Theo Panayiotou Panayiotou itibaren Barro - BA, Brazil itibaren Barro - BA, Brazil

So I’ll admit it: before reading this book, I was one of those people for whom the veiling and the driving things defined my impressions of women in Saudi Arabia. For her memoir showing the complexity behind the black polyester tents and closed doors in the Kingdom, I thank Dr. Qanta Ahmed sincerely. Only trouble is that, if I may use a metaphor born of 400+-pages exposure to “In the Land of Invisible Women,” the window provided by her two years of experiences living and practicing medicine in Saudi Arabia is often obscured by the gaudy drapes of an overly florid and distractingly erratic writing style. But in the end, I think, it was worth it. As a Muslim woman of Pakistani origin, raised in the U.K. and trained in the U.S. and U.K., Dr. Ahmed offers a voice well-suited to describing this “schizophrenic” country. Somewhat disconcertingly, though, her tone is also a bit schizophrenic, ricocheting between the steely-eyed clinician, ecstatic religious pilgrim and trashy romance novelist, Saudi style, occasionally within the same sentence, which, can’t lie to you, caused me more than a few snickers in inappropriate places. But I was always totally ashamed of myself afterwards, because there’s some really good stuff in this book. Really. Ahmed explores her meta theme of veiling/invisibility in interesting ways throughout, which has both fascinating and chilling manifestations in a country she describes as valuing appearance over substance. And it’s not all wine and roses for the men in a misogynist, polygamous society, either. Ahmed argues that, though free of the miles of black polyester, Saudi men are “veiled” in some ways too. However women, of course, are the soul of the book. Though cripplingly restricted by western standards, Ahmed meets women who are brilliant and ambitious physicians, scholars and human-rights activists trying to live their lives and change the world from behind their veils. Oh, but did I mention that they are all super-glamorous? With “creamy” skin? Immaculately made up and dripping with all sorts of haute couture, jewels and expensive watches? No? Well, no worries. Ahmed will. And in her multitudinous similar descriptions, she will rely heavily on brand names, lots and lots of brand names, all of which conveyed exactly zero information to this middle-class, under-primped American nerd. Ahmed’s constant paeans to the paleness of ladies’ skin also left kind of a bad taste in my mouth, especially given her experience of racism in the Kingdom. I wish, too, that Ahmed had been able to explore the stories of a broader range of Saudi Arabian women. Aside from a few maids, the women whom she highlights in depth tend to be among the most wealthy and privileged in Saudi. And she rightly notes that their achievements are beholden to a supportive husband or father, which rather tempers the hope offered by her portraits of individuals. But back to the good stuff: I found it fascinating how she, as a woman coming from a more open society, reacted to repressive conditions – the religious police instill such fear that she sometimes finds herself upset with women who publically challenge them; her dismay at being asked to sit in the front, wifely seat in a colleague’s car; her confrontation of the raucous anti-Americanism and anti-Semitism after 9/11. However, she is also deeply moved by the piety of her friends and co-workers, and above all, her transformative Hajj – pilgrimage to Mecca, which reaffirms her own faith, albeit in a way her Saudi hosts might eye askance. Her explanation that the grip of Wahibbism, an extreme interpretation of Islam, has over Saudi Arabia is a twentieth-century phenomenon, her description of the uneasy symbiosis between religious extremism and the monarchy, and her impassioned defense of historically pluralistic Islam were some of the meatier bits of the book. I wish Ahmed had given even more page-time to history and context. And then someone mentioned that the flowery and metaphor-laced writing style reminded her of lots of other South Asian literature. So maybe I should just chalk up my gripes to being insufficiently in touch with my culturally relativistic side and go home happy already.

I purchased Alma Mater using the remaining money in my bookstore account as I left the hill following graduation. I had resisted reading the book until I was an alum at the recommendation of several other alums. I am glad I waited, as the memoir-moments interspersed by Kluge can be bitter. Overall I enjoyed the book, and could identify with many of Kluge's stories.