Taking Risks
The dramatic story of the Saudi teenager Rahaf al-Qunun¹, who fled her family and country in order to request asylum elsewhere, resonated with many people in different ways. The oppressive background in which women like her evolve is generally far from our eyes, but I have, through my online therapy work, experienced several very touching stories from women in the Middle East.
Engaging in therapy is something that even Westerners do not enter into lightly. It requires taking a risk in opening themselves to a stranger to exercise the power of vulnerability. For women from countries such as Saudi Arabia, this entails a completely different level of personal risk and exposure. The fear of being misunderstood, judged, medicated, or reported to their family and consequently punished harshly, makes it nearly impossible for them to reach out for face-to-face psychotherapy.
As I grew up in Soviet and then post-Soviet Russia, I have firsthand experience of feeling trapped in a place where state-imposed values and rules did not align with my own. The exercise of one’s intellectual freedom turns into a road to salvation when other freedoms are unattainable.
For women in hardline Middle-Eastern countries, online therapy offers a safe space in which to exercise intellectual and spiritual freedom—they can explore their religious doubts, talk openly about their sexuality, voice their frustrations and anger, and eventually find meaning in their experience.
In an interview in The Guardian, Rahaf al-Qunun points out that in her country, no matter their age and life experience, women are treated like children. In a society governed and controlled by men, they are stripped of all power and infantilized.
These women continually strike me with their courage and resilience. One such brave woman was Laila (an amalgam of Middle Eastern women with whom I have worked in online therapy).
Laila’s Story
Laila was 36 and unmarried. She had a stable and reasonably well-paying job at a bank. When she received a promotion, she was allowed to move out of the family home to a nearby town in order to take the position. She was allowed to do this because her youngest brother lived in the same town and worked at the same bank. He was also unmarried and they lived in the same block of flats. He drove her to work every morning, as she was not allowed to drive herself.
Her brother was much younger but had more rights. Laila “needed” him for assistance with the most routine tasks—for example driving her to work or for travelling out of the country for a professional conference. This is how things work: women are made to need men.
Laila was different. At a deeper level, she did not believe or feel that she needed men. She did enjoy the company of some of her male colleagues and rare friends, but she did not desire them. Leila realized this about herself as a teenager, when back at school she felt compelled to kiss the beautiful face of her female best friend.
One of the duties Laila was not able to escape was mandatory attendance at family gatherings. She would sit there, her face uncovered, surrounded by women talking about their children and their little sons running around—already enjoying their privileged status in front of their sisters—and painfully feeling how little she belonged there.
All this fuss around men felt ludicrous to her. It was an ironic situation after all—she had to uncover her face with women to whom she felt attracted and was expected to be separated from men who represented no risk to her emotional balance.
Laila knew that she would never be able to live the life that she dreamt of. She loved her brothers, despite often feeling angry with them. She also loved her father, even if he would not listen to her or take her achievements seriously. She knew that, for her family, she was “damaged goods” and she would remain so, as she would never marry and give them children.
Laila eagerly waited to get old enough to stop receiving proposals from men that she did not know, who, as she grew older, wanted her as a second or third wife. In the meantime, she had occasional moments of joy with her few female friends and secretly experienced excitement and lightness in the body-less company of her virtual friends from the online community of women just like her.
Autocratic states use mental health stigma to control their citizens.Laila was very scared of being accused of being mentally ill. This is exactly what happened to Rahaf al-Qunun who, in the statement released by her family after her escape, was labelled “mentally unstable.”
An Online Refuge
As a therapist who works online with clients, my personal background helps me to understand and relate to what these women experience. Mental illness was stigmatized in the USSR, easily exploited by the authorities to punish and isolate any individual not complying with the strict rules of collective functioning. Therapy was almost nonexistent and was considered a medical treatment for alienated sick people. Online therapy was not an option as it is now, offering an opportunity to reach out to someone from a different culture, which can be useful when someone is trapped in an unfriendly world.
The effects of living in an autocratic country on individuals’ mental health are many. My female clients from hard-line Middle Eastern countries suffer from depression, anxiety, insomnia, dissociation, and difficulty trusting others.
Their individual boundaries are constantly transgressed and violated. The psychological effects of being raised in such an environment are like those experienced by a child growing up in a narcissistic family: the needs of the parents’ system (the society) take precedence over the needs of the child (the individual).
