Eating Behind the Curtain — Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Daytime in Saudi felt like a frozen frame.

The Cruel Fast

My body, cooled by air conditioning. The moment I opened the door, a pleasant warmth washed over me. That comfort lasted less than a second. A suffocating wall of heat crashed down. A short walk was all it took for sweat to stream down my back. The streets were still — nothing but cars speeding past in silence.

The merciless daytime of Ramadan. Restaurants, grocery stores, cafés — all shuttered. Even drinking a sip of water on the street was forbidden. The few locals we passed were mostly day laborers. They chewed on small twigs* clamped between their teeth. They stared, curious, at the foreigners foolish enough to walk under the scorching sun.

When hunger hit, there was nowhere to go. When mealtime came, we had no choice but to retreat to our room. No — we had to.

We needed a place to eat in hiding. On a whim, I opened a delivery app. To my surprise, a handful of shops still had their “Open” lights on. ‘Oh, thank god. At least delivery works.’ Maybe for the expats? A small wave of relief escaped my lips. We ordered Tim Hortons sandwiches.

Terrified someone outside might catch us, we pulled the curtains shut without a gap. The room went dim, the midday sun blocked out entirely. We sat in the dark chewing donuts, laughing at nothing. “We haven’t done anything wrong, so why does this feel like a crime?” “Bet they’re all secretly doing this too”, he joked.

The Appointment

Our long-anticipated first meeting with a local partner. He didn’t show up on time. We waited a full two hours. When he finally appeared, not a word of apology.

I wasn’t even angry. ‘Is this some kind of power play?’ Coming from Korea — where punctuality is practically a religion — we were stunned. Frustration climbed up to the back of my throat, but I swallowed it.

After sunset, we ventured out to see the city at night. The streets had transformed into an entirely different world. A thick, piercing scent of oud hung in the air. Mixed with desert dust, that fragrance announced the arrival of night.

The people who had been completely absent during the day now poured out in droves — long enough lines to wait in. The ghost town of daylight had vanished without a trace. Every restaurant and attraction was packed to the brim.

Red light rippled across the mud walls of the ancient Diriyah fortress. It was a scene straight out of Arabian Nights. Children darted between the glow, clutching balloons.

I checked the time, startled. 1 AM. The night was more vibrant and alive than any hour of daylight. It felt like a dream. That same night, we met our local partner again. This time, messages came back instantly. Replies pinged one after another, and he was barely thirty minutes late. What on earth had that morning’s near no-show been about? (Compared to the two-hour wait, he was practically an angel. 🥺🤣) Maybe they were simply people who lived by the moon.

The Fast

On our way to a dinner banquet hosted by royalty. The room was filled with men in gleaming white thobes**. Even before the fasting window had officially closed, they were busily heaping food onto their plates — mountains of it. Everyone kept glancing at their watches, fidgeting, until the exact moment the fast ended. Then came the applause — and the devouring began. ‘If you’re going to do this, what’s the point of fasting?’ I quietly clicked my tongue.

But then, right in front of me: dozens of varieties of Turkish delight. As the sweetness filled my mouth, something in me softened. ‘Ah, forget it. Just eat.’ And then it hit me, faintly. I hadn’t adjusted my clock to this place’s time at all.

Departure day. Sitting in the airport Starbucks. A man casually munched on a bagel. A woman wrapped in a black abaya*** sipped her coffee. A scene that defied everything I thought I’d learned over the past few days. ‘Wait — are we allowed to eat too? I’m dying for a coffee...’ Nervous, I asked the barista. “It’s Ramadan — is it really okay to eat here?” She smiled. “The airport is an exception. Travelers are free.” The first clear-cut rule I’d heard from a local’s own mouth. ‘So that’s how it works. Everything I thought I knew about Islam and its people — it was only a tiny fragment.’

I had been measuring the world with my own narrow lens, my own limited experience. I mistook the morning no-show for a rude power play. I looked down on their fasting while watching their lavish midnight feast. Their rules. Their culture. Forged over thousands of years on unforgiving sand. I didn’t know. I really, truly didn’t know. And I still don’t. A few days passing through a place doesn’t entitle you to understand it. The moment you think you’ve got it figured out, another unfamiliar piece will inevitably surface.

Other people’s lives were never something you could fully define. There’s only one thing we can do. Admit that our common sense can be wrong at any time. And always leave room for the unfamiliar. Only within that humble margin — the acceptance that perfect understanding is impossible — can we continue discovering one another.

Author’s note:

*I later learned they were chewing Miswak — a twig used for oral hygiene, a kind of etiquette in place of brushing.
**The traditional Saudi garment called a Thobe. The white symbolizes purity and equality, and helps deflect the desert heat.
***The long black robe women wear is called an Abaya.