Muslim Romance In Toronto

When people ask me what I am, I honestly feel like smacking the shit out of them. I'm a human being, that's my typical reply. We're in the twenty-first century, and interracial marriage are becoming more and more common. Barack Obama, the President of the United States was born to a white American mother and a Kenyan father. Hollywood actor Robert DeNiro is Italian-American and his wife Grace Hightower is Black. They're together and the world isn't ending. People need to get over this racial crap, especially in Canada.

My name is Ayaan Abbasi. I was born in the City of Mississauga, Ontario, to a Pakistani immigrant father, Malik Abbasi, and a Moroccan-Canadian mother, Maryam Suleiman. My folks met while attending the University of Toronto, got hitched after graduation and then had little old me, along with my siblings Hussein, Mona and Washim. We're just an average family living the North American dream, I guess. My mom is a Nurse and my father is a constable with the Toronto Police Service.

We're a Muslim family and our faith is important to us, but we're like every other family I swear. So what if we're a multiethnic family? That shouldn't matter in this day and age. Except that it does. We live in a two-story house in a quiet neighborhood in the east end of Mississauga, and we just live a day at a time, like everybody else.

"What do you mean by that?" I said to my new roommate Isabel Dos Santos, a pretty young Dominican gal, when she asked me what it's like to be Muslim. I fixed my gaze on Isabel, who smiled sheepishly and shrugged. I noticed that she was looking at the top of my head, and sighed. The Hijab, gets them every time, I swear.

"What's it like to be a Muslim chick and always walk around with this thing on your head?" Isabel asked, and I took a deep breath before answering her question. Now, when you're a Hijab-wearing Muslim gal, you should expect people to ask you stupid questions about your faith and your clothes at least once a day.

I'm twenty years old, and in my second year at Humber College in Toronto. A lot of people ask me why I didn't just go to U of T like my siblings did, but I just laugh at them. The busy campuses of the University of Toronto don't appeal to me. I prefer a small, friendly campus, like that of Humber College. During my first year, I got to know most of my peers in the business program, some better than others, and that's how I like it. I just wish I didn't have an idiot for a roommate, like Isabel here, but life can't be perfect.

"What's it like to be a Caribbean hussy who sluts it up every damn day?" I retorted, glaring defiantly at Isabel Dos Santos with my hands on my hips. The normally sharp-tongued Dominican Canadian chick looked angry for a moment, but she flashed me a fake smile. The type I've grown accustomed to receiving from people who don't like me.

"Kitty has claws, I see," Isabel said, smiling icily, then went back to playing on her Laptop in the small living room we shared. I went back to flipping through the pages of the book I was reading. I picked up the novel Christ The Lord : The Road to Cana by Anne Rice, that American lady famous for her vampire stories. As a Muslim woman, I take everything that Christian authors do with a grain of salt.

You see, Jesus Christ, known as Isa Al Masih in Islam, wasn't what the Christians and Jews say he was. To us Muslims, he's a prophet of Allah, the one true God. Try as I might, I can't find a passage in the Torah or the Bible where Jesus told anyone that they should worship him. I believe the Holy One told his followers that his teachings would bring them closer to God. Of course, I try to avoid having such discussions with my Christian friends. Not enough aspirin in the world.

The other day I ran into this guy named Juan Carlos Etienne, and he gave me one hell of a headache following an animated class discussion on Islam and women's rights. "Your religion oppresses women and everyone knows it," Juan Carlos, J.C. to his friends, said to me, in our sociology class.

The one elective I opted to take caused me more headache than all of my core classes combined. I looked up at Juan Carlos, a tall, brawny young man with light brown skin, chocolate eyes and an Afro, and stood my ground. I'm only five-foot-seven and weigh one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, but I refused to let anyone intimidate me.

"Juan Carlos, if you don't stop disrespecting my religion, I'll smack the shit out of you," I said defiantly, looking at Juan Carlos Etienne, who smirked and stroked his goateed chin. I swear, guys and gals from the Caribbean tend to be hot-blooded and hot-tempered, not to sound like I'm stereotyping them or anything. I've just had some bad experiences, if you consider my bitchy roommate Isabel, or Juan Carlos, here.

"Whoa, lady, no need to get violent," Juan Carlos said, grinning and holding his hands up. I could tell that the burly Caribbean dude wasn't used to people getting in his face, especially short, caramel-hued, hijab-wearing gals like myself. I stood there, hands on my hips, and waved my index finger in his face, as people passing by watched us and laughed.

"Don't stay dumb shit like that again," I said, and then walked away from Juan Carlos in a huff. I'm usually a friendly, polite and easygoing person, but I hate putting up with stupid people. Two things are guaranteed to get me riled up, seriously. My ethnicity, and my Islamic faith. I'm half Pakistani and half Moroccan. And I'm a proud Muslim. Insult either my ethnicity or my Islamic faith and I'll get in your face. Comprende?

