Farewell to Chechnya

When Zainab Dudayev moved to the City of Miami, Florida, from her hometown of Gudermes, Nation of Chechnya, she definitely expected a culture clash. After all, she was moving to a completely different country, one whose cultures and ways contrasted sharply with her own. The young woman braced herself for these changes, but wasn't one hundred percent sure what to expect.

To most people hailing from Russia, and that includes the former Soviet republics and the little nation-states that Russia bullied into servitude once upon a time, the United States of America seemed like a forbidden place. To them, America seemed like a decadent place where everyone had sex with anything that moves, and had a fetish for guns, movies, alcohol, and sports. Definitely not what a Chechen-born Russian citizen would gravitate towards...

To the rest of Russia, Zainab's homeland, the beautiful, storied and eternally embattled nation of Chechnya was a forbidden and dangerous place. The Chechen people numbered a little over a million, and as far as most Russians were concerned, this was way too much. The Chechen people have been staunchly Muslim since the sixteenth century, and nothing that other European powers, especially Russia, have done across the ages has managed to change that.

To be Chechen is to be Muslim, so it has been in that part of the world for untold centuries. The few Chechens who didn't follow Islam adhered to ancient religious traditions that were around long before Orthodox Christianity made its way into Russia proper. If anything, Chechen Muslims had a bigger future than Russian Christians, because their birthrate was second to none in Eastern Europe, while Russia was declining across the board.

In the City of Gudermes, Zainab's parents, Tamerlan and Adara lived a simple life. Tamerlan worked as a tailor, and Adara taught mathematics at a local school. The Dudayev family weren't rich, but they had enough, and they were happy. They were a loving family, trying their best in a tough environment. One day, the Second Chechen War came to their doorstep, and tragedy struck. Zainab's parents perished during a pitched battle between Russian soldiers and Chechen rebels, and from that moment on, her world was shattered.

The United Nations tried its best to help Chechen refugees resettle in other parts of the world. Many of them went to Canada and the United Kingdom, while others were to France. Russia has proved itself inhospitable to the Chechen people, whom it regards with suspicion no matter how peaceful or friendly they might seem. For the Chechen Diaspora, the choice had been made. Russia was definitely not the kind of place any true Chechen could call home, but there was hope for the rest of the world...

"Hey, Miss Uni-Brow, where are you from?" Stanley Bilodeau asked, with a smirk on his face. The person whom Stanley just addressed, a young woman named Zainab Dudayev, turned and looked at him, absolutely not believing her ears. This fool did not just say those words to me, Zainab thought, caught somewhere between being irate, and being shocked at such impertinence.

"Us pokoysya ( be calm )," Zainab told herself, and the young woman took a deep breath, then closed her eyes, hard. Stanley, the young man sitting beside her then had the temerity to snap his fingers, dangerously close to her face. As far as she was concerned, the dude had crossed the invisible line and definitely reached the point of no return...

"Miss Thing," Stanley managed to get out, before Zainab whirled around and lashed out at him like a tigress brought to bay by a pack of hunting dogs. The young woman's brown eyes blazed with anger, and her open palm struck his face, twice, and Stanley winced, stunned by her reaction. Zainab glared at him, breathing heavily, and Stanley rubbed his face, and shook his head.

"Oh snap, I see kitty has claws," Stanley said, actually laughing, and he looked at Zainab, grinning fearless. This one bounces back quickly, Zainab thought, amazed. Indeed, Stanley's temporary shock replaced by that egotistical half-smirk that she and so many others at Miami-Dade College longed to wipe off his face. In this small, rather friendly school, Stanley Bilodeau somehow managed to offend...everyone.

"Shush," Zainab said at last, and when she turned around, she noticed that the other twenty or so students in the computer lab were smiling at her. The professor, Stephen Jackson, a tall, bald-head, dark-skinned African American man of about forty came back into the room after the ten-minute break ended, and stroked his beard thoughtfully before he resumed the lecture. Teaching English as a second-language to newcomers wasn't the fast-track to academic superstardom, but one had to start somewhere...

Professor Jackson looked at the classroom, and noticed that his students, most of whom hailed from Latin American countries, with a few Africans and Asians here and there, seemed to be focusing on two of their classmates. They were looking at Stanley Bilodeau, and Professor Jackson wasn't surprised, since the fair-skinned, Afro-sporting young man, originally from the City of Montreal, Quebec, was the stereotypical class clown.

