Many Faces, One Kingdom

To the outside world, Saudi Arabia is often imagined as a cultural monolith — a desert kingdom draped in uniform customs and a single dialect. But beneath this flattened narrative lies a country of remarkable internal diversity, shaped by geography, history, and centuries of regional interaction. Saudi Arabia, in reality, is more mosaic than monolith.

I still remember how surprised I was, as a teenager from Jeddah, when I visited Abha and heard children speaking in a soft Asiri dialect I could barely follow. The mountain air was cool, the houses were painted with geometric symbols I’d never seen before, and hospitality came not with the usual Hijazi dates and mint tea, but with honey and ghee on flatbread.

That moment stayed with me — not because it felt exotic, but because it was unmistakably Saudi, just not in the way I had grown up understanding it.

The Hejaz, stretching along the Red Sea coast, carries a cosmopolitan heartbeat. Cities like Jeddah, Makkah, and Madinah have long served as crossroads of pilgrimage and trade. In Jeddah’s historic Al-Balad district, coral-stone houses with wooden roshan windows still stand, some inhabited by families whose ancestors migrated from India, Indonesia, Egypt, or Turkey. The Hijazi dialect is gentle, often sprinkled with non-Arabic words. Social codes are informal but respectful.

Growing up in Jeddah, sambusak during Ramadan, mutabbaq from street vendors, and spontaneous coffee visits from neighbours were everyday rituals. These weren’t acts of hospitality — they were how life flowed. My grandmother never knocked before entering a neighbour’s house. She didn’t need to.

Travel inland, and the rhythm changes. The Najd, anchored by Riyadh, is shaped by desert logic: open skies, tribal codes, and a moral architecture built on hierarchy, family name, and deeply rooted customs. The Najdi dialect is sharper, more formal. Gatherings follow a clear order: the host sits at the far end of the majlis, coffee is served in silence and small cups, and poetry still holds the weight of persuasion.

A Riyadhi friend once told me, “In Najd, silence speaks first.” And it’s true — public behaviour there tends to be restrained, but never cold. What may seem stiff to outsiders is, in fact, a different dialect of body language and tone.

To the east, the Eastern Province stretches toward the Arabian Gulf, offering yet another social fabric. Oil built its modern cities, but long before Aramco, these shores were shaped by pearl divers, traders, and fishermen. In towns like Qatif or Al-Ahsa, you’ll hear different prayers, see different foods, and feel a slower, more reflective pace. The influence of Iran and the Gulf is visible in dialect, dress, and religious ritual.

A cousin raised in Dhahran once said that people in the Eastern Province “drink tea like the British — at any hour and always with discussion.” That blend of old-world Gulf culture and oil-fuelled sophistication is distinct — and until recently, rarely featured in national narratives.

Then there’s the south, where the topography turns green and misty. In Asir, Najran, and Jizan, houses are painted in bright colours, and in some villages, men still wear ’iqal made of fresh flowers. The dialects are melodic and hard to place for outsiders. There is a calm in the south — an inherited patience shaped by mountain life.

When I visited Rijal Almaa, a historical village in Asir, a local artist told me their homes were designed not just for beauty, but for storytelling. Each painted line or pattern on the stone walls had a meaning — some marking weddings, others births or deaths. It was architecture as family history.

For decades, national identity in Saudi Arabia emphasised unity, often at the expense of regional nuance. Textbooks stressed shared values; the media spoke in one accent. But today, the Kingdom is slowly embracing its pluralism. Regional dialects are no longer confined to comedy sketches — they now appear in serious dramas, official campaigns, and state events.

On social media, young Saudis proudly post videos of their grandmother’s traditional dress, their region’s breakfast dish, or a tribal poem from their hometown. From Tabuk to Jazan, more Saudis are saying: “This is also Saudi Arabia.”

What was once quietly passed down in homes is now being documented, photographed, and proudly shared.

This shift is not merely aesthetic — it is political, cultural, and personal. It signals a more confident national identity, one that no longer feels threatened by difference.

Share on: