Somali Empress in Ottawa

I no longer feel guilt for the things I do. Only God can judge me, since my fellow Muslims are all hypocrites anyways. Oh, plenty of Christians and Jews are hypocritical as well but Muslims pretend like no one else can. Here's a few examples. Brother Hassan, the Imam of my favorite Masjid, is a wise old Cleric from Somaliland. The dude is secretly into men and he's been fucking some of the younger guys in the local community when he's supposed to be giving them spiritual advice. The Imam's wife Aisha is a plump matronly Somali sister who doesn't seem to suspect there's anything shady with her husband and the spirited young Muslim men he associates with. Ha! What a fool!

My name is Farizah Dabir and I am a young woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I was born on November 8, 1989, in the City of Najran, Saudi Arabia, to an Arab father and Somali mother. My mother, Fatima Dabir, was basically a sexual slave or concubine for the wealthy Arab sheikh who sired me. We left the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia for Canada in the summer of 1999. We've been in the Ontario region ever since. My mother lives in the City of Toronto with her new husband, an old Somali guy named Ahmed Suleiman. She met him at mosque and it was love at first sight, I guess. Best of luck to them both. As for me, I study business administration at Carleton University in our nation's Capital, and life has never been better.

It's often been said that a woman's body is her own temple, to do with as she wishes. The last people on the planet to get that message are followers of Islam. How else would you explain the fact that, even while living in Western societies, Muslim men continue to punish their women for daring to live like Western women? A case involving an Arab father and his wife and son killing their 'Westernized' daughters by drowning them in a car made headlines throughout Canada and around the world recently. For the first time in ages White people got to see what the smiling, friendly Muslim immigrant men they see daily are truly capable of. In Islam a woman is a slave, end of story. Any Muslim woman who disagrees is either in denial or she's simply brain-dead. Trust me, I know of what I speak.

As a fatherless, unmarried Muslim woman living in the environs of Ottawa, Ontario, I enjoy the kind of freedom that millions of Muslim sisters around the world secretly dream of. I don't have a husband, father or older brother to boss me around and tell me what to do, where to go or how to live my life. And I absolutely love every moment of it. Freedom is the most precious thing in the universe, next to breathing. I do whatever I want. I sleep with whoever I want. I do my own thing. Fuck those who disagree. I live in an apartment in the Vanier sector, on the eastern end of Ottawa. It's a neighborhood full of immigrants from places like East Africa, the Arab world and southeast Asia. It's about the only place in this town where a gal like me can feel at home.

Most of my neighbors are of non-European descent and I like this very much. As a biracial woman living in the Capital region of Canada, I am used to getting stared at longer than is deemed socially acceptable. It's not always their fault, really. I'm five-foot-eleven, thick and curvy, with caramel skin, light bronze eyes and long Black hair. I am gorgeous and I KNOW it. The demographics of Ottawa are changing rapidly, and not everyone is happy about it. I went to Hurdman station one morning and saw so many Somali, Arab, Chinese and Hindu students waiting for the school buses. Wow. The great White north is growing more colorful by the minute, eh?

In a crowd such as the one I just described, I felt at peace in spite of the noise around me. I heard so many different tongues. Arabic. Mandarin. Somali. Hmmm. I'm told that names like Mohammed and Singh are more common in the City of London, England, than John or Samantha nowadays. Diversity is a beautiful thing, isn't it? I smiled to myself as I took it all in. You know that sensation when you can feel someone watching you. I felt it all of a sudden and it caused me to turn around. I found myself looking into a pair of brown eyes in a beautiful face less than two feet from mine. Hello Miss Far, said an amused voice.

Who are you? I asked the six-foot-something, muscular and broad-shouldered and ruggedly handsome young Black man who stood there, looking at me like he knew me. You've forgotten your old buddy Omar that is so sad, he said with a wry grin. Hot damn, I said, as my heart skipped a beat. The next moment I was giving a heartfelt hug to an old friend I hadn't seen since the old days at a certain school in Mississauga. Omar Jenkins and I went way back. The awkward brat with the thick Michigan accent had matured into a tall, brawny young brother. What are you doing in Ottawa? I asked him. I got kicked out of Ryerson so I came to Carleton University, Omar said with a grin. Same old Omar, I smiled.

We stood there talking, and next thing I knew, the number four bus came. We hopped on, and then sat in the back ( just like old times ) of the packed bus to catch up. I hadn't seen this dude in a minute and I was real happy to see him. Omar and I met in the ninth grade, when his parents, Joseph and Lashonda Jenkins moved to Toronto, Ontario, from their hometown of Detroit, Michigan. When I first met him, I thought he was Muslim with a name like Omar but nope, the dude was actually Christian. African-Americans like to give names like Caliph, Malik, Omar, Jamal and Aisha to their sons and daughters. They're trying to be Afro-centric and don't realize that these are Arabic names, not African ones.

Anyhow, Omar and I clashed at first because I didn't like Americans at the time. I thought they were all gun-toting imperialists. The brat from Detroit surprised me by becoming my best friend. We were pals throughout high school and then lost touch after graduation. Omar and I went our separate ways, like many people who knew each other in their school days. Now that he was sitting right next to me, I wanted to know everything he'd been up to these past few years. Was he married? What was he studying? Did he have a girlfriend? We exchanged numbers but I still wanted to hear the answers to these questions from the horse's mouth, so to speak. I'm in civil engineering and happily single, Omar said with a smile. Hmmm. I shrugged but inside I went all warm and gooey. I was secretly pleased to hear that Omar was single. Don't ask me why.

I'm a dual citizen of the U.S. and Canada now, Omar said proudly, showing me his citizenship card. Nice mug shot, I said with a wink. Omar laughed and pulled me close, rapping his knuckles against my forehead. Still got a big Somali forehead, he laughed. Laughing, I tried to push away from him but he held me kind of tight. He wasn't the scrawny dude I remembered from our school days that's for sure. The new and improved Omar had muscles. Nice ones. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine. You can let me go now, I smiled. Right after I do this, Omar said, then he kissed me.

To say that Omar's kiss surprised me would have been the understatement of the decade. Know what else was surprising? The fact that I kissed him back...passionately. What was that? I asked him, my heart suddenly a-flutter, as they say. I missed you Miss Far, Omar said, licking his full, sweet lips. Welcome to Ottawa, I said with a grin. Omar and I talked for a bit, and I told him about my new outlook on life. I still believe in God but I think all religions are insane including Islam, I shrugged. That's okay because God loves atheists and agnostics, Omar said, tugging at the silver crucifix hanging around his muscular neck.

Don't try to convert me mister church man, I warned Omar somewhat bitterly. Nah I just want to sleep with you, Omar said, smiling and scratching his head. I playfully smacked his arm. We'll see about that, I said, and I was the first person out the bus as it arrived at school. I hastily walked to the university center. Briefly turning around, I saw Omar standing a hundred feet away, looking at me. My cell buzzed, and I saw I got a text message. Let me take you out sometimes Miss Somalia, Omar's text read. Entice me and we'll see, I replied, waving at him and disappearing inside the university center. My day's off to a nice start. How about yours?