From Saudi Arabia With Love

As a Muslim gal from Saudi Arabia, I'm supposed to be weak, submissive and easily dominated. That's what I hear all the time, and not just from uneducated ruffians but from university people, those who ought to know better. My name is Azeeza Bin Sultan and I'm here to destroy or at the very least do damage to your impressions of what a Muslim woman is. Whether you're a Muslim or someone from the outside world, take heed. Instead of making assumptions about people you don't know, how about asking them a question or two?

I first saw the light of day in the City of Duba, on the northern Red Sea coast of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. My father Djamal is of pure Saudi descent, and my mother Dahab is mixed, for her own mother was Somali while her father was Yemeni. In July 1999, during the tenth summer of my life, my parents moved to the City of Calgary, Alberta. Canada is about as different from Saudi Arabia as night is from day, so we had trouble adjusting at first. While my parents struggled with the social mores and norms of Canadian life, ( not an easy feat for citizens of the world's most conservative Muslim country ) I embraced our new country wholeheartedly.

I devoured everything that Canadian life had to offer. The people of Alberta have a reputation as rednecks, but trust me, life in Saudi Arabia was far tougher than anything they could throw at me so I handled myself well in this new land. My mother and I stopped wearing burkas the day we came to Alberta from Saudi Arabia as refugee claimants. We knew how western society sees Muslims, especially Saudi Arabians, and the last thing we wanted was to give them any reason to send us to the hell we just escaped from.

You see, we didn't come to Canada simply because we felt like a change of scenery. We were running for our lives. My father irked some of the Saudi nobility's key people with his condemnation of their wasteful and greedy ways, their splurging and general misuse of our nation's resources. Saudi royals party in Vienna, London and New York City, make friends with American billionaires and European tycoons while the average Saudi citizen lives in abject poverty. You don't see that on CNN or RDI. What you'll see is the King of Saudi Arabia hanging out with the Queen of England in London or shaking hands with world leaders like Obama or Putin. You might see pictures of a Saudi princess spending money like it's going out of style in Paris most expensive shopping centers. You won't see the downtrodden Saudi citizenry, eternally oppressed by the greedy royals. They make sure we're effectively invisible, male and female alike.

My parents encouraged me to excel in everything that I did, and I often amaze my western friends when I tell them that. It surprises them that there are progressives as well as liberals in Saudi Arabia, voices calling out for change, not just uber-religious megalomaniacs who feel the need to control every aspect of human life inside the Kingdom. In every society there are radicals, moderates and liberals. The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is no exception.

Long before the west started paying attention to the fact that we Saudi women have to wear burkas whenever we leave the house and that we're not allowed to drive, men and women like my parents were vocalizing their opposition to such draconian sexism. What westerners don't understand is that you cannot free a people from oppression. They have to stand up for themselves and demand change. Do you think the men of Saudi Arabia would continue to enforce their society's sexist rules against their wives and daughters if those women revolted en masse? Of course, many Saudi women would suffer terribly during such a conflict but it is my belief that when women in large numbers demand something, we typically get it.

In September 2007, I enrolled at the University of Calgary to study civil engineering. I've always had a head for numbers and I like working with my hands. I was quite the tomboy growing up. My father, Allah bless him, is not the most technical or hands-on guy in the universe. Lots of guys are handy around the house, fixing doors, pipes, etc. Not my father. And of course my mother was no good at such things either.

Why is that, you may ask? Old habits die hard, and habits never learned are hard to acquire once you reach a certain age. As former members of the Saudi middle class, my parents grew up in households with servants. Me? I don't know what it's like to have to depend on others to do things for me. I know how to fix a computer, and I can also use a hammer and nails to fix an old door instead of flipping through the yellow pages for a technician. Just call me The Handy Woman.

Much of what I learned about fixing computers and working with my hands I learned from my neighbor Bernard Marceau. A tall, burly Haitian guy who lived right next door to us. Bernard's wife Eileen Sanford is a tall and somewhat chubby, red-haired and green-eyed white woman. They have two sons and a daughter together, Abraham, Jacob and Sarah. In our neighborhood, we were the only immigrant families. I thought Bernard's wife was Canadian but as it turns out, she's an immigrant from Berkshire, England, whom he met while attending the University of Alberta a long time ago. They met, fell in love and got married.

