Saudi Woman Marries Haitian Man

Always hold your head high when walking in the sea of hostility, I say to my grandson Djohar "Joe" Pierrot. Thanks grandma, the six-foot-tall, honey-colored young man says as he gently kissed my forehead. With a sigh, he pulled away from me. Tugging at his collar, he straps on his backpack and gets ready to leave. Enjoy your classes at U of T, I shout to him as he leaves, but he barely hears me, for he's got much on his mind. That's my Joey, always moody and intense, but today, he's got a good reason.

Another snowy day in Montreal, Quebec. I should be getting ready for my meeting with the elders of the church, but I'm a bit preoccupied. All is not hunky dory in my world. My grandson got followed around the local Loblaw's grocery store by a white female clerk whom he says was quite obvious about it. When he confronted her, Diana the clerk was unapologetic, much to Djohar's consternation. Racism, will it ever go away? I've seen much good in my sixty six years on this planet, but even I'm not that naïve. My name is Adila Hussein-Pierrot, and I have much to share with you today.

I first saw the light of day on February 7, 1947, in the City of Al-Qatif, Saudi Arabia. My parents, Yassin and Sara Hussein came from very different worlds, to put it mildly. My father is of pure Saudi Arabian descent, and the patriarchs of our family was present when the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia first came into being. As for my mother, Sara Tilahun-Hussein, she was born and raised in the town of Bishoftu, Ethiopia. My mother's father, Ali Tilahun was Ethiopian but her mother, Nadira Murad was pure Yemeni. It's not often you hear about Arab women marrying black men, but it's been known to happen. With such unique lineage, my mother definitely stood out among the beautiful ladies of Ethiopia.

I remember my mother as a strong woman determined to give her best to her husband and family. Even though, with her bronze skin, dark hair and dark eyes she looked more Arabian than African, she was proud of her Ethiopian heritage and often spoke fondly of the nation in which she was born. Her exotic beauty and spirited character drew the gaze of my father, the son of a wealthy Saudi sheikh, and he took her as wife. Ethiopians aren't well-treated in Saudi Arabia when they come into the Kingdom as migrant workers and such, but Saudi men's fondness for black women is well-known. For a Saudi man of wealth and power to bypass Saudi women and take an Ethiopian lady as wife wasn't unprecedented, but it's not something that happens often. Saudis prefer to marry their own people, as do many others across the Ummah.

Now, being the daughter of such a unique pair in a place like Saudi Arabia wasn't easy, in spite of our family's wealth. The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is the heartland of Islam, and every year millions of visitors from around the Muslim world and beyond come to our borders, seeking God. For the Holy Cities of Makkah and Madina are within our borders, and every true Muslim must visit them at least once in his or her lifetime. Since Saudi Arabia is such a hub of tourism, you'd think our people would be more open-minded when it comes to racial relations, but sadly it isn't so. Black people aren't well-received here. A while ago, the plight of Nigerian Muslim women traveling to Saudi Arabia for Haj without their husbands made international headlines, for Saudi authorities threw these women in prison for violating the Kingdom's strict laws about women traveling without male permission or guardianship.

A lot of Muslims from other countries as well as westerners were appalled by the story, but they shouldn't be surprised. Not really. Even for a Muslim nation, Saudi Arabia is strict. The things they've done, both to their own citizenry and outsiders, and somehow justified in the name of Islam boggle the mind. I know this, that's why I left it as soon as I could. In the fall of 1964, my parents sent me to study at the University of Paris in France, for my father was fond of the City of Lights after visiting it in the late 1950s. While studying at the University of Paris I met the man destined to change my life forever. Philemon Pierrot, a tall, ruggedly handsome young man from the island of Haiti.

Like many Francophones from around the world, the young Haitian felt drawn to Paris, and opted to study there. We were in the same literature class, Phil and I, and shared a fondness for Les Fables De La Fontaine. Classical French literature is simply beautiful, and I am in awe of it to this very day. Even though many French people aren't fond of people of color, thanks to the rampant xenophobia and anti-Muslim sentiment rampant in France today, I'll always love French culture and literature. Corneille, Des-Cartes and of course La Fontaine, they're among the best writers of all time. I must say that Philemon was unlike anyone I'd ever met when we were first introduced. I had seen many black people in Saudi Arabia, for almost all of our migrant workers come from places like Senegal, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Gambia and other countries with large populations of Black Muslims.

