Trump hopes his Mideast travels will produce allies and billions — but there was one big snub

Photos:  AP Images, Personal archives

By Jake Turx, Riyadh

If the Gulf states were to hold a popularity contest, Donald Trump would win the trophy. As his four-day visit showcased the opulence of the region’s richest oil states, just how much of that wealth are they willing to invest in a global deal that will advance everyone’s agendas? As I teamed up with the White House Press Corps and did a bit of polling on my own, it seemed pretty clear: When it comes to signing up with the US, the Gulf states are first in line

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia 

Khaled is more than just a taxi driver; he’s about to become my first impression of Saudi Arabia. He’s waiting for me just outside the automatic customs doors of Riyadh’s King Khalid International Airport, radiating the quiet confidence of a man who’s been standing in that same spot since sunrise, though I’ll never know how long he’s actually been there. I like a hustler who doesn’t speak my language. We settle into his white minivan as I realize it’s a casual 104 degrees outside and still climbing.

There are English signs everywhere, but Khaled speaks maybe five words of it and doesn’t seem like he reads a word. And so, I punch the hotel address into his GPS, and off we go.

Within moments, and in doing my due diligence as a press corps colleague ahead of the US presidential visit, I hit him with the philosophical icebreaker of the decade: “What do you think of Trump?”

His eyes brighten. “Trump good!”

I shrug.

He hesitates. “Trump good? Trump no good?”

Now he’s not sure of himself. He must be hoping the crown prince doesn’t hear him give the wrong answer.

The barren expanse outside the airport gives way to sleek buildings: a university, a museum, and several intimidating military compounds. Khaled turns to me and asks if I’m Italian. Italian?

As we approach Riyadh proper, I’m genuinely impressed. If my king built me a capital like this, I wouldn’t criticize him or his crown prince either. Nearly every building, street, hospital, or government complex is named after a king, queen, jack, or ace.

Khaled, still determined to connect, points to me and guesses: “Doctor?”

I shake my head.

He recalibrates. “Football?”

Really? A football player?

Despite the oppressive heat, Riyadh hums with life. Portraits of three generations of Saudi rulers beam down from half the buildings. Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman (MBS), in particular, looks suspiciously youthful beside his father, King Salman, and his grandfather. I wonder when and how the royal communications team decides it’s time to update the portraits from young to old? Is it done every few years? At the first wrinkle? If the crown prince has discovered the fountain of youth, I hope someone’s bottling it — he could make a fortune.

Eventually, I join my White House Press Corps colleagues at the Mandarin Oriental, a $400-a-night hotel that’s been temporarily rebranded to $1,300-a-night for this particular week. (Because of the price tag, I’m doing the honorable thing and staying at a different hotel, yet close enough to smell the cardamom and labneh from the breakfast buffet.) Reporters grumble, but corporate cards clear without complaint, and morale remains intact.

We set up in the Media Filing Center, a series of conference rooms converted into a temporary newsroom, complete with round-the-clock catering, cables, logistics officers, and every amenity a White House reporter could ever want. That’s where we work/wait between POTUS movements, as staff are busy hopping in and out of Sprinter vans that join the official motorcade.

Before President Trump’s arrival, we’re briefed by aides: absolutely no shouting questions at President Trump or the crown prince — the de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia due to the king’s poor health and MBS’s own political maneuvering. It’s a White House instruction, clearly passed down at the polite-but-firm insistence of our Saudi hosts. Everyone nods. No one wants to test how serious they are about this. People have probably been beheaded for less.

As expected, Trump doesn’t deplane right away. There are always final touches: carpets to roll out, salutes to choreograph. More than 20 minutes pass before he steps out onto the royal tarmac. During his four-day visit to the region last week, Trump was greeted with spectacular fanfare in all three of his stops to Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates. Now, Saudi crown prince Mohammed bin Salman has broken protocol by walking up to the deplaning stairs and personally greeting the president at he steps onto the tarmac.

