I’m unable to speak
Or paint you with words
Yasmin Saleh.
I recall the first day she appeared in my life.
My colleague, Carolynes introduced us in the faculty lounge. We had been discussing Carolynes’ life in Venezuela and how difficult it was for her as a young working class girl to attend university and persevere through graduate studies to become a lecturer.
“You think that’s difficult?” Yasmin’s eyes blazed with passion, “Just imagine the struggle Isalmic women face standing up to oppression and male intolerance.”
She continued her fiery polemic against the oppression of Third World women but I tuned out her words, mesmerized instead by the beauty and purity of her soul.
It was strange—I used to find veiled women peculiar and strange, but Yasmin struck me as mysterious and captivating.
Suddenly, she turned to face me and the dark surprise in her eyes will remain etched in my memory forever.
It was a timeless moment where our souls seemed to recognize each other.
The encounter filled me with wonder, but the experience had a more upsetting effect on Yasmin. I knew she could sense the powerful force drawing us together, but while it filled me with longing to be near her, it caused her to appear distraught and visibly shaken
.
She grew very silent, as if withdrawing somewhere deep inside herself. Carolynes continued on talking, and after a few minutes, Yasmin mumbled some weak excuse and abruptly hurried away.
Surprisingly, Carolynes didn’t seem to notice but only remarked on Yasmin’s anger and the simmering sense of injustice that seemed to permeate everything about her.
I nodded in wordless agreement, but later when alone, I found myself musing about Yasmin and her dark, passions.
That night, I couldn’t sleep but lay on my bed trying to commune with her soul.
I kept hearing Carolynes’ comments about Yasmin’s anger, but another voice was also speaking deep within me—a still, small whisper.
I closed my eyes and let the words well up from within and give voice to my longing.
You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.
A great burden was lifted from me and I felt totally at peace. I fell into a deep sleep and dreamt of Yasmin alone with me beneath a starry sky.
The next day I lectured in the morning and met Carolynes for lunch in the great dining room at Hart House.
It was strange how the two of us evolved from being colleagues to enjoying a warm friendship. Somehow we understood there would be no romance between us, but that didn’t seem to matter. Rather than being a barrier, our clearly defined relationship enabled us to trust each other with our deepest secrets and intimacies.
As we sat in the Great Hall with its soaring stained glass windows and timbered ceilings I smiled inwardly about how unusual it was to be in a romantic setting with a beautiful woman and instead of pursuing her, I was passionately discussing world affairs.
Carolynes was a Professor of Race Relations and a brilliantly entertaining conversationalist, and I could listen to her for hours fascinated by the depth of her reading and knowledge.
She was explaining her view on whether Muslim women should be allowed to wear the niquab while taking the oath of citizenship, when she suddenly made the topic personal.
“To cover or not to cover? It’s a thorny topic, Callum. But personally, if I were you, I’d run for cover, especially the way Yasmin Saleh looked at you.”
I was thunderstruck—Carolynes had given absolutely no indication she noticed Yasmin’s reaction to me. I was at a loss for a reply.
“Don’t look so shocked, Callum,” she teased, “I’d have to be blind not to see Yasmin’s feelings toward you.”
“Did you notice my feelings towards her?” I croaked.
She nodded solemnly. “Take care, my friend—you’re venturing into deep waters.”
I sighed and let down my defenses. “I know I’m way out beyond my depth, Carol. I mean, it’s not like I have loads of experience with women—I don’t, and a Muslim woman? It scares the hell out of me.”
“She’s not just a Muslim, Callum, she’s an Islamic feminist. Lately she’s been associating with Hillary Notely—even you must have heard about her campus protests against gender inequality. Do you really want to get involved with that?”
“Not really,” I said glumly.
Carolynes smiled at me with compassion. “These are not just deep waters, but a veritable mind field that will blow any Love Boat right out of the water.”
I felt helpless—I knew the truth of what Carolynes was saying.
“Do you think it’s possible two people can put aside differences and simply be together without referencing all these gender and cultural controversies?”
She went silent a full minute before responding. “That’s a deep question, my friend. I know you’d have no problem accepting Yasmin as an equal, but would she be willing to surrender her views for love? I sincerely doubt it.”
I felt a complete fool. How naïve and stupidly simple of me to imagine love conquered all.
I left the dining hall feeling desolate.
The world suddenly grew bleak and barren.
Cultural barriers existed, I knew, but these lines didn’t just mark a boundary, they were deep waters as Carolynes said and couldn’t be crossed if storms blew up and waves crashed the shore.
Thank you!