Quickies, truly they make the world go round. I mean, without quick sexual release, we'd be a crazier world than we already are. Take me for example. You would never guess it to look at me but I basically live for quickies. Who's got time for the lengthy, wild and time-consuming amorous encounters described in trashy romance novels and poorly written erotica? Certainly not I. With my job, my school and my volunteerism, I'm too busy. To quote that annoying lady from those online memes, ain't nobody got time for that!
My name is Zahirah Al-Busaidi and I'm a young Omani woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I'm in my second year in the Police Foundations program at Algonquin College. I was raised in a conservative Muslim household and I wear the hijab everywhere I go. I'm five-foot-six, and weigh one hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. I have light bronze skin, light brown eyes and a slightly angular face. You can't see my hair for I never step outside sans hijab but it's long, curly and black. Most people who meet me describe me as soft-spoken, gentle and friendly. If they only knew...I am NOT soft and sweet.
At school, far away from my parents prying eyes, I am free to be me. This year I met a fellow Omani, Salim Mutara. We met at the first meeting of the Muslim Scholars Alliance meeting. Salim is tall, way over six feet, and brawny. He's caramel-colored, with kinky hair and lively golden brown eyes. He's of Swahili and Hindu ancestry. We have a lot of Africans and Hindus in the Sultanate of Oman, along with other races such as the Persians, a fact which surprises a lot of people. They think we're all Arabs. We're not. There's been racial diversity in Muslim countries for many centuries now. It's the supposedly progressive West that has to catch up with us, not the other way around.
Westerners are always lecturing us Muslims about human rights, yet it's their countries that people are being killed for the color of their skin. Among us, you'll see violence based on religious sectarianism and political strife, not useless issues like skin tone. There's supposed to be one global Ummah or Muslim community, according to the Prophet Mohammed himself. That's one of the many reasons why I love my faith. At a time when blacks and Aboriginals in Canada are just starting to get recognized as human beings, we of the Islamic faith have welcomed people of all colors into our religion as brothers and sisters equal in importance before the might of Allah, the one true God.
Sparks flew between Salim and I at our first meeting, or perhaps I was just thrilled to meet someone else from Oman. There are a lot of Arabs in Ottawa but for the most part they're Lebanese, Syrians and Palestinians. You don't see a lot of people from the Gulf regions. As a whole, people from places like Oman and Kuwait don't like to emigrate to other countries. We're quite content at home. Well, my parents, Jabril and Rawan Al-Busaidi didn't move us out of our plush villa in Shinas, northern Oman, to frosty Ontario, Canada, by choice.
You see, my family has a lot of enemies. And those enemies had already killed by uncle Amir and my aunt Rania along with my cousin Yassin. My parents weren't taking any chances. They flew us to Canada and made headlines when they immediately asked for political asylum, throwing themselves at the mercy of Citizenship and Immigration Canada. That was in the summer of 2005. Nine years later, I'm twenty one years old and a new citizen of Canada. There are a lot of things I love about being Canadian, and there's a few drawbacks as well.
What am I talking about? Please allow me to elaborate. Not a day goes by that some fool doesn't ask me where I come from. It may sound like an innocent question but it's a loaded one, trust me. Yet I must endure it. Price I pay for being a visible minority in this great nation, I guess. I typically flip them the bird when they ask me, because I know it's their polite way of insulting me about my origins. In Canada, I'll always feel like the cultural other, doubly so because of my skin color and the fact that I wear the hijab. If I were white, nobody would ever ask me where I come from.
In that regard, I'm like every non-white person living in Canada. A lot of immigrants are starting to notice it too, and we're banding together against it. That's why I am so passionate about the Muslim Scholars Alliance. We're a group of Muslim students from various nations, races and sects at school, and we stick together to promote and defend our faith. Salim and I are the most vocal members of the organization. Most of the other members, eleven in number, were born and raised in Canada. They're Muslims living in a secular country. I remember what it was like to live in an Islamic nation, with the bells of the Masjid calling us to prayer five times a day. I remember nationwide feasts of Ramadan being celebrated across the vastness of Oman. I remember my parents giving me Eid money, and sweetmeats, which made me so happy. Yeah, I love my religion.
Even though I'm a citizen of Canada, not a day goes by that I don't feel out of place here. I get hateful stares from random people as I ride the OC Transpo bus from my house in Barrhaven to the Algonquin College campus on Baseline Road. One time I went into a bookstore in Orleans and some plump white gal called me a towel head and told me to go back to my country. I used to confide in my parents but they have their own problems.
My folks have not adapted well to life in Canada. Who can blame them? This place is confusing, a land of contradictions. My father was once an oilman, and he had hundreds of men working for him. Now he's a clerk at a Chapters bookstore. My mother was once an instructor at one of Oman's top universities. Now she's a cashier at Wal-Mart. My parents are depressed, I'm sure of it. Dad works, comes home, watches TV and drinks. On days when she's not working, Mom goes out with her female friends from the local Masjid, and doesn't come back till nightfall. I worry for my parents but what can I do?
The only person I can talk to about is Salim, for he is Omani, as am I. Now that I think about it, Salim and I were drawn to one another from the start. I think that's because we come from similar environments. His family moved to Canada from Oman due to economic hardships. Mine did so for political reasons. Yup, we both left home because things went wrong. Salim's father Salmin Mutara is a Swahili, a sub-Saharan ethnic group that's been in the Sultanate of Oman for centuries.
His mother Adhita Singh-Mutara is a Hindu, part of the growing Hindu population of Oman. Salim told me how his mother's family disowned her for marrying a Muslim man from Africa against their wishes, and later converting to Islam. The Hindu people have a long and complex history of conflict with Islam, that explains why. Even when they live in Muslim countries like Pakistan and Oman, Hindus are fiercely protective of their traditions and their strange, polytheistic religions. It seems that hardship strengthens certain couples while it breaks others. I am amazed every time I visit Salim's house. His parents are so loving with one another, so unlike mine, who barely speak to each other.
