Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 7)

This is the seventh article in a 10-part series about true stories of Somali men and women and their very blunt assessment of their relationships. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

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A Neat, Well-furnished Apartment

I have been single for a few years. I was once married with children. My marriage became stale and I decided to leave my wife of 14 years. Okay, I was actually dumped by my ex-wife after I stopped being a provider. I stopped working and became depressed. My father had died in Somalia, and I was too broke to go there and visit my relatives after such a tragic loss.

My wife got tired of me because I stopped communicating with her and paying the household bills. I did not go out and look for employment. One fateful day, she asked me to pack and leave our house. By then, I was ready to move on and embark on single life. My family had become a financial burden, and I couldn’t wait to be relieved from such an onerous weight. I gingerly carried my luggage to my car and left our compound without anyone noticing my departure. There were no cameras to capture the humiliating experience of being kicked out of my home.

In a way, I was happy because I became single. I wanted to see what the world had to offer to a 38-year-old single Somali man. I met several Somali ladies in a span of three years. I was appalled by the abundance of single mothers in our community. What happened to the men? The news of my divorce spread very fast in the community. Everybody knew that I was a lousy husband and an irresponsible father. Oddly, my flawed marital record did not deter some women. I was not seen as a liability but rather an asset—a single man, medium height, athletic, articulate, fluent in English, and fun to be with. Moreover, I once worked as a disk jockey at several Somali weddings. In a nutshell, I was a good catch, at least to some women.

The best offer for living arrangement I got was from an attractive, sexy, single lady who simply told me to bring my luggage and move in with her. No need to pay rent. Her house was neat and well-furnished. “Let us get married and all you have to do is bring your luggage,” she said. Her home was decorated with beautiful Italian furniture and exotic rugs. I had never been to a house that smelled so good. She had been married before, three times in fact. “My former husbands all wanted children,” she said smiling, “but I can’t conceive.” Great, I thought; this way I wouldn’t appear selfish. Honestly, I couldn’t see myself being a father again.

I started seeing Ambara and I thought I was lucky. She was caring, attentive, and bubbly. We decided to get married in six months, but slowly I became disenchanted. I was used to a wife who did not give me any attention. Then, there was Ambara showering me with too much. I was hungry for a woman’s attention, but not this much. She called me constantly, gave me gifts, and started laying the foundation for our future wedding. She wanted to have a big wedding that would be a source of conversation in the community. Things were moving a little too fast. I told you, I was employment-challenged. How was I supposed to pay such an astronomical cost? I couldn’t feed a soul, let alone 200 people at a wedding. Furthermore, I felt suffocated. I am the type of man who wants to have his space.

Once upon a time, I knew a sorcerer in Oregon who used to ask Somali men to pay him $200 in return for making their wives love them more and focused on them. He naively pitched the idea to one man, a certified womanizer. The playboy rejected the bizarre idea and told the sorcerer: “Adiga ma waalan tahay? Xaaskeyga inay iga sii jeedo ayaan doonayaa.” (Are you crazy? I want my wife to [be focused] away from me). I felt the same way about Ambara. I wanted her to give me space and focus on something else.

Fortunately, my problem with Ambara got solved itself. I noticed something odd about her. Even though she gave me so much attention, she would receive many calls from other men. A stream of men always visited her apartment coming at different times, and sometimes at odd hours. I have never seen a woman who had more than 40 men—single and married—in her cell phone contact list. Yes, she was single, but 40 men! When I raised my concern to her, she would tell me that they were all her brothers. Give me a break. I knew her brothers, I had met them personally; these men were not her brothers. Of course, I was concerned because I wanted to stake out my territory.

I felt sick with apprehension. I kept thinking of our impending marriage and the concern of our house being bombarded by visits from wayward men and loafers. I know myself very well: I am the jealous type who can’t stand his woman socializing with other men. Call me possessive and a control freak if you want. There is no such thing as a platonic relationship between unrelated men and women.

After Ambara and I split, she once called me. “I want you back,” she pleaded. Somehow, I was not in a generous mood and my answer was lame: “It wasn’t meant to be.” Translation: I am glad Ambara you are out of my life. I assume you think I am cruel. Yes, indeed.  I am guilty of being a heartbreaker.                   

