Call me Sam, if you please. It's a lot easier to pronounce than Samiyah, I've learned painfully over the years. In my experience, westerners like to shorten and westernize Arabic names every chance they get. Most people can't even pronounce my last name, Nasir-Al-Din, so I don't even bother telling it to them. I was born in the City of Najran, southwestern Saudi Arabia. My parents, Omar Nasir-Al-Din and Amal raised me in the Saudi countryside, the part that western visitors seldom get to see.
When I talk to my friends and classmates at Carleton University about my homeland, they think everybody over there is rich. The United States of America is considered the world's richest nation and you still have homeless people on the streets of Washington D.C. but Canadians are ready to believe that poverty doesn't exist in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Why? Simply because all they see of us are the fabled Saudi royals, whom I personally despise by the way. Hmmm. I shouldn't say that, for if I'm studying in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, today, it's because of a scholarship funded by the King of Saudi Arabia himself.
I am studying business administration because I want to own my own business someday. Lots of us Saudis are living outside the Kingdom these days, and the women in those families enjoy unprecedented freedom. My cousin Nadia lives in the City of London, England, with her husband Amir and they own several restaurants in Europe's most beautiful metropolis. I'm happy for her. Me? I'm twenty years old, unmarried, and living on my own in the Capital of Canada. Never before have I enjoyed such freedom.
The first thing I did since moving to Ottawa and registering for courses at the university is find out whether a foreigner like myself could get a driver's licence. I spoke to a lady in charge of the foreign students office at school and she told me she'd look into it, but she never got back to me. I can't stand that about Canadians. They act all friendly to your face but deep down, a lot of them have a die-hard hatred for foreigners. I'm a woman of color, so I know what I'm talking about. Of course, some of them are genuinely friendly, so I shouldn't generalize. All I can say is that if you're new to Canada and you're not white, keep your wits about yourself and watch your back. All I know is that I am tired of their polite bigotry and condescension. Just because I'm a Muslim woman who wears the hijab doesn't make me weak, or a lesser form of life. I'm a human being, so speak to me like one.
I was determined to get a driver's licence, and decided that nothing short of Allah's will would get in my way. Fortunately, the solution to my problems practically walked up to me one. I was walking out of the Rideau Center's food court, one of my favorite spots in Ottawa when I saw a tall young black man sticking a flyer on a wall. The flyer read "Marianne's Driver's Ed." I looked at the sky, and thanked Allah for helping me. Then I walked up to the young man, and inquired about the flyer. Smiling, he handed me the flyer, and told me that the driver's education courses were starting soon. Thank you brother, I said, and tucked the flyer into my purse. I am Jacob, he said with a smile.
Good to meet you brother I am Samiyah, I said, with a curt bow. Typically, observant Muslim women like myself don't shake hands with males we're not related to. The rules and traditions are even stricter in Saudi Arabia where I come from. Yet for some reason, when Jacob held out his hand for me to shake, I shook it. I had a good vibe off him. Typically when I meet Canadian men, they look me up and down as if I were a piece of meat. I'm a woman and the male gaze is often on me, but I don't like being appraised like that. Jacob looked me in the eyes while talking to me, which I appreciated. I walked to the bus shelter nearby, and caught the number eighteen bus heading to Saint Laurent from downtown Ottawa. I live in the east end, in an area called Vanier, which most Ottawa residents consider a bad area.
What's wrong with Vanier? It doesn't look so bad to me. Why? Simply because I'm surrounded by people of Lebanese, Yemeni, Somali, and Pakistani descent. The Vanier area is full of immigrants. I live within walking distance of a mosque. There's a grocery store near my apartment building, and a Lebanese restaurant as well. What more do I need? I'm happy where I am. I stay in a two-bedroom apartment, and rent is six hundred a month, plus utilities. I could cut the price in half by getting a roommate, but I honestly don't want to share my space with anyone else.
Fortunately for me, I don't have to. Every month, I receive a check for two thousand Canadian dollars from the Royal Saudi Bank. I have to go to the local embassy to get it. And I have to show to the Saudi government officials proof that I'm still in school, and proof of my expenses, this isn't a free ride. They will call Carleton University to make sure, of course. That's just how they operate. Like I said, us Saudis are a strict people.
