Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 7)

This is the seventh article in a 10-part series about true stories of Somali men and women and their very blunt assessment of their relationships. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

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A Neat, Well-furnished Apartment

I have been single for a few years. I was once married with children. My marriage became stale and I decided to leave my wife of 14 years. Okay, I was actually dumped by my ex-wife after I stopped being a provider. I stopped working and became depressed. My father had died in Somalia, and I was too broke to go there and visit my relatives after such a tragic loss.

My wife got tired of me because I stopped communicating with her and paying the household bills. I did not go out and look for employment. One fateful day, she asked me to pack and leave our house. By then, I was ready to move on and embark on single life. My family had become a financial burden, and I couldn’t wait to be relieved from such an onerous weight. I gingerly carried my luggage to my car and left our compound without anyone noticing my departure. There were no cameras to capture the humiliating experience of being kicked out of my home.

In a way, I was happy because I became single. I wanted to see what the world had to offer to a 38-year-old single Somali man. I met several Somali ladies in a span of three years. I was appalled by the abundance of single mothers in our community. What happened to the men? The news of my divorce spread very fast in the community. Everybody knew that I was a lousy husband and an irresponsible father. Oddly, my flawed marital record did not deter some women. I was not seen as a liability but rather an asset—a single man, medium height, athletic, articulate, fluent in English, and fun to be with. Moreover, I once worked as a disk jockey at several Somali weddings. In a nutshell, I was a good catch, at least to some women.

The best offer for living arrangement I got was from an attractive, sexy, single lady who simply told me to bring my luggage and move in with her. No need to pay rent. Her house was neat and well-furnished. “Let us get married and all you have to do is bring your luggage,” she said. Her home was decorated with beautiful Italian furniture and exotic rugs. I had never been to a house that smelled so good. She had been married before, three times in fact. “My former husbands all wanted children,” she said smiling, “but I can’t conceive.” Great, I thought; this way I wouldn’t appear selfish. Honestly, I couldn’t see myself being a father again.

I started seeing Ambara and I thought I was lucky. She was caring, attentive, and bubbly. We decided to get married in six months, but slowly I became disenchanted. I was used to a wife who did not give me any attention. Then, there was Ambara showering me with too much. I was hungry for a woman’s attention, but not this much. She called me constantly, gave me gifts, and started laying the foundation for our future wedding. She wanted to have a big wedding that would be a source of conversation in the community. Things were moving a little too fast. I told you, I was employment-challenged. How was I supposed to pay such an astronomical cost? I couldn’t feed a soul, let alone 200 people at a wedding. Furthermore, I felt suffocated. I am the type of man who wants to have his space.

Once upon a time, I knew a sorcerer in Oregon who used to ask Somali men to pay him $200 in return for making their wives love them more and focused on them. He naively pitched the idea to one man, a certified womanizer. The playboy rejected the bizarre idea and told the sorcerer: “Adiga ma waalan tahay? Xaaskeyga inay iga sii jeedo ayaan doonayaa.” (Are you crazy? I want my wife to [be focused] away from me). I felt the same way about Ambara. I wanted her to give me space and focus on something else.

Fortunately, my problem with Ambara got solved itself. I noticed something odd about her. Even though she gave me so much attention, she would receive many calls from other men. A stream of men always visited her apartment coming at different times, and sometimes at odd hours. I have never seen a woman who had more than 40 men—single and married—in her cell phone contact list. Yes, she was single, but 40 men! When I raised my concern to her, she would tell me that they were all her brothers. Give me a break. I knew her brothers, I had met them personally; these men were not her brothers. Of course, I was concerned because I wanted to stake out my territory.

I felt sick with apprehension. I kept thinking of our impending marriage and the concern of our house being bombarded by visits from wayward men and loafers. I know myself very well: I am the jealous type who can’t stand his woman socializing with other men. Call me possessive and a control freak if you want. There is no such thing as a platonic relationship between unrelated men and women.

After Ambara and I split, she once called me. “I want you back,” she pleaded. Somehow, I was not in a generous mood and my answer was lame: “It wasn’t meant to be.” Translation: I am glad Ambara you are out of my life. I assume you think I am cruel. Yes, indeed.  I am guilty of being a heartbreaker.                   

The One that Got Away

Canada.

Every time I hear someone mention that country I cringe. The name brings back memories of sadness, disappointment, and regret.