The only way to avoid being mistreated by a narcissist is to limit their power over you or to stay as far away as possible. Oppressed women like Rahaf al-Qunun have every right to rebel and protest as do children of narcissistic parents—they entirely depend on their caretakers and cannot freely leave their country or their family.
Individuals raised in cultures where they must abide by a very strict set of rules that do not take into account their needs, learn how to hide, to keep secrets, to lie. This is a natural way of adjusting to a system that does not accept parts of you; it becomes a question of survival. Such secrecy leads to an impression of living a double life. The cost of such fragmentation is often a lack of intimacy with parents and disconnection from those who are not aware of the “other” life that quietly happens inside or in the online space.
In a way, as their therapist, I must play a part in this secret parallel world, as my clients also hide from their families the fact that they are in treatment. Therapy, especially with a Western therapist, is seen as a transgression. My clients must come up with a plausible pretext for isolating themselves with their computer in a private room within the family home without being disturbed. I am often presented as a colleague, or an online English teacher. Here, the fact that their older family members do not speak fluent English comes in handy. The second language creates the much-needed safe and private space, in which they finally can explore their inner worlds, and the conflicts with the outer world in which they live.
Behind the Veil
I do not share a mother tongue with many of my clients so we must speak in English. Such use of the third, neutral language plays an important role in how the therapy evolves. It facilitates sharing thoughts and dreams that are defined as unacceptable in the clients’ original culture. Speaking English also provides us with an opportunity to play on even ground—as fluent as we are in our second tongue, we are still both foreigners, negotiating our accents, sometimes looking together for the right word. This experiment in equality has an additional reparative value, as being fully recognized as equal is not an easily obtained right in these women’s world.
As a Western woman with a limited knowledge and experience of Middle Eastern cultures, I let my clients guide me through their personal stories shaped by the culture, family, and place into which they were born. With them, I become an avid learner as we move towards a shared goal—a better understanding of who they are and who they want to be within the limits of their world. As we advance, pushing these limits becomes an existential necessity. For any transcultural therapist, this is a rather familiar role, but online therapy expands this in an extraordinary manner.
I have also had the opportunity to work with some Saudi women living outside of their country in Europe or elsewhere. Those with liberal, well-to-do and open-minded parents can study abroad. The sudden freedom comes with another set of psychological challenges—these young women must adapt to the transition and find a place in this new world, negotiating an acceptable balance between their original cultural values and the norms and expectations of the new place and culture.
During this stressful time, therapy offers them a space for dealing with conflicts and dilemmas that arise along the way—to wear or not to wear a headscarf; how to explain to their foreign peers the values and rules they choose to abide by; how to deal with anxious parents’ visits and a stressful life in an unfamiliar environment. Interestingly, they still retreat back to the familiar online space—which feels safer—to find friends or develop romantic relationships.
“Why does it matter that we, freer men and veil-less women, understand the struggle of women in these regions of the world” where many types of freedom are restricted? Will our understanding of their condition and our empathy change anything for them? My intuitive answer is ‘yes’; otherwise I could not do my work as a therapist. But how so?
Humans are social creatures, and the way we are looked at by others very often matters. We all have secret stories about how bad or how exposed we felt when people around us looked at us, judging our looks, words, or differences. In these circumstances, we feel shame. People with a handicap, sexuality difference or cultural/ethnic difference, all those who differ in some ways from the majority know far too well the emotional toll of such unwanted exposure.
How can a woman wearing the full veil feel when walking in the street in a tourist area of a big Western city? She is entirely covered in a black veil, her face hidden. On both sides of the veil we feel uncomfortable. The veil is a barrier, and, when we do not see the face behind it, we struggle to empathize with the individual. Behind the veil, there is sometimes deep discomfort and a feeling of shame. They may feel trapped, and our misunderstanding of their condition and our judging them for choices they do not have, may add to their suffering.
To connect with others and to be understood, without their body being seen, can be a challenge for these women. It is another reason why the online communities of Saudi women are thriving. Probably this is also what makes online therapy a hopeful space in which they can develop a connection with a Western therapist who represents this “other.”
As with any therapist, I am here for those who have psychological difficulties and struggle with some form of conflict. Surely, many women living in the strict Middle Eastern countries are happy enough with their circumstances, and not all of them would relate to my clients’ stories. But even if women I meet in my practice are a minority, it is important for them to be seen and acknowledged in their struggle, and to be offered a safe space like online therapy in which they can feel recognized and strive toward a better life.
Resources
1 Rahaf al-Qunun: “I hope My Story Encourages Other Women to be Brave and Free”
