From Iran With Love

When someone tells you all the days of your life that you're less than, that you're inferior and worthless, you tend to believe them. Yet as surely as God made the day and night, it's your duty to fight back and prove, if only to yourself, that you're worth something. My name is Malakeh "Mala" Saint-Gabriel ( nee Zafari ) and I am a young woman of Persian descent living in the City of Toronto, Ontario. I am happily married to a Black Canadian lawyer named Jayson Saint-Gabriel and we're the proud parents of two lovely daughters, Laila and Amina.

Today, I am a devout Christian. I follow the Christian faith, the largest religion in the world. Over a billion adherents, most of whom are found in Africa, Latin America, the Caribbean, North America, Western Europe and parts of south Asia, especially the Republic of India. Why did I convert to Christianity after being raised in a Muslim household? Why did I irrevocably changed my life and walked away from everything I knew at the time? Simply put, it was a leap of faith, ladies and gentlemen. I believe that when God puts you in the right path, you should follow His command.

I was born in the City of Ardakan, central Iran, in 1987. My parents, Mahmoud and Zainab Zafari are Sunni Muslims, a fact which marked us as targets for persecution in the predominantly Shiite world of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Members of our sect constitute less than ten percent of the Iranian population, and as such, we're frequently hounded, our shrines and sacred places desecrated. When I tried to explain the conflict between Sunni and Shia to my western friends, they shook their heads. Apparently, in their eyes, the differences between Shiite and Sunni are minute. Perhaps they are, to outsiders, but I once fervently believe that all Sunnis were wrong and that the Shiite way was the right one.

Of course, Sunni Muslims would swear the opposite with equal passion. Such is the nature of things in Islam. My eyes were finally opened when I moved to Ontario, Canada, for university studies in the summer of 2006. I enrolled at Carleton University, one of the most racially diverse schools in all of Canada. While at Carleton, I met the young man destined to change my life forever. Jayson Saint-Gabriel, a criminology student at Carleton University at the time, and the leader of the Christian Scholars Alliance at school. We first met when we got stuck in an elevator in the university center. I have a terrible fear of elevators ever since I got stuck in one during a visit to the Ministry of Education building in Teheran a couple of years ago.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. I got off the bus and walked across the parking lot to the university center, the busiest building at school. I bought coffee at the Tim Horton's on the first floor, then got into the elevator. Right before the doors closed, someone hollered at me to hold it. I looked into the smiling face of a tall, well-dressed young Black male. I held the door, and he came in. As the elevator rose, he started humming. I hate it when people do that, but since it's a short elevator ride, I told myself not to mind. When the elevator reached the third floor, it stopped, then jerked awkwardly. The floor underneath my feet trembled, and the elevator shook.

The young Black man looked at me, a worried look on his face. I think the elevator's stuck, he said matter-of-factly. I looked at him, spooked. Oh shit, I said. As if on cue, the elevator shook violently, and plummeted downward. I screamed in panic. For me, it was like that awful afternoon in the Ministry of Education building in Teheran all over again. I hate elevators! On top of that, I am somewhat claustrophobic. Frantically I began pounding at the door, begging to be let out. It's going to be alright, my fellow passenger/elevator prisoner said, looking at me with alarm on his face.

Shaking my head, I ignored him and continued pounding my fists against the elevator doors. As if my mere flesh and blood were any match for steel. When you're panicking, you don't think logically. Your breath shortens, your pulse quickens, cold sweat runs down your spine, and you see the world in a hazy, blurry way. You feel like you need to take a shit, your bowels clench, even if your stomach is empty. For I was fasting, as is the custom during the Holy Month of Ramadan for all Muslims. Tears welled up in my eyes as I pounded away at the door with my tiny fists, begging a seemingly disinterested God to let me get away.

Fortunately, the Most High sent me an angel to save me. The young man standing next to me gently touched my hand, and asked me to back away from the door. Glaring at him, I froze. What did this fool want? I just called campus security and they're on their way, he said evenly. I nodded slowly, staring at him. I was still breathing heavily, and now I had a headache. I looked at him, and tried to say something but the words caught in my throat. Before I knew it, my legs wobbled and the floor rushed up to meet me. A pair of strong arms caught me and broke my fall, and the last thing I remembered was the young man's face looking at me, his eyes filled with concern. I tried to speak but I couldn't. Fade to Black.

