Convocation

At the end of our district convocation at the Dahrhan campus we made our way through the gate, returning our visitor pass lanyards to the guards through a little drawer at the bottom of a window where they then returned the identification left when we'd arrived. Just outside was a long narrow walkway covered by a canopy to shield us from the sun as we waited for the van to collect us for transport back to our villa.

It was a busy area of women and children waiting for rides, some clumsily donning their abayas and others, like us, climbing into white Toyota passenger vans where we buckled our seat belts, the sweat evaporated from our bodies and gave our lives to the drivers, men who did battle everyday on the roads of Dammam and Al Khobar where it seems no traffic rules are followed and vehicles honked their horns, jostled for position, slowed down, sped up, avoided collision and encountered close calls, all as a matter of course.

Just as we pulled away, my friend motioned for me to look down into the small white car alongside us where a woman sat in the passenger seat, her head and body entirely covered in black except for the small eye opening in her niqab. She was the senior member of a department at the high school, always beautifully covered in layers of colorful fabric and her head perfectly wrapped, covering her hair, ears and neck framing her face alone. She spoke confidently and with purpose and it was clear that her colleagues respected her judgement. I exchanged a glance with her, looking for what I'd heard as she turned from us and her husband pulled away from the side of our van and we turned and made our way back to the compound.