The One that Got Away

Canada.

Every time I hear someone mention that country I cringe. The name brings back memories of sadness, disappointment, and regret.

I am a single mother with a son. A decade ago, I moved from Asia and settled in Seattle. I applied for and was granted political asylum. I did not know anybody in my new city. Shortly after my arrival in America, I met a young religious man who lived a block away from my apartment. I am a Somali woman who can’t stand religious men or, as the Somalis call them, “wadaado” (I find them self-righteous, intolerant, and controlling). I can’t fathom being ordered around by a man who acts as though he has the keys to paradise. But this young man—Guled is his name—was different. He was broad-minded, well-read, polite, courteous, and extremely kind. He would greet me warmly when we met outside my complex, he played with my son, and he even gave me rides to the grocer and doctor’s clinic (he had a car and I did not).  He had applied for asylum in the U.S. and was waiting for a decision from immigration services.

After several months of acquaintance, Guled asked me to marry him. I was a bit taken aback by his request and politely ignored his overture. Our relationship was purely platonic. I saw him as a Good Samaritan, but never did I develop any romantic interest in him. I told him I was not ready for marriage at that particular juncture in my life. My first marriage had been difficult and uninteresting. My first husband showed me how marriage can be not a source of joy and happiness but one of anxiety and even depression. He was intransigent, bossy, and unwilling to let me go to school or work. To him, a woman’s place was in the home—cooking, cleaning, and procreating. Before I married him he had assured me I could finish college. After the marriage, he became Mr. No—no school, no work, and no leaving the house without his stamp of approval. Isn’t that the classic Somali aphorism: You win over a woman by lying to her but once married you reveal your true nature.

After I refused him, Guled continued to help me. My son became attached to him. Then, one day, I realized that it had been days since I had seen him—that was weird. I became concerned for his safety. Was he sick? Was he involved in a car accident? I went to his apartment to check on him but was met by a Mexican family. They did not know anything about Guled; they had just moved into the unit. I panicked. I had no choice but to go to the mosque in our neighborhood that Guled frequented. I talked to the imam there, asking about Guled’s whereabouts. The imam inquired, “Are you related to him?” I told him bashfully, “No, he helped my son and me from time to time.” “Well, he is gone,” the imam informed me as a matter-of-factly. Gone! “Where did he go? I wanted to know. “Canada,” was the cleric’s terse answer. I asked if Guled was coming back, but the imam reiterated that he was gone for good. “He originally came from Canada, but he was unable to get immigration papers in the United States,” added the imam.

I was shocked and did something unexpected: I started crying profusely. The imam became intrigued and gently asked me why I was weeping. “My son and I are going to miss him tremendously,” I said, “he had asked me to marry him but I told him no.” The imam looked at me in sympathy and stated, “We all are going to miss Guled because he was a good and selfless man.” That was when I realized I had lost a man whom I had simply taken for granted. I was devastated. I kept asking myself why I had let him go. Why hadn’t I accepted his proposal? I felt bad for my son, who had lost a role model. The loss was so painful that I decided to move to a new state and hoped I would meet someone like Guled. I have yet to find one.

Mr. Truthful

I am a young Somali woman who has never been married. Through the years, I have been courted by a dozen men. In my limited experience, one of the salient characteristics of Somali men is their tendency to ration the truth. They rarely tell you about their marital status, how many times they have been married and whether they have children. I knew one man who told me he was single, but he did not take into account that my uncle managed a money transfer company that many Somalis use to send money back home. According to my uncle, this man sent $400 every month to a woman in Somalia. She turned out to be his wife.

It was by pure chance that I met a man at a wedding. He approached me and asked me my name, and we engaged in idle talk. He seemed to be a well-grounded man, intelligent and witty. When he had to leave, he asked me for my phone number. I never expected him to call because he appeared to be laid back, but he did, although I have to admit I put no premium on his call. I was wrong. Within 20 minutes of the start of our conversation, the man surprised me with his candor. He told me what Somalis refer to as his “411” (basic information such as his full name, his home number, details of his first marriage and its duration, the name of the son he fathered, where he worked, what he did for a living, and with whom he was living). That was the first time a Somali man had been so forthcoming with me. Normally, questioning Somali men about their background is like going to the dentist: It is slow and painful. I became intrigued with this individual.

