End of an era

From Index on Censorship issue 4/96

Alain Gresh

The Gulf War was a watershed in Saudi Arabia. Once there was oil, untold wealth, silence or compliance. Repression has deepened; domestic unrest is growing. And, from exile, a persistent and vociferous Islamic opposition is aggravating the twin crises of legitimacy and succession afflicting the ruling family.

The camera pans across the crowd, pausing only on the faces of the plainclothes police. The images, in black and white, are fuzzy; the hand-held camera unsteady. The shots seem old-fashioned, reminiscent of snaps smuggled past the censor and customs officers. 'We could be anywhere,' says the voice over, 'in Pinochet's Chile or Burma under military rule.' But the men gathered here are in floor-length white robes and chequered head-dresses held in place with the egal, a silken cord, usually black. Women are invisible.

This is Saudi Arabia, birthplace of Islam and site of one quarter of the world's total oil reserves. For the first time, a militant has been able to film an opposition demonstration in a country from which one is accustomed to hear only the stifled sounds of revolt once these have been snuffed out.

It is 10 September 1994, towards the end of the day. Hundreds of cars escort Sheikh Salman al-Awdah back to the capital, Riyadh, to protect him from arrest or 'disappearance'. The motorcade led him through Burayda, a town of 100,000 and capital of Qasim province. The next day, his house is surrounded by police; but many of his followers are on guard. They accompany the young sheikh - he is still in his 30s - when his is summoned, in vain, to the governor's residence to renounce his activities. Thirteen September: the film shows him at the mosque addressing a tightly packed gathering of men. The sheikh recites the words of a Saudi poet:

'They have forbidden the word, writing and speech!
Be silent! And if injustice remains
When the tongue is mute, it will burn like a moth in the flame.
For opinion now is trash, secreted away and thrown in the bin.
The word is a crime,
Beware he who would start a debate.'*

At dawn the following day, the police arrest and imprison the sheikh along with dozens of his followers. The camera tracks the demonstrators as they spread out across the town. Over the next few weeks, the confrontations continue, particularly around the mosques. Two years after the 'uprising of Burayda', Sheikh al-Awdah is still behind bars. The monarchy had decided to strike out against the Islamist dissent it hoped it had contained but which, despite their efforts, was continuing to gain ground.

In September 1992, 107 prominent members of the community addressed a private memorandum of 45 pages to Sheikh Abdelaziz Bin Baz, the Kingdom's highest religious official. Though they were careful not to attack the king personally, the signatories put forward some revolutionary demands: equality for all before the law, official accountability, an end to corruption and usury, the redistribution of wealth, the strengthening of the army and national independence, the curtailing of police powers. These demands were combined with others of a more militant Islamist nature: more religious courses in the universities, a ban on the teaching of 'western doctrines', censorship of television and foreign programmes and so forth.

It is the origins of the signatories, more than their demands, that worried the authorities: 72 per cent are from the Nadj region; half of them are clerics. Since its foundation, the stability of the Kingdom has been underpinned by the alliance between the family of Al-Saud - whose tribal base is in Najd - and the ulama (the guardians of Islamic doctrine) chiefly those descended from Mohammed Ibn Abdel Wahhab, founder of Saudi Arabia's puritanical interpretation of Islam.

In the 1950s and 1960s, opposition movements based on socialism or Arab nationalism gathered support mainly among the Shia minority in the Eastern Province or in the outlying areas of the country. Relying on the loyalty of the Nadj and armed with the banner of Islam endorsed by the ulama, the monarchy was able to defeat them. Today, it is from the heartlands of the Nadj and from the ulama itself, speaking in the name of a 'purified' Islam, that the most serious threat comes.

In 1993, confrontation went public. In May of that year, in a country where all political activity is banned, six prominent religious and intellectual figures launched an unprecedented challenge to King Fahd by announcing the formation of the Committee for the Defense of Legitimate Rights (CDLR). It proposed to 'abolish injustice, support the oppressed and defend the rights which have been given to man by the sharia'. Their action, they went on to explain was dictated by the desire to 'stop the accelerating deterioration pushing society towards chaos. The only alternative to violence is a balanced and moderate reform movement.'

