Saudi Girls Into Somali Guys

Now I will show you what I've done for you my sweet Ali. Seriously, you think you're so damn tough and I'm supposedly soft and sweet. When I smile at you while adjusting my hijab or casually walking through the hallways of our university, I see you looking at me. Lots of bronze-skinned, dark-eyed and raven-haired girls around but I am still one of a kind. I only pretend not to notice, but deep down inside, I absolutely love it. Let's face it, girls dress up as much for other girls as we do the boys we adore. And Muslim sisters like myself are no exception.

"Amina where are you going?", someone hollers, and my heart skips a beat. I freeze in front of the elevator as I hear your voice. I turn around and smile nonchalantly. "I'm off to class Ali," I shrug, looking you up and down. My eyes flit from your rugged, handsome face, to your broad shoulders, well-defined chest, and overall lean, athletic physique camouflaged by your baggy clothes. That chocolate glistens in the early afternoon sunlight, adding to your considerable charm.

"You're always in a rush", you say, smiling at me. With your blue T-shirt and white sweatpants, you've got Somali written all over you. Guys from your part of the world are my weakness but you'll never get me to admit it. "Some of us actually want to graduate and get out of Carleton", I say icily, and you briefly pout, though it's fleeting.

"Alright mama," you say casually, shrugging as if nothing ever gets to you. Not the stares you endure as you walk through the halls of our school or on the streets of Ottawa, nothing on this earth. You've got your game face on, the black man's legendary bravado. "Are you coming to the Islamic Scholars Association Banquet?" I ask innocently, my eyes boring into yours.

"Nobody told me about it, when is it?" You say, hope all too evident on your face. Your eyes stare into mine with a disarming mixture of eagerness and innocence. Groaning in mock frustration, I casually pull out a flyer from my purse and hand it to you. "It's next Saturday at the NAC," I say, practically shoving the flyer into your hands. You read the flyer, and your handsome face lights up like a Christmas tree, for lack of a better term. "Thank you so much Amina," you say enthusiastically, squeezing me into a bear hug. I pretend to be bothered but deep down, I totally love it. "You're welcome Ali, I hope to see you there."

The elevator doors swing open at last, and we rush inside. Two other students join us, a large Hindu guy and a blonde-haired white gal in a short skirt. Her lack of modesty irks my Saudi sensibilities but I flash her a polite smile. The tart has the nerve to scratch her voluminous derriere, while standing right in front of us, and I notice your eyes zero in on her. "Ouch," you yelp as I accidentally step on your foot. My high heels dig into your soft sneakers.

"I'm sorry," I say with all the sincerity of a desert fox eyeing a vulnerable rabbit. The elevators in the university center aren't the best but at last, we arrive on the fourth floor. We exit. You stand there, looking at me with an odd look on your face. "Thanks for giving me this, mamas," you say, and the gratitude in your voice warms my heart. I smile up at you, and step forward, barely containing the urge to embrace you.

And then you drive a stake through my heart. " I wonder who I'm going to go with," you say, grinning, before rubbing my head in a patronizing manner. I am seething inside. "See you later sister," you say, then trot off to your next class. I watch as you dash through the throngs of students in the Atrium, and make your way to the Tory building. "Damn you Ali," I fume, all the while admiring your cute butt as you run. Damn you to hell.

With a deep, profound sigh, I make my way to my first class of the day. Sociology of Deviance is a tough course, but it's a required one for all Law and Criminology majors. The professor is a tough cookie but I attended the prestigious and all-female Dar Al-Hanan School in my native Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. I think I can handle what Canadian university academics throw at me. At least they don't believe in corporal punishment as a form of discipline for pupils here.

