Relationships in Flux (Part 4): Somali Stories

This is part four of a series about true stories of Somalis living in the U.S. and their relationships. The series is part of “Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America,” a book currently being written. The author has interviewed three dozen people whose names and locations have been changed for privacy reasons. I will let each tell his or her own story.

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A forsaken marriage

Ours is a marriage replete with dysfunction and frustration. We are in our forties, have been married for a decade with no kids, and are gainfully employed. By all measures, our union has run out of steam and we live a humdrum existence.

We come home from work, eat, clean the dishes, relax, and play with our toys—our smart phones and laptops. We can spend hours and hours in the living room surfing the Internet without exchanging a word. Close to midnight, we go to bed, tired and exhausted. Oddly, we do not even say “goodnight” to each other anymore. 

Intimacy has been absent for over a year — snuggling is very rare, and sharing an activity is an oddity. Simply put, we stopped communicating as a couple some time ago. I have pleaded with my wife that we resolve our issues and seek professional help, but to no avail. She scoffs at me for being “naïve” and a “dreamer.” “What will an imam or a therapist do for you that you can’t do yourself?” she sneers. 

One day, I decided to go to Kenya to visit my relatives. I renewed my passport and purchased a ticket. Then a calamity befell me. Two days before my trip, I was arrested for an alleged instance of domestic violence. Before my arrest, my wife confronted me: “You are going abroad to marry a young woman in Nairobi. I know you, loser!” Then she snatched my travel documents and shredded them. Subsequently, she contacted the authorities. Poised and sounding rehearsed, she told the police her story: “my husband hit me and shoved me.”

I spent 21 days in jail waiting for my case to be heard. It was a traumatizing, soul-crushing experience. When my case finally came to trial, my wife suddenly had a change of heart—she told the court that she had lied about the whole thing. “I was jealous and afraid my husband would marry in Africa, like many Somali men do,” she explained. She cried profusely and asked for forgiveness. “My husband never hit me,” she added. I was exonerated, but at a huge price. I lost my job, was humiliated, and my reputation in the community was blemished. Most of all, I became resentful toward my wife because she had driven a wedge dangerously deep.

What used to be a dysfunctional home suddenly became full of hostility. Now I always have one eye on the door. In my mind, my wife has become the personification of all that has gone wrong in our marriage: a vapid lifestyle, vengefulness, and viciousness. But I am equally responsible for the failure of our marriage because I have become uninterested in the union. My wife accuses me of being involved in “qutbi-sireed” (a secret marriage). When your needs are not met, you do what you have to do. You can call me a cheater and fraud, and I can live with that. However, I have ruled out any reconciliation between us; my departure is our only salvation.

(Reprinted with permission from Sahan Journal, November 25, 2015).

Relationships in Flux (Part 3): Somali Stories

Relationships in Flux (Part 3): Somali Stories

This is part three of a series about true stories of Somalis in the U.S. and their relationships. The series is part of “Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America,” a book project the author is finishing. The author has interviewed three dozen people whose names and locations have been changed for privacy reasons. I will let each protagonist tell his or her own story.

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Romance ruined by a clash of clans

Six years ago, I was checking a Somali dating site and stumbled on an interesting profile of a Somali woman. I immediately contacted her. Her reply was swift and stern: “How did you get my contact information?” she demanded.  Apparently, she thought she had deleted her account with the website. Confused, I introduced myself briefly and she did the same. We realized we lived in the same city, Nashville, and agreed to meet at a café. When I saw her, I was stunned by her extraordinary beauty and amiable personality. We talked for an hour, and eventually the conversation turned to the slippery subject of clan affiliation.  The woman — I’ll call her “Hufan” — wanted to know my clan. She told me, in the manner of a teacher explaining an elementary concept to a new student, that life was already complicated, and she did not want to add a new wrinkle to it. “Just tell me your clan before things get out of hand,” she commanded.

“Tunni,” I said.

“What? Tuna. What did you say? I never heard that name,” she muttered.

Hufan was from a region hundreds of miles north of Mogadishu and belonged to a bigger tribe than mine. She paused thoughtfully, then continued: “I am sorry, but I can’t date someone from an obscure clan.”  I felt a knot in my stomach and had difficulty understanding why a Somali woman would disqualify me from a potential courtship just because I belonged to a clan which she derisively called it “obscure.”  “Let me say this,” I told her, “people from the south care less about one’s clan. Besides, many people know who the Tunni are.” Moreover, I asked her why my clan had to define me as a man.

Eventually, Hufan and I went our separate ways. I got married and had a child. Over the years, our brief encounter became a distant memory. Then, one day, we ran into each other at an ethnic grocery shop. My daughter, 3, was with me. Hufan was gracious; she greeted us warmly and talked to my daughter teasingly. She seemed to be in an ebullient mood.

“So, you got married?”

“Yes, to a Somali woman from Galkacayo.”

“Congratulations,” Hufan smiled.

“Thank you.”

“From your people?”

“My people are not from Galkacayo.”

I then asked her whether she had married.

“Actually, I am getting married this spring to a man from Ghana.”

“What is his clan?”

“Hello! What is wrong with you? He is not from Somalia.”

“Ok, but don’t they have tribes in Ghana?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“Really?”

“Any way, you are invited to my wedding.”

I did not know whether to be vindictive or supportive. On the one hand, I was glad Hufan was finally getting married. On the other hand, I was seething with resentment. I was acting like a jilted Somali man dumped in favor of a Ghanaian. If Hufan had married a Somali man from one of the so-called “big” clans, my reaction would have been muted; in fact, I would have given her credit for at least being consistent in her twisted belief and deeds. However, matters of the heart are difficult to gauge; when you fall in love you fall in love.

I have decided not to go to Hufan’s wedding. I am taking a stand, not because she once humiliated me, but because I am boycotting her clannish worldview. Her bias against me reflected the paralysis that has settled over the issue of clans in our communities. The core paradox of a clannish person is: There is one standard for Somalis and another for the rest of mankind.

 (Reprinted from Sahan Journal, November 06, 2015).