Back in the viewing room, we watch as dignitaries line up to shake hands with the leaders. One member of the Saudi delegation tells me they were forced to turn out their pockets before getting in the line.

Inside the terminal, we watch coffee being served in tiny ceremonial cups to POTUS, the secretaries of state and defense, and the rest of the delegation. The press pool is close enough to confirm Trump doesn’t drink his coffee before being ushered back out.

Later, we learn that 240 individuals — including royals, ministers, business leaders, and a sprinkling of media elites — are invited to lunch with the president and crown prince. Three senior members of the White House Press Corps made the guest list, along with Sean Hannity and Bret Baier. The rest of us speculate about who they had to know to get that invite. Turns out one of them actually declined the honor due to a conflicting live hit. When your network is paying $1,300 a night for your hotel, they get to decide your priorities.

With two hours to spare before the signing of the Strategic Economic Partnership, Saudi Arabia’s $600-billion commitment to invest in the US in the areas of energy, defense, technology and global infrastructure, I venture outside. First, I make the questionable decision to buy a 12-ounce bottle of water for $10 from the hotel bar. While a free bottle of water can be obtained at the Press Filing Center just one floor up, I’m curious to know what a $10 water could possibly taste like. Spoiler: like water.

Then, I step outside and begin filming a short video. Two minutes in, my phone warns it’s overheating. I duck into a blissfully air-conditioned subway station.

The city is precisely as clean, modern, and roasting as I imagined. I stroll for half an hour, admiring the architecture. Thirsty again, I duck into a modest $70-a-night hotel and buy a bottle of water for 40 cents. It’s delicious.

Back at the Mandarin, I bump into a TV news star returning from a live hit. He’s in a white button-down, a tie, and shorts.

“I’m cooking!” he complains.

I tell him he looks like a Covid-era Zoom podcaster.

Later, the White House confirms that POTUS told a reporter that he agreed to say hello to Syrian president Ahmed al-Sharaa (a.k.a. Abu Mohammed al-Julani) while in Saudi Arabia on the following morning. Meanwhile, the reporter who shouted a question as Trump passed by, has — as we go to print — not been beheaded.

Humble Beginnings

As part of his Gulf swing, President Trump makes a pointed stop at At-Turaif, the freshly polished crown jewel of Dariah, northwest of Riyadh. It’s regarded as one of the more important political and historical sites in Saudi Arabia, as it is the original home of the House of Saud and the birthplace of the Saudi dynasty 300 years ago.

If Riyadh is the power suit, At-Turaif is the handwritten original story in sepia ink. The moment Trump steps past the gates, it’s as if someone hit rewind on the last three centuries. Sun-bleached mud walls rise like history frozen mid-sentence, carved into the cliffs above Wadi Hanifah. Wind towers tilt overhead. Palm trees whisper secrets.

Saudi officials guide Trump through the winding alleys like he’s visiting their national living room. This is where Muhammad ibn Saud, the emir of Dariah, is said to have met Sunni Muslim scholar Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab and said, “Let’s build something bigger than both of us.” And then they did. From here, in the early 1700s, the Saudis unified tribes, battled empires, and declared themselves a nation.

Bringing Trump to this historic setting isn’t just about sightseeing. It’s Saudi Arabia showing him their humble origins. No matter how gaudy their palaces might look now, the Saudis take considerable pride in their roots.

And Trump, for all his bravado, gets it. He doesn’t make jokes. He doesn’t rush. He walks slowly, nods at the guides, and pauses to take in the ancient mud huts. For a moment, the man who built gold-plated skyscrapers is surrounded by sun-dried brick, and he seems to respect it. Trump isn’t just touring ruins. He’s walking through the Saudi soul.

Just outside of Dariah, I enter a bookshop. One photography book about Dariah grabs my attention. It’s $200. Whoa. I ask them to show me their most expensive book, which is priced at $26,500, but totally worth it to the right party.

