Growing up in Saudi

Shortly after my family moved to Riyadh in the early 1980s, we were having tea with our Pakistani neighbours when another guest arrived. After my father was introduced to the visitor, one Muhammad Schulz, my mother made to shake the hand of this burly, red-bearded American convert. “I’m sorry,” he replied evenly, “I can’t shake your hand, because I would burn in hell for a thousand years if I did.”

As we returned to our cockroach-infested apartment, my parents had good cause to reflect on the wisdom of bringing their young family to this strange country. Around the same time, we had been wandering round one of the souks when my father felt a heavy blow on his shoulder. “Our sister is not properly dressed,” said the mutawa (religious policeman) who had whacked my father with his stick, pointing to my mother’s partly bare arms. Next stop: a shop selling the long black cloaks, abayas.

Living in Saudi was a matter of rules. Always carry cash in the car: if you were in a collision with a Saudi, he (women couldn’t drive) would automatically be in the right. If you couldn’t pay compensation on the spot, you’d be put in jail until you could. And the Saudis were terrible drivers. (Licences meant nothing: one of Idi Amin’s sons often used to pull up in his Pontiac to take another neighbour’s son for a spin. The boy couldn’t have been more than 13.) At illicit Catholic services we were told to say, if asked, that we were part of a film club. The Italian priest, Father Eugene, eventually had to flee the kingdom after police stormed a nurses’ compound where he was saying Mass.

Alcohol was a prime instance of the rule “Do as I say, not as I do”. Expats brewed their own at home, a common concoction being “Jeddah gin”, a rough, fortified wine that fermented in 14 days (several litres
of which we once had to flush down the loo when we were warned of an imminent police raid). It was foolhardy to offer this to a Saudi. The other way round, however, was fine. A next-door villa caught fire
when we lived in Jeddah, and after the blaze was doused my father took a tray of fresh cakes to the owner, a wealthy Saudi. From the charred remains of his house, he immediately brought forth a bottle of Johnny Walker whisky. This, of course, was totally haram. But perhaps the Saudi thought it permissible under the circumstances – the fire meant he had rushed back from performing hajj in Mecca.

Poolside afternoons with my mother and little brother at the Marriott came to an end after there were complaints. Mixed swimming was not allowed, and a guest declared I looked “too adult” (I was ten). Obtaining my exit-re-entry visas (I boarded in England during term time) took for ever. “The visa must be stamped by Ahmed.” “Where is Ahmed?” “He is not here.” “When will he be back?” “Ah, bukhra ba bukhra, inshallah” – tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, God willing . . .

But once you accepted the terms of your presence – you were there to work; tourist visas have only been issued since 2004 – there was much to marvel at in this harsh, fascinating land. At weekends we’d camp in the desert, watching camel spiders scuttling by a late-night brushwood fire, after a day exploring the old ruined capital of Dirriyah. Or we’d drive up the Red Sea coast and snorkel over pristine reefs, alone on the beach apart from the odd 4x4 crawling along the shore, packed with young Saudis keen to ogle bikini-clad western women.

In Riyadh I’d walk to buy shwarmas in a long, white Saudi thobe, occasionally being addressed in Arabic by vendors who took me for one of those blue-eyed, fair-skinned Syrians. In between prayer times, when everything shut, we’d hang out at the new malls, freezing from the air-conditioning, whose shiny ostentation seemed joyous compared to the grim shopping arcades in Britain. I used to envy friends who lived in villas or compounds, instead of the basic blocks of flats in which teachers like my parents were housed. Actually, we were fortunate. We weren’t cocooned, as so many expats were. Our lifestyle was frugal, but we socialised with Saudis, Turks, Egyptians, Palestinians, Pakistanis and Indians. We went to their homes and were received with a warmth and grace that visitors to England – especially those of a different colour and creed – would have been lucky to encounter. So it was in this most extreme of countries that I learned from an early age that “home” can be found wherever strangers are greeted with hospitality. And, for that reason, I will always think of Saudi with an enormous affection that must baffle those who see only hypocrisy, cruelty and corruption behind the strict Islamic façade.

