Lines — Saudi Arabia

[Series: Riyadh in Ramadan: Saudi Arabia] Vol.3 (Epilogue) Lines

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I came back to Korea.

Everything was within arm’s reach. A convenience store one step away. A café two steps beyond that.

The Grind

My first day back at work, I was already out of breath. For entirely different reasons than Saudi.

The office felt like a stock exchange floor from another era. Voices clashing, monitor lights flashing, everyone sprinting without pause. Buried in backlogged work, the stillness of Ramadan was forgotten in an instant.

The break room overflowed with company snacks. Anything I wanted, whenever I wanted it. Those donuts I used to sneak behind drawn curtains, stifling my laughter — they seemed ridiculous now.

The streets were packed with people. An impossibly clean, pristine city. Nobody batted an eye at a low-cut top or a bare shoulder.

Eat whatever you want. Wear whatever you want. Do whatever you want. Having anything, anytime you please. We called that freedom.

I didn’t stop either. I finally left the office just before midnight. Walking through empty streets, a strange thought crept in.

“So why is this freedom wearing me out?”

“Why did they seem more free?”

Under that scorching sun where everything was forbidden. During those Ramadan days when you couldn’t drink a single sip of water. The people who waited for sunset, broke into applause, and devoured mountains of food. I remember clicking my tongue at first. “What’s the point of fasting if you’re just going to binge?”

But looking back, their nights were radiant. Children ran around with balloons. At 1 AM, the streets were still brimming with laughter. A stranger at a calligraphy booth, smiling as he wrote my name in Arabic.

Because there were limits, the moment of release became a celebration. Because there was stillness, the movement felt alive.

Dates

I brought back dates from Saudi. Bought an armful as gifts for my coworkers. I set them out in the break room alongside some Greek yogurt (which I actually bought in Korea — didn’t want it spoiling on the flight). They don’t exactly dip dates in yogurt like this over there, but the locals do pair the two together.

My coworkers huddled around. They picked up the crispy-skinned dates, inspected them from every angle, and kept making puzzled faces. “We’re supposed to just… dip it in? Like this?”

One person carefully dipped a date into the yogurt and took a bite. Eyebrows went up.

“Whoa, it’s like a wake-up call for your brain. I’m wide awake now.”

“Oh! It’s like sweet frozen yogurt!”

Everyone was laughing, having a great time. A fruit most Koreans have never tasted — or even heard of. One coworker even asked, “Does it taste like a jujube*?” (*In Korean, both dates and jujubes share the same name, leading to frequent confusion for us.)

Watching the scene, a strange feeling washed over me. A single food carrying an entire culture across borders.

And then it hit me. The very first thing people in Saudi offered their guests. Dates. An unspoken greeting that said, “You are welcome here.” The first act of kindness extended to a stranger.

What I was doing right now in the break room — that was exactly what they’d been doing all along.

The break room was full of snacks. But my coworkers’ eyes lit up the brightest in front of this one unfamiliar fruit.

Lines

After that, one thought kept circling back. About lines.

I’d heard it my entire life. Don’t do that. Don’t cross that. Don’t go past this.

Lines my parents drew when I was young.

Lines my teachers drew at school.

Lines my boss drew at work.

Lines drawn by religion.

Lines drawn by the law.

Even lines that rose up inside me on their own, without anyone teaching me.

I resented those lines. More than that — I was sick to death of them. Whenever they said “don’t”, I wanted to do it more. Whenever they said “stay within”, I wanted to push past. I believed that was freedom.

But now, the streets of Saudi kept coming back to me. Sun-baked, empty roads. Hours where not even a sip of water was permitted. A place where the strictest lines in the world had been drawn.

And yet, the moment the sun dipped below the horizon — applause and laughter erupting everywhere. Within those lines, they seemed more full than anyone.

Restriction was not oppression. It was the bare minimum — forged over thousands of years on unforgiving sand — to protect yourself and each other.

We live in a world where everything is permitted. We can eat anytime, drink anytime, work anytime. So we never stop. And because we never stop, we burn out.

I didn’t understand when I was young.

The lines my parents drew.

The lines my teachers drew.

The lines that rose up from somewhere inside me.

They were never walls meant to cage me. They were fences meant to keep me safe.

Even for those of us who do nothing but run, a self-imposed pause is necessary. That pause is what actually sets you free.

In a city where you had to draw the curtains just to eat, I learned that openness isn’t the only form of freedom.

(End of series: Riyadh in Ramadan: Saudi Arabia)