My lineage includes Saudi, Ethiopian and Yemeni, but I was considered purely Arab wherever I went by virtue of my looks and my Saudi citizenship. In those days I stood five feet nine inches tall, curvy but fit, and round only where it counts. I was considered quite beautiful in those days with my light bronze skin, long black hair and light brown eyes. I knew that my mother was half black and half Arab but I'd spent a lifetime denying this part of myself. Philemon gave me a bit of forced perspective, which is something I sorely needed at the time. I can tell you've got some black in you my sweet Saudi lady, Philemon would tease and taunt me in some of our debates about African history and Islamic culture. I'm Saudi, I told him with as much hauteur as I could muster.

You don't have the flat chest and flat butt that Arab women have and those full lips of yours look like a black woman's lips to me, Philemon teased. You are one deluded little man, I told him through gritted teeth. We were sitting inside a café located not too far from the University of Paris campus in Sorbonne, and instead of making polite conversation like a gentleman, the Haitian was getting on my last nerves. Yet for some reason I stayed and talked to him, instead of storming off like half of me felt like doing. I've told you that we've got a lot of blacks in Saudi Arabia, yes? Philemon Pierrot was unlike any of them.

Indeed, the Haitian seemed like a different breed of black man. He carried himself like a king, and seemed wild and combative, especially in front of bigoted Frenchmen who sometimes made crude comments to him when they ran into him in the hallways of the university. The Republic of Haiti defeated France once and if you harass me I'll do to you what my ancestors did to Napoleon's imperial troops, Philemon defiantly told Luc Celac, a red-faced plump little Frenchman who called him "sale negre Haitien" in the halls after losing a debate to him in class. In spite of myself, I began to feel a grudging admiration for Philemon Pierrot, the man who never backed down.

Philemon was so unlike the other black men I grew up seeing in Saudi Arabia and elsewhere. As my fascination with him increased, I set out to discover what exactly made him different. That's how it all began. From awkward talks and loud discussions in the school library and shouting matches over religion and race, we formed a tentative friendship. Soon we became inseparable, for although Philemon could get on my nerves and all, there were a lot of things about him I liked. For example, he was very smart, charming and knowledgeable about a great many things. He'd been to many places around the world, such as America and Canada, countries I yearned to visit.

On our many outings together, Philemon regaled me with tales of his travels, and of his homeland. I knew much about Arab history, and the history of our European rivals such as France and England, but I was stunned when Phil told me that the first country to successfully throw off the yokes of European imperialism is a black nation in the Caribbean, the Republic of Haiti. One day the world will belong to people of color, Philemon told me confidently. I smiled at that. You almost sound like a Muslim preacher, I told him. Indeed, many in the Arab world were prophesizing a day when Europe might fall to Islam. A lot of Muslims from the Arab world and beyond live in Europe now so you never know, Phil admitted.

I looked at this tall, dark-skinned young man with his shaved head and clean, boyish face. I peered into those eyes of his which could be so funny, warm and expressive one moment and cold and hard as pieces of granite the next. Indeed, he was beautiful in his own way and my fascination with him was only growing. My own feelings toward him surprised me. I'm a Saudi woman and in Saudi Arabia the sort of friendship Philemon and I have in Paris would never have been permitted. Observant Muslim women like myself live with our families and later with our husbands. We're supposed to stay away from men, and my outings with Philemon are definitely haram. I know this, but I couldn't stop. I had to ask myself why.

Could it be because, for the first time in my existence, there was a man in my life who valued my mind and not just my body? In Saudi Arabia, the fate of all women, from the royal princesses down to the poorest women in the rural areas, is to be nothing more than the vessels through which men create their offspring. My father sent me to study overseas because he thought I'd fetch a far higher bride-price, and be considered exotic and appealing, if I had a university degree from a western country such as France. In Saudi society, it is believed that women should be seen and not heard. We cannot leave the house without a male guardian or go anywhere or work without male permission. Such is our fate, from the cradle to the grave.

