Muslim Lesbians Of Edmonton

I have known what I am ever since I can remember, but I haven't always been able to admit it to myself, or embrace it. My name is Halima Abdullahi and I'm a young woman living in the City of Edmonton, Alberta. I think I was destined for a life of hardship and struggle, for in the eyes of many, I'm something that shouldn't exist. An openly gay, biracial Muslim Canadian woman who wears the Hijab, goes to Masjid on Fridays and loves women.

My father Ali Abdullahi is originally from the Puntland region of Somalia, and my mother Nadine Nasser is from the small town of Baskinta, somewhere in the Republic of Lebanon. The two of them met in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, in the late 1980s. The fact that they met, fell in love, got married and had my brother Yousef and I is a testament to Allah's endless miracles.

My father came to Canada as a refugee, fleeing the inter-clan wars that virtually decimated Somalia, and my mother, who is originally from a Shiite Muslim background, came to Canada with her family due to the interfaith conflict that pitted Sunni Muslims and Maronite Christians in the Republic of Lebanon. People from different worlds meeting and finding common ground while far from home, that's the immigrant story in Canada for you.

My folks faced a lot of opposition from both of their families when they got together. My father's Sunni family has a singular hatred of the Shiites, whom they consider to be infidels rather than true Muslims. My mother's proud Lebanese family found it utterly unbelievable that their precious daughter had fallen in love with a Black man from Somalia. A lot of Arabs have negative views of Africans, and vice versa, even though most Arabs, and a sizeable number of Africans, follow the beautiful religion of Islam.

Nevertheless, against all odds, my parents got married, and moved to Alberta, where they raised my older brother Yousef and I. It should have been the end of a beautiful story of struggle and triumph, where love conquers all. Nope, life doesn't work out that way. My parents got divorced in 2011, the year I graduated from Strathcona High School and were estranged for the longest time. I found a way of getting them back in each other's lives, albeit purely by accident.

"Halima, don't tell me you're a damn lesbian, you're just confused!" My father Ali looked at me, shaking his head and quietly fuming. We sat inside a Tim Horton's not far from the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology, where I study computer science. I took a deep breath, sighed and looked at my Daddy, willing myself to be calm.

Tall and lean, with dark brown skin, black hair only slightly streaked with grey and a thick beard, clad in a black business suit and a blue silk shirt, my father looks every bit like the successful businessman he is. He's fifty seven years old but could pass for forty five. A lot of black men age beautifully, like Denzel, and my father. Dad has been working for CIBC ever since he graduated from the University of Alberta with an economics degree, and is now a branch manager.

"Aabe, I know how I feel and at this point it's my life," I said in a respectful tone, using the Somali word for Dad, and my father sucked in his teeth and smiled frostily, something he does when he's pissed but doesn't want to admit it. I know my father, and although we all have our "tells", his are fairly obvious.

"Gabar, I don't mean to tell you how to live your life, I know better than that, I just want you to be safe," Dad said, and then he sipped his coffee and looked out the window. For over a year now my father has known that I am a gay woman. The first time I told him, Dad asked me to watch out for gays because in his mind, all queers are at risk for that disease.

I've tried my best to educate my father that while certain GLBT folks who engage in risky sex are at a higher risk for STDs, any and all human beings on this planet could catch AIDs if they're not careful. Outside the Tim Horton's, it was a sunny, frosty morning in Edmonton. We're in one of the largest metropolitan areas in the Prairies, and according to experts, one day Edmonton will rival bigger cities like Montreal and Calgary in terms of population and activity.

"I know, Dad, I know," I said gently, squeezing my father's long, slightly callused hands gently. For a long time, unable to find work in his field even after earning his university degree, my father supported our family by working in construction, and even now still carries himself like a much younger man, thanks to his years at that physically demanding job.

"Any news from that brother of yours?" Dad said, deliberately changing the subject. I shook my head and smiled. My older brother Yousef is a sore subject with my father. When our folks got divorced, I was saddened but I understood that couples split, and that doesn't mean you stop loving each other, it just means you live apart. My brother Yousef, being on the emotional side, blamed Dad for our parents divorce.

"Yousef is doing alright, he's in Toronto, living with Giselle Thompson," I said, and took out my Blackberry, showing Dad a picture of my tall, caramel-skinned and curly haired older brother next to his chubby, dark-skinned Jamaican girlfriend. I met Giselle when I visited Yousef a few months ago while on a trip to Toronto, and she's really nice. The two of them met at the University of Toronto and now live together. Dad looked at the picture pensively for a long moment, and smiled, then shook his head.

"Your brother Yousef is getting chubby, I see that Jamaican girlfriend of his is actually feeding him well," Dad said, and I grinned and shook my head. Somali men, I swear! Doesn't matter how long they spend in western countries, or how educated they get, some old habits are hard to break. What can I say? They're set in their ways.

"Mom sends her best," I said softly, and my father's face when from happy to sour. Another sore point with him is mom since their divorce. Dad was traveling to Minnesota when mom began divorce proceedings against him, and he never forgave her for it. Apparently, Mom accompanied him to the airport and sent him off with a kiss. Dad thought everything was fine with their marriage, until a process server ambushed him in Minneapolis.

