From Syria With Love

As Salam Alaikum, dear reader. I thank the Most High for bringing you here. I have something important to share with you. The lives of Muslim women fascinate folks from the outside world, especially in the West. As the eldest daughter of a Libyan immigrant family, I have a complicated life, to say the least. My name is Salwa Zeidan-Harrison, and I am a young Arab-Canadian woman living in the City of Austin, Texas. Since I am considered tall for a woman, I wear the hijab, I have a Canadian accent and I am somewhat darker-skinned than the average Caucasian American, there’s been some tense moments between me and the residents of this great metropolis. I’m not what they’re used to, that’s for sure.

I’ve been living in metropolitan Austin for eight months, I moved here from the City of Ottawa, Ontario, to be with my husband Omar Harrison. These days I find myself pining for Ottawa. The place where I first saw the light of day. When my parents, Abdul and Maryam Zeidan moved from their hometown of Misrata, Republic of Libya, to Ontario, Canada, my mom was pregnant with me. I came into the world six weeks after my folks first set foot in Canada. According to the law, I’m as Canadian as maple syrup, but I’ve always felt like I was torn between two worlds. My parents didn’t adapt too well to Canada, and were fiercely defensive both of their Islamic faith and of their culture as Libyan newcomers.

I grew up in a household where I was expected to wear hijab, be obedient to my father, and also show up at Masjid every Friday. Strict, eh? I know. As long as I followed the rules, I was free to do whatever I wanted. Being the eldest afforded me a degree of independence. I won’t bore you by telling you what you want to hear. I know My father wasn’t a domestic tyrant, nor did he beat my mother or oppress me. If anything, he was tougher on my younger brothers Maher and Karim from the get-go. They were his sons, his heirs, and on their shoulders rested the responsibilities of carrying the proud Zeidan family name. Me? I was the daughter. As long as I didn’t do anything to bring shame to the family, I could do whatever I wanted.

I attended Magnus High School in Ottawa’s east end. Most of my classmates were the sons and daughters of Muslim immigrants. The east end is full of Somalis, Arabs, North Africans, Turks and others. Here and there you saw French Canadians, and Caribbean people like Haitians, Jamaicans and Trinidadians. For the most part, we so-called visible minorities dominated the school. After high school, I attended Carleton University, where I earned a bachelor’s degree in Criminology. I wanted to become a police officer. Would you believe that my staunchest supporter was my father? My mom thought police work was too dangerous for a young lady. If it hadn’t been for my dad’s intervention, mom would have made me change my major!

When I tell this to my western friends, they shake their heads in amazement. Apparently, the patriarch of a Muslim family is supposed to be a tyrant, forever oppressing his wife and daughters while letting his sons do whatever they want. That wasn’t the case with my family. My father came to Canada in 1990 at the age of thirty one. He had to go back to school because his accounting degree from the University of Tripoli wasn’t valid in Canada. This was in those dark days when Canada regarded foreign credentials with distrust, unless you’re coming from the United States or the United Kingdom.

My father studied accounting at Algonquin College, and eventually ended up working for the Canadian Revenue Agency. As for my mother, she returned to school as well, and works as a nurse at Ottawa General Hospital. It was very important to my parents that I succeeded. They always encouraged my studies. My mother wanted me to study nursing but my father knew that my passion lay in law enforcement. I’m that gal who watched every Law & Order series religiously. I was seriously pissed when the original series got cancelled, in spite of a massive fan and celebrity campaign to save it. Law & Order is my life, folks. I watch Law & Order : SVU now that Law & Order : Criminal Intent is over. I used to watch those shows with my dad. I couldn’t stand those cooking shows my mom is addicted to. Give me a detective thriller any day of the week.

While at Carleton University, I joined the coed rifle club. I’m really into guns, and while I wasn’t the only female member of the club, I was the only hijab-wearing Muslim gal there. Contrarily to what you might expect, the other members made me feel welcome. Andy Cameron, a tall, red-haired white guy from the City of Calgary, Alberta, is the club president. He extended me a warm welcome after I demonstrated my shooting abilities on the range. Andy’s girlfriend Melinda Abdullah, a Lebanese Christian chick, well, that was another story. This broad hated me from the get-go. Maybe Melinda thought I would steal her boyfriend. Like a lot of white guys in Canada, Andy Cameron finds us Arab women fascinating. The guy is cute and all but I’m not a home wrecker. Besides, he’s not even Muslim. No, the one member of the club I had the hots for is Omar Harrison.