I am a single mother with a son. A decade ago, I moved from Asia and settled in Seattle. I applied for and was granted political asylum. I did not know anybody in my new city. Shortly after my arrival in America, I met a young religious man who lived a block away from my apartment. I am a Somali woman who can’t stand religious men or, as the Somalis call them, “wadaado” (I find them self-righteous, intolerant, and controlling). I can’t fathom being ordered around by a man who acts as though he has the keys to paradise. But this young man—Guled is his name—was different. He was broad-minded, well-read, polite, courteous, and extremely kind. He would greet me warmly when we met outside my complex, he played with my son, and he even gave me rides to the grocer and doctor’s clinic (he had a car and I did not).  He had applied for asylum in the U.S. and was waiting for a decision from immigration services.

After several months of acquaintance, Guled asked me to marry him. I was a bit taken aback by his request and politely ignored his overture. Our relationship was purely platonic. I saw him as a Good Samaritan, but never did I develop any romantic interest in him. I told him I was not ready for marriage at that particular juncture in my life. My first marriage had been difficult and uninteresting. My first husband showed me how marriage can be not a source of joy and happiness but one of anxiety and even depression. He was intransigent, bossy, and unwilling to let me go to school or work. To him, a woman’s place was in the home—cooking, cleaning, and procreating. Before I married him he had assured me I could finish college. After the marriage, he became Mr. No—no school, no work, and no leaving the house without his stamp of approval. Isn’t that the classic Somali aphorism: You win over a woman by lying to her but once married you reveal your true nature.

After I refused him, Guled continued to help me. My son became attached to him. Then, one day, I realized that it had been days since I had seen him—that was weird. I became concerned for his safety. Was he sick? Was he involved in a car accident? I went to his apartment to check on him but was met by a Mexican family. They did not know anything about Guled; they had just moved into the unit. I panicked. I had no choice but to go to the mosque in our neighborhood that Guled frequented. I talked to the imam there, asking about Guled’s whereabouts. The imam inquired, “Are you related to him?” I told him bashfully, “No, he helped my son and me from time to time.” “Well, he is gone,” the imam informed me as a matter-of-factly. Gone! “Where did he go? I wanted to know. “Canada,” was the cleric’s terse answer. I asked if Guled was coming back, but the imam reiterated that he was gone for good. “He originally came from Canada, but he was unable to get immigration papers in the United States,” added the imam.

I was shocked and did something unexpected: I started crying profusely. The imam became intrigued and gently asked me why I was weeping. “My son and I are going to miss him tremendously,” I said, “he had asked me to marry him but I told him no.” The imam looked at me in sympathy and stated, “We all are going to miss Guled because he was a good and selfless man.” That was when I realized I had lost a man whom I had simply taken for granted. I was devastated. I kept asking myself why I had let him go. Why hadn’t I accepted his proposal? I felt bad for my son, who had lost a role model. The loss was so painful that I decided to move to a new state and hoped I would meet someone like Guled. I have yet to find one.

Mr. Truthful

I am a young Somali woman who has never been married. Through the years, I have been courted by a dozen men. In my limited experience, one of the salient characteristics of Somali men is their tendency to ration the truth. They rarely tell you about their marital status, how many times they have been married and whether they have children. I knew one man who told me he was single, but he did not take into account that my uncle managed a money transfer company that many Somalis use to send money back home. According to my uncle, this man sent $400 every month to a woman in Somalia. She turned out to be his wife.

It was by pure chance that I met a man at a wedding. He approached me and asked me my name, and we engaged in idle talk. He seemed to be a well-grounded man, intelligent and witty. When he had to leave, he asked me for my phone number. I never expected him to call because he appeared to be laid back, but he did, although I have to admit I put no premium on his call. I was wrong. Within 20 minutes of the start of our conversation, the man surprised me with his candor. He told me what Somalis refer to as his “411” (basic information such as his full name, his home number, details of his first marriage and its duration, the name of the son he fathered, where he worked, what he did for a living, and with whom he was living). That was the first time a Somali man had been so forthcoming with me. Normally, questioning Somali men about their background is like going to the dentist: It is slow and painful. I became intrigued with this individual.