Later that evening, while Trump and MBS are hosting ten simultaneous dinners for 2,000 dignitaries, I spend the night with one of Riyadh’s discreet Jewish residents. We mark Pesach Sheini with matzah and some Torah, stretching late into the night.

The next morning, Trump meets with Syrian president Ahmed al-Sharaa — a once unthinkable meeting that may become one of those “Where were you when” moments in history. Since press isn’t allowed in the room, I watch from a screen alongside two of the architects behind the meeting. They decline to comment on the record, but we find out that Trump is urging this apparently reformed ISIS leader, who had a $10 million US bounty on his head until this past December, to join the Abraham Accords.

Salesman of the Year

A formation of fighter jets alongside Air Force One signaled the arrival of a president who was just finishing ripping up the diplomatic rulebook. And like fighter jets with somewhere important to be, he wasn’t wasting time.

Diplomacy, traditionally, is supposed to be slow. Careful. Predictable. It’s conducted in neutral tones, drafted in legalese so dense it needs subtitles, and reviewed by at least four committees before anyone even dares get to the point. President Trump’s whirlwind Gulf tour through Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and the UAE doesn’t seem to require briefings, books or back channels. Just charisma, timing, and a golden sharpie for improvisation.

Lost among all the pomp and circumstance is strategic ambiguity filtered through layers of staff, and wrapped in the language of frameworks, dialogues, and long-term aspirations. Absent are polite platitudes about human rights, press freedoms, rule of law, or judicial reform. Missing are statements crafted by many and watched by few, the kinds that would lull the worst of ratings into a deep sleep.

Even the format of Trump’s meetings carries symbolic weight. Where traditional envoys would retreat to behind-the-scenes negotiations, Trump stands front and center, flanked by national flags and business contracts, in a way that sends the message that the US is open for business and the president is its top salesperson. These are live negotiations where anything could happen.

Trillions of dollars in trade and investment deals are discussed and announced. In Abu Dhabi, a $42 billion tech and infrastructure agreement is rolled out like a limited-time offer. In Qatar, energy and aviation discussions move quickly from concept to commitment. And in Riyadh, they walk away with a $142 billion defense agreement that eclipses all the foreign aid delivered to Israel going back to the pre-9/11 era.

Trump’s model suggests that friendship is forged not through shared values, but through shared interests. In a region where trust is scarce and attention spans ever more so, Trump is offering something immediate: opportunity. He doesn’t moralize; he monetizes. In Trump’s world, diplomacy isn’t about changing minds, it’s about closing deals. And this week, he might be closing some of the biggest ones yet.

Back at the hotel, I strike up a conversation with Habib, a Lebanese banker.

“In 2006, when Israel bombed everything, most Lebanese supported Hezbollah,” he says. “But this time, Israel learned its lessons and made sure their attacks were absolutely precise. The result? Ninety-five percent of Lebanese support Israel.”

Habib seems to know about a US embassy in Damascus being in the works, and believe where goes Syria, there goes Lebanon.

A Kurdish friend warns me not to get too hopeful. “We Kurds have a saying: Arabs have two hands. One holds a sword, the other a Koran. If they’re strong, they use the sword. If they’re weak, they beg with the Koran.”

I told him I’d been in Syria the week before, and everyone there seemed to be cheering on the US, hoping for a deal. He says what I saw was Syria at its weakest.

“Wait till they’re strong again.”

Art of the Deal

The Souk Al Zal in Riyadh’s Deera neighborhood introduces itself with flair and flare. At the threshold of the souk, a man sits calmly at the entrance of his shop, fashioning an agal, the traditional black cord that holds together the keffiyeh. Apparently, a blowtorch is a big part of the process.

If I ever relocate to Saudi Arabia, that’s the gig I want. Blowtorch headband artisan. It’s practical, dramatic and so photogenic that I couldn’t resist snapping the shutter. The only issue? Roughly a quarter of the vendors in the souk had the same idea. It’s like the kingdom held a national career fair and said, “Please select from one of the following: robe vendor, headgear crafter, sword sharpener, incense merchant, or all of the above.”

