Trouble on the Homefront (Part 1): Somali Stories

This is part 1 of a five-part series about Somali families in the diaspora. While many Somali men are consumed with endless political chatter, their homes are wracked by dysfunction and neglect. The names and locations of these individuals have been changed for privacy reasons.  

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A Serial Deserter

It started with a simple phone call in the wee hours of the morning.

“Your daughter is in the hospital, Liban,” said the caller.

My ex-wife was calling to inform me that our daughter, 22, had had a nervous breakdown. Shocked and dazed, I immediately bought a ticket to Atlanta. My daughter was an “A” student: diligent, studious, and self-sufficient. She had a job, an apartment, and a car. Apparently, she has stopped taking her medication. She also stopped eating, showering, attending classes and visiting family members.

I visited her in the hospital, and she barely recognized me because she was so heavily medicated. Several days later, she felt better and was finally released to her mom’s care.

In this difficult time, I stayed in my ex’s house, which she shared with her mother and a son from a previous marriage. Suddenly, I became a caring father to a daughter I had abandoned when she was barely nine years old. Sadly, many men have a tendency to discard their children once they are divorced. 

As weeks passed, I realized my stay with my ex was a colossal mistake. We grew closer. She was attractive, fun, exuberant, and enthused. She also seemed happy to see me, even though I was married with children in Michigan. In a short time, we managed to put our acrimonious divorce on the back burner. My former mother-in-law was elated that we all were on good terms. Of course, no mother wants her daughter to remain single. I found myself slowly but surely being drawn toward my ex and conveniently became oblivious to what led to our divorce in the first place: Lack of trust, possessiveness, and constant fights.

 

I do not know what made our interaction this time more amicable and harmonious. Perhaps, we were too young, at age 23, when we married in a refugee camp in Kenya. Our union had been rocky, stressful, and lasted a decade. She had three miscarriages, which weighed on her emotionally. Our relationship did not withstand the test of time and we divorced immediately after we arrived in America.  Subsequently, I met another woman and married. That marriage, in its eighth year, had been going well until that fateful phone call. 

Fast forward: I am now in Atlanta with my ex, a move that turned heads. Frankly, it was a devastating decision to my wife back in Michigan and to our four children. None of them expected such a rapid and earth-shaking development. My seven-year-old son dropped a stinking rebuke about me. “Dad, how can you say you love us when you just left us?” he lamented. His mother sank into a state of despondency. She cursed and scowled at me and understandably filed for divorce on the grounds of abandonment. For me, I have not felt such happiness and contentment in my life. I was itching for change and wanted to get out of the doldrums of Michigan. However, leaving my family was not in the playbook. Now, I am a pariah even among my relatives. I have been called “selfish” and “irresponsible.” You can’t please all the people.

Emotionally and financially fleeced

At age 25, I met a Somali refugee in Kenya whom I thought would be my soulmate. He was 27, a solidly-built man, gregarious, and dashingly handsome. He seemed to radiate calm. He mesmerized me and I felt it was love at first sight. We started meeting in public places and after a few months decided to get married. Unfortunately, neither of us had his or her place. I was getting ready to emigrate to the U.S. and my goal was to sponsor him later to come to the U.S.

When I arrived at America, I embarked on securing a full-time job so I could help my husband and pave the way for our eventual reunion. I was fortunate I spoke English fluently and had a college degree. In several months, I had a well-paying job and started sending $500 every month to my husband. Like many Somali refugees in Nairobi, he was living in a hotel and was financially dependent on me.

My husband and I called each other constantly to strengthen our bond. He seemed someone who truly missed me, always peppering his conversations with romantic banter. At times, it looked surreal like a Bollywood movie. Two years later, I went back to Kenya to visit him for a month.

I saved $7,000 in a short period and sent it to my uncle in Portland, Maine, an employee of a money wire company. I lived and worked in a small town in Kansas which lacked Somali stores and wiring services. I specifically told my uncle to send the money to my husband in three installments because he was completing his immigration screening process to join me. At any rate, my husband received the $7,000 in full and obviously was shocked. I immediately called him not to use the money except $2,000 because I had to buy furniture for our apartment. He promised to wire back the remaining $5,000 within a week.

One week passed, then two and three without getting the money. I called my husband repeatedly but he was not answering. Then, his line was disconnected. Numerous calls to mutual friends and relatives brought no satisfying answer. It was clear my husband was disengaging from me. My main concern was his welfare. Was he OK? Was he arrested by Kenyan police? My mind was racing with scary thoughts. Frankly, little did I care about the missing funds?

I was planning to take time off and go to Kenya when I got the bad news: My husband is married with four children. How did that happen? I wondered. “This is preposterous,” I told my cousin who told me the news.

I double-checked the story and was able to verify it. I was devastated and became under extreme emotional duress. The time off I had requested from my employer came in handy as I was unable to focus. I became like zombie; the living dead. I contacted the American immigration agency and reported the egregious fraud on my husband’s part, canceled the application, and voided our marriage.

Now, a year has passed and I am barely recovering from this tragedy. The traumatic experience brought me lasting bitterness and regret. Needless to say—as unfair as I may sound—I became distrustful of Somali men. My former husband belonged to a distinct criminal class: Somali Men in East Africa who prey on women in the diaspora.

