Saudi Woman For Burkinabe Man

According to a strict Saudi Arabian law on racial and cultural relations, no Saudi woman is permitted to marry a man from outside the Arab States of the Gulf, which include Bahrain, Oman, Kuwait, Qatar or the United Arab Emirates. The realms of the Arab monarchs. Of course, by the same edict, Saudi men may marry women from whatever country or culture they so choose. Fair, isn't it?

For the first nineteen years of my, not my life, certainly, but, rather, of my existence, I followed this and many other laws of my people. As a devout Saudi Muslim woman, what other choice did I have? In Saudi Arabia, religion and government are one and the same. Tradition is steeped into every aspect of life inside the Kingdom, order is maintained through draconian methods and dissenters are not tolerated.

I broke all the rules of my faith when I fell in love with a foreigner, an African whom I met in Canada. Although this may cost me my life, I cannot change the path that I've chosen. Or rather, the path that fate has chosen for me. What can I say? The heart simply wants what the heart wants. When you're a Muslim woman, loving a Christian man is ill-advised. Couldn't help myself, though...Love makes you do crazy things.

In case you're wondering whose monologue this is, the name is Farzana Bin Khalid and I was born in the City of Farasan, southwestern Saudi Arabia. My father, Ibn Bin Khalid is a member of the House of Bin Khalid and a high-ranking member of the Department of Public Safety, the regular police force that has nationwide jurisdiction in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. As for my mother, Azra Ansari, she is originally from Mingora region of Pakistan. While traveling to Makkah for Hajj in 1989, at the age of nineteen, she met my father, and they fell in love.

I am the daughter of two worlds, of Saudi Arabia, the heartland of Islam, a forbidden place that's like no other on this planet, and of Pakistan, the world's youngest Islamic country. My looks reflect my mixed heritage. My skin is a bit darker than the average Saudi Arabian woman's due to my mother being from Pakistan and having some Tamil ancestry in her bloodline. My father's family staunchly opposed a scion of Saudi Arabian society like him marrying a dark-skinned woman from the depths of Pakistan. Not everyone believes that love conquers all, and that's especially true of Saudi Arabia, where religion and tradition supersede everything else.

Always a rogue even in those days, my father defied his family and married my mother, his beloved Azra, granting her Saudi citizenship. I came into the world in 1991, shortly before my family moved to Makkah, due to my father being promoted to the position of Captain in the Saudi Capital region's police force. I grew up in a wealthy household. We never really lacked for anything, living in a posh villa a few kilometers outside of metropolitan Makkah.

Rather than accepting a job with the government of Saudi Arabia, my father followed his passion, that which he truly loves, police work. He studied Law at Cambridge University in England as a young man, and chose to become a cop rather than a lawyer. Long before it became trendy for the families of wealthy Saudis to send their sons and later, their daughters, to study in North America and Europe, my father went to explore life outside the Kingdom while pursuing higher education.

I guess you could say that I come from a family of rebels. Dad isn't the only rebel in our family. Long before it became 'the norm' for Saudi Arabian female citizens to speak up for their rights, my mother, Azra Ansari Bin Khalid was a fairly tough lady. Fighting sexism in Saudi Arabia is a dangerous and lonely fight, both for the few Saudi women who take it up and the even fewer men who stand with them. As always, in every struggle, education was key to empowerment.

With my father's blessings, my mother traveled to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, and earned a Master's degree in accounting at Carleton University. Sadly, when Mom returned to Saudi Arabia, no place would hire her. That's why my mother launched her own business, a small bookstore filled to the brim with erotic literature painfully translated into Arabic by a Lebanese Christian associate of my parents, Nathaniel Suleiman.

This was in the days before the rise of the Mutaween, the Saudi religious police, before the Saudi royal family learned to fear agents of democracy and sedition, before domestic and international terrorism became a concern. In those days, my mother dared to break the mold by peddling erotic novels to the bored and wealthy housewives of Saudi Arabia as well as ordinary women trapped by the draconian rules of the Kingdom.

Yes, in her own way, my mother was a revolutionary. Only my father's power and connections as a high-ranking police official protected her from the fearsome reprisals that those hypocritical fart bags, the sheikhs, would unleash upon her, if they knew what she was up to. Even though I was raised in the world's most conservative nation, where women are little more than chattel, I grew up in a household where I was not only loved and respected, but I was encouraged to dream.

