When a Chinese Feminist Travels to the Middle East (with Rich Chinese Men)

Before diving into the story –

• In the Chinese context, “Middle East” as a term encompasses 18 to 24 countries. For this ten-day trip, the places I visited specifically were Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia, Doha, the capital of Qatar, and Dubai and Abu Dhabi in the UAE.

  
  

• Living in Beijing as a Han woman, I’d had little contact with Muslims before this trip. My one Hui Muslim friend, who was born and raised in Beijing, observes no religious practices, except abstaining from pork. At my British all-girls’ high school, classmates from Pakistan and Brunei appeared just as secular as I thought then – beyond wearing hijab, practicing Ramadan, and eating halal, they joined us in watching Gossip Girl and passing around Fifty Shades of Grey.

  
  

• This journey was an “Entrepreneurs Going Global Expedition” (出海考察团) organized by my company in China. Every year, we arrange several such trips for private entrepreneurs to countries with potential business opportunities. As the CEO of the company, I usually join these trips, taking on minor organizational and major companionship roles – providing emotional massages (情绪价值) to the entrepreneurs, who are also my company’s clients.

  
  

The theme of our trip was “Digging for Gold in the Middle East” – as the title suggests, all the entrepreneurs who signed up were drawn by the gold-rush opportunities they perceived in the region.

Is there really gold? That’s another story. (And not the one you’re about to read.)

The Wine

“...Not even a single drink?”

“I’m truly sorry, ma’am. Alcoholic beverages are not served on board for the entire journey.”

One day in late November, I boarded a direct Air China flight from Beijing to Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia. For this over-ten-hour flight, I had gritted my teeth and booked business class. “The entrepreneurs on this trip are all flying business class. You need to book business class to be seen as their equal!” – That’s how I consoled myself two weeks ago while painfully purchasing this expensive ticket. Deep down, I knew perfectly well what I was really after: not some nebulous idea of ‘equality,’ but the ability to sleep lying flat, to eat meals served on heated porcelain dishes, and, to accompany those meals, a glass of champagne or wine.

Feel free to laugh at my arrogance and ignorance. But the fact is, it was only when the apologetic Chinese flight attendant informed me that the entire plane, including business class, carried no alcoholic beverages, that it finally clicked: “They are serious about this.” For the next several days, I would be living a completely sober, alcohol-free life.

“Alcohol is prohibited nationwide in Saudi Arabia for religious reasons.” I was well aware of this notice. It had been mentioned in the pre-departure briefing my colleague gave to all group members, and I had seen it in social media posts all over. But in my shallowness, I had only understood the seriousness of this matter through the lens of past experiences. The legal drinking age is 21 in the US, and you have to be 18 to buy cigarettes in China, but that never stopped my teenage self from finding easy ways to bypass the rules. Even during a trip to North Korea years ago, I managed to drink French wine in our hotel reserved for foreign guests. A so-called “nationwide alcohol ban”? Hey, we all know how that goes!

“We all know how that goes!” But man (and woman), what we didn’t know.

During our three days in Riyadh, we, of course, did not have any alcohol. If my desire for “a glass of wine” could still be suppressed by willpower, several of the older entrepreneurs – men in their 50s from China’s real estate and energy sectors – were nearing their breaking point.

There were, of course, whispers and rumors. “People with connections always find a way to drink,” our guide in Riyadh, Hu, a Hui Muslim guy from Yunnan who studied Arabic and later worked in Saudi Arabia, told us without mincing words. Unfortunately, during our days in Riyadh, we didn’t encounter any “people with connections.” There was a Chinese woman we met during a conference, around 30, a Hui Muslim from Ningxia, now stationed in Saudi Arabia by a Chinese state-owned enterprise responsible for investment promotion in a Jeddah industrial park. She mysteriously murmured to several of our entrepreneurs, “Come to my place, I have baijiu.” But as the trip organizer, I certainly couldn’t let our group members lurk at some strangers’ house just for alcohol.

“Go back to the hotel and rest early! Things will be much better once we get to Qatar and the UAE!” I could only keep appeasing my desperate entrepreneurs.

After repeated conciliations, eventually everyone grew accustomed to (or had no choice about) a life of sobriety. In Qatar, the hotel we stayed at had a bar open to foreigners, though passport registration was required for entry. “I didn’t bring my passport. Ah, forget it.” The guy who had been clamoring the loudest for a drink back in Riyadh seemed to have lost all interest in alcohol. He shrugged and headed back to his room alone. By the time we reached Dubai, it was a whole new story. We drank Maotai at a gathering organized by a Chinese entrepreneur developing real estate locally, enjoying free-flow Chardonnay at an Italian restaurant in a five-star hotel. (with local men in thawb sitting next to our table – wine glasses in their hands, too.)