This isn’t the kind of souk where you find overflowing olive oases, plentiful paprika pyramids, sprawling saffron slopes, zesty zaatar ziggurats, or cascading cumin cliffs. This is more like a Middle Eastern Costco run by quadruplets who refuse to carry anything that isn’t weaponized, wearable, or whiffable.

While there are hundreds of shops spread across many dozens of streets and alleys, between all of them, they sell the same handful of stuff: Robes and headgear, incense (in oil, woodchip, and ground-up configurations), incense receptacles (sold separately), and swords and daggers. Here and there you can spot carpets or sandals.

Some shops specialize in one, others sell some variation of the big four, but that’s pretty much it. Was there some kind of law limiting vendors to these categories? Did the guy who used to sell rings and watermelons make some unflattering remarks about a member of the royal family? Did the souvenir czar of Riyadh outlaw fridge magnets? These are the mysteries that keep me up at night.

Now, about haggling. Say you see something nice and the vendor says it’s 300 Saudi Arabian riyals (about $80). He didn’t arrive at this number through divine revelation. It’s pure facial profiling, based entirely on how gullible he thinks your face looks. If you counter with 150 riyals, he may act insulted, scoff, and dramatically turn away. He could give it to for 200, but pride will likely intervene.

Here’s my technique: schmooze. Get excited about the product. Build a vibe. Let him believe you’re emotionally invested. And while you’re admiring that vintage dagger (which may or may not have stabbed someone important in 1862), start fiddling with the cash in your pocket. When the time is right, pull out the exact amount you’re willing to spend, say, 190 riyals. Shrug. Apologize. It’s all you’ve got. This is your bread money, your child’s school lunch fund. He looks at the cash. You look at the dagger. Nobody breathes. And just like that, the art of the deal.

Once haggling begins, look out for the “Souk Sidekick.” This master gasper was once a vendor himself, until he discovered his true calling: audible disbelief. He’s the quiet guy off to the side, maybe sipping tea, maybe pretending to doze off, but the moment you float your counteroffer, he springs to life like someone hit a panic button. Eyes wide open, hand slapping his thigh, he lets out a theatrical gasp, equal parts disbelief and heartbreak.

“Brother,” he’ll whisper urgently, “he never goes this low. I’ve worked with him twenty years. Never.”

The vendor, unfazed, shoos him away with an exaggerated wave, then seals what now feels to you like the bargain of the century. As you hand over your cash, the Souk Sidekick leans back defeated and exhales one long, weary sigh.

Trumplomacy Decrypted

Now that you’ve mastered how the souk works, you can better understand how, when host countries unleash all the pizzazz they possess in the form of cavalry processions, golden medallions, ceremonial sword dances, and strolls down lavender carpets longer than one of Trump’s ties, they’re sending the message that this leader is important and powerful. This reinforces the idea that the US is back in a commanding position more effectively than any teleprompted statement slurred by the former president.

Furthermore, livestreamed announcements across 24 time zones (plus Greenland) compel all parties to follow through. Once a deal is broadcast with fanfare, it’s harder to walk it back. This public visibility adds urgency and accountability and compresses timelines, trading the years-long pace of old-school diplomacy for the speed of a tweet in Trump’s metric system.

In the past, diplomacy would be aimed at politicians, diplomats, and the yawning, fawning press that cover them. Trumplomacy is aimed at the public. When he heaps praise on a leader or nation, it makes an impression with ordinary citizens in their respective countries all over the world. That kind of direct-to-people diplomacy builds goodwill in a way that bypasses media filters and bureaucratic channels.

Ceremony and spectacle are emotionally powerful tools as well. They leave impressions that facts and figures never could. Moments that feel historic, meaningful, and memorable transform abstract policy into something that feels real to the people.

Finally, when a leader is publicly honored and flattered, he’s more likely to reciprocate that loyalty.

The drama of Trumplomacy isn’t a distraction. It’s leverage.

