Saudi Heiress Into Black Men

It's my body and I can do whatever I want with it, isn't that one of the most sacred mantras of the feminist movement? As a Muslim woman from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, the heartland of Islam, and a fledgling feminist, I have often butted heads with my well-meaning but ill-informed and at times, culturally clueless western friends.

To me, there is more than one brand of feminism. It's not all about provocatively dressed and self-assured career women challenging male authority in the corporate boardroom. A pious, hijab-wearing Muslim sister who speaks up about certain inequities in the institutions of her faith and community is defying sexism in her own way. Feminism and female empowerment need not be monolithic.

One blonde-haired white lady whom I met at a women's conference on health care told me flat out that she didn't believe I could be a Muslim woman and a feminist. I had to force myself to simmer down as I explained to her that my Islamic faith mattered very much to me, but in no way does that make me less of a strong woman. The woman walked away shaking her head in disbelief, while I gazed upon her with disgust.

Confusing? I bet. I know how it all sounds. My name is Naheeda Mahmoud and I'm a gal with a story to share with you. I was born in the town of Al-Kharj, central Saudi Arabia, to a Saudi Arabian father, Yassin Mahmoud, and a half Somali, half Yemeni mother, Yasmin Khayre. I spent the early years of my life all over the middle east, for my father, an Oxford University-trained engineer, worked for various companies in places like Oman, Lebanon, Syria, Morocco and even Bahrain. I guess you could say I'm a woman of many worlds.

Even though the various nations of the Middle East share much in the way of culture, each country is unique. Take the common Islamic name Suleiman for example. It's written Souleymane, Suleiman, Sleiman, and who knows how many other ways depending on where you go. I had to keep an open mind and adapt to the unique cultures of each nation where I lived. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the culture shock of Western society.

At the age of eighteen, I moved to the City of London, England, with my parents. Great Britain was far different from any of the lands where I lived previously, but I grew to like it immensely. There's no town on this planet quite like London. It's beautiful and diverse, full of people from all over the world. Scores of African immigrants along with Arabs, South Asians and others make London their home.

I enrolled at London Metropolitan University, one of the top schools in Europe, to study business management and embarked on a life-changing journey. I moved into a one-bedroom apartment near Eden Grove, within walking distance of LMU. My parents wanted me to live at home but I wanted my own place. I shall miss our old house near Canonbury Park, it's the first place we moved into once we arrived in London. My folks still live there. The place holds so many memories. For me, though, the time had come to spread my wings and fly away.

LMU totally blew me away, even though I told myself I was ready for it after visiting the campus and talking to faculty as well as current and former students. The campus was lively and quite diverse, with a sizeable number of Chinese, Hindu and Arab students. Among these throngs of students, I saw very few Africans. As the daughter of a mixed-race woman of African and Arab descent, I have always sought to gain greater understanding of my heritage.

I'm a beautiful blend of two of the world's most beautiful cultures, my mother is of Africa and my father is a proud son of Arabia. My skin is light bronze, my hair is long and perpetually curly, my lips are full, my hips are wide and my derriere is big, nice and round. Even though my skin is pale, I most definitely have most if not all of a Black woman's classic features. In fact, when I finally decided to stop wearing the hijab, I grew my hair into an Afro.

I'd been toying with the idea for a while and never had the guts to follow through with it. I'd always been somewhat of a conformist. To be a rebel while female and Muslim in certain parts of the world is to invite disaster. Yet after years of living in London, meeting women and men from all over the world and getting to know them, I felt like I should get out there and explore. Have some adventures of my own, you know?

Thus, I walked into an Afro-Cuban spot called Domingo's Hair Salon in the east end of London, with my friend and classmate Maria Gonzalez. I met the tall, dark-skinned and curvy young woman in my Intro to Business class in September. Maria was born in Berkshire to a Ghanaian immigrant father and Cuban mother. Like me, she's mixed race, and ill-at-ease with the identity politics clashing through all sections of British society as of late. You could say we bonded.

Maria knows London like the back of her hand and as President of the Black Student Association at London Metropolitan University, this social butterfly knows practically everyone on campus. We became inseparable, hanging out together at malls, movie theaters and sometimes, going out to clubs with some of our friends. Thanks to her, I slowly but surely came out of my shell. I even started dating, and one cool guy I met was Joseph Suleiman, a tall, dark and handsome stud of Lebanese and white British ancestry.