*Saudi Arabia announced a policy “partially easing restrictions for a particular group” regarding alcohol purchase, one week after we left. “Premium Residency” holders – non-Muslim high-level residents – can buy alcohol at officially designated hotels (unmarked, private), following approval via a dedicated app and adhering to monthly quotas. Buyers are prohibited from bringing phones into the store, and any public promotion is forbidden.

The Run

We arrived at the Sheraton Hotel in Riyadh in the early hours of the morning. After a rushed wash-up, I hastily went to bed, setting my alarm for 6:30 AM. The plan was to wake up and dash straight to the hotel gym for a run; as someone who never travels without running shoes, I’m accustomed to exploring (and getting lost in) the street corners of a new city through morning trails.

November in Riyadh is considered winter, but the daily desert temperature still hovers around 30°C (86°F). Based on my pre-trip online research, I ditched the idea of a sports bra and shorts, dutifully packing a long-sleeved moisture-wicking top and full-length sweatpants that covered my ankles.

“Let’s stay indoors and use the gym for the first day,” I discussed with my female colleague, who also loves running. After all, we weren’t sure if it was considered appropriate locally for a foreign woman to run alone on the streets.

At 6:35 AM, I opened my eyes and reached for my phone. Before even getting up, I saw a WeChat message from my colleague.

“Don’t bother coming. Just head down for breakfast.”

She had sent a photo of a sign posted at the hotel gym’s entrance. It read: “Women: 10:00 AM - 3:00 PM. Men: 8:00 AM - 10:00 AM; 4:00 PM - 10:00 PM.”

The hotel notice my colleague sent me.

In Chinese, there’s an adjective proposed by Mr. Lu Xun: “出离愤怒”, which describes a state where anger surpasses its limits and transitions into a deeper, more complex emotional state. If I had to choose one word, that was my exact psychological state upon seeing the photo. I viciously flopped back onto the bed, buried my head under the white sheets, and thrashed my legs against the mattress like a startled caterpillar. “No alcohol is one thing, but no gym?! (Our schedule is packed for the daytime – who travels on business has time to use the gym at 10 am anyway?!)”

During breakfast, as I demolished three large flatbreads with fresh hummus, I contemplated the source of my anger, which boiled down to two main reasons:

1. As a foreign tourist only in Saudi Arabia for a few short days, I felt a sense of “being implicated” – a feeling I hadn’t even experienced while touring North Korea. There, the lives of locals and foreign guests are separate modules, entirely unrelated. As a foreign guest, I felt I was only “observing,” fostering a false sense of empathy, while my own lifestyle remained untouched. This time in Saudi Arabia was different – yes, I’m a woman, but I’m a foreign woman, staying in an American hotel chain catering to foreigners. Yet, I still didn’t have the right to use the gym in the morning. Seriously?

   
   

2. Why do women only get 5 hours of gym access per day, while men get two time slots totaling 8 hours? Seriously??

   
   

Of course it’s serious. From the Quran’s narratives of the differences in family roles and social division of labor between the two genders (women only have the right to “participate in social, economic, and religious activities within reasonable limits”), to the young Saudi Crown Prince’s Vision 2030, this country’s journey of opening up has only just begun. During my few days in Riyadh, I noticed “women-only gyms” on the streets – for local women, this is already a monumental step forward.

A quiet morning in Riyadh.

The Rich Oil Man Attire

“A cloth on the head, the richest in the world!” (头顶一块布，全球我最富！ )

From the very first day in Saudi Arabia, our entrepreneurs began chanting this phrase repeatedly, each time accompanied by cheerful and knowing laughter.

There were 15 Chinese entrepreneurs on this trip, only three of whom were women. As soon as we arrived in Riyadh, these founders of companies in energy, healthcare, and construction displayed intense curiosity about Saudi men’s attire – the white thobe and the red-and-white-checked ghutra. This curiosity was utterly pure, devoid of any probing into religious or cultural complexities. It was simply a straightforward line of thought, “So this is what rich oil guys wear!”

By the second day in Riyadh, they couldn’t contain their eagerness to ask our guide, “Is there somewhere we can buy the local clothes? We want to try them on, too!”

