Saudi Girls For Jamaican Men

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.

Jacob and I continued with the lessons, and after three one of them, we finally got behind the wheel of a car. You've got no idea how thrilled I felt. Driving. My dream. You look good behind the wheel, Jacob told me. I smiled and nodded, my hands gripping the steering wheel, my eyes on the road. And just like that, we hit the road. At last I was driving! Driving! It felt exhilarating, even though we didn't go that far, just a few blocks. After that ride, I came out of the car feeling like I was walking on sunshine, like the song says. You did good, Jacob said, in an even tone. I looked at him, and did something that shocked us both. I leapt into his arms and hugged him and kissed him. Thank Allah for you, I shouted, overcome with emotion.

I don't know who was more surprised, Jacob or myself. Sorry about this Masha'Allah I am just so happy, I said, tears streaming down my eyes. Jacob smiled at me and gently touched my shoulder. Don't worry about it sister, he said. I looked at him, at his kind eyes, and smiled. This is so haram, the two of us standing in the building parking lot, I know my parents and my preacher wouldn't approve. Yet, it didn't feel wrong to me when Jacob touched me. We should get back inside, he said. I nodded, and gathered myself as I followed him into the building.

As I gathered my belongings and got ready to leave, Jacob and I looked at each other. There was much I wanted to say. My own behavior that afternoon surprised me, but I felt it might be inappropriate. Especially with his mother and father in the office. Have a good drive? Mrs. Henderson asked me. Um yeah, Jacob said. His mother shot him a look then said that she was addressing me. Confusing day but wonderful experience, I said to her, my eyes avoiding hers. Then I wished them all goodbye and exited the building. I could feel Jacob's eyes on me as I left.

I lay in bed that night, unable to sleep. I went on Facebook, and for some reason, typed Jacob's name in the search engine. It took me sixty seconds to locate him. He's the only black person by that name, all the others were white. Impulsively I clicked on his profile, and noted with surprise that we had a mutual friend. Apparently, my friend and fellow international student Manal Hussein was friends with Jacob Henderson. Small world. I debated whether or not to send him a friend request. Impulsive excitement won out over caution and hesitation, and I sent the request. For the second time that night I got a surprise, for my friendship request got accepted by Jacob two minutes later.

Wow, I was so stunned I didn't know what to do. I got a message from Jacob greeting me via chat, and we started talking. For hours we chatted, talking about our schools, and life in the Capital. We talked about anything and everything except what happened between us in the parking lot earlier. I browsed through Jacob's profile while talking to him. He had so many pictures. Like a lot of Muslim girls, I am careful what I post online. I've got two pictures of me, little more than headshots, that's it. The rest of the pictures on my Facebook have to do with Islam, my faith, and my life back in Saudi Arabia.

Jacob on the other hand, he had a veritable library online! Tons of pictures of him with friends and family. I blushed as I saw a picture of Jacob in the swimming pool, shirtless. Oh, my. He looked simply beautiful. I clicked on the picture, and the one next to it. Shots of Jacob playing chess with a Mexican-looking guy. He likes chess, eh? That's cool. I love it too. The next picture was less than thrilling. Jacob standing in the middle of a room, dancing with a blonde-haired white female. When I saw that, my heart sank. What is it with western men and those blonde women? It's bad enough that Arab men are obsessed with them but men of other races worship them as well. That is...sad. I seriously wished Facebook had a dislike button.

I was so incensed, without knowing why, that I almost forgot I was talking to Jacob in the Facebook chat room. He'd sent me three messages while I sat there, staring angrily at the picture of him with the blonde bimbo like a zombie. I caught myself, and wrote him that my PC had temporarily frozen. Sorry to lie but the truth would have been worse in this situation. Jacob told me not to worry about it, then asked me if I wanted to grab coffee with him tomorrow. Several seconds ticked by while I debated with myself how to answer.

On one hand, what Jacob was asking me was tantamount to a date and us pious Muslim women from Saudi Arabia don't do that sort of thing. On the other hand, I could hear a voice deep inside telling to quit bullshitting and take a leap of faith. I watched my hand as it clicked the keyboard and typed YES. A few seconds later I got a smiley face from Jacob, followed by his phone number. I took it and punched it into my phone. I felt like calling Jacob, but chickened out. I'm not the forward type and didn't want him to think less of me. So I wished him goodnight online, and clicked off.

