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.
***
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).
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