As the weeks went by, I witnessed something strange about my new friend. One day, we were talking about the civil war in Somalia. He told me that his younger sister had died of starvation as his family was fleeing to a neighboring country. Then, he began to cry. I was touched by his display of emotion. Now, ladies, how many times have you seen a Somali man cry? Our men simply view showing emotions as a sign of weakness, right? What a sensitive man, I mused. This man was unique, and I gradually fell in love with him. I am going to marry this guy.

 

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 6)

This article is the sixth in a 10-part series about true stories about Somali women and men and their blunt assessments of their relationships. The first six parts deal with Somali marriages in America and the last four with issues of courtship. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

The Spy

My wife spies on me constantly. She checks my cell phone, my emails, my mail, and even my pockets. I am, by nature, an open book. She knows my email password because I willingly told her. My mantra has always been: “Go ahead, because I have nothing to hide.” She checks my text messages when I go to the bathroom or to bed. Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning and check my cell phone, it does not indicate any missed calls. However, when I check my call history, I notice several missed calls. I’ve talked to my wife on numerous occasions about her lack of trust in me. She is never satisfied with my constant assurances that I do not cheat on her.

I know why she is suspicious of me. She is afraid that the past will come roaring back. Once upon a time, I was an indomitable flirt. Moreover, I met my wife while I was engaged to another woman. I left that woman in a heartbeat and fully committed myself to my wife.

It bothers me that after eight years of marriage and not even a single act of indiscretion, I am being subjected to an elaborate system of spousal surveillance and spying. My wife is computer savvy and has a habit of checking my activities online.

Today, I have to be cryptic when I talk with friends. I watch carefully what I say when I am home. I have asked all my female friends and female co-workers not to call me. I deleted all their contacts from my cell phone. I am scared my wife will misinterpret things if I talk to women. 

The Isolator

I was once the most outgoing man on earth. I was sociable, gregarious, and funny. Most of all, I was very close to my large family. These days, I rarely leave my home. I have become, suddenly, homebound. My wife is a homemaker, and my adult children run our family business. I do not even remember the last time I went to the store my family owns. My relationship with my parents and siblings has become progressively worse.

My wife is the cause of my isolation from family and friends. Since I married her, she has done a marvelous job of alienating everyone in my big family. My wife is a sociable woman. When she addresses people you would think she is the nicest person in the world. She has a sweet tongue and is a natural charmer. After you leave her, she will call you bad names and say terrible things about you behind your back. Interestingly, she has a nickname for everybody in my family, including myself.

Do you know what she calls me behind my back?

“Xaarle,” (dung beetle).

I have no idea why. All I know is that she views my family as dirt. I used to get upset about the way she treated my relatives and pulled me away from them.  Not anymore. A series of poor judgments by members of my family toward me gave my wife the ammunition to hate them. I was fired from my job several years ago and no one in my big family came to my assistance. It was a bitter disappointment. To this day, I have no idea why my family was indifferent to my plight. “Who needs a family like this?” my wife said.

Honestly, I miss talking to and visiting my parents, my siblings, and my cousins. Every time I saw my parents, they badmouthed my wife and raised the issue of my “indifference” to the rest of the family. I got tired of their constant complaints. Then, they asked me never to set foot in their house again. My own parents in essence disowned me because of my wife. That was—and still is—painful.

In the beginning, I was very defensive of my wife and blamed my family for their unbridled enmity toward her. Now, I am having second thoughts about my wife’s innocence. Something is amiss. It does not make sense that all my family members are wrong and only my wife is right. I am a middle-aged man, and life is short. I miss my family, the family weddings of my nephews and nieces and their high school and college graduation ceremonies. No one invites me to these important occasions because of my estrangement from the family. I am treated like I have the plague. This estrangement is taking a toll on my marriage.

I think my wife has performed black magic on me. Perhaps I am possessed. I know my wife believes in sorcery. She definitely has put a spell on me. I am developing resentment toward her. Am I paranoid? Surely I am. I have to seek some help.