The Saudi government probably wouldn't approve of my learning to drive here in Ottawa but there's nothing they can do to stop me. The next day, I showed up at the office of Marianne's Driver's Ed, a few blocks from the Rideau Center. I saw an old black guy up front, and a middle-aged white lady. I asked them about the instructors, and they had me fill out a form, then asked me for ID. I always carry my Saudi passport with me, and I have my university student ID in my wallet. They're the only photo identifications I have in Canada. Sometimes they're enough, sometimes not. That's just the way of things.
A few minutes later, I handed them the form. That's when Jacob, the young black guy with the flyers the other day, came back. As Salam Alaikum, I said to him gracefully. Good to see you Samiyah, he said, flashing me a bright smile. I nodded and rubbed my hands together. You've got no idea how excited I was. For us Saudi women, driving is a dream that's out of our reach thanks to the draconian, sexist laws of our country. I couldn't wait to get started. Jacob sensed that, for he smiled and told me we could start right away. Before we left, he gave a hug to the old black guy at the front office and kissed the white lady on the cheek. Drive safe son, the lady told him, hugging him back.
I stood there, stunned. I looked from Jacob to the old black guy, then the white lady. Yes Jacob is our son, the old man said. Smiling at him, the white lady shrugged. We're Marianne and Isaac Henderson and Jacob is our son, she said proudly. Oh, was all I could say. I smiled and nodded, quickly overcoming my surprise. You have a lovely family, I said gracefully. Jacob smiled at his parents, then led me to another room around the back. Let's teach you some basic things about Ontario's driving laws, he said with a pleasant smile.
Thus I began my journey as an apprentice driver. Jacob told me that there was both a written part and an exam part to the provincial driver's test and in order to get a licence I had to pass both. The task seemed daunting to me, but with Jacob's reassurance, I began to feel more confident. I had a lot of questions for Jacob, and most of them had little to do with driving. I was curious about Jacob, and his family.
If I seem a bit clueless about certain things, it's all due to cultural relativity. I am not trying to offend you. In Saudi Arabia, we have a lot of interracial unions, partly because Saudi men like to bed women of all races. I've seen Saudi men with African women, Filipino women, and races I could only guess at. I've seen African men living and working in Saudi Arabia but I've never seen one with a woman who wasn't black. Most Arab men will not permit their daughters to marry a black man. Saudi women are not permitted to marry men who aren't Saudi, I'll tell you that much right now. To see a white woman with a black man, well, this surprised me.
All this I told to Jacob, with some candor. Jacob looked at me and shook his head, and told me that the world had a long way to go as far as racial relations went. Mohammed the Prophet of Allah saw the black man as equal to the white and the Arab but we Arabs are racist, I told Jacob. The young black man fixed me with a steely gaze. Are you racist? he asked me, his brown eyes boring into mine. I returned his gaze, and for some reason, my heart started thundering in my chest. I am not racist, I assured him, smiling nervously. Jacob nodded slowly, but he didn't seem convinced.
I went home that night feeling confused. The Ontario region of Canada is a really strange place. In some ways, it feels more prejudiced than my homeland of Saudi Arabia, where people still have slaves, in some form, even in the twenty-first century. I'm ashamed to say it but we Saudis could learn a thing or two when it comes to human rights. Lots of women from Africa, South Asia and the Philippines come to Saudi Arabia looking for work as domestic servants, but they end up slaves instead. The Saudi citizen who welcomed them into the country as their sponsor usually takes their passport, and holds them in bondage. There's been cases involving Saudi citizens living in western countries who've held their domestic servants in virtual slavery, and caused international scandals because of it.
As I lay on my bed that night, I thought of Jacob. This young man born of a white mother and black father was unlike anyone I'd ever met back home. I'd seen Africans in Saudi Arabia before, but they're usually migrant workers in the fields of construction if they're male, and the African females I've seen back home are usually prostitutes or domestic workers. Racism against blacks is everywhere in Saudi Arabia. It's a disturbing, sad aspect of Saudi society and I am sorry that this goes on. Jacob is studying civil engineering at the University of Ottawa and wants to be a corporate CEO someday. He's very different from the blacks back home. He's confident, smart and...strong. A fact that disturbed me and thrilled me at the same time. Oh, and he's got a cute butt too.