Now that’s a man worth writing home about. He’s six-foot-four, a full three inches taller than me, and also built like an Olympic athlete. With his dark brown skin, curly black hair and light brown eyes, the dude is simply delicious-looking. Omar Harrison was born and raised in Austin, Texas. Oh, and get a load of this…he’s a fellow Muslim. His parents, Malik and Amina Harrison are proud members of the Nation of Islam. I don’t know much about the Nation of Islam, beyond the fact that legendary civil rights activist and international human rights icon Malcom X was once one of them.

Lots of Muslims from outside North America know about Malcolm X. We Arabs remember him fondly as a Muslim brother and an outspoken critic of American foreign policy. Malcom X’s journey to the Holy City of Mecca got him in the annals of Saudi Arabian history. We Muslims welcome our sisters and brothers from around the world. After all, the Prophet Mohammed himself stated that there is to be one Ummah, beyond the boundaries of skin color, nationality or politics. As a Muslim from America, Omar intrigued me, to tell you the truth. When I heard him say that he’s a proud Texan, I almost did a double take. Typically, when I think of Texans, I imagine a white guy with a cowboy hat and a gun. Omar kind of surprised me when he said that there were lots of black people in Texas, along with Hispanics, Asians and other races.

Man, the list of things I don’t know about the United States of America could fill a book. Even after moving down here, the place never ceases to amaze me. Omar and I became friends through our membership on the rifle team, and our mutual fascination grew. As an international student from the States, and a Muslim at that, Omar had a lot of questions about Canadian society and life. Well, I ‘volunteered’ to be his guide through the vast, confusing world of Ottawa. We hung out both on and off campus, and I must say, seeing my hometown through his eyes simply threw me. There are a lot of things about Ottawa that seem normal, even mundane to me, but which seem disturbing to a foreigner’s eyes.

Omar told me that he found the white Canadian habit of asking every non-white person about their national origin to be annoying and borderline racist. No one ever asked me if I wasn’t American while in Austin, he told me proudly. I looked at him, peeved, and added rather defensively that most Canadians were friendly people and not at all what he imagined. Omar shrugged and smiled. We were walking through the Rideau center, arm in arm, and just before we reached the escalator leading to the food court, we saw a trio of Middle-Eastern guys at a cell phone booth. There were two girls with them, a plump black chick in hijab and a blonde-haired white chick in a short skirt and halter top. The three Middle-Eastern guys looked at Omar and I, and shot us a sour look.

One of them muttered something in Arabic to his buddy, and I closed my eyes, hard. I understood precisely what he just did. He said something derogatory about Omar, referring to him as an “Abdi” which is Arabic for slave. What surprised me is that Omar actually understood what they said. I had no idea that my American Muslim friend and teammate had a working understanding of Arabic. Omar stepped toward the trio, and called them out. What followed is something I would rather forget, but can’t. As soon as Omar got in their faces, the Middle-Eastern guys surrounded him, and started shouting slurs in English and Arabic. I watched haplessly, as did the guys girlfriends, as a melee began.

My heart leapt in my chest as I watched Omar getting shoved and struck. I rushed to his aid, and got a an elbow to the chest for my troubles. Upon seeing me struck, Omar roared like a lion and waded into the men. Still, he was badly outnumbered and if mall security hadn’t showed up, I don’t even want to think about what would have happened. Long story short? The police got involved, and we all took a little trip to the police station down in Elgin. No formal charges were laid, though we all got lifetime bans from the Rideau shopping center.

Omar and I stopped seeing each other for a while after that. I missed him terribly, and constantly called him, but my cries fell on deaf ears. Fuck Ottawa and the racist creeps in it, he told me, and walked away after the police let him go. I am so sorry, I said, pleading with him to listen to me, to believe me. Omar ignored my pleas. He simply walked away into the night, shaking his head. I returned home, crestfallen. I had fallen in love with Omar, and I felt like I let him down when he needed me the most. When I went home that night in tears, my parents asked me what was up. I lied and told them that a friend had gotten injured at school. They knew I was friends with Omar, but I didn’t want them to know the extent of our relationship.