Their professed moderation did nothing to mitigate royal outrage. In the days that followed, organisers were dismissed from their jobs in the public sector, interrogated and arrested. Some months later, CDLR spokesman Mohammed al-Mas'ari, secretly crossed into Yemen en route for London from where he bombards the Kingdom by fax and Internet (see Index 3/1996 p9).
'The level of education in Arabia has risen, illiteracy has fallen below 35 per cent, lower than in Egypt. In every home there is someone who knows how to read; everyone has a radio and listens to foreign stations; they can even distinguish between the BBC which they consider biased, and the more objective broadcasts of Dutch radio. The law prohibiting satellite dishes is not being applied and there are between 100,000 and 600,000. Who can stem the tide of information?' Mas'ari reasonably asks.

For Saudi society, the Gulf War was an irreparable trauma. The presence of 500,000 foreign troops on the 'Holy Land of Islam', the inability of the Kingdom to defend itself despite the billions spent on sophisticated weaponry and the systematic destruction of Iraq by the allied armies, provoked questions from a highly nationalistic - not to say xenophobic - and religious population. 'Wherever one raised questions or debated the issue,' recalls Mas'ari, 'one had the impression of an awakening. But people were afraid of Saddam and rallied round the king, even the Islamists. Personally, I wasn't part of that.'

Society was run in an archaic, though from a government perspective, effective manner. The all powerful, non-elective Council of Princes, representing the most powerful members of the royal family and the major tribes, became the means of communicating to the public only that information the council chose to divulge and of filtering out information deemed too sensitive for public consumption.

For a long time, recalls another dissident, Khalid al-Fawwaz, director of the Advice and Reformation Committee, a more radical opposition group than the CDLR, people who wanted to change their situation were thrown back on their own resources. 'In the 70s it was difficult to organise collectively,' says al-Fawwaz. 'Officials, even the king, held their weekly public meetings at which they listened to individual grievances - and made promises.' Usuma Bin Ladin, another director of the ARC, was stripped of his citizenship in February 1994 for his financial support of militant Islamic groups in Egypt and elsewhere.

Dissent is by no means limited to the Islamists. Early February 1991 saw the publication of an open letter to King Fahd from 43 liberal businessmen and intellectuals. Their demands, formulated with great deference, were moderate in the extreme: without questioning the sharia-based constitution or the monarchy, they called for the creation of consultative councils at the national, provincial and local level, a 'basic law of government' and control over the Muttaww'in, the 'morals police'. These demands, including one reference to human rights, were considerably milder than those made by the same liberal opposition in the early 1980s and represented no challenge to the monarchy.

However, in March 1992, the liberals got some satisfaction when the king issued a Basic Law and announced the formation of a Consultative Council and the role to be played by the regions. In August 1993, the king appointed the 60 members of the majlis. They were largely made up of 'modern' elites with only nominal representation of the traditional ulama. In practical terms, the Consultative Council did nothing to curb the power of the royal family nor increase representation in government. It was more a matter of the king co-opting western-educated Saudis, including certain opponents, who represented little threat to the status quo and could be enlisted against the more dangerous Islamist opposition.

Though excluded from government, the local bourgeoisie has total freedom when it comes to commerce and banking. Weak and wholly dependent on the largesse of the rentier state and royal family, they do not constitute a class able or likely to demand any substantial change in the system. On the contrary, they are strongly opposed to an accelerated pace of development.

But since the oil boom of 1973, Saudi society has been convulsed by structural changes that have shaken the traditional power centres. In 1970, 26 per cent of the population lived in cities; in 1990 it was 73 per cent. At the beginning of the 1980s, infant mortality was 118 per 1,000; by 1990 it has fallen to 21 per 1,000. In 1960, only two per cent of girls attended school, but by 1981 this had risen to 41 per cent and, by 1991, was over 80 per cent. Women now make up the majority of graduates - though they are excluded from certain fields like engineering, journalism and architecture for example - but the regular labour market remains virtually closed to them. Their confinement to the family and exclusion from the public arena, especially in the Najd region, is unparalleled in the Muslim world.

