From Burkina Faso With Love Ch. 01

You see me walking down the street, wearing my Hijab and long robe, and you make all kinds of erroneous assumptions about me. I am not oppressed, I am not a religious freak, I am not a terrorist. I am a Muslim woman, pure and simple. Get that through your head. I have the same thoughts, feelings and needs, whether physical, emotional or sexual ( yes, Muslim women like sex too ) that all women share. Do you get it?

My name is Nadia Al-Masri and I'm a young Arab woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I was born in the City of Zinjibar, south-central Yemen, and raised in the Capital region of Canada. My parents Amal and Kader Al-Masri came to provincial Ontario, Canada, in the early 1990s while fleeing political persecution back home.

I consider myself the daughter of two worlds, of Canada, the supposedly liberal and tolerant multicultural nation that welcomes all, and of Yemen, a truly mysterious and forbidden yet beautiful land. One fraught with danger, socio-religious strife and intrigue. It's not always easy to face the challenges of life in Canada as a Muslim woman. I face a lot of obstacles and I've experienced my share of hardship, but I refuse to break.

As I walk through the Rideau Shopping Center, just another young woman doing some shopping in the Capital's busiest mall, I feel people looking at me. Hijabis like myself are a common sight in Ottawa. You can't walk through a mall, a government building, or a school in the City of Ottawa without seeing girls and women like myself. Proud Muslim sisters with our headscarves.

The world hates Muslims but we're not giving up in the face of hate, nor are we about to shrink before adversity. If anything, the more anti-Islamic sentiment there is, the more Islam grows. I smiled to myself as I watched a certain British politician who once hated Muslims as he embraced Islam and repented of his wicked ways. Insha'Allah, one day, my faith will dominate this world. You who hate us, know that there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

I finish shopping at Rideau, and catch the number four bus heading to Carleton University from downtown Ottawa. I'm a civil engineering student, wrapping up my third year. It's an exciting time for me for many reasons. I am close to graduating in my program, which is always cause for celebration. The other reason is much more personal. I have recently found love, and I now know that this wonderful young man whom I met seemingly at random is the person I am destined to marry.

I met Aziz Kalenzaga while walking through the Carleton University Center two years ago. The tall, well-dressed and smiling young Burkinabe gentleman approached me and asked me if I knew where the administrative offices were. I looked at this handsome African brother, smiled and told him that I was headed there myself. Truth be told? I didn't have any business being in the Tory Building but I wanted to help a brother out, as it were.

Our campus is huge, the size of a small town, and it's easy to get lost. I remember getting lost a lot during freshman year and I thought that this school was full of mean people who didn't care to stop and help a sister in need. Well, now that I'm in my junior year, I know the place like the back of my hand and considered it my pleasure to help a wayward soul like this handsome young man. The African brother thanked me profusely, and said that he had to register for some courses.

We talked a bit on the way there, and I actually told him my name. Smiling, the brother introduced himself as Aziz, and we shook hands. Yes, I am that Hijabi sister who sometimes shakes hands. This surprised me because, well, I am very shy and nervous around men whom I don't know. I'm five-foot-four, and weigh one hundred and eleven pounds. Look up waif in the dictionary and you might find a picture of me.

I once had a scary experience in an elevator in Calgary. I was staying with my aunt Amina and when I took the elevator in her building one night, one drunken older white dude tried to grab me. I screamed like a banshee and dashed out of the elevator the moment it reached my floor. Later, my aunt Amina called the cops but they never caught the guy. Indeed, he wasn't even a tenant in the building and the management told us they had no idea how in hell he got in. Well, this experience left me terrified of strange males.

For some reason, I didn't feel nervous around Aziz the friendly brother from Burkina Faso, even though he was six-foot-three, burly and tough-looking. When we reached the Tory Building, he thanked me and wished me a good day, then he made his way to the admin offices. I stood there for a moment and watched Aziz go. I remember thinking to myself that the tall West African brother certainly has a cute butt. My own thoughts surprised me, for I was very much a good Muslim sister who is chaste and pious. Chaste and pious Muslim sisters have been known to notice tall, fine brothers with cute butts. We're human, hello!