The next morning, since I didn't have classes till one in the afternoon, I met with Jacob at the Tim Horton's inside Rideau Center. He showed up looking pretty dapper ( sorry, I'm addicted to the TV show Mad Men ) in a blue silk shirt, black silk pants and boots. Me? I wore my usual, which consists of a long-sleeved T-shirt, an ankle-length shirt, and boots. I'm five-foot-ten, which is considered fairly tall for a woman. My skin is light bronze, and my hair is long, curly and black. It's my body I'm not too proud of. In Saudi Arabia, women aren't allowed to leave the house without male permission. A lot of us spend most of our time indoors. Physical exercise is a luxury for the wealthy who can afford exercise machines and fitness trainers. I'm from a rural area. So, um, yeah, I'm chubby. I haven't weighed myself in a while but I was over two hundred pounds last time I checked.

I'm not proud of my body, and fortunately for me I come from a culture where I'm expected to hide it. Yet when Jacob looked at me, I saw something in his eyes. Not the combination of curiosity, hostility and lust I sometimes see in the eyes of Canadian men and certain Muslims. No, it was something else. Whatever it was, it caused my heart beat to speed up, and I liked it. Smiling, I greeted Jacob with a hug, and then we grabbed our coffees and sandwiches. Jacob and I sat there and talked for hours. He wanted to know everything about Saudi Arabia, and my life back home.

Generally I don't feel comfortable talking about matters like these with strangers but I felt comfortable with Jacob. I told him about my parents, and my older brother Mahmoud, who's studying accounting at Brunel University in England. I shared with Jacob my dream of one day opening up my own business. Smiling, he nodded, and told me he shared the same dream. I don't want to work for the white man, he said with a shrug and a smile. I laughed at that. Your mother is white, I countered. Jacob fixed me with his steely stare, and for a moment, I worried I'd gone too far.

My mother was cast out of her French-Canadian Catholic family for loving a black man from Jamaica, Jacob said, bitterness in his voice. He continued, his eyes growing misty, his body trembling, as he shared a rather sad story with me. According to Jacob, his parents met at the University of Toronto in the early 1980s, and fell in love. Both sets of parents disapproved of the interracial union. Defying their respective families, Marianne and Isaac moved to Ottawa, got married and had Jacob and his sister Deanna, who was studying at the University of Calgary. My family knows a thing or two about prejudice, Jacob said, shaking his head.

I looked at him, this handsome, strong yet oddly vulnerable young man, the result of an interracial union. Different as we were, I could actually relate to how he felt. I've always felt at odds with the society in which I was born. Not because of my color but because of my gender. I'm an ambitious and spirited female from a country and a culture that see women as lower than men. The Prophet Mohammed respected women but today's Muslims do not. Much like Jacob, I've gone through all kinds of hell in this lifetime. More than my share. My heart went out to him. I gently took his hand in mine, and squeezed it. You're not alone Wallahi, I said with conviction.

Jacob looked at my hand on his, and said nothing. We just sat there, looking into each other's eyes. That's when Jacob leaned forward, and kissed me. It was a soft, gentle and quick kiss. Nothing like what you see in the movies nowadays. Just him pressing his lips against mine. And I kissed him back with every fiber of my being. Our first kiss. I squeezed Jacob's hand again, oblivious to the people walking nearby, staring at us. An old white man wearing a cowboy hat shook his head. An Asian gal dressed like a guy raised her eyebrows. A dark-skinned Hijabi, a Somali gal, I believe, shot me a look of pure hatred. I didn't care. Neither did Jacob. What do we do now? I asked him.

This was all new territory for me, those forbidden feelings I've got for Jacob. My heart beats for him, a young man from another faith, another race, another world. This is so haram it's not even funny. Yet when my hand touches his, it doesn't feel wrong. When he kissed me, I felt like I wanted to die of happiness. This must be what bliss feels like, in the gardens of Jannah. Hey, it's my first kiss, alright? I thought I wouldn't get one of those until my wedding day, but I think Allah had other plans. Let's go see a movie, Jacob told me. I smiled and told him that sounded good to me.

And just like that, we walked out of the Rideau Shopping Center and hopped on the bus heading to Blair Station. There's a movie theater nearby called Silver City. Jacob and I went to watch Ride Along. I'm a big fan of Ice Cube, a fact that surprised Jacob, who fancies himself the world's biggest fan of the rapper-turned-actor. I surprised Jacob further by telling him some things about Ice Cube which even he didn't know, such as the fact that Ice Cube is a fellow Muslim, and a respectable family man. Impressive, Jacob said. I smiled and shrugged, then walked into the theater with him. You learn something new every day, I told Jacob, giving his butt a firm smack right before we sat down. He was so surprised he almost jumped out of his skin. I laughed, as did the little old lady in the row behind us. You guys are so cute, she said, grinning.