I walked away, feeling Juan Carlos Etienne's eyes on me, and shrugging as I made my way home. Whenever I tell my Mom about my issues with my roommate or the idiots I run into at Humber College, she tells me I ought to move back home. I don't want to do that. I like having my independence. My father is fairly liberal but Mom is deeply conservative, and believes that, as an unmarried Muslim gal, I should stay home. Thanks but no thanks, mommy dearest. I like having a life.

Feeling bored at the house and fed up with Isabel's bitchy attitude, I stepped out and went for a run. I like to jog in the evenings. Clad in a long-sleeved blue T-shirt featuring the Toronto Raptors, bright red sweatpants and a crimson Hijab, I stepped out into the night. A lot of people say that Toronto is a dangerous city, with the population boom and crime rate, but I love it. And I've never had anything happen to me. Until that night.

I was running through this park not far from campus, and paused by a bench to tie up my shoelaces. I was about to leave when suddenly I was accosted by a pair of guys. "Hello sweet thing," a burly white dude with tattoos said, and he smiled nastily, showing yellowish teeth. I looked at him a moment too long, for as I turned to leave, I felt a pair of arms grab me.

"Let go of me," I said, and was about to scream when a sweaty, thick hand fell upon my mouth, silencing me. The bald guy looked at me and grinned, and I felt his still unseen acolyte's free hand grab my buttocks. These animals weren't going to rob me. Their plans were far more sinister than that. Heaven help me, I prayed silently, as thoughts of torment and violation assaulted my mind.

"This Muslim bitch got a nice ass on her," the other guy said, and I felt his hot breath against my face as he licked my neck. I shuddered all over, disgusted and suddenly feeling utterly unclean. I struggled in the man's grasp but to no avail. I'm a feisty chick but this guy was huge, and he had help. I looked into the bald one's eyes and saw in there the promise of hell.

"Let her go or you're dead meat," a loud, vaguely familiar masculine voice said, and I sensed tension in the still-unseen man who was holding onto me. A third party joined the fray, and I gasped when I saw who it was. Juan Carlos Etienne, in the flesh. The burly Caribbean guy from class stood there, and in his hand, he held what looked like the meanest butcher knife in history.

"Crazy Muslims walking around a Canadian street with a damn machete," Baldy said, and he shook his head and backed off as Juan Carlos walked up to him, raising his blade as if preparing to strike. The bald guy muttered something to his companion, and next thing I know, the steel grip relaxed, and then vanished. I turned around, and saw two fleeing figures disappear into the night.

"Are you alright?" Juan Carlos said, looking at me with concern in his chocolate eyes. I gently massaged my throat, and sighed, then caught my breath. I looked at Juan Carlos, who tucked his wicked-looking blade into his jacket pocket, and gently touched my arm. For a long moment, I looked at him in silence. For I was beyond shocked after all I'd just gone through.

"Thank you," I said, and Juan Carlos Etienne smiled and gently pulled me into his arms. Normally, observant Muslim women like myself don't get all hugged up with males we don't know. Indeed, we only shake hands with male relatives, refusing to touch strangers. The Koran forbids touching between unmarried or unrelated men and women. And yet, in that moment, I didn't care. Juan Carlos pulled me into his arms, and I let go of my fears and hugged him back. "You're safe now Miss Abbasi," he whispered into my ear.

I looked into the eyes of Juan Carlos, the arrogant guy from the Caribbean, and a frisson coursed through me. In a good way, I ought to say. As corny as it may sound to you cynical and worldly readers, I had a feeling about Juan Carlos in that moment. Never mind that we come from different worlds and butted heads the first time we met. "I know," I said, and he nodded gently.

That night, I allowed a guy to walk me home for the first time. The next day, I went to the police, but the policewoman I spoke to wasn't much help. "Sorry but in this town, this sort of thing happens all the time," she said, in a less than helpful tone. I walked out of the police station, feeling honestly disappointed. The policewoman's lack of sensitivity was alarming. The fact that she as a woman failed to understand my plight bugged me, but whatever.

I didn't tell my parents about the incident because I knew how they'd react. No one is more overprotective of their daughters than Muslim parents. Absolutely no one else on the planet Earth. I could see my overzealous mother locking me up in my room for the sake of my safety until my wedding day. Pardon my French but fuck THAT!

I went to class, and this time, I sat next to a certain Caribbean gentleman. "As Salam Alaikum," I said, smiling as Juan Carlos nodded at me. He looked at me, and flashed that trademark smirk of his. In a low voice, Juan Carlos asked me if I was okay, and I nodded. After class, we walked out together, and had a little chat.

"So, Juan Carlos, why do you carry a knife?" I asked him, and carefully looked into his dark, handsome face as he paused before answering. Juan Carlos stroked his chin, and played with his small beard for a moment. A cold look came over his face, and he fixed his intense eyes on me. For a moment, I worried I might have overstepped some invisible boundaries.

