Saudi Arabia Tightens the Rules on Who Gets to Stay

In the western cities of Saudi Arabia—Jeddah, Makkah, and Madinah—it was once common to know undocumented workers by name. Many had come for pilgrimage and simply stayed, quietly becoming part of daily life in homes and neighbourhoods. Their presence was informal, sometimes illegal, but often accepted.

Today, that quiet arrangement is disappearing. Saudi Arabia’s latest deportation campaign may seem like just another crackdown on paper, but beneath the surface, it reveals a deeper shift: a move from tolerance to enforcement, from personal trust to legal precision. And with it comes a more intimate reckoning about who stays, who leaves, and how a society decides who belongs.

In just one week in June 2025, more than 12,000 people were arrested in Saudi Arabia for breaking residency, labour, or border laws. The Ministry of Interior reported that 7,333 had overstayed their visas or lived without valid permits, 3,060 had entered the country illegally, and 1,673 were working without proper authorisation.

These immigration crackdowns are not new to Saudi Arabia—and neither is the enforcement. They happen regularly. But this time, the sheer scale and the tacit acceptance of what was happening revealed something deeper about how Saudi society is evolving.

The government made its position clear. “Everyone living in the Kingdom must do so legally,” stated a spokesperson from the General Directorate of Passports. “Those who help violators—by employing or sheltering them—will face serious penalties.”

The penalties are steep. Helping someone stay illegally can result in up to 15 years in prison, a one million riyal fine (about $267,000), and the confiscation of any vehicle or home used to assist them. In that same week, 21 people were arrested for doing just that.

So why now? The campaign is part of a larger shift to organise the labour market. For decades, Saudi Arabia relied on foreign workers—especially from South Asia, East Africa, and neighbouring countries like Yemen—to do the jobs many locals would not: construction, domestic work, caregiving, and small-scale retail. Some of these workers arrived through legal channels. Others overstayed their visas or crossed borders unofficially. It was known, and for a long time, widely tolerated.

This informal arrangement had a geography and rhythm of its own. In cities like Jeddah, Makkah, and Madinah, undocumented workers were often those who had come for Hajj or Umrah and simply stayed behind. Proximity to the holy cities made this possible. Indeed, in the past, hiring a housemaid legally was nearly impossible for many families. Rules were strict, and recruitment was expensive or unavailable. So people turned to those already around—referrals from neighbours, friends, and sometimes “runaways” from other sponsors. It was not legal, but it was part of how things worked.

Growing up in Jeddah, I remember seeing how common this state of affairs was. Families would quietly rely on undocumented domestic workers. They became part of the neighbourhood, part of the rhythm of daily life. No one asked too many questions.

That started to change when the government introduced licensed recruitment agencies and simplified legal procedures. Hiring help became easier, and enforcement became stricter. Today, employing someone without valid papers is no longer overlooked—it carries consequences.

This shift is not only about law enforcement. It reflects a broader change in how Saudis are being asked to engage with labour, legality, and responsibility. The state is reshaping not only who gets to work, but who gets to stay—and under what conditions.

It is also a mentality shift. The government is encouraging Saudis to take on jobs that were once seen as beneath them. Regulation is replacing informality; public order is replacing private arrangement.

But in this process, the human stories can get lost. Many of those arrested had lived in Saudi Arabia for years. Some had built entire lives. One man from Bangladesh, interviewed after his deportation, said: “I worked in Jeddah as a cleaner for eight years. I did not have a contract, just a verbal agreement. One day, they picked me up. I was sent home without warning.”

Stories like his rarely make the news. Press releases focus on numbers, not names. But behind each number is a person—and behind each deportation, a disrupted community.

Among the 1,200 people caught trying to cross the border illegally, 65% were Ethiopian and 32% Yemeni. Most try to enter through the south, fleeing poverty or conflict. Once inside, they often take up jobs Saudis do not want: garbage collection, street cleaning, or low-level construction.

Despite Saudisation efforts, the demand for foreign labour has not disappeared. Government statistics show that expatriates still make up over 70% of the private-sector workforce. Mega-projects like NEOM and The Line continue to depend on foreign workers to meet their deadlines.

What we are seeing, then, is not just a reduction in numbers. It is a tightening of definitions: of legality, of access, of belonging.

This change is happening quietly. It unfolds in routine paperwork, in private conversations between families and their helpers, in sudden disappearances from neighbourhoods. And it reflects a deeper question: who gets to stay, and on what terms?

Other Gulf countries are asking similar questions. In 2024 and 2025, Kuwait began stripping thousands of people of their Kuwaiti nationality—including women who had obtained citizenship through marriage—on grounds of fraud or dual citizenship. Critics say this is less about legal precision and more about political control. Those affected have lost not only their passports, but also access to healthcare, education, and basic rights.

For many Saudis, the new clarity around laws and responsibilities feels necessary. For others, it brings discomfort—not just because of who is leaving, but because it forces a deeper reckoning with who we think belongs.

The Saudi Arabia of today is not the same as it was 20 years ago. And the quiet shifts happening now will likely shape the next two decades, too.

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