In the summer months, my parents would take me to exotic locales like London, England, and Boston, Massachusetts. I became fascinated by the West, and after a boring year at the prestigious Princess Nora Bint Abdul Rahman University, the largest all-female school in the world, I begged my parents to send me to study in the West. Thus I ended up at my mother's alma mater, Carleton University, in the Canadian Capital. I grew up hearing my mother's stories about life in Ottawa, the mixed-gender schools, the town's growing diversity, and the endless freedoms that western women enjoyed. I guess I was destined to go there.

I enrolled at Carleton University in September 2011 at the age of nineteen. My parents were there with me when I first set foot there during the Summer Orientation for international students. Even though this wasn't my first time in a western country, the campus blew me away. Everywhere I looked I saw guys and gals of all hues walking about, freely enjoying each other's company. Such a thing was unthinkable in Saudi Arabia.

Well, um, that's not entirely true. At the prestigious King Abdullah University of Science and Technology, the only coeducational school in all of Saudi Arabia, men and women can interact with one another with greater freedom than anywhere else within the Kingdom. Unfortunately, I lacked the grades to get into that school, since I'm only a B student and it's the most prestigious university in all of Saudi Arabia. I wept when my application for admission got rejected, but in hindsight, it was a blessing in disguise. I wanted to explore life outside of Saudi Arabia on my own, and it wouldn't have been possible if metropolitan Ottawa's very own Carleton University hadn't accepted me.

I liked the campus, and the town surrounding it. Gosh I was so shockingly naïve in those heady, bright days. I didn't know that Canada, a country that prides itself on being multicultural and tolerant, could be shockingly racist against people of non-European origin. I didn't count on the innate xenophobia that many Canadians harbored toward people from the outside world, especially Islamic countries.

When I arrived in Ontario, as a short, round and curvaceous young woman with dark bronze skin, brown eyes and black hair, I was considered a visible minority. It's what Canadians of European descent call you if you don't look like them. Further distancing me from them was my Muslim faith, and my dress code. I wore the hijab but not the burka, an item many Muslim women detest, by the way, yet Canadians never stopped looking at me as though I were an alien. I didn't know that in this land of immigrants, I would be considered the cultural other, the stranger, the odd woman out.

I couldn't envision any of these things when I first set foot in Ottawa. I thought this place would be my paradise. It was anything but. It wasn't until I began to notice people looking at me funny in the hallways of the campus and the streets of Ottawa, and saw how everyone from bus drivers to restaurant staff and mall guards treated us 'visible minorities' that I began to realize that I lived in the land of two-faced bigots, those who smile to your face and say awful things about you behind your back because of your skin color, your religion, and anything else which marks you as 'other'.

The Canadians have so many ways of letting you know they don't want you in their country, and they do so with a deceptive smile and eyes full of malice. The first time I went to the Royal Bank of Canada in downtown Ottawa to start a bank account, I had five hundred dollars cash in my purse, wired to me by my father via western union. I also carried my university student card, and my passport. Would you believe that the middle-aged white lady behind the counter told me that my documents were insufficient?

You need a social insurance card otherwise I can't help you, the lady said politely, a condescending look in her lined face. I looked at her. I see, I said simply, and walked out. I am not bringing my business to your bank, I told the lady as I reached the revolving doors. Then I stepped into the street. I found out that in order to get a social insurance card, one needed a work permit. I went to City Hall to apply for these things, and again was told my documents were insufficient. Anger rose in my chest as I realized the Canadians were giving me the runaround. Fools, I groaned, and walked out of the room, past the rows of people waiting for various transactions.

I was halfway out of City Hall's main hallway and could see Confederation Park outside the glass doors when I heard someone shout behind me. Ma'am please wait, a male voice came, and I whirled around angrily. What do you want? I said, looking the approaching figure. A tall and dark-skinned and dreadlocked young African man with kinky hair looked at me. I can help you, he said, and I hesitated, eyeing him coolly. I hadn't been in Ottawa long but I had already learned do distrust the locals. Why do you want to help me? I asked him, hands on my hips.