"I was born in Haiti, and my family got persecuted when we moved to the DR because my father is Haitian and my mother is Dominican," Juan Carlos said, and the intense anger and pain I saw in his dark eyes surprised me. Not easy being mixed race no matter where you live, I thought, shuddering inwardly. For I recalled many instances where my family and I got dirty looks from both South Asians and North Africans while on the streets of Toronto.

"I am so sorry," I said, and the anger receded from Juan Carlos face. A very handsome face, I noticed, not for the first time. I nodded, and I asked him to continue. Juan smiled, and then grew all serious again as he told me his story. Apparently, there were a lot of tensions between Haitians and Dominicans on both sides of the island, and as an interracial couple in the Dominican Republic, Juan Carlos parents, Jean Carl Etienne and Maria Carlos, were seen as breaking unwritten rules.

"The world is a fucked up and racist place, and after getting hassled by both Jamaican and Hispanic gangs for being biracial, I protect myself at night," Juan Carlos said, a defiant look on his face. We were walking near the School of Applied Technology, where my next class was. I had to cut this quick, but wanted to leave on a high note.

"I'm always here if you need someone to talk to," I said to Juan Carlos, and then I hugged him and slipped him my number. I'd scribbled it on a piece of paper in class, having made up my mind while Juan and I sat together. Juan looked at the piece of paper I handed him, then smiled and pocketed it.

The Caribbean dude looked me up and down, grinning and shaking his head. "You're full of surprises Miss Abbasi," he said, and I flashed him my most wicked grin. I swear, guys always underestimate us Hijabis. They tend to assume that Muslim women are a different species from other, ahem, supposedly normal women, and that we don't feel what they do, or think what they think. How stupid and presumptuous, wouldn't you say?

"You, sir, got no idea," I said, and winked at Juan Carlos before taking off. I could feel his eyes on me as I waltzed into the Technology building like I owned the place, and I must say, I liked having his attention. The next day, when Juan Carlos texted me and asked me if I wanted to chill, what do you think I said? A resounding yes, ladies and gentlemen!

Thus began the relationship that changed my life. Juan Carlos and I began seeing each other, as friends at first, and then, well, we became...more than friends. Weird how these things happen, eh? The more I learned of the Afro-Caribbean stud, as I called him in my head, the more fascinated I became. Juan Carlos was only twenty years old, like me, but he'd led quite an exciting life.

"I love Canada but I miss the Caribbean sometimes," Juan Carlos said to me, as we sat together inside the Eaton Center, eating some delicious Chinese food and talking about everything and nothing. Juan had a faraway look of intense longing on his handsome face, one I found more than a little distracting. He's mister brooding intensity most of the time, I found that so very sexy.

I felt kind of envious when Juan Carlos spoke of faraway places like Haiti, the Dominican Republic and other Caribbean islands on which he lived with his family before they finally made their way to Canada. I was born in Ontario and only left Canada once, on a two-day visit to the City of Buffalo, New York. Yup, I'm a homebody, and he's a well-traveled dude. I'm so frigging jealous.

"I've never been to the Caribbean but I for one am glad you're in Canada," I said, gently laying my hand on Juan Carlos, breaking my own rules along the way but whatever. Juan looked at me, and smiled faintly, a look of uncertainty on his face as he looked at my hand on his. Without a word, Juan entwined my hand with his.

"You have lovely hands Miss Abbasi," Juan Carlos said, and smiled while looking at them. I looked at him, and the smoldering intensity I saw in those eyes of his gave me pause. This fine-looking brother was definitely flirting with me, that much was obvious. Either that or Juan Carlos had a fetish for sleek feminine hands, something I'd certainly never heard of.

"The rest of me is even lovelier," I whispered into Juan Carlos ear as I leaned over, locking eyes with him in a moment of uncharacteristic fearlessness. He looked into my eyes, and said nothing. Our faces were inches from each other. I flashed Juan Carlos a coy smile, and then I did the last thing the macho Caribbean stud expected. I kissed him. That's right, the shy and supposedly meek and demure Hijabi kissed the tough brother from the islands. How do you like them apples?

"Sweet lips you here," Juan Carlos said, flashing me his trademark smirk and looking me up and down as we came up for air. I grinned, and hugged him fiercely, not caring that there were people watching us. Doubtless the folks patronizing the Toronto Eaton Center weren't used to seeing Hijab-wearing gals like myself sitting on the laps of burly Afro-Caribbean men like Juan Carlos. I took Juan Carlos handsome face in my hands, and we just smiled and laughed, like lovebirds, I guess.

That evening, Juan Carlos and I left the Mall together, hand in hand. We couldn't keep our hands off each other, and believe me, this was fine by me. What can I say? I've admitted to myself that I like Juan Carlos, or J.C. as he prefers to be called, and we've decided to give a relationship a shot. We definitely make for an odd pair. A Christian guy from the Caribbean and a Muslim gal of Pakistani and Moroccan descent. We're as different as can be, I'm fully aware of that. And I don't care. J.C. makes me happy. I'm twenty years old, and I'm dating someone for the first time. Someone special. Wish me luck, eh?