Turkish Girls Into Black Men

People have a funny way of meeting their other halves, that's what movies and romance novels tell us. Well, the first time I met my other half, we kind of clashed. Seriously, she literally slammed her fist into my gut. For a short Turkish chick in a low-cut dress and tiara, Beyza "Bebe" Ataturk certainly packed one hell of a punch. Seriously, I'm six-foot-three and weigh two hundred and fifty pounds yet I doubled over. Gasping for breath, I watched as the young woman blushed and apologized profusely. I wanted to ask her why she did me in like this, but I was having trouble speaking at the time. Either because of her mesmerizing beauty or the pain I was feeling, I couldn't tell you which.

My name is Ali al-Tijani and I was born in the City of Ain Madhi, central Algeria, to an Algerian father and Somali mother. When I was five, my parents Djamal and Sagal al-Tijani moved to the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I've basically lived in the Capital my whole life, but not a day goes by that someone doesn't ask me where I come from. It's all part of being a visible minority in Canada, I'm afraid. Even if you speak English without an accent and you clearly know your way around, white folks walk up to you, inquiring about your origins. The fact that it happens all the time doesn't lessen its impact.

For me, being asked where I'm from makes me feel like I'm forever the racial and cultural other. I bet you that a white guy from Australia walking around Ottawa wouldn't get asked where he's from, unless he speaks to someone and they detect his accent. That's just the way of things around here. Like a lot of young Muslims in provincial Ontario and beyond, I'm somewhat disconnected from my faith and culture. I'm getting back into the swing of things, though.

Reconnecting with my faith and culture matters to me. Although I'm a Canadian citizen, every day I'm reminded that I'm not one of them. I've started going to Masjid every Friday, and that's been a source of conflict for me, both internally and externally. You see, I work as a bouncer at a night club downtown, and being surrounded by loose young women and alcohol is haram, but I must do it since I've got rent to pay. The job is the job, you know. I've got no choice.

Shoot, rent isn't the only thing I've got to worry about. I'm in my third year in the business administration program at Carleton University. This year, the Canadian government determined that my parents made too much money for me to qualify for OSAP, so I'm fresh out of luck. The cost of tuition has skyrocketed this year, so yeah, I need my job. On Friday and Saturday nights, I work as a bouncer. It's not bad, pays seventeen dollars an hour. I start at eight in the evening and don't leave until five in the morning. It's decent money. Since I've got an Ontario security guard licence, I can work for other security companies. I do the odd shift for Securitas and other companies like it. Eh, it's a living, right?

Anyhow, as boring as the job can be, I am thankful for it because without it, I never would have met...her. Beyza Ataturk, the short, feisty young Turkish woman who punched me in the gut. As a club bouncer, I have the unpleasant duty of breaking up fights. Want to hear something surprising? Most of the fights between guys aren't that bad. Half the time, all I have to do is step between them and talk them down, and they'll usually listen and chill out. When the fights involve women, things aren't so simple.

As I would learn much later, Beyza Ataturk came to the club with her girlfriends, and as luck would have it, they ran into her Turkish ex-boyfriend Doruk and his new Jamaican girlfriend Roxanne Thompson. The two young women got into it, and the entire club gathered around them, cheering them on as the catfight of the century got underway. Much as I would have liked to ignore the incident or better yet, watch from the sidelines like dozens of eager, collegiate young men and women on the club floor, I had to step in. It's bad for business when clients end up hospitalized. Blood on the dance floor was a hit song back in the day, but no need to re-enact it in my club, thank you very much.

The fight between the two young women was fierce, man. Even though the bronze-skinned, dark-haired chick was dwarfed by the tall, dark-skinned Jamaican amazon, she gave as good as she got. Normally, I hate getting in the middle of a catfight. That's my co-worker Debbie Winston's department. She's tall, muscular and tattooed, with short red hair and icy blue eyes. Debbie is a butch lesbian brawler from Calgary, Alberta. I totally could have used her help in that fight but she had the night off. As I tried to pry the short, skinny chick away from the tall, dark-skinned young woman whom she was straddling and clawing, I got punched in the gut. And fell on my knees. Felled by a five-foot-six, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound chick. Damn. I need a new line of work.

Long story short? My co-workers got involved, as did the Ottawa police. All involved parties got lifetime bans from the club premises. Hey, not much I can do about it. I decided to take the following Friday off. Maybe getting punched in the gut by a drunken white chick was Allah's way of telling me that my working as a bouncer in a night club, surrounded by women and alcohol, offended His will. I went to my favorite Masjid in the east end of Ottawa, and prayed.