As the weeks went by, I witnessed something strange about my new friend. One day, we were talking about the civil war in Somalia. He told me that his younger sister had died of starvation as his family was fleeing to a neighboring country. Then, he began to cry. I was touched by his display of emotion. Now, ladies, how many times have you seen a Somali man cry? Our men simply view showing emotions as a sign of weakness, right? What a sensitive man, I mused. This man was unique, and I gradually fell in love with him. I am going to marry this guy.

 

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 6)

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. . 

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 5)

This article is the fifth in a 10-part series of true stories of 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.

Where is my Dough?

My wife is secretive and, hence, does not share anything with me. She is involved—depending on what region you hail from—in what is called, “ayuuto” or “shalongo” or “hagbad” (an informal money pool in which a small number of participants put in the same amount of money every month and, by turn, one individual takes all the proceeds every month).  My wife used to put in $500 every month from “her own money,” as she said, and, once a year, she collected about $6,000. She never shared that money with me nor did she contribute financially to our household expenses. I paid all the household bills.

I found out about my wife’s involvement with the money pool activity through her best friend’s husband. Apparently, it had been going on for three years without my knowledge. I confronted her and she did not even deny it. “Certainly, it is my money,” was her assured response. “I thought it was our money,” I said. I was flabbergasted. My wife had access to all my bank accounts. In fact, we had joint accounts. A marriage is a team and it should be based on honesty and trust.

After that discovery, I set up a new account on my own and asked my employer to deposit into it. I also began giving a set amount of money to my wife every month for food and other miscellaneous expenses. The housing, utility, cable, and telephone expenses were paid directly through my new account.

My wife became angry. She accused me of “controlling” her financially.  “It is all about power and control,” she said.

Sometime later, I heard my wife was no longer a member of the money pool. Apparently, she used to siphon $500 every month from our household expenses, but I am not sure. When it comes to money management, we no longer trust each other. As sad as that sounds, we are still married and care about each other, but in reality, we are having a tough time forging a new bond of trust. My wife has been talking a lot lately about getting a part-time job. I would bet my bottom dollar that I will never see a penny of that money. But, it is okay. I also have earnings by doing consulting work.

Do you know any good investment agents?

You, Imbecile

Before our marriage, my wife Duniyo would teasingly and laughingly tell me, “Shut up, idiot.”  At the time, I took no offense and considered it part of the banter of a close relationship. After we married, however, I observed disturbing behavior that suddenly appeared in her communication. She would call my stepchildren, ages 11 and 13, names such as “doqon” (idiot), “saqajaan” (jerk), and — even the English phrase —“mother…….” I was appalled and told my wife that such name-calling was tantamount to child abuse. She dismissed my concerns out of hand and portrayed me as being overly dramatic. You do not understand, she would say, “I am very close to my children.” Then, she reminded me that our Somali parents had done the same when we were children and occasionally called us “dabbaal” (stupid) to motivate us. Not my parents. They were strict but respectful, demanding but loving, and always kind and caring.

My wife was respectful of me at the beginning of our marriage. However, after eight months, she began to show her true colors. First, she told me, “War naga aamus, doqonyahow” (Keep quiet, you idiot). I was flummoxed. “Please, do not insult me,” I protested. “Oh, you are sensitive, aren’t you?” she retorted.

I thought my marriage to Duniyo will be an upgrade of my first. My first marriage was unstable, contentious, and a source of constant pain. I did not want to have another relationship that was similar in any way.  Unfortunately, my current marriage is now showing the same permutations as my first. My wife simply became verbally abusive over time. She initiates our arguments and then ends them with very hurtful words. Worst of all, she is not one to apologize.

I have concluded that my relationship with my wife is a mere replay of each of our prior marriages. We both still have unresolved issues that mar this relationship. I am a very sensitive man, that is true, but I do not deserve to be verbally abused, especially in front of the children.

A year ago, my wife was so enraged with me that she called me a “naag” (woman). In front of our children, she told me that I should start wearing female attire. She had asked me to do something for her and I told her I wasn’t going to do it. Her insult was stinging. I was angry and the children were outraged. This time, my wife, for the first time, apologized for calling me a woman. I have nothing against women—please, do not misunderstand me—but a wife should never call her husband a woman. Perhaps the reason my wife apologized was that the children were disturbed by her unjustified verbal attack on me. At any rate, terrible damage was done. I now ask myself how long I can endure this abusive behavior. I have already contacted Child Protective Services to report my wife’s treatment of our children. Unfortunately, the social worker assigned to investigate the case closed the file because the children were afraid and non-cooperative.