On the Brink of the Precipice

I am a 25-year-old woman who was once married to an American Muslim. He was a white, handsome character of medium height, confident and always fun to be around. Our courtship was truly memorable. We met at college, hit it off, fell in love and cared about each other a lot. Why I decided to marry a man from a different race and culture is a question I still cannot answer. It was likely a combination of youthful exuberance, deep love, and exoticness. I was only 19 when I met Adam and the thought of marrying before the age of 25 had never entered my mind. There was something adventurous in forging such a relationship—an attempt, on my part, to break with Somali tradition, which I found restrictive and uncreative. I longed for a different life than the one in which I was raised.

Inevitably, Adam and I got married and our happiness was complete. However, married life turned out to be very different to our courtship. He ran into a gauntlet of obstacles. My family was cool to him, even though he went out of his way to be good to them. Adam started learning Somali; he wore traditional Somali dress for men such as the Macawis, and he called my parents “aabbo” (father) and “hooyo” (mother) respectively. Sadly, they were anything but cordial. The Somali community wasn’t kind either. People would stare at us as if we came from a different planet. Somali men looked at me contemptuously; they viewed me as a traitor marrying out of my race and people. One man was so rude to me he called me a whore and then swore to his friends that I was not even Somali. “She must be an Ethiopian,” he muttered derisively. Adam and I would go to a Somali restaurant, and the waiter would talk only to me, ignoring my husband as if he were non-existent. This treatment hurt Adam and disgusted me so much I considered it immoral.

At home, Adam was very helpful—cooking, cleaning, and taking care of our child. The first three years of our married life were wonderful. Then, our ‘honeymoon’ ended abruptly. Some relationships snap for no good reason; others falter because of complicated outside influences. Ours was a perfect example of the latter. Adam suddenly became distant and aloof, and openly hostile to my family. He freely spewed contempt on my people. Then his outbursts became violent. He slapped me a few times, punched my back, shook me, screamed at me on any pretext, and once squeezed my wrist so hard it was sore for weeks. Within a span of nine months, he was arrested twice for domestic violence, but that didn’t stop his abuse. He threatened to kill me if I ever left him.

Once, I overheard him tell an American Muslim man never to marry a Somali woman.  Then, one day, Adam’s deepest feelings finally exploded when he made a terrible confession: “I can’t stand Somalis because they are damn racists.” I was stunned. This was not the man I knew. He was angry, difficult, and constantly disagreed with my suggestions for improving our relationship. Such disagreements became reflex actions for him. He saw in me the embodiment of everything he believed was wrong with Somalis, and he did little to disguise the loathing he felt for them. They, in turn, also harbored strong resentment against him. Frankly, apart from the domestic violence, I was sympathetic toward him until he started regarding me as his personal enemy.  True, he was a victim of reverse discrimination, but I was at the end of my own emotional tether. I was paralyzed by fear and became concerned for the safety of our baby. I was too embarrassed to discuss my dilemma with my parents, three brothers and three sisters. However, when the news of Adam’s arrests became known, a chorus of voices in my family demanded that I leave him. 

Finally, I filed for divorce. I thought my nightmare was over and that I had removed an irritating thorn deeply embedded in my flesh. I was wrong. A new battle with Adam had only just begun — the battle for the custody of our child. The fight for custody of my baby highlighted a significant difference between Somali men and foreigners: a Somali man will never contest a mother’s claim to custody of her child, no matter how bad he has been as a husband. Somalis believe children should always be raised by their mothers.

Today, I am engaged to a nice, compassionate Somali man. We are planning to marry soon. However, my biggest concern is my ex-husband remains part of my life because he has partial custody of our child. Adam is very capable of manipulation and revenge and I am afraid he will use my son to ruin my new relationship. He is single and I am sure has free time to concoct plots against me. For the record, just to spite me, he has told me that he will marry someone of his own race and go back to his roots.

