A Sexy Hijabi Turns Lesbian

This is the last time I allow myself to frown over you people, I told myself as I walked out of the mosque in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. I still couldn't shake off the Imam's words as he practically glowered at me as he ordered me out of the men's prayer hall. He called me every name in the book. All because I wanted to pray with men. Because of my gender, he considers me inferior. As do most Muslim men, whether they want to admit it or not. My name is Zarqa Al-Shariff, and although I was born in the City of Mecca, in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, the very heartland of Islam, I am walking away from this religion. Today, I am Apostate. It's been a long time coming, and I've done it now. Taking off my hijab, I threw it into the trash bin, shocking a white man who was walking nearby.

I stare at myself in the mirror. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, bronze-skinned and dark-eyed, neither fat nor slender, but pleasantly curvy. I have long Black hair, which I shall never hide with an Abaya or a hijab again. My tears flow freely. I look at my reflection, and I hate what I see. Yet another crying woman. Emotional. Strange. The weaker vessel. That's what men have considered my gender, my 'kind', since the beginning of time. As I look around my bedroom, my eyes fall upon a picture of me in my high school wrestling uniform. I only wrestled for one season, but I amassed eleven victories out of twenty six matches. I wrestled against young men in my weight class and I won. I made headlines around Ontario back then. A Muslim gal born of Saudi Arabia gaining success as a wrestler by competing against men. Some applauded me. Many hated me. I didn't care. My mother Mona foolishly listened to sexist voices in the Arab community of Ottawa and removed me from the wrestling team, much to the chagrin of my coaches and teammates.

I have always believed in knocking down barriers. When I graduated from Carleton University with my Master's degree in business administration, I was only twenty years old. I graduated at the top of my class, by the way. I have always been a prodigy. I began working for the Canadian Revenue Agency. I had my own office, along with a secretary, at the ripe age of twenty three. Most of the Canadian Revenue Agency employees are white men and white women. There were two Black men, five Black women, eight Asians, three Hispanics and six Arabs at the downtown office. Out of a staff of one hundred and seventeen. That's the Canadian government's idea of workplace diversity. I didn't let the hidden prejudices of the workplace stop me, though. I continued to challenge everything and everyone. In no time I rose within the organization. At twenty five I became the youngest Director of Special Services ever. That's really not bad for ( back then ) a hijab-wrapped and long-skirt-wearing Arab woman from Saudi Arabia, eh?

Yeah, I've done well for myself. I'm only twenty seven years old, and I've got four hundred and eighty thousand dollars in my Royal Bank of Canada savings account. I've got one hundred and seventy eight thousand five hundred and seventy six dollars in my checking account. I am young, beautiful, successful and if I do say so, I'm quite beautiful. I've been featured in business magazines all over Canada. Yet I'm treated like a second class citizen in my own community, the Muslim community, every time I set foot inside a Mosque. It doesn't matter if a Muslim woman is a corporate raider, a police officer, a college president, or a member of the armed forces. The moment she sets foot inside a Mosque, she will be reminded that she is inferior to men. In some Arab countries, women aren't even allowed into the Mosques. We're truly considered the lowest of the low on account of our gender in the Islamic world. Well, I won't put up with that kind of bullshit anymore. I don't care what happens to me. They can kill me if they want to. I'm an Apostate. I am Muslim no longer. And no force in heaven, earth or hell can make me go back. There, I said it.

All of a sudden, I couldn't stand the sight of my own apartment. Pictures of my dearly departed father Mohammed, whom I barely knew. Images of my mother and me. Trophies from my wins as a basketball player and cheerleader. I remembered the day I challenged the catholic academy I attended for my right to wear the hijab in class and my right NOT to attend catholic prayer meetings if I didn't feel like it. I was encouraged to do these things by my mother and members of my family. Looking back, I was their pawn. I played right into their hands. Muslim men have all the freedom and power. They use Muslim women to advance their causes when they clash with Western values in America, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and Europe. It's Muslim women who fight for the right to wear the hijab. It's Muslim women who oppose the ban on burkas in Western countries. Muslim men are cowards and bullies. Muslim women are their pawns and victims. Well, today this ends. I choose to be a victim no longer. I am no longer Muslim. I am an Apostate. From now on, the only thing I will worship is myself. My own beauty. My own intellect. My own glory. Not the phallus-centric doctrines of brutish men who claim to speak for a higher being. This is my emancipation proclamation, ladies and gentlemen. My declaration of independence.

