“You should try something with a bit more flow.”

“You should try something with a bit more flow.”

Those are the words that introduced me to the first Muslim woman I ever actually got to know. She was a fellow researcher at the research lab, I worked in, and I’d seen her around before. We’d sat next to each other before, lab coat to lab coat on cheap plastic chairs, in various lectures and endless meetings and in line for the classic research pastime of raiding free food from whatever presentation happened to be occurring on any given day. Sure, we’d shared a few pleasantries, our fair share of “hellos” and “look at the weather” and “I think Gary is thinking of leaving”, but never more than that.

It wasn’t a conscious choice to never speak to her further. It wasn’t built on fear or mistrust or anything so base as that. It was simply that, from my perspective, what would we have to say to each other? Work aside, we were two different cultures. I wasn’t casting aspersions on her, or wherever it was that she came from, it was just that, honestly, what would we have to share? I grew up in a fishing village full of snow and ice. She grew up in Saudi Arabia. I enjoyed ghost stories and hiking. She enjoyed classical music and swimming. There was a huge difference between us, a gulf wider than an ocean and Europe, that simply put aside any chance of us really getting to know each other. It wasn’t malevolence, it wasn’t disrespect, it just… was.

“More flow?” I asked.

I have porphyria. The sun will light me up like a birthday candle. I was leaving the lab, a quiet morning, with no intention to return. Porphyria has all sorts of complications, and I had put in my resignation. All I had wanted was to slip out unnoticed and try and figure out what to do with my life. Here I was, trying to force the hood on my sweatshirt to cover up just a bit more of the harsh sun, and wasn’t having much luck.

“The hood is too thick,” she said, reaching up to fix it. “It won’t stay in one place, and it probably heats up a bit I imagine.”

“Yeah, it’s not that comfortable,” I added.

“A few years ago I found a great website that sold sun blocking hijabs, you need something with flow, something that lets the air in and out but blocks the UV.” She pointed to her own scarf, a delicate thing that looked like a rosebush.

For the first time that day, I smiled.

“Are you going out for a coffee?” She asked.

“Something like that.”

“I’ll trade you more pointers for a coffee.”

Her name was Nada, and it turns out we had more in common than I ever though. I long ago left the research lab. I’ve started my own non-profit work, I’ve found my own calling. I did not, however, leave Nada. Coffee turned into coffee once a week, and when I moved, it was a phone call or an e-mail. We still speak, we share our triumphs and tragedies, we share our comings and goings, our dates and our disasters. It turned out we didn’t have much in common in terms of culture.

We had much in common, however, as human beings.

 

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