Back in medieval times, kingdoms would forge peace through marriage. Today, those weddings have been replaced by massive mutual business deals. And unlike marriageable children, the US economy can partner with dozens of nations simultaneously without any awkward family gatherings. For allies forced to wait their turn, it’s not personal. It’s business.

Trump’s foreign policy runs on this principle. Mutual profit creates mutual interest. If you want peace, try prosperity. If you want influence, write a check. It’s not built on ideology, nor does it ask for cultural alignment. It’s built on leverage. Build something both sides can cash in on, and suddenly, former adversaries start acting like partners. And critics aren’t wrong to note that it comes with trade-offs.

For all the signed contracts and ceremonial handshakes, one thing seems conspicuously absent from Trump’s Gulf tour: any mention of Israel or the broader Arab-Israeli conflict. It’s as if someone took the most radioactive issue in the Middle East and quietly deleted it from the agenda. And cutting the Israel-Gaza conflict out of the cutting room cuts both ways.

Unlike the Abraham Accords, which made normalization with Israel a public condition of partnership, Trump’s current crop of Gulf deals offers no such visibility. Might Trump be leaving Israel out of the picture entirely, trading leverage for speed and politics for profit?

Of particular concern is Trump’s embrace of Qatar, long-suspected corporate sponsors of Hamas. Their national mascot could easily be a two-faced bobblehead of Yahya Sinwar and his brother Mohammed, sitting atop a torso swollen with Ismail Haniyeh’s offshore holdings. Surely nothing could go wrong with the delivery of a state-of-the-art drone system to a country that still hosts the architects of October 7, especially since Doha has pledged counterterrorism cooperation.

So, what exactly is Trump building? A regional coalition? A tech-fueled defense belt? Or just the biggest group chat of business partners the Middle East has ever seen? Whatever the answer, it’s clear that Trump’s diplomacy is not about coddling old friends or resuscitating peace talks that haven’t moved in decades. It’s about getting everyone on the payroll. Make enough nations dependent on shared profit.

Still, this purely transactional model has limits. Transactions don’t heal old wounds, just like they don’t change ideologies. And they certainly don’t end wars. If anything, they may end up subsidizing them. And if you’re Israeli, still surrounded by threats while being held hostage to regional power games, being left out of the business plan may be the biggest liability of all.

Corner the Market

To get a feel for what’s really happening in Riyadh outside the palace, I decide to walk through the Souk Al Zal traditional market, dressed like myself. That said, I don’t walk into a souk unarmed. My weapon is a fat-lensed camera slung around my neck like a neon sign that proclaims in every language: “Tourist. Please swindle.”

It’s psychological armor. Because to the merchants, tourists are golden geese with no sense of currency conversion. They know I’m here to spend, and spenders are not strangers. Suddenly, they’re vying for my affection. “Yes, come here my friend, special price for you, my brother.” And so, they roll out the metaphorical red carpet.

Meanwhile, nearby customers watch the vendors greet me with hugs and shouts of “welcome, my brother,” and assume I must be some regional potentate or minor royal.

After winding through an endless labyrinth of shops and incense fog covering 38,000 square meters, I finally stumble into the fun part of the market: the clutter bazaar. Unlike the main drag, with its gleaming daggers and sanitized robes, this section is chaos in its most charming form. Items are splayed out on tables, rugs, or the floor itself, and the salesmen operate from inside shops so densely packed with junk they’d give a hoarder anxiety.

We’re talking the kind of stuff you don’t realize you need until you see it: A phonograph from 1910. A rotary phone dating back to 1920. A typewriter from the 1950s. A car phone from the ’80s the size of a carry-on suitcase. And a beeper! Black casing, digital screen, Saudi emblem etched in gold.

I jokingly ask if he’s sure it wasn’t made by Israel. That gets a laugh from a nearby vendor.

“What Israel did to Hezbollah,” he says, making a kaboom gesture with both hands, “very clever.”

Its price tag of 275 riyals strikes me as steep for a glorified paperweight that doesn’t even self-destruct. I pass. Besides, my carry-on is already packed with vintage regret.

