Life On Bus

⏱ Estimated reading time: 3 min read

Last evening, I was traveling in Riyadh Metro Bus looking into the face of people leaving factories, construction sites, warehouses, hospitals, and offices across Riyadh.

It is the 2nd last week of the month. Salaries are only a few days away. Yet, most of it has already been spent in their minds. Rent. Loans. School fees. Medicine. Groceries. Money to send home. Another month. Another calculation. Another calculation. Again, and again.

The man sitting by the window has more debt than savings. The man beside him might be wondering how he will explain to his home that this month he cannot send the full amount.

A young man is excited because today was his first day at work. A few seats away, another man is returning after being terminated. Today was his last shift. He has no idea how he will tell his family. They think he is safe. They think everything is fine.

Someone is coming back from a job interview, praying he gets selected after months of unemployment. Someone else is coming back from another rejection. Six months. Seven months. Eight months. Still no job. Every interview begins with hope and ends with silence.

One worker had a terrible day because his supervisor shouted at him in front of everyone. Another made a small mistake and now fears losing his job.

Someone is worried about renewing his iqama. Someone borrowed money just to pay visa expenses. Someone’s passport is with his employer. Someone is waiting for an exit visa.

One man lost his savings in online trading, gambling, or a scam that promised quick riches. Another was cheated by his kafeel and worked for months without receiving his salary.

Someone spent thirty years in Saudi Arabia and now wonders where all those years went. Thirty years. Thirty years. And still no house. Still no business. Still no retirement. Only memories and aching knees.

Someone is carrying the burden of brothers who only call when they need money. Someone has a mother who says, “Come home,” but he cannot. He simply cannot.

Someone is thinking about his son’s wedding that he cannot afford. Another worries about finding a good husband for his daughter. Someone has three daughters and lies awake every night wondering how he will fulfill his responsibilities.

Someone’s father is fighting cancer. Someone’s mother needs surgery. Someone’s child was born with a medical condition, and every phone call from home fills him with fear before he even answers.

Someone is counting the years until he can finally go home for good, but every year something happens that forces him to stay one more year. Just one more year. Then another. Then another.

Someone is carrying loneliness that no one can see. A loneliness so heavy that even a crowded bus cannot make it lighter.

And yet, tomorrow morning, these same men will wake up before sunrise. They will iron their uniforms. They will board the same bus. They will smile when someone cracks a joke. They will work hard. They will keep going.

Because that is what millions of migrant workers do.

Everyone is carrying something. Everyone is calculating something. Everyone is missing someone. Everyone is hoping for something. Everyone is trying, trying, trying to make one more month worth the sacrifice.