"So, where are you from, Sharifa?" said Kirsten Fontaine, the tall, forty-something, blonde-haired White woman with the frosty smile as she looked at Sharifa Fetieh with all the affection one typically shows to a scurrying cockroach spotted when the kitchen light comes on. This one doesn't like me, Sharifa thought as Kirsten looked at her Hijab, and sighed. So much for the myth of the uber-friendly Canadian...
The thirtysomething Saudi Arabian Muslim woman sighed, for she'd seen that look before. A lot of Canadians, women especially, tended to gawk at Hijab-wearing Muslim women like her. It most definitely took some getting used to. Of course, Sharifa learned to ignore such looks, put on a smile, and go about her day. For the sake of her sanity, and accomplishing her goals, of course...
"I'm from Dammam, Saudi Arabia, and I am here to find a job," Sharifa stated, hoping she wouldn't have to repeat herself because the woman didn't get her words due to her accent. Kirsten pursed her lips and looked at Sharifa's list of IDs. Her Saudi passport had been kept by the Canadian Border Services Agency when she entered the country through Fort Erie, at the border separating Canada from America. Since then, Sharifa only had the Ontario provincial photo card she'd made at City Hall, and her OC Transpo bus pass. Sharifa desperately hoped that these would be enough...
"Alright, Sharifa, here at the employment opportunity center, we help people find jobs and get off social assistance, we will find you something," Kirsten said, and Sharifa slowly nodded. The woman's words seemed hopeful enough, and Sharifa supposed that she ought to be grateful that they sent a lady instead of some man who might ask weird questions about her Islamic dress code and whatnot. Still, Sharifa couldn't help but feel uneasy, for Kirsten's eyes seemed truly cold.
When the U.S. government denied her asylum claim, Sharifa felt wracked with deep despair. The runaway Saudi woman didn't know what to do. A friend suggested that she ought to try her luck in Canada, since, supposedly, Canada was friendlier to refugees, especially the Muslim ones, than the United States of America. Sharifa fervently wished she'd come to America during the Obama years, instead of right after these golden years ended, but there was no sense crying over spilt milk and no way to turn back time.
What's done is done, Sharifa thought resignedly. As Kirsten looked through seemingly random files and then typed on her computer, Sharifa looked around for a bit. Inside the social services office/employment opportunity center located on Catharine Street in downtown Ottawa, Ontario, lots of people were milling about. A tall Native man was printing something, several young Black men were using the computers, and a woman who looked Persian was speaking in the wall phone. Looks like I'm in the right spot, Sharifa thought bitterly.
Two years ago, Sharifa Fetieh was leading a very different life. The daughter of a wealthy Saudi Arabian Muslim family, Sharifa married Sheikh Amir Ali, the eldest son of a Saudi Judiciary official, thus elevating her status further. Eight years into their marriage, Sharifa accompanied her husband Sheikh Amir Ali to Dubai, on what was supposed to be a vacation. It was a trip that would change their lives, for all the wrong reasons...
While gambling inside one of the Arab world's biggest casinos, Sheikh Amir Ali ran afoul of some unsavory types, and got himself killed. Fearing for her life, Sharifa fled the country, and booked a flight for Paris, France. Knowing the power of vendettas in the Arab world, Sharifa knew that her slain husband's enemies wouldn't rest until she was dead as well. Sharifa moved from place to place, going from France to the United States, where her asylum claim was denied. That's how she ended up in Ontario, Canada, trying to start a new life.
"Alright, Sharifa, do you have any marketable skills?" Kirsten asked, and Sharifa exhaled sharply, then nodded. She was expecting this question. In Canada like elsewhere, one's capabilities mattered a great detail. All of a sudden Sharifa was thankful that her beloved father, Hussein Fetieh, sent her to study at the University of Bristol in the United Kingdom. While there, Sharifa earned a bachelor's degree in Aerospace Engineering from the prestigious Faculty of Engineering.
"Well, I do have an Engineering degree from Bristol University, that's in the United Kingdom, you know," Sharifa said, smiling wickedly, and she proudly pulled out her diploma, and transcripts, which she'd had shipped over from Saudi Arabia while staying in America. Kirsten looked at the diploma, and remained nonplussed, but there was something different in her eyes when they next met Sharifa's, and that something caused the beleaguered but stoic Saudi woman to smile with satisfaction.
Sharifa discretely looked at the wall behind Kirsten and saw a diploma from Algonquin College there. Whatever, Sharifa thought, careful to keep her face neutral. The young Saudi woman hadn't been in Canada long but she had a fair idea of what many of the locals were like. In America, if you had talent and a bit of luck, you could achieve anything. Just look at Obama and Michael Jordan and Oprah Winfrey. In Canada, Sharifa sensed that things would indeed be different.
While on the run from her husband's killers, Sharifa moved a lot around the United States. By far, her favorite place was Houston, Texas, where she'd met a most remarkable person whom she considered a kindred soul. A smile creased Sharifa's face as she thought of Raphael Grant, the tall, dark and handsome young Black man whom she met while utilizing the University of Houston library computers to do research on her then-pending immigration case with the American authorities.
"Hola, se habla Espanol? Soy Raphael," the tall, handsome and well-dressed young man said, as he sat next to Sharifa. On that day, Sharifa had a long summer dress, and her Hijab was concealed by the sombrero given to her by her Latina neighbor Maria Alonzo. She looked at the handsome, dark-skinned young man who sat there, smiling, and a bit too close for comfort...at the time.
"Um, Salaam, no I don't speak Spanish, and my name is Sharifa," a somewhat peeved Sharifa replied, and Raphael kept on smiling, then held out his hand for her to shake. Sharifa, a Muslim woman born and raised in the City of Dammam, Saudi Arabia, the very heartland of Islam, hesitated briefly, then shook the stranger's hand, breaking centuries of Islamic protocol. Raphael, well-meaning but clueless, would only learn of such things later on.