"Who is Nadine seeing now?" Dad asked in a conspiratorial tone, and I smiled at him while shaking my head. I wasn't about to divulge any of my mother's business. Not to him at any rate. Unlike my brother Yousef, I refuse to play favorites or get involved in my parents personal lives. Thanks but no thanks. I'm their daughter, it would be very inappropriate of me to do such a thing.

"I don't know," I said evenly and Dad scoffed, for he didn't believe me one bit. Truth be told, last time I saw Mom, she lamented about her dating prospects as the divorced mother of two grown brats in Edmonton. I offered her words of encouragement, but that was it. When Mom asked me if Dad was seeing anyone, I just smiled, shrugged and told her that I didn't know.

"My sweet Halima, you know your father's proud Somali parents never wanted him to marry me because I'm Arab, I bet you they'll try and set him up with a Somali chick now that we're divorced," Mom said bitterly, as we sat down for supper in our old family house when I visited her a few weeks ago.

"Houyo, please don't say that," I then told Mom, shaking my head. After all this time, it really irked me that my mother still thought this way. My paternal grandparents might have had misgivings about my parents interracial marriage but they're nothing if not loving toward Yousef and I.

I smiled at Mom and she gave me a sad little smile. Old habits are hard to break, I guess. Mom is forty nine years old, standing five-foot-eight, a bit on the heavier side, with long black hair and light bronze skin. My older brother Yousef and I got our green eyes from Mom, and our lofty height ( we're both six-footers ) from our Dad, who is about six-foot-four.

"When you reach a certain age, my dearest daughter, men will stop holding doors for you or rushing over to help you with your bags at the grocery store, it's what happens when a pretty woman gets old," Mom said, smiling sadly, and there was a world of bitterness in her lovely emerald eyes. I hated seeing my mother like this, but didn't know what to say to her.

"Good thing I'm into girls," I said softly, and Mom laughed, and I laughed as well. Mom has always been supportive of my sexual orientation. Indeed, I think Mom knew I liked girls even before I did. A lot of queer girls I know don't have a supportive family at home. I do. Even my traditional Muslim father is starting to come around.

"If you want to know how Mom is doing you could always call her," I said, smiling wickedly at my father, who rolled his eyes, and then began browsing through his copy of the Edmonton Sun newspaper. I sipped my coffee and looked at my Blackberry, and Dad and I played this little game of "I-am-ignoring-you" before something caught both our attention.

A tall, curvaceous gal with dark brown skin and a thick Afro walked into the Tim Horton's. Clad in a black leather jacket over a red tank top, black leather pants and boots, this gal looked good enough to eat. I'm talking about an angelic face, curvy body and an ass that was simply to die for, seriously.

"You like big butts, just like your old man," Dad said, and I smiled, embarrassed that my father caught me gawking at another chick's ass. Typically, I am more discrete than that when checking out other girls. I've been chasing the ladies since high school. I am not new to the game. There's a certain art to pursuing other girls when you're a woman-loving woman. We're more discrete than guys, and we're more vicious too.

"Um, alright you got me Dad," I said, smiling sheepishly at my old man. The tall, Afro-sporting brown cutie looked in our direction, her eyes met mine, and she smiled, pursed her lips and then got in line at the counter. I took another look at that thick, inviting-looking ass of hers and sighed. Hot damn, that woman is fine as hell.

"Go for it, Halima, what are you waiting for?" Dad said, and as I sat there, suddenly filled with both excitement and hesitation, my father, like the wily old wolf and lifelong womanizer that he is, noticed something that I, a die-hard lesbian, actually missed, if you can believe it.

"Miss Afro here has a rainbow flag button on her backpack, I think she's on your team, now go for it before I try to claim her for mine," Dad said, grinning and looking pointedly at the tall brown Amazon, and I smiled and shook my head.

I followed my father's gaze, and smiled when I saw that not only did the Afro cutie have a rainbow flag button on her back, but her backpack sported NAIT, as in the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology logo. Seriously, how could I have missed that?

"That's my cue," I said, as I got up, and went to Tim Horton's counter, lining up behind the Afro cutie. As if expecting me, the tall gal smiled and asked me if she knew me from somewhere. Thus I met Samantha Jean-Francois, a newcomer to Alberta by way of Cap-Haitien, Haiti. This fellow nerd is new in town, newly out as a lesbian, and looking for fun.

"Pleasure to meet you Samantha I'm Halima," I said, shaking her lovely hand, and Samantha looked me up and down and smiled. Miss Haiti here seems to like what she sees. Yup, this gal is definitely on our team. I looked back at my seat, for I had left my backpack and jacket there, and saw my father rise from his chair.

Smiling proudly at me, Dad grabbed his copy of the Edmonton Sun newspaper, coffee and let himself out. Wallahi, I love my Dad. I'm totally texting him later to thank him for everything. First, though, I've got to see about getting the lovely Miss Samantha's phone number. Wish me luck!