My parents are excited about my new man because he is Somali. My community is elated, too. This is indeed a welcome but very bizarre change.  A few years ago, I was scorned by my community for choosing to marry outside my race; now I am bathed in adoration and approval. Just yesterday, some of the ignorant members in our community were calling Adam “Gaal” (Infidel), even though he was a Muslim and me “Gaalo-Jecel” (Infidel Lover). Suddenly, I am no longer a traitor. I am happy with my fiancé but I have become cynical. I am disgusted at the way my family and community treated Adam, a man who did nothing to them except be different. If he had been treated well, I wonder whether he would have imploded as he did and whether we would still be together. He is not a man who forgets and forgives. My community pushed him to the brink. It may sound as if I am sympathizing with my abuser—a typical response from a victim of a domestic violence—but that is not the issue. I am simply against injustice because injustice not only leads to social and community tragedy but also to personal tragedy and devastation. . 

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 5)

This article is the fifth in a 10-part series of true stories of Somali women and men and their blunt assessments of their relationships. The first six parts deal with Somali marriages in America and the last four with issues of courtship. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

Where is my Dough?

My wife is secretive and, hence, does not share anything with me. She is involved—depending on what region you hail from—in what is called, “ayuuto” or “shalongo” or “hagbad” (an informal money pool in which a small number of participants put in the same amount of money every month and, by turn, one individual takes all the proceeds every month).  My wife used to put in $500 every month from “her own money,” as she said, and, once a year, she collected about $6,000. She never shared that money with me nor did she contribute financially to our household expenses. I paid all the household bills.

I found out about my wife’s involvement with the money pool activity through her best friend’s husband. Apparently, it had been going on for three years without my knowledge. I confronted her and she did not even deny it. “Certainly, it is my money,” was her assured response. “I thought it was our money,” I said. I was flabbergasted. My wife had access to all my bank accounts. In fact, we had joint accounts. A marriage is a team and it should be based on honesty and trust.

After that discovery, I set up a new account on my own and asked my employer to deposit into it. I also began giving a set amount of money to my wife every month for food and other miscellaneous expenses. The housing, utility, cable, and telephone expenses were paid directly through my new account.

My wife became angry. She accused me of “controlling” her financially.  “It is all about power and control,” she said.

Sometime later, I heard my wife was no longer a member of the money pool. Apparently, she used to siphon $500 every month from our household expenses, but I am not sure. When it comes to money management, we no longer trust each other. As sad as that sounds, we are still married and care about each other, but in reality, we are having a tough time forging a new bond of trust. My wife has been talking a lot lately about getting a part-time job. I would bet my bottom dollar that I will never see a penny of that money. But, it is okay. I also have earnings by doing consulting work.

Do you know any good investment agents?

You, Imbecile

Before our marriage, my wife Duniyo would teasingly and laughingly tell me, “Shut up, idiot.”  At the time, I took no offense and considered it part of the banter of a close relationship. After we married, however, I observed disturbing behavior that suddenly appeared in her communication. She would call my stepchildren, ages 11 and 13, names such as “doqon” (idiot), “saqajaan” (jerk), and — even the English phrase —“mother…….” I was appalled and told my wife that such name-calling was tantamount to child abuse. She dismissed my concerns out of hand and portrayed me as being overly dramatic. You do not understand, she would say, “I am very close to my children.” Then, she reminded me that our Somali parents had done the same when we were children and occasionally called us “dabbaal” (stupid) to motivate us. Not my parents. They were strict but respectful, demanding but loving, and always kind and caring.

My wife was respectful of me at the beginning of our marriage. However, after eight months, she began to show her true colors. First, she told me, “War naga aamus, doqonyahow” (Keep quiet, you idiot). I was flummoxed. “Please, do not insult me,” I protested. “Oh, you are sensitive, aren’t you?” she retorted.

I thought my marriage to Duniyo will be an upgrade of my first. My first marriage was unstable, contentious, and a source of constant pain. I did not want to have another relationship that was similar in any way.  Unfortunately, my current marriage is now showing the same permutations as my first. My wife simply became verbally abusive over time. She initiates our arguments and then ends them with very hurtful words. Worst of all, she is not one to apologize.

I have concluded that my relationship with my wife is a mere replay of each of our prior marriages. We both still have unresolved issues that mar this relationship. I am a very sensitive man, that is true, but I do not deserve to be verbally abused, especially in front of the children.