My father has asked me to stay in the relationship, but I can’t. On the one hand, I want to be like the pious man in ancient times who was married to a difficult woman, but very tolerant of her outbursts. When people asked him why he did not divorce her, this man answered:  “I am afraid if I divorce her she would end up marrying another man who will not be patient with her and may harm her.” On the other hand, I do not want to suffer anymore.

The Would-be President

Politics and Somali men mix all the time.

As a rule, Somali men are obsessed with politics and political chatter in particular. My husband Omar is no exception but he has taken this endemic obsession to a higher level. He wants to be the next president of Somalia.  There is a tiny problem with that: He has no extensive education, no government experience, and no history of stable employment. Needless to say, he is only 28 and, per the provisional constitution of Somalia, he has to wait more than a decade before he can qualify for such a coveted position. Omar is the first to arrive at political events and the last to leave. He likes to be acknowledged in these gatherings and thanked for doing this thing or that thing. Unfortunately, he is too inexperienced, too shallow, and too clannish to become a leader of an entire nation. That is not my opinion but surprisingly his, too. He is perfectly aware of his own limitations but, alas, the man has boundless ambition. Ambition does not require any reasoning. I have pleaded with him to give priority to his family. Unfortunately, he never listens to me and, at times, accuses me of being jealous of him. Jealous of what, I wonder. My husband needs clinical help because he has this exaggerated view of his own importance.

My husband does not know the name of the school our children attend, their doctor’s name, or what each child likes. He has not taken the children for an outing for a long time (five months to be exact), nor has he asked me to join him for an outing for coffee or dinner. However, I can tell you all the little things about his uneventful life: The last political event he attended, the names of the guest speakers, and even where my husband was seated. I can also tell you what his latest posts are on Facebook and Instagram, and his last tweets. Sometimes, I ask myself if this narcissist married me to be his trophy wife; the kind of woman who will appear next to her politician husband smiling and clapping.

My husband is married to his political ambition. I am saddened that my children will one day find out their father — the “would-be president” — was nothing but a bust.

Cloud Nine

My husband wants a new drug.

Prescription medication, that is.

Actually, my once-model husband has turned into a druggie. After many years of what seemed to be a stable family life, my husband developed a habit, a bad habit. He became addicted to prescription medication. He would take an amalgam of this kind of medication and get high.

The problem started when his cousin came from Europe to live with us. The two started experimenting with different types of drugs. My husband first graduated to hard liquor and then finally drugs. All these problems unfolded while he stayed home.

It was painful to watch the man I loved descend into such a deep abyss. He became a totally different person, growing physically and verbally abusive. Then, he ruined my almost perfect credit rating because he stole cash from me for drugs and used my credit cards illegally. I became like the Somali woman who lamented about her former husband: “He stole my heart and my money.”

Finally, I kicked him out and got a divorce.

He turned the children against me. I was portrayed by his family as the ungrateful woman who kicked her husband out of his home. Even my own parents cut their ties with me for a while because of him.

To make a long story short, my ex-husband returned to Somalia. He does not get access there to the types of drugs he used in the United States. However, he has become addicted to khat, a mild stimulant plant.

Do you want to know something odd?

I am currently supporting him. Yes, I send him money regularly.

Why?

I do it because he is the father of my children, and the rate of unemployment in Somalia is very high.

Do you want to know something even weirder?

All of our children are now adults.

Okay, in truth, his presence in Somalia is better for the children and me. No more headaches! 

The Somali Ambassador to Rwanda: "I Love Kagame."

Recently, Somalia’s ambassador to Rwanda, Abdullahi Sheikh Mohamed, made a public confession.

The envoy, in an interview with the Great Lakes Voice, http://greatlakesvoice.com/i-love-kagame-more-than-my-president-somalia-ambassador/, said he loves Rwanda’s President Paul Kagame more than he does his own boss, Somali President Hassan Sheikh Mohamoud.  Abdullahi wishes Kagame were Somalia’s president.

Why does the ambassador love Kagame?

Simple.

Kagame, according to Abdullahi, is a role model for the entire continent of Africa. He is a man of vision and a dynamic leader.

 

It is fine for an ambassador to show admiration and affection for the president at host country. What is unethical—and perhaps beyond the norm of diplomacy—is for an ambassador to disrespect his own president and country.