The next time I saw Omar, I was at the university gym, and had a million things on my mind, all of which vanished when I saw him. I was heading upstairs to the cycling machines in the Fitness Center, and he was coming up from the poolside entrance, soaking wet. The sight of my tall, dark and handsome not-quite boyfriend with only a blue towel on made my pussy twitch, pardon my French. I stood frozen, and Omar stared at me. Hello Salwa, he said evenly. As Salam Alaikum brother, I said meekly, trying to keep my eyes from venturing to his crotch area. Omar’s eyes roved up and down my body, and I could tell he liked what he saw.

I’m six feet tall, and I’m a somewhat heavyset young woman with dark bronze skin, dark eyes and black hair in a world that worships skinny blonde chicks. When I go to the gym, I still wear my hijab but I had on a long-sleeved blue and yellow T-shirt featuring Kobe Bryant and black sweatpants. I’m not a supermodel. Yet Omar looked at me as if I were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. You look beautiful Masha’Allah, Omar said, licking his lips. When those words left his mouth, I blushed, a warm feeling creeping into my chest. Thank you sweet prince, I said, and, without caring where we were or who was watching, I went to him.

I hugged him fiercely, this charming, obstinate African-American whom I simply couldn’t live without. Omar looked at me and smiled, then he cupped my face in his hands. Forgive me for my arrogance and pride my angel, Omar said, looking into my eyes. I love you Omar, I said, then I kissed him. Yup, that’s right, I kissed him first. I’m the supposedly meek, submissive and repressed Arab woman and I stunned the brash, cocky young American by kissing him. How about that? It was a deep, passionate kiss. The first of many we would share. Omar and I stood there, looking into each other’s eyes. Only a throat clearing nearby disturbed this almost perfect moment. Glad you guys are so happy but I need to go take a shower, said an old Indian guy with glasses. Um sure, Omar said, and I giggled. We’d been blocking the entrance to the men’s locker room without realizing it.

A little while later, Omar and I left the gym, and went to the movies together. We took off just like that, skipping classes and heading out into the City to enjoy the day. For the first time in ages, I skipped Masjid. I was in the back of a movie theater, making out with Omar while Les Miserables played onscreen. We walked out of the movie theater hand in hand, and thus starting our relationship officially. Many hardships awaited us, but we would face them head-on. As I said before, my parents knew Omar and I were friends, and knew we spent a lot of time together both in the rifle club and at the Islamic Students Association. They simply didn’t know we were boyfriend and girlfriend.

For ages I agonized over whether or not to reveal our relationship to my parents, and of course how to reveal it to them. It’s no secret that arab families are fiercely protective of their daughters. My good friend Jamila Loudahi is from Algeria, and her parents reacted harshly when they found out she’d been dating Ali, a guy from Palestine. You won’t find a lot of Arabs marrying outside their culture, for those reasons. I had fallen in love with a black Muslim man from America. Even for my usually forward-thinking and tolerant father, that proved to be too much.

Thus I found myself hated by my own family, hounded by my blood relations, and my very name became a curse word for the very people who brought me into this world. My own father spat in my face, and tried to strangle me. Miraculously I was able to pry his angry hands from my neck, and got away. What had I done to deserve such hatred? I fell in love with a pious, God-fearing man from my own faith, albeit hailing from a different land.

Why was he so unacceptable in their eyes? His only crime is being dark of skin. Never mind that the Prophet Mohammed deemed the black as worthy as any other man, whether Arab or white, if he truly follows Islam. Refusing to give up my beloved Omar, I left Ottawa, Ontario, and my family, and everything I ever knew, to be with him. We moved to Austin, Texas, and got married. Not a day goes by that I don’t remember my old school, my family and the life I left behind. I have a new life now, however, and I thank Allah for that. Within my womb, new life is growing. Indeed, I found out a few hours ago that I am pregnant, and I can’t wait for Omar to come home so I can tell him. Gently I rub my still flat belly. Soon it will start to grow with the fruit of the love I feel for Omar Harrison, my lawfully wedded husband, and the love of my life. May Allah bless our life together.