The Accidental Witness

[Primus pilus]

Part 1

He sees the report on an internet news service. A young woman, the tenth beheading in Saudi in 2015, a grainy image, clipped from a YouTube video taken on today's ubiquitous mobile phone.

​

Hard to tell much from the image. Just a body, clad from head to toe in black, lying in the dust in the square. Soldiers on guard, the executioner standing over the black-clad body, sword raised. A white van waiting. Four police to hold her down. The report says three blows with the sword to remove her head.

Executed. No martyr's sacrifice. Just brutal death.

His mind wanders back over 30 years. A young man, in another hot, dusty square. Only there on a brief stopover. A UTA flight from Paris to a city in Saudi returning from a couple of weeks of leave in Europe. 14 hours before his Gulf Air flight further to the south-east.

​

His passport is filled with NOCs and multiple re-entry visas for most of the Middle East so, instead of being stuck in the most basic of airports, he will take the chance to clean up and to sleep the afternoon in a real bed in the comfort of the A/C.

Progress through immigration and a probing customs is slow and it is mid-morning by the time he is clear. Outside the terminal he feels the hot desert wind. The shamal has begun early this summer, the air ladened with dust.

His pre-arranged driver, a Pakistani, collects him for the trip to the hotel. He has used the same driver before and he takes the front seat. Cold air blasting from the vents, better than the feeble flow in the back. The old blue Mercedes slows near the market square and the souk, traffic and people and livestock. Even in a city there are camels and goats. He has been here before but he still finds the markets intriguing and he takes photographs like a tourist.

​

Then the car is stopped by the gathering crowd. Men mostly, a few with women in tow, two or three, walking a few paces behind. Most Saudis by their dress but many Bedu from as far as Oman with camels and goats for the market. And a few "guest" workers, Baluchis, Indians, Pakistanis, even Phillipinos.

The driver asks a policeman, "how long?" The officer shrugs. The young man thinks immediately of the Arabic, "Bukara, Insh'allah". Tomorrow God willing. The usual answer to every delay. It will soon be time for prayers. He would rather be checked into his hotel before the break; before everything closes for the afternoon.

It is an oil city, westerners are common, and he does not feel threatened. He has the usual swag of letters of introduction with his photo, multiple stamps, in blue and red, with every official insignia. Details of his contracts, his sponsors. And he has his own contacts too, British officers serving in local police and armed forces down the Gulf and rugby friends from clubs from Jordan to Oman, so he makes up his mind.

The hotel is just a few minutes away. He can walk. He tells the driver to collect him at 8:00 PM to return to the airport. He has just his camera and one bag, a light grip, and it hangs from his shoulder as he walks towards the hotel.

The heat is blistering and the hot wind cools nothing. The city is close to the Gulf and the shamal keeps the humidity down but the young man's shirt is soon wet at his armpits and he feels the sweat trail down his spine.

At first it is easy to slip through the crowd but, as he steps into the square, his progress slows, the growing numbers jostle and he is pushed off course into the market square. He looks around, searching for a way through, but he is caught there now, a part of the crowd.

 

[kneel_down_ella]

like where this is going!

 

[Deleted member jedakk]

The pictures look like Hofuf, in the Al-Hasa area. Haven't been there in a long time, but they do have a large camel market there, plenty of goats, and that old fort left over from when the Turks ruled the place. Huge souk too that looked like something out of Indiana Jones.

 

[Madiosi]

Here's the video of the execution. I hope it's not against the rules. If only I beg your pardon and cancellation of the contribution.

moderator's note: thanks for saying that, Madiosi:
videos of real people being really executed are not what we allow on public threads -
if members want to see it, they can send you a PM

 

[Deleted member jedakk]

I'll have to skip that one. I worked and lived in Saudi Arabia for half of my adult life and saw a lot of things most people don't, but that's one sight I always took a pass on.

 

[Wragg]

Part 1

He sees the report on an internet news service. A young woman, the tenth beheading in Saudi in 2015, a grainy image, clipped from a YouTube video taken on today's ubiquitous mobile phone.

View attachment 281917 ​

Hard to tell much from the image. Just a body, clad from head to toe in black, lying in the dust in the square. Soldiers on guard, the executioner standing over the black-clad body, sword raised. A white van waiting. Four police to hold her down. The report says three blows with the sword to remove her head.