When I came to, I was on a stretcher, and next to me stood a young white woman with blond hair and an Asian guy. Both wore ambulance operator uniforms. We were still in the university center, I think, on the crowded first floor, surrounded by curious students. Nearby stood the tall young Black man from the elevator, he was speaking to an ambulance guy and a tall uniformed woman I recognized as a campus security officer. I tried to speak, but they started wheeling me away. I waved weakly at my savior, and he waved back.

I was taken to the Ottawa General Hospital, where I would be discharged a day later and released on my own recognizance. I returned to campus, and was greeted joyfully by my friends. Apparently I gave everyone quite a scare and they were all happy to see me. I returned to campus a woman on a mission. I wanted to find the tall young Black man who saved me, or tried to. Where to begin my search, though? I didn't even know his name. I couldn't look him up on Facebook. Carleton is a fairly big campus and you can go weeks without seeing someone unless you are in the same classes together. Fortunately, I did run into my savior. You see, I went to the library, and figured I'd post something on Facebook about my experience and see what I could dredge up.

I figured I owed this young man some heartfelt thanks. I just didn't know how to find him. Imagine my surprise when I ran into him on the second floor of the library, sitting at a corner with a friend and watching a Christian gospel video on YouTube. I approached him with a smile on my face. His eyes lit up when he saw me. Hello lady, he said, grinning. Standing up, he extended his hand for me to shake. Observant Muslim women aren't supposed to shake hands with men they don't know. I hesitated, but looking into the young man's eyes, I saw nothing but kindness and warmth. Smiling, I shook his hand.

Thus I met Jayson Saint-Gabriel, a remarkable young man. Later, I learned a lot about him. He was born in the City of Toronto, Ontario, to a Jamaican immigrant mother and French Canadian father. Jayson was in his first year in the criminology program at Carleton University. We formed a tentative friendship that day, adding each other on Facebook, exchanging numbers and talking about our respective majors. I'm in civil engineering, and know nothing about criminology. All I know about the law comes from Law & Order episodes. Yes, we get American shows in Iran. Who doesn't love U.S. television?

Jayson Saint-Gabriel and I became friends, as I said before, and we began hanging out on campus together. He kept inviting me to his group, the Christian Scholars Alliance. I asked him what that was, and Jayson smilingly told me they discussed God and the Bible. This intrigued me, for I had never really interacted with Christians before. In the Islamic Republic of Iran, the only people who are treated worse than the Shiite minority by the Ayatollah's followers is the Persian Christian community. There are two hundred and fifty thousand Christians in Iran, and they're routinely target by Muslim zealots.

One day, I went to the meeting, and found myself surrounded by an eclectic group of people. Jayson introduced me to his friends. They were an extraordinarily diverse group. I met Catherine Abdullah, a tall, dark-haired young Lebanese Christian woman, along with Arthur Kendall, a red-haired young white guy from England, Michelle Thompson, a young Black woman from the United States, and Bartleby Chang, a young international student from the Republic of China. Black and white, male and female, they sat together in a secluded room inside the Mital Center, talking about the life of Jesus Christ and his message for mankind.

Now, as a Muslim, I was raised to believe that Jesus Christ, known as Isa Al Masih in Islam, is a prophet of Allah, the one true God. Isa Al Masih is a messenger of God, not the Son of God. Nor did he die for mankind's sins. He was simply raised to heaven by God after completing his mission. He was never crucified or resurrected. That's what we believe in Islam. The Christians, with their belief in his death and resurrection, that was all blasphemy in my eyes. I had a lot of questions about the Christian faith, and I wasn't sure how to ask them without offending Jayson and his friends.

I found their ways strange, men and women sitting together, discussing their religion. I thought Jayson would lead the others in prayer at the end of the meeting, but it was Catherine, the Arab Christian gal, who did it. They all stood together, held hands and prayed. Michelle, the Black gal from the USA, held her hand out to me and I took it. When Jayson reached for my hand, again I hesitated, but I took it. I watched as everyone around me closed their eyes, and prayed. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Catherine began. I willed my eyes to close and prayed.

