Chechen Girls Love Black Men Too

Good Muslim sisters are supposed to be prim and proper, flawless in their behavior, pious in their demeanor and quietly serene in outward appearance. I think I was absent when they came up with that rule, for I certainly don't follow it. My name is Khava Dzhabrail, and I was born and raised in the City of Grozny, Republic of Chechnya. On November 8, 1990, I first saw the light of day. My parents, Abdulmezhid and Khalimat Dzhabrail emigrated to Ontario, Canada, in the summer of 2000. The Russian government was treating we Chechens like shit, again, and my family finally got fed up. We moved elsewhere.

Now, I'm not one of those immigrants who constantly talk trash about their adopted country while glamorizing the motherland they were so eager to leave. That's not me. I miss Chechnya, and I can honestly say that it will always be home in my heart and mind. However, I fell in love with Canada the first time I set foot there. There I was, a little freckle-faced, fair-skinned angel in a hijab, walking with my European-looking and proudly Muslim parents among the folks going to and fro in the airport, and I dropped my doll.

As I reached for it, a dark-skinned man in a police uniform picked it up and handed it to me. My parents looked at me then at the policeman, dumbfounded. As Salam Alaikum, he said, in a clipped Nigerian accent. Like us, the policeman was an immigrant and a fellow Muslim. I smiled and thanked him, as did my parents. This was my first encounter with an authority figure in Canada, and while it would definitely not be the last, it was one of the few positive ones.

We were in a new land where we wouldn't be persecuted for our Muslim faith, a place where even foreigners could become respected members of the police force. I can assure you that no Russian policeman would show such kindness or respect to a Chechen family. They think we're all potential terrorists. Canada is different. While there are a lot of bigots up here, most people are friendly and fairly open-minded. I really enjoyed living in metropolitan Toronto, the most racially diverse place in all of Canada. My family and I settled in the outskirts of town, in a neighborhood filled with fellow Muslims, albeit people very different from us. Turks, Somalis, Kosovars, Gambians and other people whose ethnicities and nationalities we could only guess at. Nevertheless, we felt happy to be surrounded by fellow believers. I wasn't the only gal wearing hijab at my school, or praying in the area reserved for prayers. And this gladdened my soul.

My father went back to school to study accounting, since his accounting degree from Chechen State University wasn't worth much in the beautiful nation of Canada. Adbulmezhid Dzhabrail is a proud man and would not subject himself to doing menial work for the remainder of his days. Just like he faced the persecution that the dastardly Russians doled out at our people back in Grozny, dad stoically endured whatever Canada threw at him. He studied at the University of Toronto, surrounded by students half his age. Nevertheless, we Chechens are a strong people and my Da persevered.

In time, father earned his accounting degree, and ended up working for the Canadian Revenue Agency. My mother Khalimat Dzhabrail went back to school as well. She studied nursing at Seneca College, and worked at the Mount Sinai Hospital. Who says we Muslims aren't an adaptable bunch? Those who hate us like to think of us as backward or downright archaic. This ought to show them. Allah Akbar, a mere six years after we moved from Chechnya to Canada, we were educated, gainfully employed and solidly ensconced in the middle class in Toronto!

After finishing high school, I spent a couple of years traveling all over Canada and the States. I went to the City of Calgary, Alberta, and worked in the oil sands. While there, I met a tall, fine-looking Muslim brother from Somalia. Dahir Yasin. I was completely smitten with my co-worker. Dahir studied civil engineering at the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology ( NAIT ) and worked in the oil sands to make some extra cash. Dahir and I started hanging out after work, and he showed me around his campus. I was new to provincial Alberta and didn't know anybody. I came to Western Canada to escape from my parents, basically.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love being a Muslim and I love my family. However, they can be a tad bit too restrictive when it comes to us young Muslim women. Muslim guys can do whatever they want but Muslim sisters have to toe the line. Does that sound fair to you? Oddly enough for a young Muslim man, Dahir completely understood what I was going through. For he'd left his hometown of Ottawa, Ontario, to study in Alberta just to get away from his parents. He had it even harder than I did. His father, Khalid Yassin is the leader of the largest Masjid in Ottawa. Damn. Out of all young Muslims, the sons and daughters of preachers have it the hardest. Like me, Dahir was a rebel. My relationship with my parents hadn't been the same since I stopped wearing the hijab when I started high school. I simply don't think it's mandatory for us Muslim women. Instead of us having to shield men from our feminine beauty, how about the bozos learn to avert their eyes? I mean, they've got enough sense not to stare at the sun, right? Sheesh!

There are times when I wear the hijab, like when I'm going to Masjid, or on special holidays. The rest of the time, I look like your average white chick. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, with light bronze skin, curly black hair and light brown eyes. I'm a bit chubby, especially in my hips, thighs and derriere, but I go to the gym regularly now. Thanks to Dahir, I've learned to embrace my curves. Like a lot of black men, my Somali boyfriend and co-worker likes curvy women. Must be something in their genes, because the black guys at my old high school back in Toronto were really, really into chubby white chicks. Yup, it's genetic.

