Requiem for a Saudi Woman

As Salam Alaikum. My name is Afaf Said. Tell people that you're from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and they make all kinds of assumptions about you. The one I hate the most? Oh, simply the part where I'm supposed to be oppressed, and also filthy rich. Somehow, when I think of an oppressed person living anywhere in the world, I don't envision them being filthy rich, but alas, that's what Westerners think of me and my fellow Saudis.

At this point, I don't care what people think of me. I was born in Saudi Arabia and until the day I die, my ancestral homeland will be part of me. I came to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, as an international student in the summer of 2011. I studied civil engineering at Carleton University, graduating in the summer of 2015. Since then, even though I've got a Canadian university degree and my permanent resident status, I've been unable to find work in my field. That's how I ended up working at Tim Horton's. Yay me.

Sometimes, I actually toy with the idea of going back to Saudi Arabia. My father Ali Said died a couple of years ago, due to complications from diabetes. I never knew my mother. I feel bad about my Baba, partly because I was away while he was battling his illness. I returned to Dammam to be by his side. Baba died two weeks after I returned to him.

"Afaf, my angel, I want you to build a life for yourself in Canada, there's nothing for you here," Baba said to me, as he lay in bed in his tiny room inside the King Fahad Specialist Hospital. Located at the heart of metropolitan Dammam, the hospital is quite large and very modern. To me, it will always be a cursed place, for it is where my Baba breathed his last.

"Thank you Baba, stay strong, you will make it through this," I said through tears as I gently kissed my father on the forehead. It wasn't easy for me to see my father like this. Six feet tall and strongly built, his hair more salt than pepper these days, Baba has always been a strong man. He worked construction in Dubai and elsewhere during his youth. To see him weakened, his body ravaged by disease, it pained me so much. I prayed fervently for him to make a full recovery, but fate had other plans.

"Seriously, Afaf, why are you working at Tim Horton's? I thought all Saudis were rich," says my co-worker, Roy Chan, a stocky, middle-aged Asian dude with a bad haircut. The dude's shrill voice snatched me out of my little trip down memory lane. I looked Roy Chan up and down, sighed, and shook my head before I resumed mopping the floor. It was close to closing time, and our store, one of numerous Tim Horton's located in downtown Ottawa, Ontario, was about to close.

"Dude, seriously, if I were rich, why would I bother working here?" I finally retorted, and I rolled the bucket and mop to the backroom, drained both and then rested them against the wall. I went to the ladies room and washed my hands in the sink, then looked at my reflection in the mirror. A short, bronze-skinned, brown-eyed young woman in a Hijab and Tim Horton's uniform looked back at me, a forlorn look on her face.

"Ya Allah, please get me through this," I said as I bowed my head, and then I exited the women's room. I hate working at Tim Horton's. It's late, and I want to go home. I walk to the corner, and cross the street to catch the 95 bus. I am waiting in the darkness, and I am not alone at the stop. Three young white guys with skateboards and tattoos look at me while smirking, and I do my best to ignore them.

"Hey, towel head, what's shaking?" asks one of the skateboard guys, whose hair is dyed bright green. I look at him briefly, then look at my cell phone. I want him to know that I can call the police if I feel the need. This is downtown Ottawa, after all, and we're near Metcalfe Street, within walking distance of Parliament Hill. Dammit, there's never any law enforcement types around when you need one.

"Don't speak to me that way," I reply, and Green Hair laughs, and then steps closer to me, flanked by his pals. I'm five-foot-six, a bit chubby, and I've never looked intimidating a day in my life. Nevertheless, I refused to back down, and instead I stared down the three creeps as they came near me. I tightened my hands, and made a fist.

"What's going on here?" came a deep, loud voice, and Green Hair and his pals turned around. Standing a couple of meters from us, hands on his hips, a big and tall young Black man in a blue uniform glowered at the three creeps. At first, I thought he was a police officer, but I took a closer look and saw the Metal Stallion Security logo on his uniform.