Like I said, the ways of the Christians were strange to me, but then again, what else could I expect from people who believe that a Messenger of Allah is as worthy of worship as Allah Himself? After the meeting, they stood around talking, and hugging. Catherine seemed very much into hugging the males of the group, especially Arthur Kendall, whom she kissed on the lips. I shook my head, disgusted. in Islam, unmarried men and women aren't supposed to touch like this, it's so haram it's not even funny. That's what I was raised to believe. Anyhow, I had a lot to learn.

I wished everyone a goodnight, and made a dash for the door. Calling my name, Jayson rushed to catch up with me. I thanked him for inviting me to his prayer meeting, or whatever that way, but I had to go. I rushed back to my residence on Bronson Avenue, only a few minutes from campus. That night, as I lay on my bed, I thought about Jayson and his Bible discussion group. What a strange people. Still, there was something about the feeling of togetherness among them that I found almost...enviable.

Unable to sleep, I went on Facebook. Guess who was in the chat line? None other than Jayson. When he sent me a message, I don't know what possessed me to answer. I did answer, though, and we ended up chatting for the better part of two hours. Jayson and I talked about the meeting, and as you can imagine, I had a lot of questions about Christianity. Jayson promised to answer all my questions or at least try the next day, then he wished me a good night. God bless you and goodnight sister, he typed, then sent me a smiley face. Good night brother, I replied, then signed off.

The next day, Jayson and I met in the university center food court, and had a rousing discussion about Christianity and Islam. Like all Muslims, I was raised to believe my religion superior to all others, and I didn't mind letting Jayson know that. I expected him to get angry, or annoyed. Instead, he kept a pleasant smile upon his face. Even as I told him that I believed the Prophet Mohammed to be greater than the one Christians worship as the Son of God. Come to church with me on Sunday and you will see what Christianity is all about, Jayson said confidently. I narrowed my eyes at him. Jayson held his hands up in mock surrender. Challenge accepted, I said with a confident smile.

A few days later, Jayson took me to his house of worship, First Church of the Divine Light, which was located only a few blocks from my apartment, in Chinatown. I shook my head as I looked at the figure of Jesus Christ on the cross. We went to the pews, and I saw men and women of all hues sitting together. Husbands and wives with their sons and daughters. Black men, white men, Asian women, white women, Hispanic people, Black women, and people whose ethnicities I could only guess at.

I saw a middle-aged Asian woman in a white suit standing before a table draped in white cloth, and upon that table lay a yellow cup, a book, and a few items I did not recognize. By the way the woman carried herself I figured she was someone important, perhaps the Christian priest's wife? Before I could ask Jayson about her, the woman greeted the assembly in a loud, charismatic voice. Greetings brothers and sisters I am Reverend Josephine Lee, the woman said to the assembly. I blinked in stunned surprise. She was the preacher? Not the preacher's wife? A WOMAN was leading men into prayer here? Wow. I stared, amazed. What kind of madness was this?

As the ceremony began, the woman spoke affectionately to the assembly, and told them stories about Jesus Christ and what he meant to her. She spoke of her past as a rebellious young woman who emigrated to Ontario, Canada, from Korea against her family's wishes, became a successful businesswoman after graduating from the University of Toronto and living a life of self-indulgence and naked ambition...all before she walked away from it all to follow Jesus Christ. I listened with rapt attention. All around me, everyone seemed captivated by the woman-preacher's story.

At some point, Reverend Josephine Lee read from the Bible, and then people began leaving the pews and lining up before her. A young man in a white suit stood next to her, a cup in his hands. From a second cup, the reverend produced a small piece of white ( food? ) and gave it to the assembly's men and women, one by one. They ingested it, then drank from the young man's cup. When Jayson got up, I asked him what he was doing. Taking Communion, he said with a smile. I watched, amazed, as he lined up behind an old woman, and then took Communion when his turn came.

When Jayson returned to our pew, I had many questions but he shook his head. I watched as he crossed himself, closed his eyes and knelt. He prayed, and then five minutes later, he resumed his seat next to me. I stared at him, amazement in my eyes. Communion with the Son of God is an important aspect of all Christianity, Jayson said proudly. I was about to ask him a question when the Reverend resumed reading from the Bible. Jayson motioned for me to be silent, and I paid attention. This was all new to me, as you can imagine.

