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.
***
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.
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