Executed. No martyr's sacrifice. Just brutal death.

His mind wanders back over 30 years. A young man, in another hot, dusty square. Only there on a brief stopover. A UTA flight from Paris to a city in Saudi returning from a couple of weeks of leave in Europe. 14 hours before his Gulf Air flight further to the south-east.

View attachment 281918 ​

His passport is filled with NOCs and multiple re-entry visas for most of the Middle East so, instead of being stuck in the most basic of airports, he will take the chance to clean up and to sleep the afternoon in a real bed in the comfort of the A/C.

Progress through immigration and a probing customs is slow and it is mid-morning by the time he is clear. Outside the terminal he feels the hot desert wind. The shamal has begun early this summer, the air ladened with dust.

His pre-arranged driver, a Pakistani, collects him for the trip to the hotel. He has used the same driver before and he takes the front seat. Cold air blasting from the vents, better than the feeble flow in the back. The old blue Mercedes slows near the market square and the souk, traffic and people and livestock. Even in a city there are camels and goats. He has been here before but he still finds the markets intriguing and he takes photographs like a tourist.

View attachment 281919 View attachment 281920 View attachment 281921 View attachment 281922 ​

Then the car is stopped by the gathering crowd. Men mostly, a few with women in tow, two or three, walking a few paces behind. Most Saudis by their dress but many Bedu from as far as Oman with camels and goats for the market. And a few "guest" workers, Baluchis, Indians, Pakistanis, even Phillipinos.

The driver asks a policeman, "how long?" The officer shrugs. The young man thinks immediately of the Arabic, "Bukara, Insh'allah". Tomorrow God willing. The usual answer to every delay. It will soon be time for prayers. He would rather be checked into his hotel before the break; before everything closes for the afternoon.

It is an oil city, westerners are common, and he does not feel threatened. He has the usual swag of letters of introduction with his photo, multiple stamps, in blue and red, with every official insignia. Details of his contracts, his sponsors. And he has his own contacts too, British officers serving in local police and armed forces down the Gulf and rugby friends from clubs from Jordan to Oman, so he makes up his mind.

The hotel is just a few minutes away. He can walk. He tells the driver to collect him at 8:00 PM to return to the airport. He has just his camera and one bag, a light grip, and it hangs from his shoulder as he walks towards the hotel.

The heat is blistering and the hot wind cools nothing. The city is close to the Gulf and the shamal keeps the humidity down but the young man's shirt is soon wet at his armpits and he feels the sweat trail down his spine.

At first it is easy to slip through the crowd but, as he steps into the square, his progress slows, the growing numbers jostle and he is pushed off course into the market square. He looks around, searching for a way through, but he is caught there now, a part of the crowd.

He may not feel threatened, but we all sense the threat in the air.....

 

[Celticvirgin]

Love the start PP.

 

[Jollyrei]

Intriguing, yes.

 

[Primus pilus]

Part 2

The moving crowd stops towards the centre of the square near the entry to the souk. There is more jostling and he is close to the front.

A nondescript white GMC van forces its way through, an army Toyota troop carrier behind it. Six soldiers and an officer emerge from the troop carrier, semi-automatic rifles at the ready. His eyes take in so much detail. Most of the Gulf States use the M16 but, even at no more than 10 meters, he doesn't recognise these. Ahhh, he remembers, H&K, early G3, functional weapons.

Four police step out of the van and drag a body from inside. Black clad, the full abaya and niqab, though no eyes show. The dress says it must be a woman and he picks up the word from the crowd that confirms this .... bint .... the daughter. He can speak and understand greetings, ask about the rains and the grazing and the health of the camels and goats but his limited Arabic and untuned ear give him nothing more.

The figure is propped, kneeling, an officer holding her by one shoulder.

He gropes for the Canon that hangs from his left shoulder but hesitates. Would he? Should he record this cameo of Saudi?

He sees what he suspects are mutawa'ah spread around the perimeter. Men with full beards, rather than the clipped style favoured by Saudi royalty that many adopt. Loose shemaghs cover their heads. The "volunteers", the dreaded religious police, armed only with canes but dreaded nonetheless. What a joke of a name. The Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. A couple move closer to him. Not too close but enough to intimidate.

