Fate is definitely a funny mistress. When I think of the day I met my future husband's family, I have mixed feelings about it. You see, up until I ran into them, I was having one of the worst days of my life. It's not easy being a Muslim female immigrant of Saudi Arabian descent in the Canadian Capital, but I try my best. My name is Amal Jubeir. I moved to the City of Ottawa in the summer of 2009 from Dammam, Saudi Arabia, and I've lived here ever since. Cultural differences are a source of both pain and humor for yours truly, seriously.
"Ma'am, we're closing in ten minutes," said the tall, pale and bored-looking clerk as I entered the Wal-Mart in Barrhaven. It was ten forty nine on a Friday night, and I wasn't the only late-night shopper rushing into the super center. I barely acknowledged the clerk as I made a mad dash for the women's washroom, sandwiched between the customer service center and the local MacDonald's.
"I hope I won't need that much," I grumbled as I rushed into the ladies room, and was most thankful to find it empty. I went into the stall, hiked up my traditional long skirt, pulled down my panties, cast a last glance at the probably-not-clean toilet seat and sat down to do my business. When nature calls, we must all answer. Seriously, I knew I shouldn't have had those samosas that my good friend Sagal, a Somali sister I met at masjid a while back, all but forced down my throat.
"Trust me, those are to die for, I made them myself," Sagal said to me as we exited the women's corner of the masjid, after attending an all-female class on relationships. I looked at the tall, slender, dark-skinned and lovely young Somali woman and nodded, then took a samosa from her and bit into it. I smiled at her and thanked her for this gift, for the samosa tasted deliciously. Forty five minutes later I was kicking myself for those very words.
"Oh fuck," I said, as tears streamed down my face. My ass cheeks squeezed and relaxed, and after much squirming and farting, I finally relieved myself. Reaching around, I flushed, and the whole mess went away. I sighed in relief, and then looked at the transparent black box attached to the washroom wall, where the toilet paper should be. My heart skipped a beat as I noticed that there was absolutely no toilet paper. What's a gal to do in a situation like this?
Look, I'm not proud of what I've done, okay? I looked through my purse and couldn't find any paper. Nor could I leave the damn stall without wiping my ass. These foreign washrooms don't come with a water hose to wash one's behind, like the ones back in Saudi Arabia and much of the Islamic world. I took off my headscarf, took a deep breath, and reached down below. A few moments later, after washing my hands with soap and water, I exited the washroom with my head held high...and bare.
"Whoa, Amal, is that you? I didn't recognize you without your headgear," said a masculine voice that sounded vaguely familiar. I turned around and found myself looking into the face of one Gabriel Montello, a tall, athletic, brown-skinned and ruggedly handsome young man whom I kind of know from my Political Ethics class at Carleton University. I was really not expecting to see him in the west end, to tell you the truth.
"Salam, Gabriel, how are you?" I asked, smiling at him and hoping he'd keep this short. I really wanted to rush home and take a long shower. Gabriel stood there, and looked at me, as though mesmerized. I didn't understand why he was looking at me like that, since we sit next to each other at school and I see him several times a week. Gabriel smiled at me, and I tried not to roll my eyes. Seriously, I needed to go home, and my politeness has its limits...
"Your hair looks really lovely, Amal, I say this respectfully," Gabriel said, holding his hands up as though I were a policeman accosting him or something. I smiled and nodded, thanked him and sent him on his merry way. I stood there for a moment and watched Gabriel as he walked through the parking lot, and was joined by an older couple, a tall middle-aged black guy and a plump, blonde-haired white lady. I watched them load their purchases in the back of a red pickup truck, then they drove away. Nice to have a car, I thought.
"Interesting guy," I said to myself as I crossed the street, and waited for the OC Transpo bus to arrive. It was a cold day in late November, and I wrapped my coat around myself. I tucked my gloved hands in my parka's pockets, and prayed that the bus show up on time. Seriously, these local buses are never on time. The cost of bus passes goes up every year but service continues to suck. Welcome to the Ottawa public transportation system. To make things worse, I was the only person at the stop.
"Hey Amal," came a voice, and then a car pulled up right in front of me. I gasped as I looked at the driver, a middle-aged black man with a cowboy hat, and he waved at me. I smiled at him, wondering what he wanted. The blonde-haired white woman sitting next to him smiled at me as well. I wracked my brain, and realized that I didn't know them from anywhere. Then the pickup's back window rolled down, and Gabriel's smiling face came into view.
"Hey, Amal, need a lift?" Gabriel asked, his handsome face smiling. I hesitated. I don't usually get in cars with people I barely know. Gabriel is not even a friend of mine. The dude is an acquaintance from school. Still, I was freezing my ass, and desperately wanted to get home so I could wash my ass. Literally. I'm five-foot-seven, dark-haired, bronze-skinned and pleasantly plump. No match for the Canadian winter, or the more mundane dangers that random men present to unaccompanied young women. I would have never attempted anything like this back in my country, where women don't go anywhere without a male chaperone. Fuck it, this is Ottawa, and I'm tired of waiting in the cold.
"Thank you, sure, I don't live far from here," I replied, and a smiling Gabriel swung the car door open, and I hastily climbed aboard. I sat next to Gabriel, feeling very nervous. Seriously, this isn't the sort of thing I do often. The last time I accepted a ride from someone, I was leaving school and my friend Sagal's father Abdullahi came by to pick her up. I got in the car with them, and since they live near Baseline Road, they didn't mind giving me a ride to Barrhaven.
"Hello young lady, I'm Beatrice, Gabriel's Mom, and this my husband Raphael," said the blonde lady sitting up front as she turned around, hand extended. Hesitantly I shook her hand, and nodded respectfully at her husband Raphael when he looked at me. The car barreled down the road, and we passed a nearby Catholic school and continued a little bit before reaching Paolo Circle, one of the new subsections of Barrhaven, and the place where I live.
"Thanks for the ride, sir and ma'am, Gabriel, I will see you at school, Insha'Allah," I said, smiling at them, and then I walked up to the door of the townhouse I share with my aunt Mariam. I stuck my key into the lock, and opened the door, and noticed that Gabriel and his parents waited until I got in to start pulling away. Out of politeness, I waved them off, and then went inside.
"Amal, you little zelala, where have you been?" Aunt Mariam's shrill voice greeted me, and I sighed as I looked upon the woman who has become the bane of my life. I willed myself to be calm, and for the life of me, I wondered why fate saw fit to throw me in with her. Aunt Mariam is the wife of my late uncle Ibrahim, the man who took me in after my parents died during a plane crash in Saudi Arabia. In 2009, I was nineteen when my uncle sent for me. I came to Canada seeking a better life. Little did I know that my hell was just about to begin.
"Please don't call me that, aunty, I am just coming from the mosque," I said, hoping to placate her. Aunt Mariam is tall, plump, with dark bronze skin, icy dark brown eyes and long black hair. Unlike me, she's pure Saudi. Alright, cat's out of the bag. My father Omar Jubeir was Saudi, but my mother Beren Ozdilek was Turkish. I guess that makes me mixed. I wonder if that's part of the reason why Aunt Mariam hates me so damn much.
