AmericanBadu

For over two decades, one of the most repeated narratives I encountered about Saudi Arabia — particularly in the West — was that it is a chauvinistic kingdom, ruled by men, for men. That narrative became so widespread that even many Saudis I met while studying in the United States — men and women alike — often echoed it. This wasn’t necessarily because it reflected their lived experience, but because the weight of the stereotype had grown too strong to ignore. Over time, even locals began describing their society through the same reductive lens: a paradise for men, a hell for women. But was it really that simple?

This recurring depiction of Saudi society led me to ask a deeper question: how did such a system become so entrenched in Arab culture? I asked men across the region how Arab patriarchy came to be so dominant. Some provided religious justifications, quoting verses from the Qur’an or hadith that seemingly support male authority. Interestingly, women often cited the same sources — yet many added that Islam, when it first emerged, was a liberator for Arab women of the pre-Islamic era.

While much of this reflection is rooted in my experience living in Saudi Arabia, it’s impossible to separate Saudi society from the broader cultural patterns of the Arab world. The two are deeply interconnected — linguistically, historically, and socially. So while Saudi-specific in examples, this essay also reflects on pan-Arab gender dynamics.

But perhaps the conversation is framed incorrectly. Instead of asking why Arab men dominate society, we should be asking: how have Arab women sustained so much influence for so long?

Unlike many parts of the world, Arab women have kept their last names for thousands of years. They have owned property, inherited wealth, and maintained tribal and familial identity through their paternal and maternal lines — while Europe debated whether women even had souls. While the West questioned whether women should own land or attend church, Arab women were leading men into battle. Aisha bint Abi Bakr famously led a military campaign. Women sang war poetry that inspired allies and intimidated enemies. From the pre-Islamic poet Al-Khansa to the mothers of modern decision makers, Arab women have long been the backbone of societal continuity.

In many households across the Gulf today, the structure remains. Men may appear to rule, but women often govern the domestic and emotional world. Mothers shape the values of their sons and set the standards for their daughters. Fathers are often away, pursuing economic goals; it is the mothers who reinforce traditions, protect legacies, and manage the intricacies of family honor.

This isn’t a matter of conspiracy or coercion. It’s the outcome of a cultural ecology shaped by desert life and scarcity. In harsh environments, women often take on strategic and leadership roles, as seen in other arid regions like the Gobi and the Sahara. Among the Tuareg, for example, men veil their faces, and women control lineage and property.

Men have historically been given the most dangerous and disposable roles — labor, war, and tribal negotiations. Yet, their status is often symbolic. The real endurance of Arab society has come from its women: their wisdom, resilience, and authority within the private sphere.

Feminist currents in Arabia did not emerge in the mid-20th century — they have been present since the dawn of Islamic civilization. Khadijah bint Khuwaylid was a respected businesswoman long before women could vote or become CEOs in Europe. Aisha’s intellectual and political leadership is still unmatched. She is credited with providing most of the Prophetic examples people adhere to today in their daily lives. These examples are not anomalies; they are reflections of a deep cultural truth.

It’s easy to see why many in the West were so disturbed by what they saw in Saudi Arabia. The image of women in black abayas, the ban on female driving, and the visible gender segregation appeared, at first glance, like blatant signs of oppression. And for many outsiders, especially those shaped by Western liberal values, these realities felt urgent and unjust. Their concern was often genuine — even compassionate. But compassion, when filtered through ignorance or lack of context, can unintentionally reinforce the very biases it hopes to dismantle.

Yet European and North American commentators often miss this complexity. Instead, they focus disproportionately on superficial markers — black abayas or the former driving ban in Saudi Arabia — as if these alone define the status of women. This lens not only flattens the narrative but also wastes the attention of their audiences, distracting them from the rich and layered realities of gender dynamics in the Arab world. Many women previously took much pride in having male relatives that were capable of providing furnishings, cushioning them from the relentless responsibilities of modern life. This is something, perhaps a balance, that many Western women long for today.