Speaking of genes, I've often wondered about mine. When people see me, they assume I'm Greek or Italian. I have that Mediterranean look. I've always wondered about that because both of my parents are alabaster-skinned, blue-eyed and fair-haired. When I asked my mom about it, she told me that her father, my grandfather Ali, Allah rest his soul, actually came from Yemen. A man from Yemen who settled in Chechnya. Hot damn. I guess I have a fair amount of ethnic mixing in my blood since my father's mother, Grandma Esmeray, is actually from Turkey. I'm part Chechen, with some Yemeni and Turkish thrown in for good measure. Wow. Will wonders never cease?

Living in Alberta, I felt free for the first time in ages. Finally, I was on my own, doing my thing. I live in a one-bedroom apartment that cost me three hundred and sixty dollars a month. Considering I was making close to two hundred bucks a day working in the oil sands five days a week, I could afford a better place but I have that Chechen sense of frugality. My people are used to being under siege, hounded and hunted simply because we're different from the Russian oligarchy that oppresses us. We don't like to waste food or other resources because we have very recent memories of times when they were scarce.

With Dahir by my side, I felt like anything was possible. No, better than that, I felt more alive than I'd ever felt in ages. This man was something else. Six feet tall, skinny but muscular, with medium brown skin, curly black hair and light brown eyes. Although born and raised in the Nepean sector of Ottawa, Ontario, Dahir considered himself a proud son of the Somali motherland. He's very proud of his people, and I feel the same way about my fellow Chechens. There are a lot of us in Toronto and I hung out with fellow Chechen youths back in the day. I considered myself a Chechen nationalist-at-large in some of my more spirited moments. Who would have ever guessed that I would end up falling in love with a dark-skinned Muslim brother from another country?

Love is love I guess, and besides, didn't the great Prophet Mohammed ( peace be upon him ) state that the black man and the white man along with the Arab are equal in the eyes of Allah? In the back of my mind, I knew that many, including my parents, wouldn't approve of my romance with Dahir, but I didn't care. I loved this Somali brother and if loving him was wrong, then this proud Chechen-Canadian Muslim woman didn't want to be right! Walking hand in hand with Dahir on the streets of Calgary, I got some funny looks. The most disapproving stares we got came from white guys and black women. And here's the funny part, sometimes those white guys and black women were together!

Dahir and I didn't care about the haters, we were too busy living our lives. We went to the movies together, and restaurants, and we also prayed together. Dahir considers himself secular, and for a while I had a problem with this. To me, a Muslim who considers himself secular is walking a dangerous road. I'm very, very passionate about my religion. I always defend Islam when some foolish westerner starts talking trash about my faith. That's part of the reason why I had some issues with Dahir's lifestyle.

Yeah, some of the things Dahir did got on my nerves. The guy smoked, drank, watched porn and partied like there was no tomorrow. He didn't go to mosque, and avoided outwardly religious Muslims like the plague. The few times I wore my hijab when we were out on a date, he made a big fuss about it and told me I looked better without it. One angry glare from me and he learned to stop talking such nonsense. I mean, I'm fairly liberal in my thinking. I don't think Muslim women should have fewer rights than men. However, my faith matters to me. And heaven help me I almost smacked Dahir when I saw him eating Chinese food ( including pork ) with some Caribbean friends of his at the Core Shopping Center in downtown. What the fuck? Damn. Haram much?

Dahir didn't seem to understand what the fuss was about, and that irked me. We fought often, in those heady days, but we also made up in the most fun way possible. As conservative as I am, I'm still fairly liberal when it comes to certain things. Like sex. The rules of Islam state that a woman should only share her body with her lawfully wedded husband. Well, I shared mine with Dahir. The first time, I was very hesitant, and feared getting hurt. The handsome Somali stud told me to relax, and then he took care of me.

Gently, Dahir lay me on the king-sized bed, and slowly undressed me before making love to me. He kissed a path from my lips to my chest, and finally to my pelvic area. Spreading my plump thighs, he inhaled the scent of my womanhood, and I silently thanked my lucky stars that I showered earlier. Dahir began licking my pussy, sending shudders of pleasure deep inside of me. With his tongue and fingers, he teased and probed my cunt, causing me to writhe and moan in sweet agony. Soon Dahir had me crying out his name, as I shuddered, orgasmic for the first time. What can I say? The man knew what he was doing.