His left hand leaves the camera case.

The black-clad bundle does not move. It makes no sound. The shape looks odd. And he guesses she is tied beneath the black abaya, elbows drawn back. There is no sound either. Gagged beneath the niqab? Flies gather around the figure and there is a faint smell. Shit! Under the abaya she has soiled herself in fear, at the terror of what approaches.

The crowd is silent as muezzin wails the Zuhr prayer from the minaret at the nearby mosque and the scene is an image of peace as the faithful turn toward Mecca to pray. The young man checks his watch, not quite midday but the prayer is at true noon. He squats, then drops one knee to the dust, in a bid to to be as inconspicuous as he can.

As the officer holding the woman kneels to prayer her releases his hold. The body falls sideways.

 

[thehangingtree]

bold writing, Pp

 

[Jollyrei]

Very tense. The sense of dread is palpable.

 

[Wragg]

Part 2

The moving crowd stops towards the centre of the square near the entry to the souk. There is more jostling and he is close to the front.

A nondescript white GMC van forces its way through, an army Toyota troop carrier behind it. Six soldiers and an officer emerge from the troop carrier, semi-automatic rifles at the ready. His eyes take in so much detail. Most of the Gulf States use the M16 but, even at no more than 10 meters, he doesn't recognise these. Ahhh, he remembers, H&K, early G3, functional weapons.

Four police step out of the van and drag a body from inside. Black clad, the full abaya and niqab, though no eyes show. The dress says it must be a woman and he picks up the word from the crowd that confirms this .... bint .... the daughter. He can speak and understand greetings, ask about the rains and the grazing and the health of the camels and goats but his limited Arabic and untuned ear give him nothing more.

The figure is propped, kneeling, an officer holding her by one shoulder.

He gropes for the Canon that hangs from his left shoulder but hesitates. Would he? Should he record this cameo of Saudi?

He sees what he suspects are mutawa'ah spread around the perimeter. Men with full beards, rather than the clipped style favoured by Saudi royalty that many adopt. Loose shemaghs cover their heads. The "volunteers", the dreaded religious police, armed only with canes but dreaded nonetheless. What a joke of a name. The Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. A couple move closer to him. Not too close but enough to intimidate.

His left hand leaves the camera case.

The black-clad bundle does not move. It makes no sound. The shape looks odd. And he guesses she is tied beneath the black abaya, elbows drawn back. There is no sound either. Gagged beneath the niqab? Flies gather around the figure and there is a faint smell. Shit! Under the abaya she has soiled herself in fear, at the terror of what approaches.

The crowd is silent as muezzin wails the Zuhr prayer from the minaret at the nearby mosque and the scene is an image of peace as the faithful turn toward Mecca to pray. The young man checks his watch, not quite midday but the prayer is at true noon. He squats, then drops one knee to the dust, in a bid to to be as inconspicuous as he can.

As the officer holding the woman kneels to prayer her releases his hold. The body falls sideways.

The clash between his instinct to intervene, and the fear of the mutawa'ah... the urge to run, and the need to stay....to avoid the horror, or confront it?

Powerful stuff, Pp!

 

[Celticvirgin]

Your really good at the keeping up suspense!

 

[Deleted member jedakk]

The clash between his instinct to intervene, and the fear of the mutawa'ah... the urge to run, and the need to stay....to avoid the horror, or confront it?

Powerful stuff, Pp!

I never got caught up in a crowd at an execution like that, but there were other scary times. The crowd, which is more like a mob, is overwhelming; for most of us it would trigger a flight response. You might hate what you're seeing, but you're clearly not going to change anything, stop what's happening. With no place to escape, all you can do is make yourself as small as possible and hope you don't draw their attention to yourself. Or at least that's what I'd do if I could, but at 6'-3" tall and 245 pounds, it's hard for me to blend in.

I always felt like the Mutawah, or religious police, are more like a street gang than any official organization. Rather than strictly following a set of rules, so you, as a foreigner and non-Muslim know where the lines are, they often make arbitrary judgments as to what is permissible and what is not according to how they feel today. Which is not to say that they are all wild-eyed fanatics; some are, but some are actually sincere, thoughtful people who are dedicated to what they believe.