"What's up Miss Al-Jasser?" comes a loud female voice, snapping me out of my reverie. I look to my right and notice my friend and roommate Deborah Rosenthal, a plump, red-haired and green-eyed gal in tight dark clothing, what they call Goth chic in the West. "Hi Deb," I say with all the enthusiasm of a woman marching to death row. Deb and I met during Orientation Day at Carleton two years ago. We were both newcomers to Canada, and international students to boot. Deborah is originally from Berkshire, England, and get a load of this, she's Jewish.

Now, you wouldn't think that I, Amina Al-Jasser, the daughter of a powerful Saudi Arabian sheikh, and a proud Muslim woman, would be friends with a Jewish chick from Britain, and you'd be dead wrong. Allah puts certain people in our path so we can learn from them. Deb is one of my best friends. "You look like you got the blues," Deb chides me as she elbows me in the ribs none too gently. We're walking through the quad on our way to the Loeb building.

"Don't want to talk about it," I say meekly, trying to get the image of one Ali Waberi, Ottawa-born Somali civil engineering student, Carleton University skirt chaser and wannabe rapper out of my head. Deb isn't letting me off the hook that easily. "You saw Ali again," Deb laughs, and I shoot her a warning glare. Seriously, why does she have to go there? "Invite me to the wedding," Deb laughs as we enter our class.

I head to my seat in the middle of the second row, and Deb joins me. "If you like a guy you have to find a way to let him know," she whispers. I roll my eyes. "I invited him to the NAC event and was about to tell him I had an extra ticket but he didn't let me finish," I say softly. The thought of seeing Ali with another gal irks me. "Got to let the fellas know when we like them because they're not good at reading hints," Deb laughs, and I smile. Her mirth is contagious.

I've been living in Ottawa, Ontario, for a couple of years now. My parents, Khan and Manal Al-Jasser, still live back in Jeddah with my younger brothers Alharbi and Yousef and I miss them dearly. I usually go home in the summer. Not this past summer. I stayed in Ottawa, got a work permit and actually got myself a job. I worked at Wal-Mart, where I met a tall, cute young Somali guy named Ali Waberi. Life hasn't been the same for me since. I think I'm falling in love with him. The guy is clueless, and he flirts with everything on two legs. My heart thunders in my breast every time Ali looks at me. Allah help me.

"I'm sure you'll get your chocolate prince charming in the end, " Deb teases, and I hiss. I'm about to swat her upside the head when the Prof walks in. "Fun time is over," I groan, and Deb nods. Class breezes by, and then I rush out. It's noon and I'm famished. "Later Mina," Deb says, and then she's off to her next class. I go to a nearby prayer room, pray for a few minutes, then exit. I make my way to the university center, and into the food court.

I walk to my favorite spot, and buy some Chinese food. Shrimp-fried rice with veggies, and sit down. Solo. In a vast cafeteria filled with students of all races and nationalities, I am sitting alone. My hunger gnaws at me even as I eat, and I realize that what I hunger for isn't food. At the table nearest mine, a young couple is making out. A tall, spiky-haired white guy with tattoos and piercings is kissing a dark-skinned young woman with dreadlocks. Probably Jamaican by the looks of her.

In spite of their lack of modesty, I gaze upon them with envy rather than disgust. "You're so lucky," I mutter to myself, gazing at the dark-skinned female as she kisses her boyfriend. I realize that I'm staring and promptly return my gaze to my food. I continue looking around the cafeteria. A couple of plump white girls walk by, hand in hand. A young Hindu guy kisses a Chinese gal's hand and she giggles while looking at him adoringly. Why can't I have what they have?

In my religion and culture, we have many restrictions as far as interactions between unmarried men and women. Such is our society. In Saudi Arabia, the strictest of Muslim countries, much of what ordinary men and women consider normal behavior would get you arrested by the Mutaween or Saudi vice police. I envy westerners sometimes, I truly do.

"Boo!" A loud male voice shouts, inches from my ear, snapping me out of my musings. I whirl around, shocked. Ali's smirking face is inches from mine. My heart skips a beat. "You bastard," I say, shaking my head and clutching my chest with one hand. "I got you good," Ali laughs, looking me up and down. I roll my eyes, refusing to admit it. Seriously, the last thing I want to do is give him a bigger head.

