The life of a widow is never easy, whether she's poor, wealthy, or somewhere in between. Such has been the fate of such women since the dawn of time. Montreal-Nord resident Milana Amagov knows this better than most. After her husband Aslan Amagov died a year and a half ago, life has been pure hell for the forty-nine-year-old Chechen Muslim woman. Loneliness plagued Milana since her only son Said opted to move to Washington D.C. to be with his girlfriend, a Lebanese gal named Nadia Khazen.
"Aslan, my dearest husband, I miss you so much, truly I hope the Most High granted you highest paradise," Milana said as she walked out of the sisters entrance of the mosque. This particularly mosque, one of the oldest in the City of Montreal, Quebec, had been a favorite of the Amagov family for the longest time. In fact, Aslan's funeral ceremony had been held there, and the couple's son Said had been among the pallbearers carrying the old man's casket.
Milana blinked back bears as she thought of that not so distant day, and she shivered, and not because of the Canadian winter. It was a frosty Friday morning, and as is her custom, Milana liked to come into the mosque, get her prayers done and go about her day long before the masjid filled with the throngs of worshippers around high noon. For her peace and serenity, Milana preferred to pray in silence, thank you very much.
Milana thought of the olden days back in the City of Shali, in the Shalinsky District of the Chechen Republic. Although considered small by Western world metropolitan standards, with its population of almost fifty thousand, the City of Shali is considered one of the largest settlements within the Chechen Republic. Milana allowed herself a smile as she reminisced about her hometown. It had been a long time since she'd seen it, that's for sure.
Milana and her dearly departed husband Aslan were born and raised in the same neighborhood within the City of Shali. They met, fell in love and got married there. Indeed, they would have spent their whole lives there if it weren't for the events of the First Chechen War, during which Russian Jet Aircrafts repeatedly bombed the town. Thus began Milana and Aslan's exodus from Chechnya, and they wandered across Europe before finally settling in the Quebec region of Canada.
Milana and Aslan's son Said was born in the City of Montreal, Quebec, and was more Canadian than his parents would ever be. He'd never been to Chechnya, since his parents renounced their Russian citizenship prior to becoming citizens of Canada. Said Amagov is a true son of the New World, to say the least. The young Chechen-Canadian Muslim grew up to be tall and handsome, with his mother's dark hair, his father's fair complexion and his mother's emerald eyes. Said Amagov studied Political Science at the University of Montreal, and later moved to Washington D.C. to work for a reputed U.S. think tank with an interest in Eastern European affairs.
"Mother, I know that the City of Montreal is dear to you and Baba but my life is in Washington D.C. with Nadia," Said explained to Milana the last time they skyped. Milana looked at her son and his Lebanese-American girlfriend Nadia, a plump, raven-haired, bronze-skinned young woman who kept looking blankly into the screen. Milana would have preferred to see her only son Said marry a nice young Chechen gal, but fate had other plans.
Life happens while we make plans, Milana silently reminded herself. She wanted to see her son Said more often, but knew that he was a young man in his twenties, concerned with affairs of the heart as well as career advancement. Milana knew that she'd be lucky if she saw her son a few times a year, since he was evidently growing attached both to his new life in Washington D.C. and his Arab American lady friend.
"I understand, my son, may the Most High bless you and Nadia," Milana said, smiling faintly, and then she wished Said and Nadia goodbye. Milana told herself that she should be happy with her son, for many of the other young people in their community weren't doing so well. Life hadn't been kind to the Chechen Muslim Diaspora since those terrible events in the City of Boston. The world looked at the Chechen immigrant communities with suspicion, to say the very least.
Just a few months ago, Milana had done something completely out of character. She'd gone to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, to join a protest in front of the Russian Diplomatic Mission. A group of young Chechen Muslim men, university students, were hanging out at a club in Moscow, Russia, when some local toughs accosted them and ended up roughing them up.
The incident made international news, and various human rights organizations in the United Kingdom, Canada and the United States of America were highly critical of the Russian government for their steadfast refusal to prosecute the Russian thugs who roughed up the trio of young Chechen Muslim men. Even though Russia billed itself as a democratic nation, Milana definitely knew better. The Russian people's hatred for Chechen Muslims would never completely go away.