Nevertheless, most all expats working in that part of the world have heard the horror stories about being arrested by the Mutawah. And they know that the Mutawah can always find a reason to harass you. This is just part of the trade-off you make when you work in that part of the world. I was told many years ago that when you go to work in Saudi, you have two buckets: One is a money bucket and the other is a shit bucket. When either one of them fills up, it's time to leave.

 

[Primus pilus]

The clash between his instinct to intervene, and the fear of the mutawa'ah... the urge to run, and the need to stay....to avoid the horror, or confront it?

Powerful stuff, Pp!

The young man faces all these Wragg. The instincts, the urges, tear at him.

I never got caught up in a crowd at an execution like that, but there were other scary times. The crowd, which is more like a mob, is overwhelming; for most of us it would trigger a flight response. You might hate what you're seeing, but you're clearly not going to change anything, stop what's happening. With no place to escape, all you can do is make yourself as small as possible and hope you don't draw their attention to yourself. Or at least that's what I'd do if I could, but at 6'-3" tall and 245 pounds, it's hard for me to blend in.

I always felt like the Mutawah, or religious police, are more like a street gang than any official organization. Rather than strictly following a set of rules, so you, as a foreigner and non-Muslim know where the lines are, they often make arbitrary judgments as to what is permissible and what is not according to how they feel today. Which is not to say that they are all wild-eyed fanatics; some are, but some are actually sincere, thoughtful people who are dedicated to what they believe.

Nevertheless, most all expats working in that part of the world have heard the horror stories about being arrested by the Mutawah. And they know that the Mutawah can always find a reason to harass you. This is just part of the trade-off you make when you work in that part of the world. I was told many years ago that when you go to work in Saudi, you have two buckets: One is a money bucket and the other is a shit bucket. When either one of them fills up, it's time to leave.

But, as Jedakk said, there is almost no way out but to do as the young man has done. To drop to his knee as the crowd kneels, prays and stands, kneels, prays and stands, to become as inconspicuous, as invisible, as possible.

He is there to the end, whatever that might be.

 

[Deleted member jedakk]

One more thing I'd add: If you're in that situation and you turn to walk away, some will interpret that as a slight. You are, in effect, showing that you don't approve of what they are doing. Since they justify these particular actions by calling them the will of God, they may further connect your perceived disapproval to their religion. Things can go downhill pretty quickly if the wrath of the crowd turns on you.

It's always a good idea to keep the phone numbers of the nearest US/British/(Your country here) consulate and embassy handy. Saudi jails are pretty austere and you have to know someone who will bring you food or hope the others you're jailed with will share when they get something. A friend of mine who spent a few days in one said you could tell the guy who had been there the longest because he had the most blankets.

 

[Eulalia]

There have been and still are other situations - lynchings, pogroms, even soccer violence, etc. -
where the norm is dictated by the most extreme, and no-one dare hint by word or action
that they have any reservations about what's going on.
It's disturbing to think what any of us might do, or consent to being done,
under such pressure.

 

[Primus pilus]

One more thing I'd add: If you're in that situation and you turn to walk away, some will interpret that as a slight. You are, in effect, showing that you don't approve of what they are doing. Since they justify these particular actions by calling them the will of God, they may further connect your perceived disapproval to their religion. Things can go downhill pretty quickly if the wrath of the crowd turns on you.

It's always a good idea to keep the phone numbers of the nearest US/British/(Your country here) consulate and embassy handy. Saudi jails are pretty austere and you have to know someone who will bring you food or hope the others you're jailed with will share when they get something. A friend of mine who spent a few days in one said you could tell the guy who had been there the longest because he had the most blankets.

In Pp's day it was the same right through the Gulf though marginally (just) better in the Trucial States (UAE) and Oman. In those there were still significant numbers of Brits among the police and armed forces who would keep an eye out.
No such thing as bail. Once in jail you stay there until trial and, as Jedakk notes, jails are basic and about the only services provided are walls and bars. Everything else is pretty much left to the family.
The luckiest are often those who have killed. At least they have the opportunity to offer diyya, blood money, as a friend of Pp's found out after he hit and killed a child who ran onto the road immediately in front of his 4WD.
The UAE and Oman are pretty free these days but it is still too bloody easy to get caught up in something especially in offending Islam.
In that respect Islam is little different from fundamentalism in any religion.