"None of your business, rent-a-cop," Green Hair replied haughtily, and he and his buddies laughed. The security guard stepped closer, and I saw the three skinny young white guys flinch, for the uniformed stranger was indeed an imposing man. Strongly built and dark-skinned, with a bit of an Afro. Squaring his shoulders, he glared at them, the contempt he felt for them emanating from him in waves.

"Fellas, I know you're not bothering this nice lady, I'd hate for things to get unpleasant for you," the security guard said, and Green Hair and his acolytes appeared to be considering this, and then they shrugged, uttered an obscenity I won't write here, and then walked away. My savior kept his eyes on them until they disappeared around a street corner, probably heading for Rideau.

"Masha' Allah, thank you, I don't even want to think about what they would have done to me," I said to the security man, whose name tag read "Benjamin," and he looked at me and smiled, then shrugged. Seriously, I was still in semi-panic mode. Normally, I carpool but my usual ride, my co-worker Vanessa ( whom I sometimes help out with gas payments ) is on vacation. I tried to use the OC Transpo buses and look what happened. Me and my infernal luck.

"It's alright, ma'am, I'm Benjamin, I work in the building across the street, on the overnight shift, you look like you needed a hand," he said, and before I could reply, he grabbed his radio and said something in French, followed by "10-4" and then fixed his soulful brown eyes on me. I smiled and did something I seldom do with men that I'm not related to. I held out my hand for my 'hero' to shake.

"Thank you, brother, I'm Afaf," I said, and after a brief hesitation, Benjamin shook my hand. His grip was firm but not crushingly so. Benjamin seemed about to say something when suddenly, the bus pulled up in front of the stop. My heart skipped a beat as I realized that it was the 95 bus. Benjamin smiled at me, and I thanked him once more as I took out my bright green Presto Card from my purse and reached for the bus door.

"Goodnight, Afaf, be safe and God bless," Benjamin said, and I waved him goodbye and got on the bus. The driver, a middle-aged white guy with salt-and-pepper hair looked me up and down as I swiped my Presto Card against the machine, and it blinked and I walked past him. I sat in the middle seats, as is my custom. I like the swiveling motion of the middle chairs as the bus speeds by. Don't ask me why.

That night, as I got home, I did my prayers, I thanked Allah for sending me someone to save me in my time of need. I also prayed to the Most High to improve my conditions. I live in a one-bedroom spot in a house located near Baseline Station, on Canter Boulevard. The owner, an Asian lady named Wilma Xie, isn't very nice to me. I hate my living conditions, seriously.

I was meant for more than this. I have my civil engineering degree from Carleton University and have been to numerous job fairs but no local company will hire me since I'm a Muslim woman who wears the Hijab. I see the look in their eyes when they see me come in for a job interview. They smile politely, but I know they don't like me. This is Ottawa for you. They're a bunch of fake-smiling, passive-aggressive creeps around here.

If I were still living in Saudi Arabia, I'd be married already. Alas, I am in the twilight of my twenties, and more alone than I've ever been. In the City of Dammam in the eastern province of Saudi Arabia, I was the precious daughter of a proud family. Young men from good families would have competed for my hand in marriage and approached my father to seek it. In Ottawa, I'm just another face in the crowd.

"Ya Allah, please send me a good man to marry, all that I ask is that he is a good Muslim and cares for me," I said as I pressed my forehead to my prayer rug in supplication before the Most High. I said Ameen and then rolled up my rug, changed into my pajamas and went to bed. As I lay in my bed, I thought of recent events. My day was pretty crappy with my manager and various clients treating me like crap. Still, I have to say, it wasn't all bad.

"See you again, Benjamin," I whispered with a smile as I thought of the tall, dark and handsome young Black man in the security uniform who saved me from those three creeps at the bus station downtown. I finally closed my eyes and went to sleep with a smile on my face. Life isn't easy for any of us, we just have different problems. Sometimes we spend so much time complaining that we overlook the good when it comes our way. That being said, I do hope to see the handsome and chivalrous Benjamin again. Good men are a rare commodity these days...