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JEDDAH: This story could be called a tale of two countries. When I arrived in Jeddah from the Arab News Dubai office for my first visit to ������Ƶ, on June 20, 2018, I was not allowed to drive.

And then, four days later, along with every other woman in the Kingdom, all of a sudden we could. Much like Cinderella in the fairy tale, our pumpkins turned into carriages at the stroke of midnight on June 24.

So much has changed since then that it seems like ancient history. At the time, we thought other changes might happen, inshallah, in baby steps, but the driving law proved to be only the first of many that drove Saudi women’s independence forward into the 21st century.

In the words of my Saudi colleague Noor Nugali, now deputy editor-in-chief of Arab News, it was a “mind-blowing” signal that ������Ƶ was headed “100 miles in the right direction.”

In August 2019, the guardianship law, which required Saudi women to get a male guardian’s permission to travel, was rescinded. In December that year, gender segregation in public places came to an end. In June 2021, single, divorced or widowed women were allowed to live independently without needing the permission of their male guardians. In January 2023, Saudi women married to foreign men gained the right to pass on Saudi citizenship to their children. And in 2024, the World Bank reported that women made up 34.5 percent of the Kingdom’s workforce, surpassing the Vision 2030 target (which was subsequently raised from 30 to 40 percent).

This was all unthinkable at the time the driving ban was lifted. So let us reverse, if you will, to a time when the Kingdom was the last country in the world in which women could not drive. Arriving on a humid morning at Jeddah’s airport, I stepped off the plane in my abaya, with a sense of excitement tempered by fear at what I might encounter as a solo foreign woman. After a decade living in the UAE, I had heard stories from other women about their encounters with the Saudi religious police, so I wrapped my headscarf tightly and prepared for the worst.

Mistakenly joining the line for Umrah arrivals, I was approached by a customs officer who, after looking at my visa, asked me to have a seat while he sorted an issue by calling an Arabic speaker in our Jeddah newsroom. “This is it,” I thought. “I’m going to jail.”

What happened next was a total surprise. He returned, offering me Arabic coffee and a chocolate heart before helping me through the gates. The driver sent to pick me up told me I did not have to wear a headscarf, so I let it go around my shoulders, already feeling more relaxed.

For the next few days, I made my trips to the Jeddah newsroom with Bakhsh, our ever-smiling company driver who insisted on carrying my bags, whenever he was available. To those who suggest the lifting of the driving ban was just a token gesture, I can tell you this: it was anything but. Imagine getting through your day by relying on someone to pick you up at every point, and then remember the sense of freedom you felt when you got your driving license and the keys to your first car.

So when the clocks on our iPhones turned to 12:01 a.m. on June 24 it was not only a sign to start our engines, it was time for ������Ƶ to leave this old way behind.

At this time I was already in the driver’s seat of our company car, wearing Saudi designer Moe Khoja’s driving jacket, embroidered with the date of this momentous occasion. My boss, Faisal J. Abbas, sitting beside me in the passenger’s seat, had designated me to take him and two female colleagues on this drive, because a Saudi woman in our newsroom had yet to obtain a license. It was not only a historic occasion for me; for them, it was the first time they had been driven by a woman in the Kingdom.

Off we drove that night in a big black SUV, rolling down our windows at stoplights and waving to surprised Saudis, who smiled and gave us the thumbs up. The real test was when we pulled up next to a police car at the next light. We waited in nervous silence until the light turned green and then we let go of our breaths, driving off without incident.

The next morning, as more Saudi women took to the roads, I approached the rental-car desk in my hotel lobby to ask about hiring a vehicle. The man told me it was not possible. “Oh yes it is,” I told him. “Haven’t you read the news?” 

I showed him the special edition of Arab News that day, wrapped in Malika Favre’s illustration of a Saudi woman driving, which went on to become an iconic image of that day. Sadly, it did not help my appeal. The assistant called his supervisor, who told me I needed a Saudi license.

Remarkably, after I wrote in Arab News about this experience, the chief operating officer of Budget ������Ƶ contacted me to rectify the confusion. He invited me to visit the company’s office on the Corniche, where I produced my international driver’s license and became the first foreign woman to rent a car in ������Ƶ.

As I climbed into the white Land Cruiser, people on the street stopped to take photos. That night, when I took the Arab News ladies on a drive to Old Jeddah, we got the same reception from the crowded streets: smiles and waves. I am glad we soaked up the celebrity attention while we had it, because as more Saudi women obtained their licenses, it became commonplace to see women driving in the Kingdom. And not only driving: living their own lives, running companies, working in senior government roles, traveling into space and representing ������Ƶ on the world stage, whether it is in Washington or on a sports field. I have watched them do so with unmatched grace, determination and courage.

Back at home in Canada, when I’m asked about ������Ƶ, I’m proud to tell the story of how I got to be part of that day. But my story takes a back seat to Saudi women, who are in the driver’s seat now. I can’t wait to see where they go on the road ahead.

• Mo Gannon became the first foreign woman to rent a car in ������Ƶ when she was a senior editor in the Dubai bureau of Arab News.