When the Most High sends you a sign, the least you could do is heed His words. My name is Nadiya Al-Najjar and I'm a young woman of Emirati descent living in the City of Toronto, Ontario. I'm an international student at the University of Toronto, studying business administration. My parents, Fatima and Adnan Al-Najjar were hesitant to allow me, their sole daughter, to study abroad even though my older brothers Qassim and Djohar had already completed their studies at universities in London, England, and Boston, Massachusetts, respectively.
"I want to experience life outside of Sharjah," I pleaded with my parents countless times after completing my studies at Lycee D'Espoir, the French school my siblings and I attended while our folks lived in Paris, France, while working for the United Arab Emirates Embassy. I'd grown fond of France and spoke French fluently and I had no desire to return to Sharjah, the city of my birth, where I knew I'd be married off to some old man as per tradition.
"The U.S. and the U.K. are too troublesome for a young lady like yourself," my father, Adnan Al-Najjar, son of legendary Sheikh Hussein Al-Najjar, and a close adviser to the Emirati president, His Excellency Khalifa Bin Zayed Sultan Al Nahyan, said to me sternly as we sat in our family living room and discussed my future.
"I want to go to Canada," I said, and when my father smiled I knew I had won him over. With the Americans and the Brits being so hostile to foreigners, especially those from the Muslim world, I knew that he might relent and sent me to Canada, whose reputation for hospitality and multiculturalism was basically second to none.
Thus it was decided that I, Nadiya Al-Najjar, would move to Toronto, Ontario, and begin my studies at one of the world's leading universities. I had visited Canada twice, once for my cousin Zainab's wedding to a Yemeni businessman, Ali Hassan, in Ottawa, back in 2008 and once when my aunt Yasmin and her husband Washim opened up a chain of restaurants in Calgary, Alberta. We Arabs are an entrepreneurial bunch and we're always expanding into new territory.
Having lived in France for five years, I had some idea what to expect in Canada, since it's a western-style European country, after all. Yet North America and Europe, while similar, are entirely different realms. For example, while I did meet quite a few French-speaking Canadians and foreigners in Toronto, I spoke an entirely different brand of French from them. Quebec French is quite different from the Parisian French which I spoke fluently. My English was fair, I'd say, for I had no problem communicating with people at school or elsewhere in the city. Next to Arabic and Farsi, French is my favorite language.
My journey in Toronto was off to a nice start. I got myself a one-bedroom apartment not far the University of Toronto campus, in a neighborhood full of yuppies and college students. My landlady, Esther Valdez, whom I thought was Arab at first, is an immigrant from the Dominican Republic. I found her friendly and generous, which is a good thing in a landlord or landlady, I guess. The people of Toronto, while energetic and outgoing, aren't as friendly as one would expect of Canadians.
There are stereotypes about every racial, ethnic and cultural group in human history, I guess. We Arabs are known to be a loud, deeply religious and at times quite emotional bunch. Canadians enjoy a reputation as a friendly and open people, and while many Canadians may fit that description, quite a few of them are narrow-minded and judgemental, especially in their dealings with foreigners. As a Hijab-wearing gal from the Arab world, I got my fair share of hostile stares, even in Toronto, hailed as the most racially and culturally diverse locale in all of North America.
"This is how we do things here in Canada and if you don't like it, you can go back to your country," an angry white woman told me as I stood in line at Tim Horton's one morning. Apparently I incited her ire by objecting to her serving some guy who stood behind me even though I'd been standing in line for a while. I objected to being ignored, and this white lady looked at me with anger and spoke condescendingly to me because I'd dared speak up for my rights.
That's one of the ugly truths about life in Ontario, Canada. The country bills itself as a bastion of liberalism and multiculturalism, where people of all colors, religions and sexual orientations are welcome. Visible minorities, as people of color are called in Canada, are expected to keep a low profile, and should know better than to challenge the power of white Canadians. Those who don't follow that unwritten rule are "put in their place" by the polite racists who are the gatekeepers of Canadian society's power structure. The angry white female worker at the Tim Horton's that morning was emblematic of a section of Canadian society that despises people of non-European descent, and likes to put us down.
"I'm a customer and you owe some respect," I said defiantly to that lady, stunning her. The other customers standing there looked at me, shaking their heads. I saw anger and disbelief on more than a few faces, but these ordinary Canadians were siding with the angry white lady who had skipped me and served the white guy behind me.
"The most polite racists in the world," I said aloud, shaking my head in disgust and turning to leave. I exited the Tim Horton's with my head held high, and even though my heart was thundering in my chest and my face felt hot, I swore to myself that I would not cry. I walked to the nearest bus stop and decided to wait for the bus heading to campus.
"That was mighty brave of you back there," said a loud, masculine voice, startling me out of my gloomy thoughts. I was sitting on the bench, deep in thought, and looked up, wondering who spoke. A tall, broad-shouldered young man of African descent looked at me. Smiling faintly, the stranger, who wore U of T school colors, asked me if I was alright.
"I'll live," I said cautiously, looking him up and down. I wasn't having the best of mornings, as you can see, and typically, I'm not the sort to talk to strangers. Especially male strangers. There are many reasons why. First of all, I'm painfully shy. Second of all, I'm from the United Arab Emirates, one of the strictest realms of the Muslim world, and the rules governing male/female interactions are quite rigid.
"I'm Andre Sauveur," the young Black man said, still flashing that fearless smile. I looked at him, and for the first time I noticed that he had a French accent, which lent an almost musical lilt to every word coming out of his mouth. The way he spoke French was different from how the Canadians I met spoke French. Indeed, Andre sounded like a Parisian.
"Je suis Nadiya," I said, and when Andre extended his hand for me to shake, I ignored a lifetime of socio-cultural conditioning and shook it. Andre's handshake was warm and firm, frank and honest, like the man himself, as I would later discover. Thus I met the young man destined to change my life forever. The bus came, and we got on. The vehicle was crowded, which didn't surprise me since U of T is the largest school in all of Canada.