I'd like to say that our two families got along wonderfully but that would be a lie. My father is fairly secular and forward-thinking, but he was initially reluctant to deal with the Marceau family, both because they're a mixed-race family and proud Christians. Me? I played with the Marceau brats because they were the only youth of color in the neighborhood and they treated me like a friend and neighbor, like a playmate, instead of an alien. Being a hijab-wearing Muslim gal in Alberta is not the easiest thing in the world. You'll meet your share of racists, that's for sure.

As is the fate of most people, they're friendly and will talk and play with anyone regardless of color or religion while young but when they get older, they embrace the prejudices of their parents. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree and all that, you know? I maintained a secret friendship with Abraham, the eldest of the Marceau lads, throughout those years when our parents regarded each other with suspicion. It's regrettable that an Arab immigrant couple and an interracial Canadian couple can't be friends because both experience prejudice in everyday Canadian society. You'd think this would force them to relate to each other's struggle and realize how much they've got in common. And you'd be absolutely wrong. No such luck.

Never mind our parents mutual dislike and respective prejudices, Abraham and I continued to be friends. In high school, we went out for a long time. In fact, he was my first real boyfriend. We had to sneak around, for obvious reasons. No matter how liberal they may seem, Muslim families ( and families in general ) tend to be overprotective of their daughters. That means that I was 'encouraged' to stay away from certain places and situations, and pretty much the whole male sex, for my own well-being. And like any youth anywhere, I revolted against that idea.

Abraham and I were passionately in love, but eventually, the complexities and hardships surrounding our relationship got to him. We broke up during the second semester of our senior year in high school, shattering my dreams of going to Prom with him. I stayed home on that magical night that so many girls dream of, crying myself to sleep. As for Abraham, I'm told he went to Prom with some Jamaican chick. Good for him. After high school, I buried myself in my studies at the University of Calgary. I got some independence from my folks, especially after moving into my own apartment off-campus. They wanted me to stay home but I told them it was time for me to spread my wings and fly away...

After graduating from the University of Calgary, I felt sick of Alberta. I'd been living in the Prairies for half my life and hadn't even seen anything of the rest of Canada. I heard wonderful things about Ontario, especially big metropolitan areas like Toronto, Ottawa and Hamilton. Besides, after looking for work in towns like Calgary, Edmonton and Red Deer for eight months straight and finding nada, I was ready for a change of scenery. Calgary may bill itself as a vibrant, progressive town, it's still Redneck Central. Doesn't matter that a Muslim guy got elected Mayor of Calgary. The locals are still hostile to the influx of Africans, Arabs and Asians in town. Time to look for greener pastures. That's how I ended up in Ottawa. I figured that I'd have a better chance in a place where so many Muslims make their home.

The majority of non-European immigrants who come to Canada stay either in Ontario or Quebec. With its redneck reputation, Alberta doesn't appeal to a lot of them and honestly, I can't say that I blame them. You've got to be strong to live in provincial Alberta if you're ambitious and you're not white. Trust me, as a hijab-wearing woman from the Middle East who's spent half her life there, I know what I'm talking about. I hoped for a fresh start in Ontario but in my first few months in Ottawa, I got more than I bargained for. The place blew me away. While not as brutally honest in their bigotry as Albertans, Ottawa people definitely aren't the uber-friendly, welcoming folks I hoped they were.

This dawned on me the first time I applied for a job as a civil engineer with Wyndham Power Limited. They've got locations in Ottawa, Kingston, Toronto, Hamilton, London and various other Ontario towns along with Quebec towns like Montreal, Quebec City and Sherbrook. I read somewhere that the current Chief Financial Officer is a lady of Arab descent, Nadine Mubarak. What I didn't know is that Nadine is the wife of George Wyndham, son of the company's founder. Of course she got the job! I should have known that just because there's a minority person in a high position doesn't mean that a company isn't prejudiced. The human resources lady looked me up and down, paid a lot more attention to my hijab than my listed academic credentials and qualifications, and told me she'd call me.