Back home, I questioned a lot of things about my Muslim faith and Saudi culture but I kept these questions to myself, for voicing them could get me killed. I knew that there had to be other Saudi women out there with the same questions, but I seldom spoke to anyone outside the women in my family about my concerns. Amazingly, whenever I felt lonely in Paris, my friend and confidante turned out to be a guy who was neither Muslim nor Arab. Philemon Pierrot was a Roman Catholic, and knew next to nothing about Islam but he lent me a supportive ear when I needed it the most.

No country can rise higher than its woman and the Saudis should remember that, Phil told me as we sat in a quiet corner of the school library one night, not hugging or anything but sitting close while sipping coffee. They'll never change, I said with a sad little shrug. Let's get out of here, Phil said, gently laying his hand on mine. I looked at him, then at his hand on mine. I kind of froze when Phil touched me. We'd been friends for a long time but we never touched. In my culture, touch between unrelated individuals is haram. And even though I live in Paris, France, I'm still very much a Saudi woman. I don't wear the burka anymore but I wear my hijab with my T-shirt and blue jeans. Are you alright? Phil asked me, misinterpreting my silence for something else. Good idea mon ami let us take a walk, I said, with more cheer than I felt. We left the school library, and made our way to our favorite corner of Paris, Les Champs Elysees.

If you get the chance to visit Les Champs Elysees, you'll know what I'm talking about. It's one of the most beautiful streets in the world. People from all over the world make it a priority to visit it whenever they're in Paris. I linked my arm with Philemon's as we went into a little bookstore, and bought a copy of his favorite book, Les Trois Mousquetaires by Alexandre Dumas. The author of this book is a black man from my country, Philemon said proudly. Indeed monsieur he is from the Caribbean, said the shopkeeper, a short little Frenchman with reddish brown hair. What would we do without you Haitians, I smiled at Philemon as he paid for the book and we left the store together.

Arm in arm on the streets of Paris, is there anything more romantic than that? Little by little, my feelings for Philemon had been growing, and I must say, the sight of him often made my heart skip a beat. Yes, somehow, I was falling fast for this cocky, debonair, wild man from the Caribbean. As a prim and proper Muslim woman from Saudi Arabia I should know better, but I couldn't care less. We grabbed sandwiches at a nearby diner, and sat for hours, talking the night away. When the evening concluded, Philemon walked me back to the University of Paris campus, and marched me to my doorstep like a gentleman. Bonne nuit ma princesse, Philemon said warmly. I stood there, and looked at him. There was so much I wanted to say, but the words caught in my throat. Instead I practically lunged at Phil...and planted a kiss on his lips.

Yup, that's me. A hijab-wearing unmarried woman from Saudi Arabia, locking lips with a big and tall, dark-skinned guy from the Caribbean. Students walking by the women's dormitory stared openly in undisguised fascination ( or revulsion ) but I didn't even care. Wow, Philemon said, when we came up for air. He looked at me with a nervous smile on that handsome mug of his. Bonne nuit mon ange noir, I told him. With a smile I hope was both coy and seductive, I placed my index finger on Philemon's lips and winked at him before going back into my building. I just had my first date, and I kissed him first, aha! So much for the stereotype of the meek Muslim woman, eh?

Shortly after this memorable first date, Philemon and I began dating in earnest. Never mind that he's Christian and I'm Muslim, never mind our differences in culture, skin color and background, I didn't care. Whenever I'm around him I feel like I'm on cloud nine, and I loved that about him. If only I could have seen where that foolhardy yet absolutely worthwhile sentiment would take us...to places we never expected or imagined. For our love would change our lives indeed. For the love of this remarkable young man from another world, I began questioning so many things about myself...like my faith and culture.

Reality has a way of catching up to you when you least expect it. For the rest of that strange, confusing but ultimately magical first year in Paris, Philemon and I lived together as a couple. I moved out of the women's dormitory at the University of Paris and into a two-bedroom apartment near Le Marais, and Philemon happily joined me. He got a job working security for Le Palais Des Fous, one of the hottest jazz clubs in Paris at the time. I became an assistant-clerk at the University of Paris library, cataloging books and looking after things at the front desk, thanks to my good friend Muriel Jean-Pierre, a librarian who was fond of me.

