Tell people that you're from Kazakhstan and they stare at you blankly. Same country Borat claimed to be from in that awful movie, I usually say, groaning inwardly and idiotic smiles immediately follow. Now they get it. Cultural relativity isn't a concept most people in North America can grasp. My name is Rashida Jabayev and I was born in the City of Kentau, southern Kazakhstan, to an ethnic Kazakh Muslim father, Rashid Jabayev, and a Chinese immigrant mother, Amal Chang. My parents moved to Ontario, Canada, when I was about six and we've lived here ever since.
It's not easy to be me, like the song by my favorite artist Five For Fighting says. Ottawa, Ontario, is a town in transition from a mostly white ( and conservative ) enclave into a racially diverse metropolis. It hasn't been an easy transition, that's for sure. Large populations of Chinese, Arabs, Somalis and Hindus make the Canadian Capital their home, and there's been some tension between various minority groups and the white Canadians, especially when the issue of religion becomes a concern. Many white people in Canada believe that you can't be truly Canadian and a Muslim, and they want to make life harder for those who follow our beautiful religion.
I was born and raised Muslim, and it's all I know. My father's family is pure Kazakh and has been Muslim for many generations, ever since the Turkish invasions brought Islam into Eastern Europe and Central Asia. As for my Mom, she's descended from the Hui people of China, and they're a predominantly Muslim group. Growing up in Kentau, I was used to getting stared at because of my features, which are a blend of eastern European and Asian. The region is home to lots of people who sort of look like me, for folks from places like China and Mongolia have mixed with the Turks, the Kazakhs and others.
As an interracial couple in a Muslim country, my parents were unique but by no means extraordinarily so. Marrying someone of a different color isn't that big a deal in that part of the world, as long as they're from the same religion. That's the main difference between Muslim countries and Western nations, I think. In the West, they care about what you look like, how similar or dissimilar you are when compared to them, and of course how much money you have. That's how they are.
In the Muslim world, we don't much care about your skin color, only what you believe. Let me put it this way. If two Arabs, one Lebanese Christian and one Lebanese Muslim, go to Turkey, or Nigeria, or Indonesia, the Muslim one will be made welcome by the locals, for his Muslim faith, while the Arab Christian will be viewed as the foreigner, the eternal other, due to his Christian faith. Western Europe and its societies, on the other hand, are a whole different matter. People are obsessed with color here.
Don't they know that God made all men, from the dark-skinned African to the European, the Asian, and everyone in between? Myself, the daughter of two worlds, I understand this all too well. I am simply as Allah made me. That's what I tell myself in the face of the prejudices I occasionally encounter. I stand five-foot-ten, a bit heftier than I'd like, but still pretty and shapely, I think. I have long black hair, bronze skin and sharp, comely features. I've been mistaken for various ethnicities in my time. I've gotten Chinese, Japanese, and even Mongolian once. I always tell people that I am from Kazakhstan, and that's all they need to know.
Even after two decades in Ontario, I consider myself a proud citizen of Kazakhstan. I am fluent in the Kazakh mother tongue, along with Russian and English, of course. I tried to pick up French but failed miserably. The language sounds lovely on the ears but it's just not for me. I took a French class during my freshman year at Carleton University and I barely passed it. The instructor, an old Quebecer, was not fond of me. Still, something good came out of the whole thing. It's how I met my future husband, you see.
The only friend I made in that French class was Salomon Marcus, a big and tall young black man of Haitian descent. We sat next to each other, and even though I am typically guarded around strangers, especially males, something about Salomon just pulled me in. The guy was charming and friendly, and always oh so eager to help me with my French homework. As a native of Haiti, he spoke French fluently along with the Creole language. If it weren't for Salomon, I would have flunked that French class. Even after that dreadful first semester ended, we remained close friends.
On the surface, Salomon and I didn't look like we had much in common. I'm half Kazakh and half Chinese, and a proud Muslim, as I said before. Salomon is fiercely proud of his Haitian roots, and wore a silver crucifix around his neck, a gift from his mother, Genevieve Marcus, from his First Communion days. I think that's sweet, how he still wears that heirloom or trinket from his Mom. Yeah, we're different but that's okay. We have much in common. We're both free spirits ill-at-ease in the world in which we live. I am a visible minority woman who wears the hijab. I endure quite a lot of prejudice every day. People always look at me as though I'm either a threat due to my visibly Islamic heritage, or they treat me as though I'm a sexless, faceless entity and not a young woman with the same needs and fears as any gal my age.
Don't get it? Please let me explain. I have a confession to make, ladies and gentlemen. We Muslim girls you see walking around with our hijabs and long skirts aren't the sexless 'other' that many westerners think we are. We like sex, and fashion, and sports, and all the things 'normal' girls like. So it should come as no surprise that some of us have our naughty little hobbies, right? I like porn. And I occasionally go to the porno shop on Rideau Street in downtown Ottawa to check out what's new. I'm always there on Ladies Night.