By now, I had enough experience of Canadian culture to know that I would never hear from the folks at Wyndham Power Limited. What's a gal to do? I had bills to pay. That's how I ended up going back to school part-time while working as a cashier at Wal-Mart. I picked Carleton University over other schools in town because it's more racially diverse and welcoming. I was ready for the second half of my life, to tell you the truth. I left Alberta, and my parents, and the specter of Abraham. I was on my own, far from home, for the first time ever. A scary time, but also a time for growth. I was ready, at least that's what I told myself.

You know how, just when you're trying to get back on your feet, life kicks you in the teeth? That's what happened to me. Let me explain. I applied for OSAP, the government financial support system for college and university students, and didn't get as much as I thought I would because I've got a job and apparently, my parents back in Alberta made too much money. Dad's a chef and mom is a substitute teacher but hey, apparently they're rich in the eyes of OSAP management. Stuck paying thousands of dollars out of pocket to Carleton University as I began my Master's degree in civil engineering, I found myself struggling. Twelve dollars an hour at Wal-Mart is nothing to write home about!

Try as I might, I was perpetually broke. That's how I ended up at the social services office. Basically, I owed my landlord seven hundred dollars in rent. I make about six hundred and fifty dollars after taxes every two weeks and after paying for tuition and groceries, I barely had anything in my pocket. That's why I ended up at the welfare office. I swallowed my pride and walked through. One of a small crowd of people, black, white and South Asian, who took a number from a machine as they walked in and waited to meet their 'worker'. I felt so embarrassed sitting there.

In my mind, only someone supremely lazy, physically disabled or mentally ill deserves any kind of welfare from the government. If you're able-bodied, and of sound mind, then you ought to be find employment and be self-sufficient. Here I was, young and healthy, with my fancy University of Calgary degree, and I was just another broke and unemployed minority woman in Ottawa. I said a silent prayer to Allah and asked the Maker of All Things to save me from my current predicament. Imagine my surprise when I saw the person who came out of the office to greet me. A tall, good-looking black gentleman in a white silk shirt, dark gray silk pants and gray tie. My eyes lit up when I recognized him. Abraham, I said breathlessly.

Good morning, Abraham said pleasantly, and I saw that although he recognized me, his body language gave absolutely nothing away. I got up and walked up to him. Nodding respectfully, Abraham asked me to follow him. He led me to his office and sat me down. I smiled at him. You're a social worker now? I asked, shaking my head. Abraham nodded. It's a dirty job but someone has to do it, he said evenly.

Over the next few minutes, we caught up a bit. Abraham attended Calgary's very own Mount Royal University and earned his degree in sociology there, then moved to Ontario, where he studied social work. Now he's a Canadian government employee, helping society's less fortunate. Look at you, I said wistfully. To be honest, I was a bit awed by Abraham. We're from the same town, studied at similar schools and here is, well-dressed, looking good, and he's working for the government of Canada as a social worker. Me? I'm broke and borderline homeless. Ah, the odd turns life can take.

Abraham looked at me with deep concern in his eyes, and pledged to help me. I've got your back Zee, he said. I smiled. Abraham is the only person who's ever called me that. Everyone, from my parents to my few friends, have always called me Azeeza. Abraham gave me some paper work to fill out, and asked me for a blank check. Luckily I had one from Scotia Bank in my wallet and gave it to him. I'm in a bad spot but I will get back on my feet, I said firmly, looking Abraham in the eye. I know, he said, nodding sagely. We talked for a few minutes, then he stood up and gave me a brief hug. I'll see you soon, Abraham said, and I nodded. Gently he kissed me on the forehead. Thanks, I said, blushing. Then I walked out of the social services office.

As I strode through the mostly empty strip mall, which housed a tax office, a bank and a grocery store, in addition to the social services office, thoughts of Abraham and our shared past swirled about my head. I took the bus from the east end strip mall to Hurdman station, and from there, I boarded the number four bus bound for Carleton University. Amid the carefree, smiling university students drinking coffee, talking or reading the Metro newspaper, I felt like a lurker. Granted, I was several years older than most of them. They look like they don't have any problems...how I envied them!