The guide took us to a local menswear shop. It was a boutique with the air conditioning and oud fragrance dialed up to the max – not unlike the vibe of a Ralph Lauren store. Various styles and sizes of thobes, ghutras, and agals (the black cord that secures the headdress) made from different materials were meticulously displayed. The male entrepreneurs tried them on with great gusto. While I complimented everyone on how dashing they looked, I casually searched for “Saudi Arabian men’s thobe” on Taobao. The same style sold for 400 Saudi Riyals (roughly 800 RMB) in the shop and cost only 80 RMB on Taobao.

The Saudi version of a Ralph Lauren.

But they were genuinely having so much fun trying them on. I figured I’d just quietly continue with the compliments.

After acquiring their new “battle robes” (战袍), we headed to Diriyah in Riyadh for sightseeing. This is the birthplace of the Saudi Kingdom, preserving many ancient mud-brick buildings and museums detailing Saudi history.

The historical site was distinctive, but even more distinctive were our male entrepreneurs, now in “Saudi rich man” attire. If they had been slightly shy when first putting on the clothes, that shyness was swiftly replaced by excitement upon arriving at Diriyah, where they became the center of attention.

“The center of attention” – yes, everywhere we went, attention followed. The moment locals spotted them, the atmosphere would light up. The entrepreneurs were frequently asked for photos by locals, foreign tourists, and even site staff. At one point, Saudi women clad entirely in black, with only their eyes visible, even approached our male entrepreneurs for selfies. As soon as the photos were taken, they swiftly scurried away, chattering excitedly while swiping the photos with manicured fingers.

Staff at Diriyah help our entrepreneurs fix their attire. (followed by a group selfie afterwards)

“A cloth on the head, the richest in the world!” The entrepreneurs kept chanting, erupting in laughter all the while, thoroughly enjoying the attention and the pleasure of being asked for photos.

Such simple joy.

The Four Wives

In Riyadh, Saudi Arabia –

“So men here can really have four wives?”

In Doha, Qatar –

“So men here can really have four wives?”

In Dubai and Abu Dhabi in the UAE –

“So men here can really have four wives?”

Every single time – without fail. Upon arriving in a new country and meeting a new guide, my dear entrepreneurs would ask the guide this question once again. Well, to be precise, it was far more than once. One would ask, then another, and the next day one or another would bring it up again. Every day on our tour bus (I usually sat in the first or second row), I could hear the voices of this CEO or that chairman behind me. Yet again –

“So men here can really have four wives?”

With merry, genuine curiosity.

Once more.

*Every time, the guide’s answer was essentially the same. “Theoretically, yes, but nowadays very few men actually have four wives. Most young people in cities tend to have only one, or at most two.”

Under Islamic law, men are permitted up to four wives, but property and time must be allocated strictly and equally to each. Taking a new wife also requires consent from the existing wives.

(The guides explained all these. But my dear entrepreneurs seemed not to hear any of it. “See! They really can marry four!” they chuckled gleefully.)

The Mosque

Most of our time during this 10-day trip was spent visiting local businesses and attending meetings with government agencies. The little sightseeing we did was reserved for the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi.

Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque is one of the largest mosques in the world, built to honor the UAE’s founding president, Sheikh Zayed. Covering over 555,000 square meters, it can accommodate more than 50,000 worshippers. The mosque features white marble and lavish decorations. The main prayer hall houses the largest hand-woven Persian carpet in the world, crafted by 1,200 Iranian women over a year and a half.

On our second-to-last day, our group visited the mosque. Before arriving, I did some research. Searching for Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque on Xiaohongshu (Rednote), most posts were either sharing tips on photogenic (出片) spots and angles (“pose like this and be the queen in the mosque!”) or offering advice on photogenic outfits (“Sis, red robes are the best!”). Photogenic, photogenic – the eternal keyword of social media.

Searching Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque on Rednote.

I had no desire to be photogenic. However, what to wear was indeed a concern. The day before, after just arriving in Dubai, our guide had repeatedly reminded us that there are “extremely strict dress requirements” for visiting the mosque. These rules were gender-specific: men only needed to wear “long pants and no tank tops,” but for women? “Everything covered.” Hair must be hidden, and headscarves are mandatory; no skin can show except for hands, requiring long sleeves and pants. Of course, if someone didn’t have proper attire, “no worries! The site sells robes and scarves. I’ll take the ladies to buy them.”

