In Riyadh drivers are a fact of life.
Domestics, Ubers, taxi men—they steer
the expat hordes and every mother, wife,
and daughter to their destinations here.
They come in droves from countries down the scale,
from Pakistan, and Bangladesh, Nepal,
and India—impoverished men who trail
the highways at another’s beck and call.
Each time I walk, I hear the taxi horns,
each plaintive beep, “Please white man, share your wealth
with me.” For fourteen hours, from early morns
and through each night they spend their life—and health.
I sit in back, while they the front are given.
My conscience knows who drives and who is driven.

—David Jackson Lohnes
2019

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Notes:

Something I started while I lived in Riyadh and finally finished this evening.

The situation is much different now. First they Saudi-ized the industry, allowing only Saudis to drive Ubers; then in June of last year they finally allowed women to start driving.

Many of those drivers have lost the livelihood they knew—many for decades—and have had to return home in search of other, often lesser, work.

A comment on the third stanza:
This is my projection. My experience with drivers consistently taught me their resolve in and gratitude for their work. These men were neither plaintive nor in any way given to begging in the slightest. But in my heart I consistently felt guilty for my economic and political privilege relative to them.