A year ago, my wife was so enraged with me that she called me a “naag” (woman). In front of our children, she told me that I should start wearing female attire. She had asked me to do something for her and I told her I wasn’t going to do it. Her insult was stinging. I was angry and the children were outraged. This time, my wife, for the first time, apologized for calling me a woman. I have nothing against women—please, do not misunderstand me—but a wife should never call her husband a woman. Perhaps the reason my wife apologized was that the children were disturbed by her unjustified verbal attack on me. At any rate, terrible damage was done. I now ask myself how long I can endure this abusive behavior. I have already contacted Child Protective Services to report my wife’s treatment of our children. Unfortunately, the social worker assigned to investigate the case closed the file because the children were afraid and non-cooperative.

My father has asked me to stay in the relationship, but I can’t. On the one hand, I want to be like the pious man in ancient times who was married to a difficult woman, but very tolerant of her outbursts. When people asked him why he did not divorce her, this man answered:  “I am afraid if I divorce her she would end up marrying another man who will not be patient with her and may harm her.” On the other hand, I do not want to suffer anymore.

The Would-be President

Politics and Somali men mix all the time.

As a rule, Somali men are obsessed with politics and political chatter in particular. My husband Omar is no exception but he has taken this endemic obsession to a higher level. He wants to be the next president of Somalia.  There is a tiny problem with that: He has no extensive education, no government experience, and no history of stable employment. Needless to say, he is only 28 and, per the provisional constitution of Somalia, he has to wait more than a decade before he can qualify for such a coveted position. Omar is the first to arrive at political events and the last to leave. He likes to be acknowledged in these gatherings and thanked for doing this thing or that thing. Unfortunately, he is too inexperienced, too shallow, and too clannish to become a leader of an entire nation. That is not my opinion but surprisingly his, too. He is perfectly aware of his own limitations but, alas, the man has boundless ambition. Ambition does not require any reasoning. I have pleaded with him to give priority to his family. Unfortunately, he never listens to me and, at times, accuses me of being jealous of him. Jealous of what, I wonder. My husband needs clinical help because he has this exaggerated view of his own importance.

My husband does not know the name of the school our children attend, their doctor’s name, or what each child likes. He has not taken the children for an outing for a long time (five months to be exact), nor has he asked me to join him for an outing for coffee or dinner. However, I can tell you all the little things about his uneventful life: The last political event he attended, the names of the guest speakers, and even where my husband was seated. I can also tell you what his latest posts are on Facebook and Instagram, and his last tweets. Sometimes, I ask myself if this narcissist married me to be his trophy wife; the kind of woman who will appear next to her politician husband smiling and clapping.

My husband is married to his political ambition. I am saddened that my children will one day find out their father — the “would-be president” — was nothing but a bust.

Cloud Nine

My husband wants a new drug.

Prescription medication, that is.

Actually, my once-model husband has turned into a druggie. After many years of what seemed to be a stable family life, my husband developed a habit, a bad habit. He became addicted to prescription medication. He would take an amalgam of this kind of medication and get high.

The problem started when his cousin came from Europe to live with us. The two started experimenting with different types of drugs. My husband first graduated to hard liquor and then finally drugs. All these problems unfolded while he stayed home.

It was painful to watch the man I loved descend into such a deep abyss. He became a totally different person, growing physically and verbally abusive. Then, he ruined my almost perfect credit rating because he stole cash from me for drugs and used my credit cards illegally. I became like the Somali woman who lamented about her former husband: “He stole my heart and my money.”

Finally, I kicked him out and got a divorce.

He turned the children against me. I was portrayed by his family as the ungrateful woman who kicked her husband out of his home. Even my own parents cut their ties with me for a while because of him.

To make a long story short, my ex-husband returned to Somalia. He does not get access there to the types of drugs he used in the United States. However, he has become addicted to khat, a mild stimulant plant.

Do you want to know something odd?

I am currently supporting him. Yes, I send him money regularly.

Why?

I do it because he is the father of my children, and the rate of unemployment in Somalia is very high.

Do you want to know something even weirder?

All of our children are now adults.

Okay, in truth, his presence in Somalia is better for the children and me. No more headaches!