After the ceremony ended, I thought everyone would leave but they stood together, male and female, hugging and kissing and talking. What is with Christians? They can't keep their hands off each other! Jayson and I went around, and he introduced me to his fellow worshippers. I expected them to stare at me, a hijab-wearing Muslim woman, but they were all smiles and pleasantness. No awkward questions about Islam, no treating me as an intruder. Jayson went to speak with the woman-preacher, Reverend Josephine Lee. She greeted him joyfully with a hug and kissed him on both cheeks, and then looked at me. I felt...odd, when our eyes met. Welcome among us sister, the woman-preacher said, extending her hand. I shook it. It is good to meet you I am Mala, I said meekly.

Reverend Josephine Lee looked at me, then at Jayson and smiled. I had so many questions for her, and for Jayson. Unfortunately, they would have to wait, for the reverend had to get to Toronto. My husband and sons are waiting for me, she said with a smile. I nodded as if I understood. Shortly after, Jayson and I left the church, and began the fifteen-minute walk back to my apartment. Thank you for inviting me, I said, in a voice choked with emotion. Jayson asked me if I was alright, I nodded and told him I had a lot on my mind but I wouldn't elaborate. I didn't want to talk about it. My head was swirling with odd questions and confusing emotions.

That night, as I said my evening prayers, I thought about Jayson and his church. A house of worship where men and women sat together, and people couldn't keep their hands off one another. In Islam, the rules are clear. Men pray up front and women pray in the back. Women cannot lead men into prayer. The preacher or Sheikh must be a man of God. The Imams of our Masjids are always men, and stern ones at that. I cannot recall the last time I saw unrelated men and women hug in a mosque. Our rules are strict, and even questioning them is scandalous. The Christians on the other hand seemed so...free. I found myself wanting to go back to that church, to speak with the woman-preacher, and her people.

I called Jayson, and his concerned voice greeted me. I was worried about you, he said sincerely. We talked for a moment, and I asked him about the faith, and their rules. Our church believes that God gives men and women special gifts, Jayson explained. I listened carefully, for this was all news to me. According to Jayson, the majority of Christianity, with the exception of hardline Catholics, believed that women could be preachers, and lead entire congregations. This was fascinating to me. In Islam, quite often us women are more religious than our men. I know many Muslim women who know the Koran by heart and attend Masjid every Jummah while many of our brothers, sons, husbands and male cousins are out drinking and partying, especially in Western countries. The rules of Islam are stricter on women than men, it's a sad truth.

When I told Jayson this, ire rose in his voice and he told me that sexism had no place in the heart of God-fearing men. Without Eve there would be no sons of Adam, Jayson said, certainty in his voice. I smiled at that, for it was true. Jayson and I talked about a lot of things that night, and I promised to meet him the next day. I went to bed that night with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. I felt oddly good after speaking to Jayson. He was so patient and kind, and he treated me as an equal. He was so unlike most of the men of my faith.

Jayson and I met the following Tuesday, and for once, we didn't talk about religion. We went to see a movie. Snakes On A Plane. It was playing at the Silver City movie theater in Ottawa's east end. Jayson was surprised to discover that I'm a big fan of Samuel L. Jackson. As if we don't know about action movie stars in Iran! Jayson and I grabbed a bite at the Blair shopping center's food court after the movie, and I must say, it was fun. The two of us sitting and talking. It was almost like a date, which, as a pious and unmarried Muslim female, I'd never really been on.

I sat across from Jayson, the two of us laughing and talking as if we didn't have a care in the world. Jayson looked so good, clad in his blue silk shirt, black silk pants and boots. By Ottawa standards, he's a snappy dresser. He complimented me on my red dress and pink hijab, which I wore in support of the Anti-Cancer Campaign at school. You look beautiful, Jayson said. I smiled and nodded. Before I could say anything, Jayson took my hand and brought it to his lips. Then he kissed it. I gasped, and smiled. For I felt a tingle when Jayson's lips touched my hand. Thank you kind sir, I said flirtatiously, in a mock-British accent.