The next time I ran into Aziz Kalenzaga, I was walking around the campus library. I saw the brother sitting at a computer, busily typing up an essay. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him. Clad in a blue silk shirt, black silk pants and shiny black shoes, Aziz looked really good. I am very shy around guys, as I said before, but something made get over my shy gal routine and approach him. Something very out of the ordinary for me, let me tell you.

As it had been a few weeks since our first meeting, I was worried Aziz might have forgotten about me but the cheerful West African brother greeted me happily. I smiled and shook Aziz's hand, and he asked me if I knew anything about Western Literature. As a mathematics major, literature wasn't Aziz's forte. I'm a civil engineer and I'm a numbers gal, not an essayist, but I tried my best to help Aziz. I simply can't resist a cute guy who begs. Don't judge me!

Not sure what good I did Aziz by helping him out with the essay, but we ended up bonding that day. I added him on my Facebook, and we became friends. The next time I saw Aziz, he invited me to grab a bite with him at Rooster's, a small restaurant on campus, and I hastily agreed. Anything to get to know this tall, cute brother with the easy smile and razor-sharp sense of style. That's how it all began, ladies and gentlemen. The relationship destined to change my life.

A lot of my female friends say that their men have trouble opening up to them. Aziz wasn't like that, at least not with me. Nope, the fine West African brother seemed real comfortable around his Yemeni sweetness, as he calls me. Makes me shudder with pleasure every time Aziz calls me that. Aziz has a way with words, what can I say?

Born in the City of Boromo, Burkina Faso, and raised in the City of Boston, Massachusetts, Aziz was something else. A West African-born and American-bred international student and newcomer to Canada. Talk about a rarity, eh? I loved hearing Aziz talk about his life in America, and he spoke lovingly of West Africa. The brother was a good listener, and he's the only one outside of my family whom I told about the elevator incident.

When I sat Aziz down and told him about that traumatic incident, he listened carefully. I saw empathy on his dark, handsome face, rather than fake sympathy, when I finished my sad little tale. Aziz looked at me and then, he gently took my hands in his. Looking me in the eyes, Aziz told me that any man who ever laid a hand on me against my wishes would have it cut off by him. I smiled at Aziz, and then, suddenly, our faces drew closer. Aziz and I smiled at each other, and then he kissed me.

Aziz and I shared our first kiss at our favorite table near the window, inside Rooster's Café at Carleton University. I, a Hijab-wearing, pious Muslim sister from Yemen kissed a tall, tough brother from West Africa. And I loved it! Aziz and I fell in love with each other shortly after that. We knew that we would face a lot of hardship. The Muslim world is a racially diverse realm, but you seldom see Arab sisters with African husbands.

When I told my parents about Aziz and I, as you can imagine, they weren't thrilled. Never mind that my cousin Yousef married Zahra, a pretty lady of Somali descent. They live together in the City of Toronto, Ontario, with their daughter, little Mona. I called my parents and family out on their hypocrisy. The fact that it's okay for Arab Muslim men to marry African Muslim women but it's all but forbidden for African Muslim men to marry Arab Muslim women, that's the ultimate double standard!

My parents were stunned by this, for I have always been the docile and compliant, pious Muslim daughter. The one who never rebelled against my parents wishes, or the rules of the Yemeni Canadian Muslim community. Well, it's time I took a stand. I, Nadia Al-Masri, am a proud Arab Muslim sister from Yemen. And I have chosen Aziz Kalenzaga, a West African Muslim brother, as my future husband and the father of any offspring I might one day have. It's my life, and I will fight for my right to live and love. If I die in the process, so be it. It's Aziz and I against the world. Wish us luck.