Why did the ambassador come out publicly in support of Kagame?

There are rumors that President Mohamoud wants to replace the envoy. Abdullahi, however, dismissed such talk as baseless. He is very confident that he will stay in his job to the point of presumption. “These are rumors; nobody can dare fire me,” he boasted.

Abdullahi likes what he sees in Rwanda under the leadership of Kagame. It is a stable country with a good infrastructure; all the Somalis who live there are content, and, most of all, Somali-owned businesses such as Hass energy and Olympic energy, supply 70 percent of Rwanda’s oil needs.

Ambassador Abdullahi wants to do something special for Rwanda: He wants Somalia to supply fish to Rwanda, a land-locked country.

There is another reason why Abdullahi is flaunting his unbridled love for Kagame. The envoy has been having problems with the man he replaced, a former honorary consul. The discord between the two men is about business transactions. In other words, it is all about money.

President Kagame has been successful in transforming Rwanda. The economy there is strong; peace prevails, and there is no endemic corruption. The streets of Kigali, the capital, are immaculate--no garbage, no homeless people sleeping on the streets, and no sign of the pesky plastic bags that normally float around in many African cities. Kagame, though, has been accused of being a dictator who does not tolerate dissent. Some prominent opposition figures have been assassinated abroad by allegedly Rwanda’s secretive and formidable intelligence services. Kagame himself did not admit to these crimes, but he made it clear, in so many words, that Rwanda’s “enemies” deserve to die.

However, there is one thing the honorable Somali Ambassador should know about the man he admires most. According to Jeffrey Gettleman, east Africa bureau chief for the New York Times, Kagame has a habit of actually spanking his underlings when they do not live up to his expectations. When Gettleman asked Kagame about these beatings, the president did not directly admit to them, instead, he mentioned that he once got so angry with a subordinate that he shoved him so hard that the subordinate fell on the floor.

“It is my nature,” Kagame sheepishly said. “I can be tough. I make mistakes.”

The Somali president may be weak and indecisive, but, he is allegedly not given to spanking or shoving his own subordinates.

While Ambassador Abdullahi is a sad story of the state of Somalia’s incompetent Foreign Service, it is an opportune time for President Mohamoud to take decisive action in recalling him. This envoy is an embarrassment to Somalia and to himself.  After his termination, Abdullahi can retire happily in Rwanda, where his beloved leader is at the helm.

  

Kenyan Somalis: Caught Between Power and Profiling

The ongoing Kenyan government security sweep against Somalis has generated reactions both serious and comical. In May, the visiting Chinese Prime Minister, Le Keqiang, vowed to help Kenya in its efforts to repatriate illegal Somalis back to their country. Beijing’s offer was an attempt to curry favor with the Kenyan government, with which it then signed a trade agreement worth several billion dollars. The premier reiterated what his hosts wanted to hear: illegal Somalis and those suspected of having ties with Al-Shabaab must be deported from Kenya.

Even more absurd was the statement by Somalia’s State Minister for Foreign Affairs, Buri Hamza, in its dangling of the khat card (a mild stimulant plant known in Kenya as miraa). In an interview with the Standard on June 1st, Hamza alluded to the possibility of a trade war between Mogadishu and Nairobi. “If we stop importing miraa,” the minister stated, “so much the better.” Many in Somalia are addicted to khat, and it would be a herculean task—not to mention political suicide for the Mogadishu regime—to ban its importation from Kenya.

On a more serious note, the security sweep exposed fissures in Kenyan society and added controversy to the ongoing debate about the role and position of Kenyan Somalis in the country. The Somali factor in Kenyan politics is paradoxical. On the one hand, Somali Kenyans have been gaining increasing power in politics and business, but they have also become victims of periodic profiling and mistrust.

In the 1960s, Kenya’s first president, Jomo Kenyatta, became increasingly frustrated with the persistence of the Shifta fighters in the predominantly Somali-inhabited region of the Northern Frontier District—now the North Eastern Province—who were agitating to secede from Kenya and join their brethren in Somalia. Kenyatta saw no difference between the Shifta and ordinary Kenyan Somalis – he was known to repeat the aphorism: “mtoto wa nyoka ni nyoka” (a child of a snake is still a snake). Kenyatta came up with his own solution to the problem when he told them plainly: “Pack up and go, but leave us the land.”  The Somalis understandably shunned this directive and stayed.