Stanley Bilodeau is a pain in the ass, Professor Jackson thought, annoyed. Compared to him, the other students were a joy. The dude was almost twenty years old and ought to know better but he insisted on his class clown antics, bugging everyone and acting like he was all that. Still, the other students were also looking at Zainab the Hijab-wearing Chechen gal, which was unusual, since she was usually quiet as a church mouse...

"Alright, class, for today's English conversation exercise, I will need you to pair up in groups of two," Professor Jackson said, his rich baritone voice filling the lecture hall. He watched as the students paired up quite nicely, until the only two left were...Stanley Bilodeau and Zainad Dudayev. The two of them sat at the front of the class, looking at everything except each other...

"Miss Zainab, Mister Bilodeau, care to join us in this in-class exercise? I will remind you that participation is fifteen percent of your final grade," Professor Jackson said, making his voice grave. Stanley smiled like he'd just won the lottery and Zainab frowned, and shifted uncomfortably in her seat, like she had to go to the bathroom or something.

"Miss Zainab, you heard the man, I mean, the prof," Stanley said, smiling, and Zainab shot him a look. Professor Jackson watched their interactions, and noticed that although Stanley was his usual annoying self, he didn't do his usual trick of getting too close to a person's face while talking to them. Wonder what that's all about, Professor Jackson mused, puzzled.

"Ya ne mogu poverit', chto oni zastavlyayut menya rabotat's etim idiotom ( I cannot believe they are making me work with this idiot )," Zainab said to herself, sighing deeply. She looked at Stanley, who stopped smiling and nodded gently with a small pleading gesture. Professor Jackson walked by, and handed each table a sheet with conversation topics.

"Cool, this sheet says we're supposed to learn five things about each other, and then present before the class next time," Stanley said, breezing through the paper before handing it to Zainab. Zainab, whose spoken English was so-and-so happened to read English just fine, and she pursed her lips, silently cursing Professor Jackson's choice of assignment.

"Alright, Stanley, let's get this over with, my name is Zainab, I'm from Chechnya, I've been in America for six months, I'm an orphan, I came to America because the Second Chechen War is destroying my home, and now I'm a refugee in the land of burgers and fries, happy? Five facts about me," the young woman said flatly, her green eyes staring ahead icily.

Stanley Bilodeau has been called many things during the nineteen years of his life. Born in the City of Montreal, Quebec, to a French Canadian mother and a Haitian immigrant father, he is the son of two worlds that never wanted or accepted him. To the Haitians, Stanley was too pale, and not truly one of them. To the Quebecers, he wasn't a true son of la belle province due to his partial Haitian heritage. That's Quebec identity politics 101, apparently...

Stanley grew up in a loving home, and his parents, Crystal Marie Bilodeau and Jean-Renaud Larousse, tried their best to give their only son all the things they didn't have. Stanley grew up spoiled, and got into quite a bit of trouble. That's why he was currently staying with his father in Miami, taking English classes at Miami-Dade College and hopefully learning a thing or two about life.

As much as Stanley could be a prick, he wasn't the type to deliberately hurt people, just hassle them for laughs. That's why when he saw tears brimming in Zainab's lovely eyes, he didn't know what to say. The gal looked like she was about to cry, yet earlier she'd slapped the shit out of him in front of everyone. Stanley wasn't sure what to do, but knew he had to say something...

"Zainab, um, I'm sorry for your troubles," Stanley said, reflecting a sense of basic decency that he would have vigorously denied having if queried on the subject. Zainab looked right into his eyes, and Stanley held her gaze. With a deep sigh and a slight nod, Zainab acknowledged his words, and then for some reason she focused her gaze on the paper.

"Stanley, you sound like you actually meant that," Zainab said softly, and Stanley nodded, but didn't say anything. He definitely didn't want to upset her further. This chick has got to be bipolar, and Stanley wasn't in the mood for any crying fits, or slap-happy moments. This gal requires careful handling, Stanley thought, the memory of her stinging hand irking him somewhat...

"Yeah, you're something else, Zainab, looking all vulnerable, but with a mean hand," Stanley said, stroking his goateed chin. Zainab looked at Stanley and then, amazingly, she smiled. Stanley observed her carefully, not believing what he was actually seeing. The Chechen Muslim gal is beautiful but bipolar femmes are dangerous for a brother's health, Stanley silently warned himself.