What is often overlooked in these discussions is that when women were previously barred from driving, it wasn’t out of neglect or abandonment. In most cases, it was their husbands, brothers, or sons who drove them. Only a small segment of the population — mainly the elite and upper middle class — relied on paid drivers. For the majority of families, transportation was a cooperative family effort, not a form of isolation. To reduce this dynamic to a symbol of oppression is to ignore the nuances of how communities functioned, adapted, and cared for one another under a specific legal and social framework.

What’s rarely acknowledged is the opportunity cost for young men during that era. Thousands of hours — accumulated into months, even years — of their lives were dedicated to fulfilling this duty. Driving their mothers, sisters, wives, or daughters wasn’t just a routine task; it was a responsibility that shaped their schedules, job choices, and even educational ambitions. This duty was imposed on them by the same societal structure that restricted women from driving. In many cases, it limited young men’s personal freedom and economic potential, making them silent participants in a system that exacted different, but no less real, sacrifices from both genders.

For many young men, the weight of these responsibilities didn’t just create logistical burdens — it created emotional ones. With social expectations tightly managed and limited outlets for expression, many men found themselves seeking fulfillment elsewhere. It became common for men to leave the country just to experience a sense of personal freedom or pleasure, often resorting to superficial or even harmful ideals of escapism. This isn’t a symptom of moral failure but rather a reflection of how constrained both genders have been under the very structure that is too often framed as benefiting only one side.

Even more telling is how the physical well-being of men was often treated with indifference. Tobacco use among men was rampant, normalized, and even expected in some circles, despite its well-known health risks. Meanwhile, women were culturally discouraged — if not outright prohibited — from smoking or engaging in bodily self-destructive habits. Not only because of concern for vice, but because their health, appearance, and longevity were viewed as too valuable to be compromised. Isn’t that the opposite of what we expect from a chauvinistic society? In a system supposedly centered on male supremacy, shouldn’t it be the masculine body that is more protected, more revered? And yet, it was the female form that was guarded with cultural reverence, while the male was often sacrificed to duty, addiction, or exhaustion.

The male gaze, in traditional Arab society, is not as unregulated as many assume. Both in theory and in practice, men are expected — sometimes sternly warned — not to look at women. This principle is foundational to many gender norms: it is, in part, the reason why women wear the abaya — to shield themselves from the gaze. But there’s an overlooked irony here. By adopting the abaya, many women gain a form of visual anonymity that allows them to observe the world around them more freely. In public, they can often watch without being watched. Has there ever been a case — an anecdote, even — of a woman being scolded for simply looking at someone in public? Meanwhile, young men are frequently reprimanded for letting their eyes linger too long, accused of disrespect, and socially punished for something as fleeting as a glance. If this society truly revolved around male privilege, why is the male gaze the one so policed?

Perhaps the knowledge many in Europe and North America hold about Arab societies is fragile — yet fiercely protected. This may explain their resistance to hearing counterarguments or alternative sentiments from Arab men and women. When faced with perspectives that challenge their assumptions, they often resort to blanket statements, subtly implying that Arabs — especially women — are too culturally brainwashed to make coherent, independent rebuttals. In doing so, they infantilize the very people they claim to care about, as if Arab voices were incapable of nuance or intellectual agency.

This isn’t to deny that real injustices existed — or still exist. Like any society, the Arab world has its struggles, and not all experiences are equal. Some women suffered from restrictions that stifled their potential or safety. Those stories matter. But to understand those struggles fully, we must examine them within their cultural, historical, and familial contexts — not through the lens of presumption or pity.

If we are to have an honest conversation about gender and power in the Arab world, we must first acknowledge that Arab women have never been passive participants. They have carried, preserved, and guided their societies through centuries of transformation. The hierarchy we see today is not the beginning of their story — it is just one of its many chapters.

And in that truth lies a different kind of power — one that endures not by conquering, but by shaping every generation that follows.