While walking through the City of Ottawa, I came across a neighborhood I had never seen before. Out of curiosity, I ventured into the nearby bar. For some reason, I was drawn to it. Once I stepped inside, I saw that there were only women inside. I sat at the bar stool, and ordered myself a drink. The bartender, a masculine-looking white woman with red hair and a baseball cap smiled and handed me my cup of Irish beer. I gulped it down, and ordered another. Then I took a look around. The women bantering all around me came from all over. I saw Black women, Asian women, Hispanic women and even an Aboriginal woman or two. I watched, mesmerized, as a slim white chick with blonde hair kissed a chubby, dark-skinned woman who looked like a Tamil Indian to me. Wow. This bar was really something else. A multicultural lesbian bar. How about that?

I was still taking in the scene when somebody bumped into me. I excused myself, and looked into the eyes of a tall, beautiful young woman with light brown skin and long, curly Black hair. There was something familiar about her face. She looked at me like she knew me, smiled, and called me Zee. I looked at her, pensive. The young woman introduced herself as Hannah, from Ottawa East Catholic Academy. I stared at her, and slowly, the memories came back to me. I flashed back to my school days, remembering a smiling, dark-skinned tomboy. My old teammate on the wrestling team. The only other female on the team, actually. The unforgettable grappler known as Hannah Saint Pierre, the Haitian chick from the City of Montreal, Province of Quebec. Hannah and I hugged, and she kissed me on both cheeks. As everybody in the bar stared at us, we ordered drinks and began catching up. I looked at the other ladies in the bar. That's what it means to be a visible minority in Canada. Even in a lesbian bar, a place full of outcasts, a Black woman and an Arab woman stand out.

Ignoring them, Hannah and I 'got our drink on' and caught up. After graduating from catholic school, Hannah went back to the City of Montreal. She studied civil engineering at McGill University, graduated with honors, and recently began working for Hydro Ottawa. Along the way, she discovered she was a lesbian. When she said that, I smiled and told her it didn't matter to me. Hannah grinned, and asked me what I was doing in a lesbian bar. I smiled, and told her I was just visiting. She winked, gulped her drink down and then asked me to dance. Impulsively, I accepted. We began dancing as the song "Sweet Dreams" played. All around us, several lesbian couples were dancing. A short, masculine-looking Chinese lady with tattoos locked lips with a tall, chubby Black woman with a big butt. Wow.

Hannah was a really good dancer. I had fun dancing with her, but it was getting late. Hannah offered me a ride home, but I told her I only lived a mile and a half from where we were. We decided to walk it. I went home with Hannah, and gave her a tour of my place. We sat in the living room, and continued bantering and drinking. And then, next thing I know we were kissing. How I found myself naked with her in my bed, equally naked, I'll never know. I had never kissed a woman before. As a now ex-Muslim, I was taught that homosexuality and lesbianism were Haram or forbidden. Well, that didn't stop me from kissing Hannah, and exploring her sexy naked body. I kissed her, sucked on her breasts and licked her from her head to her toes. She moaned in delight at my furtive, tentative touch. Next, she spread my thighs and began licking my pussy. When her tongue reached my clitoris and she began fingering and exploring me, I moaned in delight. Hannah licked and fingered my pussy, sending shock waves of pleasure deep inside of me. I cried out in pleasure as I experienced an orgasm for the first time. It was amazing!

When I woke up in Hannah's arms the next morning, she was smiling nervously at me. She wished me good morning, and gently kissed me. I kissed her passionately, and held her. For the first time in my life, I felt happy. I felt right and I felt whole. I looked into Hannah's eyes and saw a kindred spirit. Right then I knew. This was the woman I would live for. The one who would bring light into my dark world. Later, I would tell her about how I walked away from Islam because I was tired of Muslim men using religion and tradition to oppress women out of ignorance and insecurity. Hannah would bring me to a non-denominational Christian church whose pastor, an old Black lady from the City of Detroit, Michigan, accepted gays and lesbians as God's creations. In this church, I found salvation. I am a Canadian woman of Saudi descent. I am a former Muslim. I am a proud lesbian. I love my partner Hannah and the life we're building together. And I know God loves us both.