"Stanley, I apologize for striking you, I'm truly sorry, I was raised with more self-control than this," Zainab said softly, and she gently brushed her hand against his, nodding firmly. Stanley looked at Zainab's hand on his, and was about to say something when Professor Jackson walked by, clearing his throat loudly. The prof's way of reminding his most troublesome students to stay on topic...

"Apology accepted, though my face still stings, sorry I rubbed you the wrong way," Stanley said, and he gently rubbed his face, shaking his head. Zainab smiled, and nodded, and for a brief moment, Stanley thought he saw something in those emerald eyes. Females always putting they hands on men and then acting like it didn't happen, Stanley thought, still salty.

"Alright, class, thank you for your participation, we will continue this next Tuesday," Professor Jackson said, and upon hearing his voice, Stanley blinked, and Zainab frowned. She was about to say something to the young Canadian when the professor dismissed the class. Stanley smiled at her, a genuine smile this time, and extended his hand, causing Zainab to hesitated.

"See you next week, Stanley," Zainab said, and instead of shaking his hand, she made a fist, and bumped it against his, like she'd seen so many Americans, especially minorities, do with their friends. Stanley seemed surprised, but nevertheless bumped his fist against hers. He hadn't been expecting such a "urban" gesture from the foreign Muslim gal, that's for sure.

"What did I get myself into?" Stanley asked himself, as he filed out of the classroom. He watched Zainab go, and shook his head. The Chechen gal was tall and curvy, with strawberry blonde hair which she tucked away under a Hijab, and she wore a long, conservative Islamic dress that couldn't conceal her curves. Stanley, an international booty connoisseur, could tell that Miss Chechnya had an ass on her. Complicated gal but I like a challenge, Stanley thought with a smile.

"Foreign men are easy to handle," Zainab said to herself as she headed home. It had been six months since she moved to Miami, Florida, from Gudermes, Chechnya. Since then, she'd gotten herself a job as a cashier at Sephora, at a local mall, and she still had to periodically check in with the U.S. Immigration Bureau. They were monitoring her ahead of her refugee board hearing, which lay many months into the future...

Zainab went to the one-bedroom apartment in which she stayed, in the Little Haiti area of Miami. The locals were people from the lovely, impoverished yet vibrant Caribbean island of Haiti. At first, Zainab stuck out like a sore thumb among them, but she was honestly relieved once she found out how friendly and welcoming they were. Zainab came away from that experience determined to learn about Haitian culture and integrate herself into American society...

Zainab's second encounter with Stanley occurred sooner than she thought. Two days later, after eight hours spent on her feet at Sephora, Zainab went to Piman Bouk restaurant, a Haitian spot that served the nicest dishes she'd ever tasted. The owners were a nice couple that had been together longer than she'd been alive. Walking in, Zainab ordered her usual, a plate of white rice, brown bean sauce and goat meat. Settling down, she looked at her phone, then tensed, sensing someone looking at her.

"Hello, Zainab, why, small world," came a familiar male voice, and Zainab looked up, and saw...him. Stanley Bilodeau, sitting at a table about ten meters from her, grinning like the devil. Zainab's heart skipped a beat when she saw him. The tall, light-skinned young man with the thick hair and caramel-hued skin waved at her as though they were old friends, and she smiled nervously.

"Hello, Stanley, surprised to see you here," Zainab said earnestly, and Stanley nodded, and then, without being prompted or invited in any way, he got up and walked over to her. Zainab, who possessed some basic home training, offered him a seat, and Stanley joined her. He looked her up and down, smiled, and then nodded, that trademark smirk of his firmly in place on his handsome face.

"Hmm, I'm half Haitian, and love my people's food, I'm here a lot," Stanley said, and Zainab looked at her, and she returned his smile. This young man is full of himself and no one bothers to correct him, Zainab thought. In Chechnya, Islamic social protocols dictated even the most basic interactions between men and women. In America, it would seem that almost anything goes...

"I didn't know you were Haitian, Stanley, I thought you were from Latin America," Zainab said, noting the brother's caramel-hued skin, and his Afro. In spite of his kinky hair, with his fair skin and golden brown eyes, he didn't look fully black, but reminded her of some Moroccan refugees she'd met while in the waiting room at the U.S. Immigration Bureau.