"Got a minute?" Ali asks, pulling up a chair and sitting across from me. Feigning annoyance, I look him up and down. "Make yourself at home," I say with a shrug. I look at Ali, and the seriousness on his dark, handsome face surprises me. He's the eternal joker, the guy who pranks men and women regardless of whether he's at work or at school. "I got something to discuss with you," he says.

"Need help with your elective homework again I take it," I smirk with a touch of condescendence. Like most students in majors such as mathematics, engineering or science, Ali can't make heads or tails of humanities-type stuff like sociology, psychology or law. It doesn't compute with their geek brains, I guess. "Nah I'm cool," Ali says. Last semester, I practically did all of his homework for him when he took psychology as an elective. I griped while doing it but I was happy to help Ali. Anything to get closer to the big lug.

Ali shakes his head and looks at me. Gently, he lays his big hand on mine. "Amina, I think I like you," Ali says, shrugging, his eyes staring intensely into mine. My heart skips a beat. Cold sweat rushes between my shoulder blades. "I see," I say evenly. Though outwardly calm, inside I'm elated. I feel like jumping for joy. Ali likes me. Ali likes me! "This a ploy to get a free ticket to the NAC from me?" I ask casually, in my usual snarky tone.

Ali groans in frustration. "I knew this was a mistake," he says, shaking his head. He rises to leave. I grab his hand with all the force I can muster. I'm only five-foot-four and quite slim, I look tiny next to a tall, athletic guy like Ali. But I am strong when I need to be. Always have been. And I may have made the mistake of a lifetime by pushing Ali too far. How could I have been so foolish? The guy just bared his heart to me and I was so snide and cold to him. Too chicken to admit the feelings I've had for him for the longest time.

"What are you doing?" Ali asks, looking at my tiny hand gripping his wrist like a vise. I take a deep breath and look into his eyes. "This," I say, and grab him by the collar of his sky-blue T-shirt. Then I kissed him. That's right, I stood on my tippy toes, grabbed Ali, the macho Somali who acts like he owns Carleton, and I kissed him. In front of everybody. In the university center food court.

"Whoa," Ali said, looking at me uncertainly when we came up for air. "In case that was unclear for your male brain I like you too Ali," I smile. Ali grins, and sits back down. I entwined my hands in his. "You've got sweet lips Miss Saudi Arabia," Ali grins. I wink at him. "Amen to that," I smile happily. Everyone is staring at us, but I don't care. Not every day you see a pious, hijab-wearing Muslim sister, from Saudi Arabia of all places, kissing a black man, out in the open.

If I were in my country, my actions would be considered criminal. Women and men who engage in relations outside of marriage, even if they're both single, are harshly punished in Saudi Arabia. If my parents knew, they'd be horrified and our whole family would be scandalized. My life might have been in jeopardy. However, I'm in Ontario, Canada. Literally thousands upon thousands of miles from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I'm with Ali, and he's with me. Let people think what they will. I honestly don't care.

"Let's take a walk mamas," Ali says, and I clasp my hand in his proudly as we make our way out of the university center food court and down the stairs. "I'm happy you told me today because I've had feelings for you since last summer," I confessed to Ali, who laughs. He gently strokes my face. I kiss his fingers when they brush against my lips. "And you never said anything, Ali says, shaking his head in disbelief.

I shrug. "Hesitation will always be my fatal flaw, but I am ready to start living," I said evenly. Ali pulls me into his arms and kisses me. "Good answer mamas, he laughs." Thus we took our first stroll together as a couple. Tonight, I'm going to have so much to tell Deb, about this wonderful new development. Ali told me he liked me, and I kissed Ali, right in front of everybody! For now, though, I'm walking tall, hand in hand with the one I cherish above all others. I'm a happy woman.