As an Uber driver in Virginia, I have had countless conversations with passengers from diverse backgrounds, each offering a glimpse into their lives and perspectives. One evening, a ride with two Saudi women opened a door into the tensions between tradition and modernity in Saudi Arabia, a country undergoing profound social and cultural transformation.
The ride didn’t start smoothly. Confusion over the pickup location led to a series of sharp text exchanges from one of the passengers:
“Hello! Why are you not answering???”
“I’m at the location the GPS shows,” I replied, but no hotel was in sight.
“Come to the main gate of the hotel!” she demanded.
When I called for clarification, the passenger cut the call. Moments later, another message arrived:
“Helloooo!”
I found her tone condescending. Taking a deep breath, I replied, “Could you please speak more respectfully? I’m trying to find you.”
Minutes later, I reached the correct location, where two middle-aged women stood with their luggage. One approached briskly, irritation evident in her demeanor. “When I explain something, it doesn’t mean I’m being disrespectful,” she said.
I tried to defuse the tension. “I didn’t say you were disrespectful. I only requested respectful communication. If you’re uncomfortable, we can cancel the ride.”
“There’s no need,” she responded curtly.
As we drove, the two women spoke in Arabic, their conversation peppered with laughter. Soon, the older passenger shifted her attention to me. Gesturing to a billboard, she asked, “What’s that brand?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted, hoping to keep the interaction brief.
Minutes later, she added, “Earlier, I was only trying to guide you, nothing else.”
“It’s no problem,” I replied. “Things like that happen to us drivers often.”
The conversation warmed slightly. She asked, “Where are you from?”
“Afghanistan,” I said.
She nodded thoughtfully. “There are so many Afghan drivers here. I see them all the time.”
“And you?” I asked.
“Saudi Arabia,” she replied.
“Your country has seen a lot of changes recently,” I remarked.
“Yes, but we’re not all happy about them,” she said, her tone softening.
I asked why.
“I love my religion and traditions,” she said. “I don’t want people to become too ‘Western.’”
“What do you mean by ‘Western’?” I asked.
“These concerts, mixed-gender gatherings, and women walking around without the abaya. It’s not right.”
“Doesn’t that mean your government is going against what you want?”
“No,” she replied firmly. “We love our government, but these changes are difficult for some of us.”
Her younger companion, dressed in a simple white blouse without a headscarf, listened intently. When I asked if she was upset about women being allowed to forego the abaya, she hesitated.
“Yes,” she said, then paused as if realizing her own attire contradicted her stance. “I’m not covering my head now, but I feel guilty about it. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Do you wear the abaya in Saudi Arabia?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I respect my culture. But here, I don’t wear it.”
I nodded. “That’s your choice. But what about women driving? Wasn’t it a good change that they’re now allowed to drive?”
“We have drivers,” she said dismissively. “Why would we need to drive?”
Her response reminded me of the famous quote attributed to Marie Antoinette: “Let them eat cake.”
Their opinions reflected the divide in Saudi society over the sweeping reforms spearheaded by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman. His efforts to modernize Saudi Arabia and align it with global cultural norms have drawn both praise and criticism. Women can now drive, attend public events, and appear in public without head coverings—radical changes in a country once defined by strict Wahhabi interpretations of Islam.
The older passenger acknowledged this divide. “Young people who studied in the West welcome these changes, but older generations find them hard to accept,” she said.
The Saudi government has also overhauled its education system, replacing courses like “Islamic Awareness” with programs emphasizing critical thinking and cultural sensitivity. Officials believe these changes are necessary to combat extremist ideologies, but conservative clerics have resisted. Some have faced harsh consequences, including imprisonment.
Despite the pushback, many religious leaders support the crown prince’s reforms. “We need balance,” the older passenger said, referring to this “middle path.”
The conversation shifted when the younger woman asked, “What’s life like in Afghanistan now, under the Taliban?”
“Girls can’t go to school or university, and women can’t work with international organizations,” I replied. “Even female government employees have seen their salaries reduced.”
She frowned. “In Saudi Arabia, our girls go to school and university—of course, boys and girls are separated at a certain age. But what the Taliban are doing is ignorance, not Islam.”
I reminded her that Saudi Arabia had once recognized the Taliban regime. She paused, seemingly caught off guard. “That was then. Many things have changed now.”
As we neared their destination, the older passenger steered the conversation to the United States. “I heard that American schools encourage children to change their gender,” she said.
I explained that while some schools teach about gender diversity, such lessons require parental consent. “It’s not forced on everyone,” I said. “For example, my wife and I opted out for our kids, and it wasn’t an issue.”
She seemed surprised. “So it’s not applied equally to everyone?”
“No,” I said. “Parents have a choice.”
Her tone softened as she brought up the recent protests in the U.S. supporting Gaza. “We were so happy to see students standing up for the people of Gaza,” she said.
I told her that the demonstrations were widespread. “Were there protests in Saudi Arabia?” I asked.
“Why would we protest?” she said, genuinely puzzled. “Our government does everything it can for Gaza. We don’t need to create problems by marching in the streets.”
“Would you be allowed to protest if you wanted to?” I asked.
“We don’t need to,” she replied. “We trust our government.”
When we reached their destination, they declined my offer to help with their luggage, saying it was empty.
On my way, I was confused about how to deal with all these contradictions.
About the author
Salar Musafir is an Afghan immigrant living in the United States. Since the fall of Kabul, thousands of Afghans have resettled in the U.S., many working as Uber drivers. Musafir shares his reflections from the road, weaving personal narratives with broader socio-political themes.
On the Road in America is a series of letters from Afghan immigrants, sharing their encounters and observations across the United States.