"Um, Zainab, I consider myself a Haitian man, my mother is white, and my father is Haitian, I speak the Creole language and love my people," Stanley said proudly, and his voice rose an octave...or two. Zainab looked at him, a bit puzzled by this change of attitude, tone and demeanor. She'd never seen Stanley so serious before. Of course, she didn't know him very well...

"Stanley, I didn't mean to offend you, my friend, I love the Haitian people, and their cuisine, I know that Haitians come in all shades," Zainab said in a conciliatory manner, hoping to placate him. Stanley nodded, and his easy smile returned, morphing into the smirk that she was used to. This man is full of surprises, a lot of seriousness hiding behind the smiles and the jokes, Zainab thought, intrigued.

"Zainab, please, relax, I'm the proper Canadian here and I'm telling you that you apologize too much, stop it or I might have to spank you," Stanley said, smirking still, and Zainab blinked, astonished by his words. She looked at him, annoyed at his overly familiar manner, and his rather poor choice of words. Still, two could definitely play that game, Zainab thought.

"Well, Stanley, you'd better accept my apology, you know about my mean hands," Zainab replied, smiling at him, somewhere between amused and angry. Stanley visibly flinched, and his smile vanished, then he leaned back in his chair, and stroked his goateed chin. He looked her up and down, licked his lips and nodded, before doing something unexpected. Stanley actually burst out laughing, much to Zainab's shock...

"Zainab, my dear, I got news for you, if you keep bossing me and smacking me around, people are going to think you're either a really mean girlfriend or a dominatrix," Stanley said, laughing merrily. Zainab, whose grasp of English was still a work in progress, didn't understand everything Stanley said, but she had a pretty good idea what he meant. She looked at him, amazed at his boldness.

"Not much fazes you, I take it, eh, Stanley?" Zainab replied, after a thoughtful pause, and Stanley grinned. Before either of them could say something else, the servers came back with their food. Zainab took her eyes off of Stanley and admired her plate, then looked at his. Stanley had a plate of white rice, with legumes, brown bean sauce, and goat meat. Interesting choice, Zainab thought.

"Zainab, I may be a wild man, but I have too much respect for our Maker not to say grace, will you join me?" Stanley said, and he held his hands toward her in a gesture of supplication. Zainab hesitated. She'd seen people, mostly Christians, pray over their meals. It wasn't a Muslim tradition. In her faith, people would say "bismillah" and then feast, that was it...

"Oh well, when in Rome," Zainab replied, and she gently linked her hands with Stanley's, and waited. Stanley closed his eyes, bowed his head and then thanked the Maker of All Things for their meals, thanked the Maker for his health, and asked said Maker to bless him and his family, classmates and friends, and concluded the impromptu prayer. Zainab watched as Stanley opened his eyes, and his smirk returned.

"I'm an oddball, Zainab, but I am a firm believer in a higher power," Stanley replied, and in spite of his smirk and carefree demeanor, Zainab could tell that he was dead serious. Taking her cue from Stanley, Zainab began eating, growing more fascinated and puzzled by the minute. The Haitian-Canadian dude from Montreal was unlike anyone she'd ever met before...

"Stanley, you are strange, but I like your style, let's be friends," Zainab told him, a little while later. They'd finished eating and then went for a walk around the block for a little chat. Stanley looked at her and smiled, in a gracious, rather than smirking or suggestive manner. I can work with this, Zainab thought as she observed Stanley, her latest project...

"To a beautiful friendship," Stanley said, and he made a fist, and after a brief hesitation, Zainab bumped her fist against his. Stanley wished her goodnight and walked away. Zainab stood there, watching him until his silhouette turned around a corner and vanished. Smiling, she began walking the few blocks to her apartment. This had been an unexpectedly pleasant evening...

Over the next few weeks, by 'accident', Zainab kept running into Stanley. They became fast friends, added each other on MySpace, Facebook and Friendster, and she found herself curious about his hometown of Montreal, Quebec, which he couldn't stop ranting and raving about. Stanley in turn asked Zainab plenty of questions about Chechnya, the beautiful land that she left behind, and she was quite excited to talk about her country...

"Chechnya is a land of strong people who got conquered by a bully, the damned Russians, and they try to suppress our cultural ways and Islamic faith, like the French once did to your ancestors on the island of Haiti, but while you Haitians kicked out the French, us Chechens still suffer under the yoke of Russia," Zainab told Stanley, her ire rising as she thought of the injustices her people suffered.