Young people, more urbanised, better educated and with higher expectations than their parents and less subject to tribal relationships, have also been cut off from their roots. They believed they would be better off than their parents: that the Kingdom's wealth would ensure an easy life. Manual labour was handled by Arab and Asian migrants; even students from modest families aspired to well-paying jobs in the higher ranks of the bloated public sector. The high increase in the number of students, boosted by a birth rate that is among the highest in the world, has been accompanied by a noticeable drop in standards and the appearance of a lumpen graduate class without real qualifications. The development of Islamic universities in the 1970s led to the entry of thousands of new ulama onto the market for religious experts, and left them exposed to new currents in a highly charged Muslim world.

By 1986, persistently lower oil revenues left the state - the country's main employer - unable any longer to guarantee employment to all graduates. In 1994, the International Monetary Fund (IMF) predicted that without structural reforms the current deficit would continue to grow to the point where government debt would reach 77 per cent of the gross national product by 1998.
The government faces structural problems that budget tinkering will not solve. And since any obvious remedies threaten to be politically explosive, they are unlikely to take place under the present regime. The introduction of income tax is ruled out for fear that this might lead to demands for political representation, and there is little scope for further cuts in expenditure without running the risk of domestic repercussions.

Public sector salaries are a permanent drain on resources. In 1994, these accounted for 51 per cent of expenditure and 90 per cent of oil revenue. Interest payments on domestic debt now account for 10 per cent of state expenditure. Both are likely to grow. Given that the government is employer of first and last resort for Saudi nationals, and that unemployment among new entrants on to the job market is now 30-40 per cent, it is politically prudent for the government to maintain a large government payroll.

Finally, financial stability is difficult in a country that devoted one third of its 1995 budget to the army and security. The USA and other western countries, notably France and the UK while preaching austerity, are all anxious to sell their weapons in a shrinking world market. Responding to these pressures, the Kingdom continues to amass vast amounts of military hardware, even though, as the Gulf War demonstrated, this is of limited use. The number of aircraft already greatly exceeds the number of qualified pilots.

However, these purchases are profitable for the royal family who receive astoundingly high commissions. A former French diplomat in Riyadh, Jean-Michel Foulquier, claims they can be as high as 30-40 per cent on each contract. Prince Sultan, the minister of defence, writes Foulquier, 'has managed the fattest part of the budget for 30 years...he reserved the administration of arms contracts for himself... From this strategic vantage point, he watches over business [his family's] first, of course.' His son, Khaled, commander of the joint forces during the Gulf War, succeeded during his brief spell in the limelight, in accumulating US$3 million for his brokering services.

The international media seldom lifts a corner of the veil of secrecy that cloaks these scandals. Any efforts to do so are swiftly stifled by western governments. As was the case, for instance, with an official British commission, created in 1989 to investigate the backhanders paid by British representatives to the Saudi royal family for the multi-billion armaments deal signed by the Thatcher government in September 1985. The UK press reckoned that handouts were up to 30 per cent of the total deal; the commission decided not to publish its report.
The state budget must also pay for the extravagant lifestyles of some 5,000 princes and princesses: palaces in Spain, villas in Cannes and Geneva, and 'an NBC [bunker for protection against nuclear, biological and chemical attack] of more than 14,000 rooms which includes a surgical unit capable of conducting open heart surgery' for the personal use of the king - to name but a few items on the budget.

Apart from this royal excess, what makes it difficult for the regime to reduce state expenditure is the social pact which, since the 1960s, has bound the king to his subjects and, say some commentators, made them complaisant about abuses: in return for their standard of living, people submit to royal control. The Islamist challenge makes it all the more unlikely that the regime will feel able to decrease entitlements and benefits and thereby risk increasing discontent.