 

[Primus pilus]

Part 3

After the prayers are done the muezzin continues. The westerner has no idea of the words but they focus the crowd on the black-clad shape and there is a hum amongst the people. It begins in quietly spoken Arabic but grows louder and the crowd grows restless.

As the muezzin's wailing voice falls silent the crowd hush though they seem excited, expectant. A tall, strongly-built man in traditional Gulf dishdasha and loose, red-checked shemagh emerges from the souk. He carries a long, slightly-curved sword and the crowd watches, transfixed, as he swings the sword in patterns around his head. There is shouting, baying, a restlessness amongst the people.

The young westerner watches the dancing sword and the finality dawns. The grim scene in front, the restless crowd to each side and behind. He is a part of it all, unable, even if he could find the will, to turn away.

The tall Arab stands over the black bundle, places a sandal-shod foot in the middle of the shape's ribs and cries "Allahu akbar," as he swings his sword down.

There is no sound, no spurt of blood, no head rolling free. The first cut incomplete, caught in the black cloth of the head covering. He swings the sword high again. A second cut and the sword blade clangs against the rough limestone paving. This time the head is severed and rolls a little, still clad in niqab, her modesty preserved, her virtue intact.

Her heart pumps briefly, carotid arteries spurt a little blood into the dust. The executioner reads the details of her crime.

It is over.

The head, still covered by strict Islamic dress, is dumped into a basket. The limp black shape is thrown into the van without ceremony. The basket with the head follows.

He has heard of the head being sewn back and the body displayed crucified. That her body has been taken is some relief.

The police disappear into the van. The officer climbs into the front of the troop carrier and the soldiers file into the back. The driver shuts the rear door and takes his seat behind the wheel.

With horns sounding the white van and the Toyota push through the crowd and out to the road.

As the crowd begins to disperse two Pakistani labourers, each with a bucket and straw broom, begin cleaning up. There isn't much. The trappings required for a woman's modesty have absorbed most but what there is, blood, shit and piss, are washed together into the gutter.

The young man stands transfixed, breathing shallow, unable to take his eyes from the cleaners doing their rough, dirty job. Who was she, a Saudi or a foreign worker? What had she done? It could only be murder. A child in her care? An abusive husband or employer? He knows Saudi has a justice system but it is harsh and foreign workers do not often see a fair trial?

Was there discussion of diyya? Of blood money and a believing slave to be set free as the Quran says in 4:92?

Two of the mutawa'ah still watch him, staring at his reaction, watching for his reactions but with no trace of empathy.

He feels a hand on his left shoulder and starts, brought back from his thoughts and, too late, he remembers the briefings. Stay away from any crowds. Never, ever get involved.

"Sir. Sir. Come. Now!" It is his driver, his voice urgent, and he is led to the blue Mercedes parked just a hundred metres away, engine running, A/C blasting. The driver opens the door and gently pushes him inside. He shivers in the cold blast.

The car pulls up at the hotel. The driver takes the young man's elbow and walks him inside the dark, cool foyer. The man shakes as he struggles to pull his passport from the buttoned-down pocket on his shirt. He is desperate for a whisky, even a beer, but no chance here.

An Indian bell boy takes his small grip and shows him to his room. Another carries a small tray. A glass with a low handle filled with dark amber tea, hot and so sweet.

A tip, a few riyals, and the Indians are gone.

As the door closes the young man heads to the bathroom and soaks a hand towel in what comes from the cold tap and hangs the wet towel in front of the A/C vent. With so many pipes exposed, the water is never really cold. He showers, washes, removing the sweat and dust but the smell of the crowd and the woman's fear linger.

Back at the small desk he takes out his diary, the year in gold leaf on the black cover, and a fountain pen. Through habit he touches the nib to his tongue then begins to write:

_ _ _ _ _ _ _
Saudi Arabia
May, 1982​

Said goodbye to J in Paris after 10 unforgettable days. As a gentleman I say no more here. Storm on takeoff. Plane thrown about a bit. Landed early AM - flights from Europe and the East usually timed for a cooler tarmac. Usual delays through immigration and customs. M picked me up. Caught in traffic near the souk. Decided to walk the last kilometre........

