Saudi Arabia: Between High Tech and Holy Places

Dhe desert landscape passes by at breakneck speed. All you see is an ocher surface meeting a sky-blue one. Outside there is a scorching heat that hurts. Summer in Saudi Arabia, temperatures around 50 degrees Celsius. The air conditioning is stable, the wagons are pleasantly tempered. You also don’t notice the speed at which the “Haramain Express” glides through the wasteland: from Mecca to Medina, about 450 kilometers, the slim high-speed train takes less than two and a half hours. It rolls into glittering train stations that look like space stations that have fallen from the future. It’s a billion-dollar prestige project tailored to the kingdom’s ambitions: high-tech connects sacred sites.

The train is not just an attraction for the legions of pilgrims who flock to Saudi Arabia year after year. Business travelers also appreciate the Hallows Express. “People are beginning to realize that it’s much more comfortable than driving or flying,” says one insurance worker. But even for him, the journey is anything but routine. He is amazed not only by the new way of traveling, which takes him to his destination twice as fast as his car, but above all by the speed with which the country has changed.

“The whole country is one big disco!”

About six years ago, Crown Prince Muhammad Bin Salman, or MBS for short, announced Vision 2030, which aims to modernize Saudi Arabia, open up its society and make its economy independent of oil revenues. He has prescribed a violent cure for the country. Its results overwhelm even people who have long yearned for change. The insurance broker says a sentence in the “Haramain Express” that can be heard again and again – from artists and entrepreneurs in big cities like Jeddah and Riyadh or from coffee farmers in the provinces: “I wouldn’t have dreamed of that .”

The train rolls into Jeddah on time. The coastal city has always been considered comparatively cosmopolitan. Traders from all over the world did business here, guest workers settled who were unfamiliar with the ultra-conservative Wahhabi state Islam. If you were to guess someone like Ayman Tamano, musician, record producer, filmmaker and photographer anywhere, it would be in Jeddah. He’s someone who seems to know everyone in his city’s creative scene, and who in turn everyone in that scene seems to know. He’s one of their thoughtful minds. He’s had his studio in one of the upper floors of an office tower for a long time, but now everyone can know what he’s doing there. “Like many, I’m still processing what’s going on here,” says Ayman. There’s still a hint of incredulity when he and his friends discuss their newfound openness. And they do that every day.