I fell in love for the first time when I was sixteen-years-old. He was my best friend—someone I knew well and genuinely liked. He was also Arabic and Muslim.
Being only sixteen, I was pretty naïve. I didn’t think much about our cultural and religious differences—at the time, it just didn’t matter. All I knew was that I liked him, and he liked me. Besides, high school relationships never lasted anyway. Maybe six months’ tops. And it wasn’t like we were going to fall in love with each other; we were too young.
But we did fall in love, and we did last longer than six months. In fact, we lasted just over three years, and I spent that time believing everything was meant to be hard. Relationships were meant to be challenging and overwhelming; they were meant to build you up and break you down over and over again. At least, that’s what my relationship taught me.
As time went on and we became more serious, we quickly realized how hard things were going to get. Having been raised in a strict Muslim home, he wasn’t allowed to date—especially not a white girl. But he was convinced that things would work out in the end, that we were meant to be together. And I believed him.
The first time he told his parents about me, we had been dating for about eight months. Although his mom was sympathetic to the situation, his father wouldn’t hear anything of it. In his father’s eyes, our cultures were just too different, and I wasn’t a Muslim. As a result, he ended things, telling me that maybe when we were a little older, things would be different, and we just had to give it time. He then cut me out of his life and tried to move on.
So that’s what I did—I moved on. I wasn’t going to put my life on hold for someone who pretended like I didn’t exist. I started dating again, and he couldn’t stand it; long story short, we got back together because he didn’t want to see me with someone else.
After that, however, things began to change—or maybe I just began noticing things I didn’t before. We were always manipulating one another, being emotionally abusive, feeling extremely insecure in the relationship. We got off of fighting and trying to control each other. At least once a day, we were at each other’s throats about something; we were toxic.
I became really withdrawn. I never went out, I was always moody, my friends and family couldn’t stand to be around me. The only time I did anything was when I was with him, and that was hardly often. Every time we went out, there was always the fear of seeing someone we knew. Since he still wasn’t allowed to date, we always ran the risk of being seen and having his parents find out. Most times, we had to drive to the North end of the city just to go shopping together. Going out for dinner was rare. Essentially, our relationship consisted of watching movies in my basement.
Our confinement made me depressed and angry. All I wanted was a normal relationship—to go out where and when we pleased, to go for a walk around the block without worrying about being seen, to meet and be accepted by his family. I envied every couple; I wanted what they had. But I loved him so much, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving. Instead, I asked him to talk to his parents again.
Unfortunately, this only made the situation worse. His parents made him call me and end our relationship. They changed his number, denied him access to a vehicle, and wouldn’t let him out of their sight other than for school or work. Meanwhile, I was just starting my first year of university, my best friend and I had called it quits, my mom lived in a different country, and I had never felt more alone. Needless to say, we were both devastated.
Months passed, slowly. I tried reaching out to him—I visited the high school and sent him e-mails, hoping something would come of it. Trust me, I know it sounds crazy, but I was hooked: I didn’t know how to be without him. During the time we were apart, I was completely lost.
For reasons I could never understand, we got back together for a third time. Nothing changed; it was like everything got worse every time we reconnected. At first I was happy just to have him back in my life, but I soon began to realize that we were wrong for each other. We were just too different, and his family would never accept me as a white non-Muslim. Even if I did convert, I would never have the culture. At the time, I would have given anything to change this—I actually wished I was born Arabic. But then I realized just how destructive our relationship became—to the point that I regretted my own existence. It wasn’t right, and it had to stop.
So I ended the relationship, and it broke my heart. It’s been a year and a half and I still think about him, wondering how he is, what he’s doing. I’ve almost allowed myself to fall back into this destructive pattern of going back to him, but enough is enough. Sometimes there’s bigger things that we can’t control. Sometimes your love for someone isn’t enough, and things like culture and religion can be the deal breakers.