I walked through the university center and as usual, it was bustling with students from all walks of life, going to and fro. African, Arab and South Asian gals in tight jeans and brightly colored hijabs, tall and macho-looking Jamaican guys, skinny blonde-haired white chicks, packs of white guys in polo shirts and jeans, Chinese girls rocking short skirts and sunglasses in spite of the frosty winter outside. That's my new campus, my definition of normal. Carleton is more diverse than the University of Calgary. In my Engineering Dynamics class, there are thirty students. Half of us are some type of minority, whether African, Hindu, Arab or Chinese. I'm one of only seven girls and the only one rocking a hijab, though. Some things never change, I guess.

I breezed through class, then went to the campus library to finish my assignments. Then I went home. I live in Vanier. It's not the best part of Ottawa but it'll do until I get back on my feet. I checked my Scotia Bank online and lo and behold, six hundred dollars got deposited into my account from the City of Ottawa. I smiled when I saw that. Abraham definitely kept his word. I wrote a check to my landlord and handed it to him. My landlord is an old white guy named Keith, and he's quite greedy. True to form, he deposited the check before the end of the business day. Such wonderful predictability.

As I lay on my bed that night, I thought of Abraham and the wonderful times we once had. I thought of the first time we made love, just a couple of nervous eighteen-year-olds in a basement. I remember his arms around me, caressing my young and eager body. I remember Abraham's hands gently fondling my breasts as his tongue darted into my mouth. This guy was my first everything, first love, first sex, first you-know-what. Closing my eyes, I let my mind drift to that wonderful first night...and my body shudders.

Abraham's eyes locked onto mine as I climbed on top of him and lowered myself onto his erect manhood, impaling my pussy on his member. The sharp cry which escaped my lips as he penetrated me. Rocking gently, I began riding him. Abraham buried his face between my breasts as we made love, rocking that old mattress in his parents half-finished basement. In hindsight, we took a lot of risks, Abraham and I. We hadn't planned for this, you understand? We just sat in Abraham's parents basement, smoking a blunt ( yes, hijab girls smoke blunts too, we're not saints ) and talking...and then this passion got hold of us and we started doing it. I could have gotten pregnant, Abraham and I could have gotten caught, a million bad things could have happened. Fortunately, we got lucky.

Our first night of love was both passionate and peaceful. One I shall never forget. I don't think anyone ever forgets their first time. In those days, I loved Abraham with all my heart and he loved me. I thought we would be together forever. Never mind that I'm a young Saudi-Canadian woman and he's a biracial guy of Haitian and white British descent. We were a most unlikely couple, given our differences in color, culture, faith and background. The rules of Islam are pretty clear. A Muslim woman cannot be in a relationship with a man from another faith. Had Abraham and I been living in Saudi Arabia and our affair was discovered, all hell would have broken loose. There would have been scandal, and we would both be put to death. Even princesses can get beheaded in Saudi Arabia. The laws over there are ridiculously strict. Don't believe me? Watch that old documentary Death Of A Princess.

I fell asleep with a smile on my face, and a wetness between my legs as I recalled Abraham and I, our wild escapades in those halcyon days. The next day, I hit several stores and businesses, looking for work. I tried Tim Horton's, KFC, Sears and various other places. The only one hiring was Loblaw's. I applied and got a call within a couple of days for an interview and afterwards, I promptly got the job. I went to school, and worked two jobs. I doubt I'm the first person to do that. Once Loblaw's gave me a full-time shift on weekends, I realized that, combined with my forty-hours-a-week at Wal-Mart, I figured I had enough to survive. I wouldn't need social assistance any longer.

I called Abraham, my worker, and told him to close my file. Abraham did so happily, then asked me out to dinner. Wouldn't that conflict with your job? I teased. Abraham laughed out loud. As of today I'm no longer your worker, he replied. I considered that. Rings kind of true. With my file closed, I am no longer in need of social assistance from the City of Ottawa or the Canadian government. I'm my own woman once again. The thought of being dependent on anyone, let alone the Canadian welfare system, well, that simply didn't sit right with me. I have missed you more than you know, Abraham said. Hearing those words from him warmed my heart. We chatted a little while longer then I said goodbye and hung up. We're having dinner at the Steakhouse tomorrow, and I honestly can't wait.