Five decades later, Kenyatta’s son, President Uhuru Kenyatta, has cast a dragnet aimed at Somalis which directly and indirectly affects not only the country’s large contingency of refugees and immigrants but also Kenyan Somalis.

Kenyan Somalis inhabit a vast north eastern territory which is one of the poorest and least-developed regions in Kenya and are also concentrated in the Eastleigh district of Nairobi. The Somali Kenyan population has grown from several hundred thousand in the 1960s to approximately 2.3 million now, but still represents a minority among the country’s 43 million people.

In 1989, two years before the onslaught of Somali refugees in Kenya, the Kenyan government singled out Somali Kenyans to carry a pink ID card in addition to the identity document issued to all Kenyan citizens. This pink card, which highlighted the government’s discriminatory stance toward Somalis, was declared unconstitutional in 2003, but, even so, Somalis still remain the target of harassment and extortion. In Eastleigh, police officers, whether assigned there or not, routinely make money by stopping and harassing Somalis, legal or illegal. Somalis in Nairobi call themselves “Human ATMs.”

The label gained credibility when a large number of Somalis, briefly detained in the security sweep, secured their release by bribing police officers. Oddly, some elected Somali officials in the Kenyan parliament were themselves stopped and briefly detained, even though they had shown the police their Kenyan and parliamentary IDs. Ali Abdi Bule, a Tana River senator, was stopped and detained for half an hour because police officers said his papers were false. The police then released him. In another incident, Senator Billow Kerrow’s house was searched in clear contravention of his parliamentary immunity.

On the flip-side, Somali Kenyans are experiencing a golden age in terms of their high representation in the corridors of political power. They have solid representation in Uhuru’s Jubilee Coalition Government, with three cabinet portfolios—foreign affairs, industrialization, sports/culture and arts—which are headed by Somalis.  A Somali is serving as the chairman of the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission (IEBC) and two are sitting judges in the country’s highest courts: One in the Supreme Court and the other in the Appeals Court. President Uhuru’s legal advisor is also Somali.

In the past, ethnic Somalis have held important positions, including Minister of Defense, Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces, National Chief of Police and Head of the Election Commission. The number of Somali parliamentarians on the legislative branch has increased from 13 a year ago to 32 today. Aden Bare Duale, a politician known for his bombastic rhetoric, holds the post of the National Assembly majority leader.  He told a Somali audience in Eastleigh in April that elected Somali officials were, for all practical purposes, in control of the government. “We know how to unlock this government,” he boasted.

In business, Eastleigh has become a residential haven and a booming business hub for Somalis. The district is the umbilical cord and the economic center of the Somali community and Duale asserts that Somalis manage most of the real estate developments in the country and 80 percent of the fuel trade; they own 80% of all of Kenya’s imported goods, and one of every five cars. Many Somalis from the diaspora have also invested heavily in Kenya, particularly in real estate.

Is the increasing prominence of Somalis in politics and business the reason law enforcement is profiling and targeting them?  Somali politicians and opposition figures have argued that the security campaign is an attempt to disenfranchise Somalis as a group. The Secretary General of the Orange Democratic Movement (ODM) opposition party, Peter Anyang’ Nyong’o, suggested that the security crackdown was  a case of ethnic profiling with the goal of winning back the trust of the West and flushing successful Somali businesses out of the country.

Somali Senator Billow Kerrow also questioned the real motive behind the government’s campaign. Somalis, stated Kerrow, are known globally for their business acumen, and the current security dragnet is “an economic war and not a fight against terror.” After almost three months of the campaign, the government has yet to arrest any suspected terrorist or dismantle a cell. In addition, Uhuru’s government has been dragging its feet to appoint an independent commission to investigate the Westgate Mall terrorist bombing.

While human rights organizations have condemned the campaign, the dragnet has also shown the political divide among Somali leaders in Kenya and their ambivalent approach to security issues bedeviling the country. While all these leaders condemn terrorists, some have issued statements that further aggravated the situation and made some Kenyans question how committed Somali leaders are in the fight against terrorism.

In a televised speech, Duale told an audience in Eastleigh that those responsible for the bombings in that district should bomb elsewhere. Then, he oddly mentioned Machakos, a town and major urban center 64 kilometers southeast of Nairobi, as an alternative target. “Had the bombers targeted Machakos,” Duale added, “Eastleigh would not have been harassed.” Duale later denied making the statement.

