one for expats. It was and still is a struggle of acceptance.
With the recent introduction of systems, like Nitaqat, and the recent announcement of a cap on the expatriate workforce, the Gulf states have failed to accept a strata of their societies which could have and would have served them happily and productively. They have let go a class of people who, provided the circumstances, could have initiated multiple, innovative businesses strong enough to support and diversity the local economy. Yet the course being taken is still the same as always; the approach more protectionist, the laws more draconian and the freedoms more suppressed.
Over the past couple of years, I have asked my family to move back to Pakistan. With the rise of popular leaders like Imran Khan, I believe I have a part to play in a society in which I am accepted, a society which I began to love recently and a society in which I have a stake. I wish the same good for the Gulf, but perhaps the Gulf does not wish the same for me. Some might consider this a hate rant; I would consider it the mere rumination of an observing mind.
As my father nears retirement, he prepares to leave Saudi Arabia in pretty much the same state of affairs as he arrived. Harsh laws, less respect, more money is still what defines the Gulf. And for most of us, it is still a “struggle of acceptance”.
The article was published in the Saudi Gazette on 26th march, 2014.