When I finished, I exited the premises. As I walked to my beat-up old red pickup truck, someone hailed me. I turned around, and saw a vaguely familiar feminine silhouette running toward me from the sisters entrance of the Masjid. No...it couldn't be. Oh but it was. The chick who decked me last week. Pardon my French but what the fuck is she doing at the mosque? I stood there, clad in my Thobe and Kufi hat, with my Koran tucked under my arm. As Salam Alaikum brother, the bronze, dark-haired young woman said.

I looked her up and down. Indeed it was the same young woman from the club. Jummah Mubarak sister, I said hesitantly. Smiling, she extended her hand for me to shake, and introduced herself as Beyza Ataturk. Normally, I don't shake hands with women inside the mosque or anywhere near it. When out in the outside world the rules are different, but in a holy place, one who calls himself Muslim must follow the Prophet's rules. Good to meet you, I said in a reserved tone, looking her up and down.

Clad in a long-sleeved red T-shirt featuring Wesley Snipes, blue jeans and boots, with her head uncovered, Beyza Ataturk looked like an Italian model instead of a pious Muslim sister. Hands on her hips, she asked me what I was staring at. I shrugged and apologized. Grinning, Beyza told me she wanted to apologize to me for accidentally hurting me the previous week. Don't worry about it sister, I told her in a conciliatory tone. I believe in Allah the Beneficent, the Merciful. The Most High would forgive even Iblis if the Dark One showed true remorse and sought redemption, so how can I not forgive my own Muslim sister? When Beyza asked me rather nicely to have coffee with her, to make up for what she'd done, I happily accepted.

Thus I officially met Beyza Ataturk, the unforgettable Turkish woman, as I called her in my mind. We sat inside a Tim Horton's on Saint Laurent boulevard, having coffee and getting to know each other. As it turns out, we had a lot in common. We're both foreign-born, and multi-ethnic. Oh, and we both go to Carleton. Beyza is in the civil engineering program. This feisty gal was born in the City of Bursa, northwestern Turkey, to a Turkish father and Afro-Arabian mother. When she told me this, I was surprised. At first glance, Beyza looks either Italian or Greek, and I can definitely see the Turkish in her but I didn't see a hint of anything African. Well, unless you consider a curvy body and nice derriere to be exclusively African features. Yet Beyza's mother Wahidat Hussein was half black and half Arab. Wow.

I must say I found myself liking Beyza Ataturk. For some reason she reminds me of my favorite celebrity, Algerian-born Canadian singer Lynda Thalie. We exchanged numbers that night, and added each other on Facebook. We'd been talking for two hours inside the Tim Horton's before either of us realized time was going by quick and we both had things to do. I gave Beyza a brief hug and told her I looked forward to seeing her again. Smiling, she told me she was going to hold me to that. I went home that night with a smile on my face.

I didn't know it at the time, but this was the beginning of something new and wonderful for both of us. For ages I lived a lonely life, only going to school and work, and despising my job. I felt at odds with the secularism of Canadian society as I began delving more deeply into my Muslim heritage. I sought fulfillment, and thought I'd found it. And yet, there was an emptiness inside of me that nothing could fill. As I began hanging out with Beyza Ataturk, the wild chick from Turkey who goes to mosque, yet wears short skirts, drinks and parties like a westerner, I realized what I'd been missing. Someone I could hang out with, and trust with my true self.

For although I'm a pious Muslim who is absolutely dedicated to Allah and His Prophet, I'm also a twenty-one-year-old black male university student in the Canadian capital. I feel loneliness, pain, lust and curiosity, like all young folks my age. With her unconventional ways, Beyza proved to be just what I needed. An injection of life into my otherwise dreary existence. Nothing in my faith says I have to live like a hermit, that's for sure. A Muslim man should be confident and strong, fearless in his pursuit of all life has to offer him, for it is a gift from Allah.

With Beyza by my side, I began to feel like anything was possible. We went to restaurants and movie theaters together, and we also do swing dancing. I've got two left feet but she's teaching me some wonderful moves. Beyza is something else, ladies and gentlemen. She's so fearless and full of life it's not even funny. I'm happy for the first time in a long time, and I owe it all to her. One night, as we walked to our favorite Timmy's from the Masjid, I took her hand in mine and kissed it, then told her I liked her. Falling silent, Beyza looked into my eyes. For a long moment I awaited her answer, my heart thundering in my chest.

Grinning, Beyza stood on her tippy toes and kissed me, and then asked me what took me so long to fess up. I smiled and shrugged. I'm a little slow on matters of the heart, what can I say? I can't get enough of her, my sweet Bebe. My parents noticed the recent changes in me, and I finally told them about her, and they're happy for me. We have fun Beyza and I, and come Friday, we go to Masjid to pray. Saturday night, we blast each other with paintball guns then make out at the movie theater. Who says you can't be a practicing Muslim and have wonderful fun and passionate love in your life? May Allah be praised for His miracles. We met unconventionally, but I think I might have found the one I'm meant for.