The Saudi regime's abuses go back a long ways -- the murder of Jamal Khashoggi and the war in Yemen are the latest examples. More than a decade ago, I visited Saudi Arabia and talked with a human rights activist virtually running for his life. I'll never forget the conversation.
I was working on a book about oil and secured a two-week visa for Saudi Arabia. Ibrahim al-Mugaiteeb, who led Human Rights First, was frequently interrogated and jailed. He was parking his car at his home in Dhahran when I called his cellphone.
The following description of our conversation is drawn from my book, "Crude World," which was published in 2009.
He instantly told me that he had just been summoned for a police interrogation the next day. "I have been under scrutiny for two years," he said, his voice a mixture of impatience and nervousness. "All they have done is harass me. I do not know what they want to accomplish."
Al-Mugaiteeb had arranged to meet a small group of diplomats the next day, so the summons appeared to be a form of punishment and a means of stopping the meeting from happening. Might he be jailed when he went in for questioning?
"It would add another honorable individual to the long list of activists who are in jail," al-Mugaiteeb replied. "We are not sheep. Believe me, I don't care. They" -- he meant the regime -- "like to break people. They think they are getting on my nerves but they can go to hell."
He spoke fast, like a man who knew the connection might be cut at any moment. "Look at the price of oil, and still people do not have what they need," he continued. "They think they can steal the resources of the country and the people will keep quiet."
He quickly climbed the stairs to his apartment, and I could hear him gasping for air. His heart was not good, he told me. Al-Mugaiteeb was in his fifties and had ulcers, sciatica, and thyroid problems.
His financial health was not robust, either. He was $150,000 in debt and paid for his cellphone and internet connection with credit cards that were nearly maxed out.
Opening the door to his apartment, he was met by his 18-month-old daughter. "Sweetheart," he told her in Arabic, "sweetheart." I could hear his daughter's playful voice, and I could hear him start to cry. I asked whether we should talk later.
"She is going to miss me if she grows up without her dad," he replied. He began to sob again.
The next day he had to submit himself to a system whose tortures and deprivations he had devoted his life to uncovering. He wasn't sure he would even have that long, because the police could come at any moment if they realized he was talking to a reporter.
He spoke as though to a confidant even though we had never met. "We have to make our lives meaningful. People die by the thousands every day without doing anything. We must make meaning." He paused. "I am sorry for talking so much. I am very tired. I was beaten two months ago."
He said his wife had just arrived home. "She does not know the news yet," he whispered.
