I have known what I am ever since I can remember, but I haven't always been able to admit it to myself, or embrace it. My name is Halima Abdullahi and I'm a young woman living in the City of Edmonton, Alberta. I think I was destined for a life of hardship and struggle, for in the eyes of many, I'm something that shouldn't exist. An openly gay, biracial Muslim Canadian woman who wears the Hijab, goes to Masjid on Fridays and loves women.
My father Ali Abdullahi is originally from the Puntland region of Somalia, and my mother Nadine Nasser is from the small town of Baskinta, somewhere in the Republic of Lebanon. The two of them met in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, in the late 1980s. The fact that they met, fell in love, got married and had my brother Yousef and I is a testament to Allah's endless miracles.
My father came to Canada as a refugee, fleeing the inter-clan wars that virtually decimated Somalia, and my mother, who is originally from a Shiite Muslim background, came to Canada with her family due to the interfaith conflict that pitted Sunni Muslims and Maronite Christians in the Republic of Lebanon. People from different worlds meeting and finding common ground while far from home, that's the immigrant story in Canada for you.
My folks faced a lot of opposition from both of their families when they got together. My father's Sunni family has a singular hatred of the Shiites, whom they consider to be infidels rather than true Muslims. My mother's proud Lebanese family found it utterly unbelievable that their precious daughter had fallen in love with a Black man from Somalia. A lot of Arabs have negative views of Africans, and vice versa, even though most Arabs, and a sizeable number of Africans, follow the beautiful religion of Islam.
Nevertheless, against all odds, my parents got married, and moved to Alberta, where they raised my older brother Yousef and I. It should have been the end of a beautiful story of struggle and triumph, where love conquers all. Nope, life doesn't work out that way. My parents got divorced in 2011, the year I graduated from Strathcona High School and were estranged for the longest time. I found a way of getting them back in each other's lives, albeit purely by accident.
"Halima, don't tell me you're a damn lesbian, you're just confused!" My father Ali looked at me, shaking his head and quietly fuming. We sat inside a Tim Horton's not far from the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology, where I study computer science. I took a deep breath, sighed and looked at my Daddy, willing myself to be calm.
Tall and lean, with dark brown skin, black hair only slightly streaked with grey and a thick beard, clad in a black business suit and a blue silk shirt, my father looks every bit like the successful businessman he is. He's fifty seven years old but could pass for forty five. A lot of black men age beautifully, like Denzel, and my father. Dad has been working for CIBC ever since he graduated from the University of Alberta with an economics degree, and is now a branch manager.
"Aabe, I know how I feel and at this point it's my life," I said in a respectful tone, using the Somali word for Dad, and my father sucked in his teeth and smiled frostily, something he does when he's pissed but doesn't want to admit it. I know my father, and although we all have our "tells", his are fairly obvious.
"Gabar, I don't mean to tell you how to live your life, I know better than that, I just want you to be safe," Dad said, and then he sipped his coffee and looked out the window. For over a year now my father has known that I am a gay woman. The first time I told him, Dad asked me to watch out for gays because in his mind, all queers are at risk for that disease.
I've tried my best to educate my father that while certain GLBT folks who engage in risky sex are at a higher risk for STDs, any and all human beings on this planet could catch AIDs if they're not careful. Outside the Tim Horton's, it was a sunny, frosty morning in Edmonton. We're in one of the largest metropolitan areas in the Prairies, and according to experts, one day Edmonton will rival bigger cities like Montreal and Calgary in terms of population and activity.
"I know, Dad, I know," I said gently, squeezing my father's long, slightly callused hands gently. For a long time, unable to find work in his field even after earning his university degree, my father supported our family by working in construction, and even now still carries himself like a much younger man, thanks to his years at that physically demanding job.
"Any news from that brother of yours?" Dad said, deliberately changing the subject. I shook my head and smiled. My older brother Yousef is a sore subject with my father. When our folks got divorced, I was saddened but I understood that couples split, and that doesn't mean you stop loving each other, it just means you live apart. My brother Yousef, being on the emotional side, blamed Dad for our parents divorce.
"Yousef is doing alright, he's in Toronto, living with Giselle Thompson," I said, and took out my Blackberry, showing Dad a picture of my tall, caramel-skinned and curly haired older brother next to his chubby, dark-skinned Jamaican girlfriend. I met Giselle when I visited Yousef a few months ago while on a trip to Toronto, and she's really nice. The two of them met at the University of Toronto and now live together. Dad looked at the picture pensively for a long moment, and smiled, then shook his head.
"Your brother Yousef is getting chubby, I see that Jamaican girlfriend of his is actually feeding him well," Dad said, and I grinned and shook my head. Somali men, I swear! Doesn't matter how long they spend in western countries, or how educated they get, some old habits are hard to break. What can I say? They're set in their ways.
"Mom sends her best," I said softly, and my father's face when from happy to sour. Another sore point with him is mom since their divorce. Dad was traveling to Minnesota when mom began divorce proceedings against him, and he never forgave her for it. Apparently, Mom accompanied him to the airport and sent him off with a kiss. Dad thought everything was fine with their marriage, until a process server ambushed him in Minneapolis.
"Who is Nadine seeing now?" Dad asked in a conspiratorial tone, and I smiled at him while shaking my head. I wasn't about to divulge any of my mother's business. Not to him at any rate. Unlike my brother Yousef, I refuse to play favorites or get involved in my parents personal lives. Thanks but no thanks. I'm their daughter, it would be very inappropriate of me to do such a thing.