Given a potentially explosive situation, King Fahd developed a two-pronged strategy. With western governments he has invoked the spectre of the 'Islamic menace' and presented himself as the one and only bulwark of civilisation. In September 1994, after the arrest of Sheikh al-Awdah, a communique of the Battalions of the Faithful threatened western institutions and officials of the regime. On 10 April 1995, another unknown organisation, the Islamic Movement for Change, warned western forces to leave the region by 25 June. Neither of these communiques resulted in any action by the king; on 13 November 1995, a car bomb exploded in the centre of Riyadh.

Internally, the king has strengthened political control over the clerics. In November 1992, he reorganised the council of senior ulama, seven members of which were expelled for refusing to condemn the dissidents communique that September. In October 1994, he followed up with the creation of a Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs, presided over by Prince Sultan. He also decided that all funds collected for foreign Muslim groups would be administered by a committee headed by his brother Prince Salman, governor of Riyadh.

He has also instigated approaches to certain dissidents. In Autumn 1993, the regime reached a compromise with the moderate Shia opposition. One such group, based in London, from where it published Al-Jazira al-Arabiyya, suspended its activities and returned home. But the Shia, around 10 per cent of the population, are still profoundly alienated from the regime. Even if material conditions in the Eastern Province where they mainly live, were improved, constitutionally they would remain second class citizens. Numerous posts, especially in the army, are closed to them; they cannot practise their worship in freedom; there is only one Shia in the consultative council. The only response to all those who refuse to fall into line, is repression.

Two events in August 1995 encapsulate the crisis in which the Saudi regime is trapped. On 2 August, the king announced the most important cabinet reshuffle in 20 years. Fifteen new members joined the council of ministers. But, as London's Economist magazine noted, this was little more than the illusion of change. Though the reshuffle brought 'technocrats' into the decision-making process, this was confined to economic matters; all the important political posts remain in the hands of the royal family. There is little likelihood that the family's complete control of financial resources, notably the oil sector, will be questioned.

On 12 August, Prince Nayef, minister of the interior, announced the execution of Abdullah al Hudhaif, convicted of having 'attacked a police officer for political reasons'. The government holds the CDLR directly responsible. For the first time, the regime acknowledged having carried out a political execution. According to Human Rights Watch, the man had already been sentenced to 20 years imprisonment. His sentence was reviewed under pressure from the government. This decision confirmed information from Saudi Arabia on escalating repression, more frequent use of torture, increased recourse to the death penalty, banishment of opponents and so on. The government, counselled by Zaki Badr, former Egyptian minister of the interior, is treading a dangerous path which, however unlikely it may seem now, could end in violence. The 20 October 1995 bombing of a mosque in Quba, like the November car bomb in Riyadh, could be precursors of violence to come.

The final challenge to the monarchy at the end of last year was the king's illness. Its precise nature was never revealed, but by 1 January 1996, 73-year-old Prince Abdullah, commander of the national guard, a tribal praetorian guard dedicated to the protection of the regime, had become regent. Despite persistent rumours on his mental incapacity, Fahd resumed control on 22 February, allegedly because of personal and political differences between Abdullah and the 'Sudeiri seven' - the seven sons born of the same mother to the founder of the Saudi state, Abdelaziz Ibn Saud. It was undoubtedly his initiatives in the finance sector that annoyed his half brothers and persuaded Fahd to return. Whatever rivalries may linger on within the royal family, a compromise ensuring Abdullah's succession appears to have been reached.

But it is the advanced age of the rulers that is the most serious threat to the stability of the Kingdom's coming years. As with the Soviet Union in the 1970s, the prospect of a succession of senile old men at the head of the Kingdom, unable to tackle fundamental problems in society or respond to the aspirations of a younger generation, can only make the task of opposition easier. The once glittering facade erected by petrodollars no longer conceals the less salubrious inner courts.

Alain Gresh is chief editor at Le Monde Diplomatique, in which an earlier version of this article appeared.