While the guide made these reminders on the bus, no one showed any signs of discomfort. Some male entrepreneurs discussed wearing their white Saudi “rich man robes” to “strike the locals once more”, while the three women entrepreneurs quietly made plans to buy robes and scarves together for photos.

The only one feeling uncomfortable was me.

Even now, I struggle to pinpoint the exact source of my discomfort. I just know it started sprouting in my heart on the first day of this journey, growing little by little each day.

Every moment of its growth is etched in my memory:

It was when I saw a woman in a niqab, with only her eyes visible, dining with her three children and husband in a restaurant in Riyadh. Each bite of meat required her to lift the veil up from her mouth so that she could chew, while the man across from her ate freely.

It was the group picture session after we met with the government investment agency in Riyadh. The male officer greeted us with a warm smile, taking photos holding hands with our entrepreneurs, while the female employees instinctively stepped aside. When we invited them to join the photo, they just smiled and shook their heads.

It was during our visit to one of Doha’s luxury malls, Al Hazam Mall, where our male Chinese guide said, “Muslim women are happy, they don’t have to work and can buy luxury goods every day!” But what I saw was a different reality. No matter how many shopping bags of luxurious items they carried home, most women were either accompanied by men or in groups, killing time with or without free will.

Inside Al Hazam Mall.

I understood that tourists should respect local customs, but what if all this confusion wasn’t just about customs? What if the underlying support system was religion, and a part of that religious doctrine, especially regarding gender, was something I couldn’t accept? What should I do then?

My confusion was real, just as my reflection on it was. On the way to Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque, I kept scrolling through Xiaohongshu, admiring how Chinese girls captured their beauty there. In these images, their exquisite makeup, headscarves, and robes seemed purely decorative. But I couldn’t fathom it that way. The thought of having to wrap myself up strictly to enter left me feeling uneasy and even made me consider skipping the visit. Yet I knew that if I expressed this thought to the guide, my colleagues, or entrepreneurs in the group, I would feel entirely out of place. “It’s just a robe!” they would surely say. “It’s a rare opportunity; what’s the big deal?”

My internal struggle raged on, but ultimately, I compromised. I didn’t want to be the “exception who causes trouble,” and undeniably, my curiosity to explore the mosque also swelled.

Upon arriving at Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque, the guide led us to a shopping area in the basement. I was shocked to discover that, apart from McDonald’s and Starbucks, an entire floor was filled with shops selling scarves and robes. Clearly, the idea of “buying a beautiful set of local attire to take stunning photos” had created a complete cycle of tourism consumerism.

The floor filled with shops like this.

This realization offered me some solace. I wandered into a store and tried on the cheapest outfit – a gray abaya that covered both head and body, costing less than 100 yuan. “This will do,” I told the guide, instructing him to pay. (He repeatedly emphasized that clothing purchases needed to be paid collectively; perhaps earning his commission was part of this whole consumerist cycle, too.) Dressed in that, I was finally “qualified.” Meanwhile, one of the female entrepreneurs in our group was excitedly trying on a black abaya adorned with golden sequins and embroidery. Priced at over 1,000 yuan, she happily bought it and went on to take countless gorgeous photos at the mosque.

Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque was breathtakingly grand. Every detail carved from white marble and 55 tons of gold, set against the backdrop of blue skies and pink sunsets, was beauty beyond words. Yet, the more magnificent the architecture, the more uncomfortable I felt squeezed inside the low-quality synthetic robe. “Why must I wear this rag to enter here?” I screamed internally.

The mosque itself is truly beauty beyond words.

Around 5:30 PM, we finished touring the mosque. Stepping outside, it was just time for Maghrib prayer, the fourth of the daily five prayers. Sacred prayer music resonated from the mosque, making the sun bidding farewell in the sky appear both shy and solemn.

I ripped off the robe and tossed it into a trash bin at the entrance.

“Are you not keeping it as a memento?” asked a male entrepreneur. He was in his “Saudi rich man attire”, having just taken about 800 photos in the mosque, looking very pleased with his own handsomeness.

“No need,” I replied. I glanced down at my bare ankles that were exposed from my copped pants, and briskly walked ahead.

*This travelogue was originally written in Chinese. The earlier sections were translated using DeepSeek. However, for the final section, “The Mosque,” DeepSeek was unable to translate. The response was as cheerful as always, “Hello, I can’t answer this question right now! Let’s change the topic!” So I turned to ChatGPT instead.

What DeepSeek couldn’t translate – could it also be the stems of my own ignorance?

Bidding farewell to Abu Dhabi at sunset.