Page 10 - Silent Violence

because she was travelling alone. Yet, despite the
presence of so many men she did not seem
intimidated. I got my fair share of sideways
glances, but she was constantly being devoured.
Throughout the flight I did not see her. Then, just
after the pilot announced that we were nearing
Dhahran airport, she marched down the aisle.
When she re-emerged from the toilets at the back
of the plane I almost did not recognise her. Gone
were her tight blue denims and colourful blouse.
She was enveloped in a sheer black cloak: an
abaaya. Her head was uncovered, but she had put
her hair up ‒ no doubt in anticipation of
concealment. The woman in London with the air of
independence had prepared herself for anonymity.

An hour and three quarters after touch-down
we'd got our luggage chalk-marked by one official,
had them verified by another at the exit, and were
through to the other side to be confronted by a
lively regatta of bold lettering on cards, boards and
placards. Some were flagships sporting the
company motif; others plain white modest yachts
and still others on ribbed cardboard like junks.
Amongst the disorientating mass, Mike spotted our
surname.

Page
10