I was like putty in Dahir's hands as he worked his magic on me. Burying his face between my breasts, he sucked on my tits while thrusting his fingers into my cunt. I arched my back and cried out in sheer pleasure. When all was said and done, I lay spread-eagled on the bed, sweating, moaning and gasping. What can I say? My Somali prince was something else. Looking into my eyes, Dahir asked me if I was ready for more. I smiled and nodded. Dahir spread my thighs, and rubbed his hard dick against my pussy. I reached for it with both hands, hesitantly. I stroked it gently, gauging its texture and feeling it hardening at my touch. Dahir smiled at me and told me to kiss it. I looked at him and hesitated. With some gentle encouragement from Dahir, I got on my knees and took his dick into my mouth. Slowly, hesitantly, I sucked on it. It was my first time, so I needed some coaching from Dahir, who cried out as my teeth grazed his dick, and told me to slow down.

Apologizing profusely for hurting my beloved, I resumed sucking on Dahir's dick, gently pumping my hand up and down its length. Dahir relaxed and enjoyed. All tension was gone from him, I could tell by the serene expression on his face. A moment later his face twisted in what appeared to be, to my untrained eyes, both pleasure and agony. Dahir shouted that he was about to cum. Ignoring his warnings, I continued sucking on his dick. Moments later, a torrent of cum shot out of his dick like fire from a cannon, bathing my face in its warmth and stickiness. I was stunned, to say the least. Dahir looked at me sheepishly and apologized it. I smiled and told him it was okay. Judging by the results, I guess I did a good job bringing pleasure to my man.

We continued the evening's festivities, making love until the wee hours of the morning, as the poetic ones among us are fond of saying. Dahir and I fucked over every inch of the place. He lay on the bed and I straddled him, lowering myself on his member and riding him. Dahir put his hands on my wide hips and thrust his hard dick into my cunt. I licked my lips as I rode Dahir, enjoying the deliciously hot pain I felt deep inside my womb as he made love to me. I rested my hands on Dahir's broad shoulders for support, and he took them in his, gently kissing them. Giggling happily, I continued riding him, loving it when he smacked my ass and urged me to ride him harder.

The best part was when Dahir put me on all fours, spanked my ample derriere until it turned beet red, and then fucked me in this position. Face down and ass up, my sexy Somali stud grabbed my hair and pulled it while slamming his dick into my pussy. I cried out in pleasure, loving this dominant and aggressive side of my usually demure and laidback lover Dahir. I didn't know he had such passion in him...I love it! We did it in a myriad ways, for hours on end, until finally, Dahir and I lay side by side, exhausted in the most memorable and pleasurable way I can think of. What a magnificent night, the night I finally gave myself to my beloved Dahir completely and he made love to me for the first time. Lying in his arms afterwards, feeling his heartbeat as I lay my head on his chest, I thought this must be what Jannah feels like. I wished life could be like this always.

Dahir and I continued seeing each other, and while our relationship was passionate, we also ran into a few snags. I wanted him to come to Toronto with me and meet my parents. I wanted us to get married, and live like a proper Muslim couple. It's possible in Canada, even though the government and intolerant unbelievers put many obstacles in our path. Dahir had other plans. He was close to graduating from the civil engineering program at NAIT and wanted to stay in Alberta and get job in his field. Dahir pleaded with me to move in with him, and felt that going to Ontario would be the wrong move. When I asked him about it, Dahir felt that my proud Chechen parents wouldn't accept him. Somalis aren't well-liked by Muslims and non-Muslims alike. They're among the most reviled people on Earth. Canada is the only country outside of Africa where Somalis have ever been welcomed.

Deep down, I knew that a lot of what Dahir was saying rang true, but naïve and stubborn as I was, I couldn't bear to hear it. I wanted him in my life, but I also wanted to have my way. I pictured the two of us living in Toronto as husband and wife. I'd go back to school, probably at Ryerson University, since computer science is something I've always wanted to study. Would my parents accept Dahir? I don't know. I hoped so. Unfortunately, I would never get the chance to find out. Fed up with my pressuring him, Dahir broke up with me. The day he told me he no longer wanted to see me, I felt like he'd driven a dagger through my heart. For days I locked myself in my room, weeping. I called him every day, begging him to take me back. My cries fell on deaf ears. Dahir didn't want me anymore.

Broken-hearted, I returned to Toronto, leaving behind Calgary, and a thousand memories of Dahir, my first love. I returned to my parents, after a yearlong adventure in Alberta. To my immense surprise, they welcomed me with open arms and didn't pester me with questions. Instead, they basically apologized for driving me away. I was moved to tears and hugged Ma and Pa fiercely, thanking Allah for giving me such kind and wonderful parents. The following fall, I moved out of my parents place and got myself an apartment near downtown. I enrolled at Ryerson University to study computer science. I'm seeing someone new, a tall and handsome gentleman I met in one of my classes. His name is Jabir Suleiman, born of an Eritrean mother and Lebanese father. He's fine as hell, friendly and easygoing and he's also a very pious Muslim. The brother wears his Thobe and Kufi hat every Jummah and he's at Masjid twice a week. We get along wonderfully. My parents met Jabir, and they approve. Wish us luck, eh? I'm hopping back on the great highway called love for the second time around, and this time, I'm NOT going to get knocked off. Peace be upon you.