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. .
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