Until the Saudi authorities who administer the holy sites take

Host: The airport terminal hummed with quiet motion — the muted rhythm of footsteps, rolling luggage, distant announcements swallowed by glass and time. Outside, the night sky over Jeddah was vast and dark, stitched with stars that hung like silent witnesses above the holy land.

Inside, the benches gleamed under fluorescent light, and in a quiet corner, two travelers — Jack and Jeeny — sat side by side. Between them, a pair of worn passports, half-drunk coffee cups, and the kind of exhaustion that lives not only in the body, but in the soul.

The air was heavy, reverent, and human — full of stories too private to tell aloud.

Jack broke the silence first.

Jack: “Mona Eltahawy said, ‘Until the Saudi authorities who administer the holy sites take concrete steps to protect female pilgrims, we must protect each other. Men must stop assaulting us, yes. But women the world over, regardless of faith, know that until that happens, we are each other’s keepers.’”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, voice low. “She’s not just talking about Saudi Arabia, is she?”

Jeeny: “No.”

Host: Her voice was firm, stripped of hesitation. “She’s talking about everywhere — about every sacred space that’s forgotten to protect the people who pray inside it.”

Jack: “Faith without safety.”

Jeeny: “And power without accountability.”

Host: The overhead lights flickered, the kind of imperfection that feels cosmic when you’re talking about injustice.

Jack: “You think the world will ever listen?”

Jeeny: “The world listens,” she said, “but only when women shout. And by the time they shout, they’ve already been silenced too many times.”

Host: The sound of a departing flight announcement echoed through the terminal, then faded, leaving the low hum of stillness again.

Jeeny: “You see,” she continued, “Eltahawy isn’t just calling for reform. She’s naming a truth — that until men stop, women must stand guard for one another. That sisterhood isn’t sentimental. It’s survival.”

Jack: “That’s a heavy burden.”

Jeeny: “It’s a necessary one.”

Host: She turned her gaze toward the wide glass windows, where the desert wind pressed faintly against the panes. “Do you know what happens when safety becomes a privilege instead of a right?” she asked.

Jack: “People start mistaking danger for normal.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Her eyes were fierce now, reflecting both pain and clarity. “Pilgrimage,” she said softly, “is supposed to strip away everything but faith. But for too many women, it strips away safety instead.”

Jack: “And faith without safety isn’t devotion. It’s endurance.”

Jeeny: “And endurance isn’t holiness. It’s exhaustion.”

Host: The hum of the airport shifted, a cleaning cart rattling somewhere in the distance, an echo of motion in a world that keeps going even when hearts pause.

Jack: “You know what I find powerful in her words?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That line — ‘we are each other’s keepers.’ It’s simple, but it changes everything. She’s reclaiming the divine from those who hoard it. Saying holiness isn’t in who rules the shrine — it’s in who guards each other.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She’s turning protection into communion.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands tightened around her coffee cup. “Every woman I know,” she said quietly, “has walked somewhere sacred — a mosque, a church, a temple, a street, even her own home — and wondered if she’d make it out untouched.”

Jack: “And still, the world tells her faith will protect her.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t have hands, Jack. People do.”

Host: The truth in her voice was a flame — steady, unforgiving.

Jack: “You think the authorities will ever change?”

Jeeny: “They’ll change when they’re forced to see that holiness and humanity are inseparable. When every act of harm desecrates their own belief.”

Host: The loudspeaker crackled again, announcing another departure. The sound felt almost symbolic — movement toward somewhere better, or maybe just somewhere else.

Jack: “You know what I think of when I hear her quote?” he said. “I think about the word keeper. It’s gentle — but also fierce. A keeper doesn’t just watch. A keeper guards.”

Jeeny: “And not out of pity — out of power. Out of love that refuses to be naïve.”

Host: She turned toward him now, eyes meeting his. “When Eltahawy says we’re each other’s keepers, she’s reimagining safety as sacred. She’s saying holiness isn’t male or female — it’s collective protection.”

Jack: “And collective courage.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because every time one woman protects another, she’s rewriting the script of power.”

Host: The wind outside began to rise, rattling the glass — a sound like voices pushing through silence.

Jeeny: “You know what’s revolutionary about her words?” she said. “They refuse to wait. They don’t say, ‘When the world changes, we’ll be safe.’ They say, ‘Until the world changes, we’ll be each other’s safety.’”

Jack: “That’s defiance.”

Jeeny: “That’s love.”

Host: Her smile was small, tired, but unbreakable. “And maybe,” she said softly, “that’s what faith really means — not believing someone else will save you, but choosing to save each other anyway.”

Jack: “So holiness isn’t in the shrine.”

Jeeny: “No,” she whispered. “It’s in the sister who takes your hand when the crowd gets too close.”

Host: The camera moved wider — the two of them small beneath the vastness of the terminal, the glass reflecting stars, the sound of distant languages blending into one low hum of humanity.

The city lights outside flickered like candles in a storm, and in that fragile glow, Mona Eltahawy’s words echoed — part prophecy, part plea:

“Until the Saudi authorities who administer the holy sites take concrete steps to protect female pilgrims, we must protect each other. Men must stop assaulting us, yes. But women the world over, regardless of faith, know that until that happens, we are each other’s keepers.”

Because sacredness means nothing
without safety,
and no god can be holy
if his followers are harmed in his name.

And so women —
across borders, across faiths, across silence —
become one another’s sanctuary.

Not waiting for permission.
Not waiting for reform.
But building their own protection
out of solidarity,
out of defiance,
out of love fierce enough
to call itself holy.