Now, in the Muslim world, Christian women and Jewish women may wed Muslim men but Muslim women are forbidden from marrying men from other religions. I took a calculated risk by going out with Joseph, but I figured what my parents don't know won't hurt them. Joseph was a lot of fun, and we saw each other on and off for six months. Then he left LMU to spend a semester at Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario. Lots of British students are opting to study in Canada and America these days. I don't know why. Don't they know England has the world's best schools?

I missed Joseph Suleiman sorely during the first couple of months after he was gone. We kept in touch on Facebook and via Skype but it wasn't the same. In the end, I had to resign myself to the fact that my first boyfriend was gone and my first relationship truly over. You never truly forget your first one, that's for bloody sure. Still, as much as it pained me, I eventually moved on. Three months after my dear Joe left me for the bright lights of Canada, I finally met someone special.

Victor "Thad" Thaddeus was one fine specimen of the male species. Tall, dark and handsome, he was born somewhere in Sussex, to a Jamaican immigrant father and white British mother. With his caramel-hued skin, golden brown eyes and curly black hair, he was almost eerily beautiful. Oh, and he wasn't just easy on the eyes either. The dude is one of the top students in the economics department at London Metropolitan University. I found him beyond sexy when I first spotted him at a meeting of the Black Student Union. That's why I begged Maria to introduce us.

Victor and I totally clicked that Monday evening in the meeting hall at school, and exchanged numbers. The following night, he called me and we ended up talking on the phone for hours. I agreed to meet him Thursday for coffee, and I felt intensely attracted to him as we sat inside a neat little café near campus, sipping on coffee as we learned a bit more about each other. We had quite a bit in common, actually.

Victor's parents, Vincent Thaddeus and Josephine Lansbury-Thaddeus are globe-trotters, working for S.O.S. an organization that helps orphans around the world. Victor and his parents have lived in Morocco, Brazil, Algeria, South Africa, and even the Philippines. I was mightily impressed, and told him about my family's constant travels due to my father's job when I was younger. Victor and I laughed and cried a bit as we exchanged fish-out-of-water stories, and I found myself relaxed and quite happy around him. Finally, someone who could relate to me. I guess you could say I was smitten.

Victor and I embarked on a hot, passionate relationship. One we unfortunately had to keep from my parents. My folks give me a lot of leeway but at the end of the day, even the most liberal Muslim will frown upon an interfaith relationship between a young Muslim woman and a non-Muslim male. Victor was raised in the Christian faith, Mormonism to be exact, and while he seldom brought up his religion, I knew it was important to him. I was raised Muslim and discovered in myself a penchant for loving Christian men. Quite a dilemma, wouldn't you say?

Still, none of us can help who we love. I can't help the way I feel about Victor. I cherish him for his fearless smile, his kind eyes, his charm and wit. I love the way he makes me feel when he holds me in his arms, and kisses me passionately. I love the way Victor smells and tastes as we make love. I love to wrap myself around him as he enters me, his manhood stabbing my cunt with powerful thrusts as he conquers me like only he can. I can't get enough of his passionate lovemaking, as he ravishes my body. And I shudder with excitement as he spreads my legs and eats my pussy like a ravenous man....

I love the way Victor can get so rough with me one minute and so gentle the next. Sometimes he throws me on the floor, gets me on all fours and enters me roughly from behind, his member slamming into my womanhood with the force of a freight train. And I yelp and moan deeply as Victor takes me, pulling my hair and spanking my big round bum as he possesses me completely. He's the only man a strong woman like myself can ever yield to, and we both know it. Victor always leaves me exhausted after our bedroom escapades, but in a fun way.

Thanks to Victor, I have passion in my life. I truly do wish I could tell my parents about this young man that I'm honestly falling in love with. Sadly, I can't, for I know that as much as my parents say they love me, they're Muslims first and foremost and citizens of Saudi Arabia to boot. They simply wouldn't be able to stomach it if they were learn that I'm with Victor, a young Christian man, and that I've given myself to him, mind, body and soul. The fact that I'm no longer a virgin would be cause for shame ( if they knew ) and they'd punish me severely. Death before dishonor of the family, a sadly common theme in the realm of our Islamic faith. So, what's a gal to do? Keep living and loving. One day at a time, I suppose. Wish Victor and I luck, for we are going to need it.