I am Elijah Mamadou of Burkina Faso and I've been where you are now sister, the young African man said, his odd, almost luminescent golden brown eyes boring into mine. Inwardly, I felt a frisson and although I felt like rebuffing his offer of help, something inside told me Elijah was sincere. I am Farzana of Saudi Arabia, I said hesitantly, then nodded. Elijah returned my nod, and I stared in fascination at his dreadlocks. I couldn't help but stare. I had never seen such a hairstyle. The black men I had seen in Saudi Arabia were nothing like Elijah.

I couldn't know it at the time but Elijah would prove to be a guide, a good friend and indefatigable ally in my journey in Ottawa. Elijah gave me his cell phone number and email address, and told me about the Catholic Immigrant Center on Catherine Street, a great place for newcomers in Canada in need of help. I didn't think they would help someone like me, since I'm obviously not a Christian but the ladies working there helped me a great deal. I was pleased to see that a few of the people working there were visible minorities themselves, so they understood my plight.

Thank Allah for Elijah, I thought to myself as I walked out of the Catholic Immigration Center's computer room, after filling out an application to get a work permit and prepping up a resume. I set up an account with the Citizenship and Immigration Canada website and emailed the application. From then on it would be a waiting game. I went home to my apartment on Bronson Avenue, within walking distance of Carleton, and fell on my bed with a smile on my face. Finally, things were looking up!

I figured I'd run into Elijah again, but not nearly as soon as I did. Clearly fate had plans for us, as I would later realize. I went to school the next day, and guess who I saw getting off the number four bus coming in from Rideau Center? A certain tall, dark-skinned young man clad in a bright red silk shirt and gray jeans. Smiling I made my way through the throngs of students at the bus stop. As Salam Alaikum Elijah, I said, as I stepped right in front of Elijah. Oh my, he said, his eyes widening when he saw me.

Thank you so much for helping me yesterday, I told Elijah, smiling at him. Shrugging his broad shoulders, Elijah smiled shyly. Us foreigners must help each other, he said, and I nodded in agreement. I'm heading to the university center, I told him, and Elijah followed. We walked together and talked a bit, and I learned that Elijah came to Ottawa as an international student from the town of Manga, Burkina Faso. He had recently become a permanent resident of Canada, and couldn't be happier since he could officially stop paying international fees at Carleton.

I'm a long way from that, I said wistfully, my heart sinking slightly as I thought of the extremely high amount of money my parents were shelling out to Carleton University for my education. My feelings must have reflected on my face, for Elijah looked at me pensively as we crossed the university center front doors. We came to these people's land for a reason and we will succeed because we come from harsher environments, Elijah said with conviction, an almost fierce look in his eyes.

Looking at Elijah's display of grim determination, I nodded slowly. You have spirit Elijah, I said thoughtfully, marveling at him. Elijah shrugged and flashed me that fearless smile I would come to know so well. I am African, he said casually, as if that explained everything. I smiled at that. And as a Saudi woman I can assure that these Canadians won't break me, I said, and Elijah's nod of approval told me we were on the same page.

Noting the long line of students in front of the Tim Horton's inside the University Center, I shook my head, then looked at Elijah. I am getting a coffee do you want one? he asked. I licked my lips. Actually brother I owe you, I said, for indeed, I really ought to thank him for helping me yesterday at City Hall. Elijah hesitated, frowned then smiled. You get the coffees and I'll get the sandwiches, he said. Upon hearing that, I nodded happily. The art of compromising, I grinned, and felt a frisson deep inside when Elijah winked at me.

Elijah and I lined up behind the throngs upon throngs of students queuing in front of the Tim Horton's for their morning coffee. We're so Canadian, Elijah laughed, and I nodded slowly. Why was my heart beating so fast? In hindsight, I should have known. All the signs were there. The guy was tall, dark and handsome, and although he seemed kindly and generous, something about the smoldering intensity I saw in his eyes made me nervous. Oh yeah, I had a crush on Elijah, and the day I discovered he felt the same way about me, we embarked on a journey that turned my world upside down...and it all began with a chance encounter in downtown Ottawa. Fate is definitely a funny thing...

