What International Schools In Saudi Arabia Are Really Like: A Parent’s Perspective
I stood by the car gate on Lila’s first day of 5th grade, twisting my car keys around my finger and replaying all the scary forum posts I’d read the night before. International schools in Saudi are just for rich expats, they won’t care about your daughter’s dyslexia, they force strict rules that don’t work for foreign kids. Lila tugged her glitter unicorn backpack out of my hand, the straps slipping down her shoulders, and said “Can we just go? I already hate it here.” The security guard, an older man with a gray beard, smiled and held the gate open for us, nodding at Lila’s backpack. “Nice horse,” he said, and Lila grinned back, which I didn’t expect.
The driveway was lined with date palms, their fronds brushing the top of our sedan, and the first thing I saw when we walked into the main building wasn’t a row of headshots of the board of directors, it was a student art display. A 7th grader’s drawing of the Riyadh skyline next to the Eiffel Tower, a 3rd grader’s clay sculpture of a camel wearing a soccer jersey. Half the names under the art were Saudi, half were European, North American, Filipino, South African, just like the parent Facebook group for the school had said.
Ms. Sarah, Lila’s homeroom teacher, met us at the classroom door before the bell even rang. She pulled out a light blue colored overlay for Lila’s textbook, and a desk with a slanted top, before I even mentioned the accommodations I’d sent over from our old school in Vancouver. “We’ve got three other kids in 5th grade with dyslexia this year,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “We’ve got this.”
Two years in, most of the myths I’d heard before moving here have fallen apart. I thought the student body would be 90% expats, but at our school, it’s 55% Saudi kids. Lila’s best friend is Zara, whose dad is an engineer and mom teaches at King Saud University. They sleep over at each other’s houses, trade Pokemon cards and bad 2000s Disney Channel memes, and Lila has learned more Arabic from Zara than she has from her weekly school classes. I thought dress codes would be incredibly restrictive, but kids wear polo shirts with the school logo and khakis or jeans. Girls can wear hijab if they want, or not, no one comments either way. The school follows the IB curriculum, which is what we wanted, but all kids take mandatory classes in Saudi history and culture, and Arabic, even expats. Lila complained for the first six months that Arabic was too hard, but last month she ordered our entire meal at a local restaurant by herself, and the waiter cheered for her.
A few months into the first year, Lila started bringing home writing homework that had half the pages blank. I’d already typed up an email to the principal, ready to argue for more support, like I had to at our old school in Vancouver, where we waited three months for an assessment. Before I hit send, the special education coordinator called me. She’d noticed Lila was struggling with longer writing assignments, and wanted to adjust her plan: instead of writing five paragraph essays, she could do three, or record an oral response if she wanted, and she’d get 20 minutes of one-on-one support every week after school, no extra fee. It wasn’t perfect—for kids with more severe learning needs, the school only has two full-time special ed teachers, so if you need more intensive support, you have to go outside for private therapy, which I warn other new parents about all the time. But it was more than I expected, given what I’d read online.
When other parents message me now, asking what international schools here are really like, I tell them three specific things to check before they enroll, that I wish I’d known. First, ask for the exact number of full-time special education staff, and ask to talk to another parent whose kid has the same learning need as yours. Websites will say they “support diverse learners” but that can mean anything from full accommodations to just letting your kid have extra test time. Second, ask about the Arabic program. If you’re only going to be here for two or three years, you probably want a lighter, conversational program, not the intensive one for kids planning to stay long term. If you’re a Saudi parent looking for international education, ask how they align their Saudi history classes with the requirements for local university admission, because some schools cut corners on that to make more room for international curriculum. Third, if you can, show up to pickup unannounced and walk around the playground. You’ll see how kids interact—whether local and expat kids mix, or if everyone sticks to their own groups—and how teachers handle small conflicts, which tells you more about the school culture than any tour.
We’re planning to move back to Vancouver in two years, and Lila already says she’s going to come back every summer to visit Zara. Some days are still frustrating: pickup line parking is always a nightmare, sandstorms cancel outdoor sports day more often than not, and the after-school art program got cut this year because of budget shifts. It’s not the elite, exclusive bubble that some people describe, and it’s not the restrictive, rule-bound institution that other people make it out to be. It’s just a school. Kids forget their lunch boxes, argue over who gets to be goalie in soccer, and get excited for bake sales, same as anywhere else. We still don’t know what the next two years will bring, but so far, it’s worked out better than I ever expected when I stood by that gate two years ago, twisting my car keys and worrying.
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