I'm a Muslim Woman in Saudi Arabia Who's in a Secret Open Marriage

As a Muslim Arab woman living in Saudi Arabia, I have been conditioned to believe that premarital sex is a taboo and a sin, to the point that I was expected to pretend like I had nothing between my legs until my wedding night. I was indoctrinated to carry the weight of preserving my family’s—if not my whole tribe’s—Sharaf (honor and dignity) by holding onto my virginity.

Virginity in the Middle East is held in such high regard that there's a tradition where a white cloth is given to the man on the wedding night to prove that the woman has never been touched before him. After the deed, he gives it back to the family with the drops of blood that prove her purity. Women have been murdered—if their chastity was questioned—as a punishment by their own families in what is called “honor killings.” 

So I religiously abided by those rules until I was 29, when I had my first sexual experience with my longterm boyfriend of five years. I figured we were going to end up married, anyway, so why the wait? It was awkward and we laughed a lot at our own confusion. And just like that, I was no longer a virgin. Suddenly, a wave of bewildering terror washed over me. I remember thinking my life would be ruined if we didn't end up married because no one else would want a “used” woman. I reassured myself that he was the one and that we'd probably be married in no time. I waited patiently for the ring, but it never came. 

He ended up breaking my heart by cheating and then ghosting me the moment I found out. That harsh betrayal was the first thing that burst my monogamous bubble. Poly relationships were not new to me; after all, traditional Islam societies permit a man to marry not one, not two, but four wives simultaneously. To this day, plenty of women end up adding to their marriage contracts the condition that their future husbands are not allowed to take another wife. 

Because of the secrecy, my love life felt thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

Still, I had to read up on a version of polyamory that took women’s desire into account. I started exploring my sexuality and educating myself on sex. I read Come As You Are by Emily Nagoski, and The Ethical Slut by Dossie Easton and Janet Hardy. I found myself loving the idea of being open and exploring what was forbidden to me for the last 29 years. What I was protecting my entire life no longer had power over me.

I learned about communication and how to discuss boundaries and rules between two or more consenting adults. I read about jealousy and how it's built on the fear of losing the love you have, and how if reassured and dealt with correctly, it could strengthen the bond between people instead of breaking them apart. I started identifying as a polyamorous pansexual and I enjoyed relationships that honored honesty and respect and were good for my journey into abundant love. 

I've been loved by multiple people at the same time, and my heart loved them, as well. I had a long-term relationship with a man and a woman as a throuple for a year and a half which was a genuine escapade that allowed me to have a support system as I learned more about myself. The relationship ended, however, when they crossed a boundary. I was sad about the loss but knew that it was what was best for me. 

Absolutely no one in my community knew about my love life. I couldn't talk about it with my best friend of more than a decade. It would have been such a scandal that my family would've disowned me. I would have probably had to leave the country by any means necessary to stay safe. Because of this, my love life felt thrilling and terrifying at the same time. It almost felt like an affair in a way, even though it wasn't since everyone I was dating was in the know. I was happy with my new normal, and I felt comfortable in my own skin.

But after a while, the excitement fizzled, and hiding a dangerous secret like that weighs heavily on your mental health. I still felt the old fear of not being "wife material," because I chose to prioritize my pleasure—even though logically I knew that if I ended up with someone, it would have to be in parallel to the lifestyle I chose for myself. I wanted to have full control over whom I invited into my sacred body. I wanted to love people without the need to “own” them and limit their experience to only me. 

And that's when I met my husband. A loving, kind man who told me that he wouldn't want me any other way, that my past has added to who I am and how I experienced love and life. He used to be in an open marriage, as well, so the transition was easy. With him, I felt heard and understood in a way I've never been before, and this time I did get the ring. 

It took us some time to discuss our expectations, set our boundaries, and agree on what was off-limits. We even went to therapy to better handle this crucial conversation openly and maturely. Being in an ethically non-monogamous relationship meant we got to learn how to reassure each other and prioritize our connection. We then started dating other people. I had two consistent boyfriends and I was on the lookout for a girlfriend. While I needed to create an emotional bond with people before being with them physically, my husband was more into one-night stands. 

Being with other people didn’t take away from the intimacy and love we carried for each other. We were on the same page on how we don’t own each other. The thought of my partner enjoying himself with someone else used to be scary, but now we get excited about it and switch stories of our sexual adventures. 

Even though the choice to open up my marriage has many merits, it can be awfully isolating and lonely, despite the fact that I have more people in my life (boyfriends, girlfriends or partners). Regardless of the secrecy, I can honestly say that I fully enjoy the new rhythm of my life. I know the path of ethical non-monogamy is the right one for me.