The most important events of our lives take place when we least expect them, as has often been stated by quite a few people. Elijah and I began hanging out together, at first only at school, grabbing lunch together in the UC food court and talking. I wanted to know everything about the tall, handsome young man from Burkina Faso. Elijah spoke lovingly of his hometown of Boromo, Burkina Faso. I'll have to visit your country one of these days, I told him, in the heat of the moment.

Burkina Faso would welcome you but would Saudi Arabia welcome a man like me? Elijah asked me, sadness in his eyes. We were sitting near the television sets inside the campus food court, enjoying a delicious meal of cheese pizza with Subway sandwiches and Pepsis. I looked into Elijah's eyes and the sadness I saw there chilled my heart. Saudi isn't a good place for people of your color, I said hesitantly, biting my lip. Elijah's eyes held mine, and I shuddered at the intensity of his gaze. Blacks are little more than slaves over there, he said sadly, shaking his head.

I took a deep breath before answering Elijah. Inside, I was torn. Strangers always see the negative aspects of life in my homeland. They point out things like the Saudi religious police, the female driving ban, the sharp reprisals visited upon the Shiite minority by the Sunni majority, and the draconian rule of the monarchs of the House of Saud. As if western countries are perfect. Ha!

In Canada, natives and visible minorities are systemically discriminated against when it comes to employment, education and who knows what else. I've read about the 'special schools' where the Canadian government abused Natives for decades. In America, racist white guys like George Zimmerman get away with murdering unarmed, innocent young black men because white folks are terrified of black men. Even in the Age of Obama.

Racism goes against everything the prophet Mohammed stood for and true Muslims shouldn't judge a person based on color of skin, I said with conviction, holding Elijah's gaze. He seemed unconvinced, and I prompted him to find out what brought this on. I've been curious about your homeland and looked it up on the web but what I found scared me, Elijah said. I felt anger rising within my breast.

The biased western media shows the ugly side of every society except for those ruled by Europeans, I shot back, glaring at Elijah. Even after all I'd seen and done, I still considered myself a proud citizen of Saudi Arabia. For better or for worse, there's no place like home. No place is perfect because of the evil deeds people do, Elijah conceded, speaking softly. I considered that, and nodded. God loves and man kills, I said, quoting one of my favorites among western idioms and sayings.

We're both hot under the collar aren't we? Elijah laughed, shaking his head. I nodded and glanced around, noticing for the first time that quite a few of the other people in the school cafeteria were looking our way. Let them stare at us if they want to, I shrugged, and Elijah gently laid his hand on mine, an intimate gesture I found both disturbing and appealing.

Whoever says Saudi women are soft and weak has clearly never met you, Elijah grinned, shaking his head. I looked at his hand laying on mine, and smiled wickedly. The best way for a woman to teach a man not to cross certain lines is to nip it in the bud the first time. Let's see if I can teach Elijah a lesson. Abruptly I grabbed his fingers, and twisted them. Elijah's eyes widened in surprise. You've never met anyone like me, I smirked at him, and right before I let go of his fingers, I brought them to my lips and kissed them.

Elijah's jaw hit the floor when I did that, and I smiled coyly. Oh my, he said and grinned sheepishly. I winked at Elijah, and grabbed my purse. Let's get out of here, I said, and got up. I walked past the rows of tables full of dining students and was halfway to the door when my favorite Burkinabe caught up with me. What took you so long? I scoffed, flashing Elijah a bemused grin.

Anymore at home like you? Elijah grinned. I linked my arm with him and looked into his dark eyes, standing tall next to the imposing, dark-skinned African even though I'm only five-foot-four to his six-foot-one. I'm one of a kind Elijah, I shrugged, grinning with mischief. Elijah laughed and put his arm around me. I welcomed his touch, though I was careful not to let it show. It's a rather lovely day outside. Fancy a stroll around school? Elijah asked, and I pretended to think about it. Thought you'd never ask, I said, and we stepped out of the UC building together.

Thus Elijah and I took the first step on our budding relationship. We definitely attract our share of stares, for the sight of a black man holding hands with a hijab-wearing young Arabian woman definitely isn't something people are used to. It wasn't easy. I think Elijah and I got stared at by my fellow Muslims more than anyone else. Ottawa is getting to be fairly diverse nowadays, and mixed-race couples aren't as rare as they once were. That's just the way of the world.