 

[Wragg]

Part 3

After the prayers are done the muezzin continues. The westerner has no idea of the words but they focus the crowd on the black-clad shape and there is a hum amongst the people. It begins in quietly spoken Arabic but grows louder and the crowd grows restless.

As the muezzin's wailing voice falls silent the crowd hush though they seem excited, expectant. A tall, strongly-built man in traditional Gulf dishdasha and loose, red-checked shemagh emerges from the souk. He carries a long, slightly-curved sword and the crowd watches, transfixed, as he swings the sword in patterns around his head. There is shouting, baying, a restlessness amongst the people.

The young westerner watches the dancing sword and the finality dawns. The grim scene in front, the restless crowd to each side and behind. He is a part of it all, unable, even if he could find the will, to turn away.

The tall Arab stands over the black bundle, places a sandal-shod foot in the middle of the shape's ribs and cries "Allahu akbar," as he swings his sword down.

There is no sound, no spurt of blood, no head rolling free. The first cut incomplete, caught in the black cloth of the head covering. He swings the sword high again. A second cut and the sword blade clangs against the rough limestone paving. This time the head is severed and rolls a little, still clad in niqab, her modesty preserved, her virtue intact.

Her heart pumps briefly, carotid arteries spurt a little blood into the dust. The executioner reads the details of her crime.

It is over.

The head, still covered by strict Islamic dress, is dumped into a basket. The limp black shape is thrown into the van without ceremony. The basket with the head follows.

He has heard of the head being sewn back and the body displayed crucified. That her body has been taken is some relief.

The police disappear into the van. The officer climbs into the front of the troop carrier and the soldiers file into the back. The driver shuts the rear door and takes his seat behind the wheel.

With horns sounding the white van and the Toyota push through the crowd and out to the road.

As the crowd begins to disperse two Pakistani labourers, each with a bucket and straw broom, begin cleaning up. There isn't much. The trappings required for a woman's modesty have absorbed most but what there is, blood, shit and piss, are washed together into the gutter.

The young man stands transfixed, breathing shallow, unable to take his eyes from the cleaners doing their rough, dirty job. Who was she, a Saudi or a foreign worker? What had she done? It could only be murder. A child in her care? An abusive husband or employer? He knows Saudi has a justice system but it is harsh and foreign workers do not often see a fair trial?

Was there discussion of diyya? Of blood money and a believing slave to be set free as the Quran says in 4:92?

Two of the mutawa'ah still watch him, staring at his reaction, watching for his reactions but with no trace of empathy.

He feels a hand on his left shoulder and starts, brought back from his thoughts and, too late, he remembers the briefings. Stay away from any crowds. Never, ever get involved.

"Sir. Sir. Come. Now!" It is his driver, his voice urgent, and he is led to the blue Mercedes parked just a hundred metres away, engine running, A/C blasting. The driver opens the door and gently pushes him inside. He shivers in the cold blast.

The car pulls up at the hotel. The driver takes the young man's elbow and walks him inside the dark, cool foyer. The man shakes as he struggles to pull his passport from the buttoned-down pocket on his shirt. He is desperate for a whisky, even a beer, but no chance here.

An Indian bell boy takes his small grip and shows him to his room. Another carries a small tray. A glass with a low handle filled with dark amber tea, hot and so sweet.

A tip, a few riyals, and the Indians are gone.

As the door closes the young man heads to the bathroom and soaks a hand towel in what comes from the cold tap and hangs the wet towel in front of the A/C vent. With so many pipes exposed, the water is never really cold. He showers, washes, removing the sweat and dust but the smell of the crowd and the woman's fear linger.

Back at the small desk he takes out his diary, the year in gold leaf on the black cover, and a fountain pen. Through habit he touches the nib to his tongue then begins to write:

_ _ _ _ _ _ _
Saudi Arabia
May, 1982​

Said goodbye to J in Paris after 10 unforgettable days. As a gentleman I say no more here. Storm on takeoff. Plane thrown about a bit. Landed early AM - flights from Europe and the East usually timed for a cooler tarmac. Usual delays through immigration and customs. M picked me up. Caught in traffic near the souk. Decided to walk the last kilometre........

From ten unforgettable days, to ten unforgettable minutes. I wonder if the poor, black clad woman might also have had a name beginning with J......