Relationships in Flux (Part 5): Somali Stories

This is part 5 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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Milestone

After my college graduation, I found myself married. Fortunately, my wife and I had professional jobs, but the biggest challenge we faced was maintaining our marriage. We constantly argued. Our mutual love was still strong, but getting along under one roof was very challenging. No one had prepared us for the notion that love alone is not sufficient for maintaining a happy marriage. The adage, “You do not know someone until you live with him/her,” proved correct. I was angry, frustrated, and fearful of what the future held for our nascent union. We created controversy out of thin air. Most of our conflicts centered on household chores and money management. I read many books, women’s magazines, and even talked to older friends about how to fix our marriage. I couldn’t consult with my parents because they were never enthusiastic of my “hasty decision” to marry. However, life always has twists and turns.

When I became a naturalized American citizen, I decided to do something for my adopted country—a civic act. I volunteered to be an election worker on Election Day. It was a long day that started at 6 in the morning and lasted until the polls closed at 8 PM. I served as an assistant to an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Hoffmann. They were in their early seventies, amiable, funny, encouraging, generous, and very helpful. What struck me the most was their interaction, which was based on love, kindness, caring, and respect. They listened to each other attentively with minimum interruption. 

During a break, I asked Mr. Hoffmann on what made their 50 -year marriage endure. He took me aside and made an audacious claim: “There is nothing special about our marriage.”  He continued, “I am no marriage guru and I only know what I do as a husband: Engage in gentle communication.”

“Communication is the key. You have to talk to your wife calmly and gently and never accuse her of anything,” he said. “Always use ‘we’ instead of ‘you’ when discussing contentious matters. In other words, do not be accusatory.”

I left the polling place that night excited about my civic experience, but a bit skeptical of Hoffmann’s marital advice. My marriage continued to be tense and contentious. However, one night I decided to give Hoffmann’s idea a chance. I stopped arguing with my wife and, being the ever inveterate complainer, I tempered my tone and became more positive and supportive. My wife was perplexed. “I am an intuitive: I know something is up,” she said.  She suspected I had given up on the marriage and was doing something nefarious. Initially, it was tough for me to maintain the new positive, kinder, and gentler approach to our union, and occasionally I would lapse into my old habit of nitpicking.

Through trial and error, however, my wife and I improved our marriage. I listen to her and rarely argue with her. We solve our problems in a way that is based on respect and understanding. We have agreed not to employ the “silent treatment” in resolving conflicts. Yes, we can be angry with each other, but we have vowed to keep our lines of communication open. “Marriage,” as Hoffmann used to say, “involves hard work and constant maintenance.”

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When the past is still present

Getting out of my first marriage was a daunting task. Indeed, it was a vexatious period; an agonizing eight years. The union was punctuated by a rare blend of contradictions: Indifference vs. occasional tenderness; high tension vs. periods of calmness; exciting travels vs. self-imposed home stays; and intense romantic moments vs. times of indifference and loathing.  

The marriage produced two children. In reality, the children were our marital glue.

Even though we were separated so many times I lost count, it was always a fluid separation marked by frequent visits from my ex, weekend stay overs, and occasionally attending social functions, such as weddings, as a couple. We gave “separation” a bad name.  My ex and I depended on each other exclusively and completely, even when we were separated. Vulnerable people usually return to their comfort zone. It was a tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship.   

My ex was my first big heart-throb. After we divorced, he married a woman 12 years his junior. Perhaps I have difficulty accepting my former husband being with another woman.

Okay then, why am I talking about my ex?

Unfortunately, it is because he is still part of my life.

Four years after my divorce, I met a man who was the opposite of my ex, a kinder, caring man. After several months of courtship, we married. Then we had a major problem: He decided to relocate the family to Minnesota, and I utterly opposed it. If I had moved from the state of Washington, where I reside, my boys would have been exclusively raised by my ex because he had — and still have— partial custody of them. My ex was a lousy husband—selfish, volatile, temperamental, and emotionally unavailable—but, in fairness, he has always been a good father. The boys, 13 and 15, love him. My new husband wanted to move us out of the state because he had a job offer from Minnesota. He already had a professional job in Seattle but had an ulterior motive: He couldn’t stand my ex, a prominent member of our community. We all attended the same mosque, shopped at the same mall, and frequently ran into each other at local parks and restaurants. Most of all, my ex would come to our house every Friday evening, pick up the boys, and then drop them off on Sunday.

What is wrong with our Somali men that they do not take us women seriously? For instance, I had told my husband during our courtship about the vexing issue of the boys’ custody and the fact that I was not allowed, by an order of court, to remove them from Washington. At the time, he seemed understanding and agreeable. Perhaps it was not an issue for him then because he was pursuing me intensely. A year after we married, he started talking about moving to Minnesota. My parents encouraged me to go with him. “The boys will be fine with their father,” my mother would say. “You need to look after yourself.” I couldn’t do it because the children needed their mother as much as they needed their father. My ex had even threatened to take me to Family Court if I moved.

Initially, I was confused and didn’t know what to do. However, after much deliberation, I decided to stay in Seattle.  I couldn’t see myself abandoning the boys for a man, any man. They meant the world to me. In a nutshell, I chose my children over love.

My husband moved to Minnesota afterwards, angry and bitter because I had “disobeyed” him. “Follow your husband,” a local imam had admonished me. “You owe it to him.” Of course, we divorced.

Now, after two years, I have curiously asked myself where my former husband is and what he has been doing. Most of all, was he able to leave the past behind without allowing it to define or shackle him in his current life?

The past still haunts me. I am still in Seattle; single yes, but not dead. I may be hopelessly romantic, but I am lucky I still have two beautiful men in my life, my sons. Being single though is hard, but raising boys in America is even harder. Love, after all, can wait.

(Reprinted with permission from Sahan Journal, December 12, 2015).