But the real heart of this excursion isn’t the merchandise. It’s the people.

A young man asks for a selfie.

“Do you like Trump?” I ask.

His face lights up. “I love Trump!”

I press: “Do you believe he can make peace?”

He raises his chin, and with a heap of assuredness says: “We will make the peace.”

As I continue snapping photos, a man calls out, “Thank you, my friend, thank you.” Then, “Welcome, thank you, thank you, welcome.” His English is limited but warm. He’s from Yemen, and he’s thrilled to meet a Jew. We take a selfie. We hug, gently, like a Hezbollah operative saying goodbye to his favorite beeper.

A few Saudis say they dream of visiting Israel but can’t. They’re Saudi. It’s not allowed.

Others invite me to sit and chat. One fellow, Fahed, says, “I never imagined peace could happen. And then [snapping his fingers] suddenly, Syria happens.”

Then he asks what I think of his country. I say: “Your people are incredibly friendly. And Riyadh? So beautiful, so clean.”

He nods proudly, then leans forward. “I was in Brooklyn once, 2010. Two days. And a few times when Jews saw me in the street, they would shake.”

I ask if he understands why and he assures me he does.

“But,” he adds with hope in his eyes, “this generation is different. This is generation of peace. Soon, they won’t shake anymore when they see me.”

Fahed asks if I can visit him in the souq again tomorrow. I say I have a flight to catch. He says, “You must return. Many times.”

I reply, “Insh’All-ah.” His face beams.

I’m walking through the alleyways, when I hear a snippet of conversation off to the side. An elderly man with a thick moustache is talking to a tall young man in Arabic. I catch just one word: “Yahud” that’s topping off a sentence bearing an unmistakable question mark.

I turn my Jewish head and say, “Is someone looking for a Yahud?”

The young guy laughs. “Of course, he’s Yahud,” he says in English, “can’t you see?”

The mustachioed elder stands up. He stares dramatically. “Where are you from?”

“America.”

“How many passports do you have?”

“Just my American one.”

“I want to kill Jews,” he says. “Every Jew.”

Then without any prompting, he negotiates himself down. “Well… not every Jew, a lot of Jews. The problem is, I don’t know where to start.”

This is the part where most people run or panic. I go full camp improv mode.

“So, you’re looking to destroy the Jewish People?” I ask. “Well, unfortunately, I’m probably not the best guy to help you with that.”

He presses on. “What are you doing here?”

“Who, me?” I ask. “Actually, I’m a spy.”

All three of us burst out laughing. I’ve identified the fine line between thin ice and breaking ice.

The young guy tells me his brother lives in the US, and one of their common jokes is about mailing bombs back and forth. I tell him if I hear someone in the US making a joke about a mail bomb, I’ll be sure to pass along his regards.

They eventually ask again, sincerely, what I’m doing there. I say I came with Trump. “Air Force One?”

“Yup,” I reply. “I’m Trump’s pilot.”

“Are you a journalist?” the other one asks.

“In the age of social media, everyone’s a journalist,” I reply, hedging my bets.

He says, “Did Trump really kick all the reporters off his plane?”

“Only some,” I tell him. “Not enough.”

Mustache Man isn’t done. “What do you want?”

“Peace,” I say.

“There’ll never be peace,” he growls. “Not between us and Israel. There won’t be peace because both sides don’t want peace.”

“Did you ever wish to pray at al-Aqsa in Jerusalem?” I ask.

He tells me of King Faisal, who died without that honor. “He never got to go. Now he’s dead.”

“So you’re hoping to follow in his footsteps?” I ask.

I point out that if both sides are never going to stop fighting anyway, then why not just accept it and move on? Why should he deprive himself this unique pilgrimage because two groups of strangers refuse to get along?

He narrows his eyes. “Why do you care so much about peace?”

“Because,” I tell him, “where there’s peace, All-ah sends blessings. I want blessings. And I bet you do, too.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1062)