Sholto Byrnes is a Contributing Editor to the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Rock bottom

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The New Times: Brexit, globalisation, the crisis in Labour and the future of the left

With essays by David Miliband, Paul Mason, John Harris, Lisa Nandy, Vince Cable and more.

Once again the “new times” are associated with the ascendancy of the right. The financial crash of 2007-2008 – and the Great Recession and sovereign debt crises that were a consequence of it – were meant to have marked the end of an era of runaway “turbocapitalism”. It never came close to happening. The crash was a crisis of capitalism but not the crisis of capitalism. As Lenin observed, there is “no such thing as an absolutely hopeless situation” for capitalism, and so we discovered again. Instead, the greatest burden of the period of fiscal retrenchment that followed the crash was carried by the poorest in society, those most directly affected by austerity, and this in turn has contributed to a deepening distrust of elites and a wider crisis of governance.

Where are we now and in which direction are we heading?

Some of the contributors to this special issue believe that we have reached the end of the “neoliberal” era. I am more sceptical. In any event, the end of neoliberalism, however you define it, will not lead to a social-democratic revival: it looks as if, in many Western countries, we are entering an age in which centre-left parties cannot form ruling majorities, having leaked support to nationalists, populists and more radical alternatives.

Certainly the British Labour Party, riven by a war between its parliamentary representatives and much of its membership, is in a critical condition. At the same time, Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership has inspired a remarkable re-engagement with left-wing politics, even as his party slumps in the polls. His own views may seem frozen in time, but hundreds of thousands of people, many of them young graduates, have responded to his anti-austerity rhetoric, his candour and his shambolic, unspun style.

The EU referendum, in which as much as one-third of Labour supporters voted for Brexit, exposed another chasm in Labour – this time between educated metropolitan liberals and the more socially conservative white working class on whose loyalty the party has long depended. This no longer looks like a viable election-winning coalition, especially after the collapse of Labour in Scotland and the concomitant rise of nationalism in England.

In Marxism Today’s “New Times” issue of October 1988, Stuart Hall wrote: “The left seems not just displaced by Thatcherism, but disabled, flattened, becalmed by the very prospect of change; afraid of rooting itself in ‘the new’ and unable to make the leap of imagination required to engage the future.” Something similar could be said of the left today as it confronts Brexit, the disunities within the United Kingdom, and, in Theresa May, a prime minister who has indicated that she might be prepared to break with the orthodoxies of the past three decades.

The Labour leadership contest between Corbyn and Owen Smith was largely an exercise in nostalgia, both candidates seeking to revive policies that defined an era of mass production and working-class solidarity when Labour was strong. On matters such as immigration, digital disruption, the new gig economy or the power of networks, they had little to say. They proposed a politics of opposition – against austerity, against grammar schools. But what were they for? Neither man seemed capable of embracing the “leading edge of change” or of making the imaginative leap necessary to engage the future.

So is there a politics of the left that will allow us to ride with the currents of these turbulent “new times” and thus shape rather than be flattened by them? Over the next 34 pages 18 writers, offering many perspectives, attempt to answer this and related questions as they analyse the forces shaping a world in which power is shifting to the East, wars rage unchecked in the Middle East, refugees drown en masse in the Mediterranean, technology is outstripping our capacity to understand it, and globalisation begins to fragment.

— Jason Cowley, Editor 

Tom Kibasi on what the left fails to see

Philip Collins on why it's time for Labour to end its crisis

John Harris on why Labour is losing its heartland

Lisa Nandy on how Labour has been halted and hollowed out

David Runciman on networks and the digital revolution

John Gray on why the right, not the left, has grasped the new times

Mariana Mazzucato on why it's time for progressives to rethink capitalism

Robert Ford on why the left must reckon with the anger of those left behind

Ros Wynne-Jones on the people who need a Labour government most

Gary Gerstle on Corbyn, Sanders and the populist surge

Nick Pearce on why the left is haunted by the ghosts of the 1930s

Paul Mason on why the left must be ready to cause a commotion

Neal Lawson on what the new, 21st-century left needs now

Charles Leadbeater explains why we are all existentialists now

John Bew mourns the lost left

Marc Stears on why democracy is a long, hard, slow business

Vince Cable on how a financial crisis empowered the right

David Miliband on why the left needs to move forward, not back

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times