Thus Philemon and I began our lives together. I dreaded returning to Saudi Arabia come summer time, for I knew that I couldn't bear to leave my beautiful and lively City of Paris and my beloved Philemon for the dreadful, restrictive realm of Saudi Arabia. Without realizing it, I'd begun to think of Paris, France, as my home. Moreover, I dreaded going home and being forced to marry some random Saudi guy whom I did not love. I wanted to stay in Paris with Phil. What's a gal to do? Phil and I talked about this, at great length. What unfortunate circumstances we faced! After living in France for seven and a half years, Philemon finally earned his citizenship. They're not fond of immigrants of color in this nation, he told me sadly.

Yet by virtue of Philemon being a French citizen, a world of opportunities opened up for him. He simply couldn't see it yet, instead he lamented the loss of his Haitian citizenship, for he was very attached to the land of his birth. Sometimes, his laments made me want to smack him. I was paying double what French nationals pay at the University of Paris by virtue of being an international student. I needed to apply for a work permit before I could get that measly job as a library clerk's assistant at the university. I couldn't vote, and if I got into any trouble with the law, I could get sent back to my country of origin without trial or delay. For me, returning to Saudi Arabia meant death. In phone conversations with my parents, I defiantly spoke of my love for Philemon, a Christian man of the black persuasion, and my father was beyond incensed. Next time I see you I kill you, he warned angrily.

I knew that my father meant what he said, for in Islamic culture, women are property. First we belong to our fathers, then to our husbands. A Muslim woman's fate from birth to death is dictated by our laws, which are derived from the Sharia system. By refusing to come home and abide by my father's wishes, I was a criminal in the eyes of Saudi Arabia. How could you consider yourself a Muslim and still do what you did? my mother asked me. I had long yearned to speak to my mother about Philemon, I felt like she would understand. Apparently not. It seemed that decades of living in Saudi Arabia had changed the headstrong Ethiopian woman she once was into an obedient Saudi housewife, another Muslim woman who condemned other women for not abiding by the adamantine rules of our faith. I don't want to be Muslim, I practically spat into the phone before hanging up.

For over an hour afterwards, perhaps longer, I sat in the dark, in the apartment Philemon and I shared. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I sobbed quietly. My own mother was condemning my actions. Like me she was a rebel, once. Out of all the people in our family, she was supposed to understand. It's ironic. My mother often spoke of her Ethiopian father's staunch opposition to her marrying a Saudi man. Ethiopia and Saudi Arabia have a complex history, and things aren't always amicable between the Arabs and the Black Muslims. By marrying a Saudi man and embracing his culture, my mother was seen as a traitor by her Ethiopian family, yet she assured me that she loved my father and never regretted her choices. If only she could see the parallels between her and my father, and Philemon and I...sadly, it wasn't meant to be.

My parents told me I was dead to them, and I knew I'd face the death penalty were I to ever set foot in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia again. I didn't want to get beheaded, like so many women in my country had, merely because their husbands made allegations of marital infidelity against them. Countless Muslim women are beheaded annually, in places ranging from northern Nigeria to Gambia, from Saudi Arabia to Yemen, often on their husbands say-so. A man's got right of life and death over his woman in Islamic culture, and that's not going to change anytime soon. The choice I faced was simple enough, life in the West or death in the heartland of Islam. Guess which one I picked?

In the end, I chose love. Philemon and I got married on June 17, 1965. A little over a year after we met. We had a civil ceremony, for although I no longer considered myself a Muslim, I still had reluctance to embrace other faiths. It's the Saudi woman in me, I guess. In Saudi Arabia and other Muslim countries, Islam isn't just a religion, it's a way of life. It pervades and penetrates every aspect of life in places like Kuwait, Oman, Syria and Saudi Arabia. It's hard to let go of that, even when you want to. In a way, it's like trying to unlearn a language, or something just as important. Philemon never pressured me to embrace Christianity, but I knew his religion mattered to him.

Eventually, I started going to church with Philemon. We even found a church where the preacher was a Haitian man named Father Bernard, educated in Quebec, Canada. Does that surprise you? It really shouldn't. Paris in the 1960s was a changing place. The most beautiful metropolis in all of Europe ( sorry English folks, London is nice but it doesn't make the cut ) was receiving an influx of immigrants from places like Senegal, Haiti, Morocco, Guyana, Algeria, China and many other foreign countries. The schools, bars, clubs, theaters, shopping centers and churches of Paris were suddenly full of ethnic minorities from all over the world. The town I loved so much was changing, and I embraced it.