As to be expected, the Russian government kept mum about the incident, and eventually, the news outlets moved onto the next big story. The incident struck a chord with Milana because those young Chechen Muslim men were the same age as her dear son Said. It could have been my son, Milana thought angrily. How she loathed Russian bigotry and deceit...
Milana felt lonely and abandoned in the City of Montreal, with her husband and son long gone. Fortunately, fate sent her deliverance in a most unexpected form. One evening, Milana was coming out of the mosque, when she saw a young black man come running into the mosque courtyard. He made a beeline for the door, and she stepped aside to let him in.
"Brother, this is the sister's entrance of the mosque," Milana said to the young black man, who stood there, out of breath, looking nervous. Before the young man could reply, however, there was a knock at the door. Silently the young man shook his head and looked at Milana pleadingly. Shaking her head, Milana went to answer the door.
"Hello, ma'am, we're looking for a young black man about six feet tall, wearing a red jacket," said the Quebecer policeman, a stocky man with red hair and a fair complexion. Beside him stood another police officer, a tall, athletic young black man with a grim expression. Milana looked from one officer to the next, and shook her head.
"Officers, this is the sisters entrance of the mosque, no men may enter here," Milana said truthfully, and the two policemen exchanged a look, then apologized and moved on. Milana watched as the two policemen returned to their car, which was around the corner, and then after a while, they drove away. Sighing, Milana turned to look at the scared-looking young black man.
"Look, I don't know who you are or what you did, but the police are gone, I suggest you wait a bit, then leave," Milana said, and the young black man nodded. As she looked at him, she noticed that he was bleeding from the mouth, and looked like he was about to cry. This one can't be more than twenty years old, Milana thought, not knowing whether to pity him or feel angered by his life choices.
"Thank you, ma'am, I'm Claude, I'm not a criminal, I was just walking when they approached me and started roughing me up, so I ran," the young black man said, and Milana looked at him, then shook her head. He looked sincere, but she didn't know whether to believe him or not. She watched Dateline NBC online and knew that lots of criminals could look sincere as they spun lies.
"Well, Claude, sounds like you need to get yourself a lawyer, the mosque is empty, so count yourself lucky, you can wait a few minutes before I lock up," Milana said evenly. She'd been volunteering to clean up the mosque, and had been the last to leave as the volunteer coordinator. Contrarily to popular belief, Muslim women did a lot more to keep the mosques going than most people, including fellow Muslims, realized. The Muslim woman is the backbone of Islam, Milana thought proudly.
"Thank you ma'am," Claude said, and after a while, he left. Milana watched him go, and thought that, criminal or not, he looked in poor shape. If he was guilty, the police ought to arrest him, not rough him up like rogue cops in a bad episode of Law & Order SVU. After locking up both the brothers and sisters entrances of the mosque, Milana got in her car and drove away.
A few days later, Milana sat on her couch and watched a special report titled Police Racism in Montreal. CTV Montreal News reporter Julie Duchene, a pretty blonde gal in a sharp pantsuit, interviewed a young black man of Haitian descent named Salomon Claude, second-year student at McGill University, who claimed to have gotten racially profiled by members of the Montreal Police Service while coming out of a grocery store.
"Oh wow, the lad was telling the truth," Milana said to herself, as she watched the TV news report. There was a big brouhaha, as the incident was caught on tape by some passersby. They filmed Salomon Claude coming out of the Chinese-owned grocery store with items he'd legally purchased, then getting accosted by two uniformed policemen, one black and one white, and they seemed to rough him up for no reason until he somehow got loose and ran from them. Shameful, Milana thought, angered.
The following Friday morning, Milana went to the mosque, early in the morning, but this time, there was a surprise waiting for her. She came and found Imam Samir Abdullah, a tall, grizzled older Somali Muslim man, standing outside the mosque, in deep conversation with a tall, well-dressed young black man who looked very familiar.
"Salaam, Sister Milana, this is Salomon Claude, the one from the news this week, he came to thank us and you for saving his life," Imam Samir said, smiling. The old Muslim preacher nodded at Milana, who bowed her head gently, and looked at Salomon Claude, who smiled at her. He looked good in a dark gray suit, blue silk shirt, black tie, dark gray silk pants and black Timberland boots. Brother looks like he's going to church, Milana remembered thinking.