The former deputy speaker of the Kenyan Parliament, Farah Moalim, has alleged in the media that the government, not Al-Shabaab, is behind the bombings in Kenya.  Moalim subscribes to the conspiracy theory that the United States Government actually finances Al-Shabaab.

But not all Somali politicians in Kenya have spoken against the security sweep. For instance, the Somali cabinet ministers in the government and the former Minister of Defense, Senator Yusuf Haji, have yet to issue a statement about the crackdown.

Somali Kenyans exist in a precarious position. As a group they are prominently represented in politics and business, but they have also become a football, frequently kicked by the country’s president, his deputy, and the security establishment. Some Kenyans still view Somalis as aliens who are business rivals and a security liability. The dragnet is creating a climate of fear in the Somali community but we do not know yet whether this is a long-term trend or a consequence of the enduring success of Al Shabaab in Somalia and increasingly Kenya.

 (Written by Hassan M. Abukar. Reprinted with permission from African Arguments, June 23, 2013).

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 4)

This article is the fourth of a 10-part series of true stories of 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 these individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

***

The Workaholic

I was living in Virginia on the East Coast when I met my wife. I met her during a visit to Minneapolis to attend a political event. I was attracted to her bubbly personality, infectious smile, suave demeanor, and beautiful fashion style. We took a liking to one another. We talked as hundreds of Somalis surrounded us with their clamor and rendition of national songs. It seemed the two of us were on an island even though we were in the midst of more than a thousand people. Simply, we clicked.

When I returned to Virginia, I was a 40-year-old man in love. I lost a taste for food, neglected my friends, and became glued to my cell phone. In other words, I became mesmerized by my new friend in Minneapolis. I missed no opportunity to talk to her. I would call her three or four times a day to ask about her, her two children from a previous marriage, and her parents. I was into her and she was into me. We wanted to get married, the sooner the better.  She had a professional job and, on top of that, was running a small business. This bionic woman was amazing. I asked her how she juggled her parenting responsibilities, her job, and her business. Her response was smart and measured: “I prioritize what is important in my life.”

She told me I had paid so much attention to her by calling her daily and asking about her well-being. One thing was clear: To marry her, I had to move to Minneapolis. I had been to Minneapolis many times and, I must admit, it was one city I couldn’t stand. Its problem is simple: too many Somalis. Some say there are 40,000 Somalis, and some estimate as many as 70,000. I am not used to such a large concentration of my fellow countrymen in one major city. I prefer cities where Somalis have a smaller presence—say 5,000—to bigger cities like Minneapolis, Columbus, Seattle, San Diego, and Atlanta.

After seven months of courtship, I got married and moved to Minneapolis. The marriage ceremony was small and conducted in front of an intimate group of relatives. The bride, uncharacteristically, did not attend the ceremony because she was working. The marriage contract was done by proxy through her father as her official representative. In our religion, it is acceptable for marriage ceremonies to be conducted by proxy.  The guests feasted on rice and lamb and, after three hours, dispersed. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and let the matter slide because I was totally enthralled with her. After five hours, near midnight, the bride came home from work.

Love alone, it is said, is not sufficient. Although I clicked well with my two stepchildren, I realized what a big mistake I had made in marrying their mother. She immersed herself in her work as though nothing had changed in her life. My new wife worked seven days a week; the workload included her regular job and, on top of that, managing her business. The two boys were in high school and, in essence, took care of themselves. They had busy lives attending school and spending time with their friends. I had never before felt so lonely and marginalized. As a recent transplant to Minneapolis, I had no friends and no relatives. Most of all, I worked at home. By the time my wife came home at 6 PM, I was exhausted and she was exhausted. Four days a week, we lived on food purchased from Somali restaurants. I am a health-conscious man, and I do not like to eat restaurant food. My wife and I talked about setting aside some time to spend alone, but to no avail. There were always new things popping up to take care of.  Saving our marriage was never the priority.

Then, I saw a side of my wife that I had not known: She was a micromanager. She wanted me to wear this shirt or that shirt, cut my hair in a certain way, and she insisted on going with me to the store to purchase the clothes she liked. I protested, but she was not listening. I became resentful and acted immaturely by becoming withdrawn and distant. Suddenly, I felt unhappy and my relationship with my wife started to fizzle. It was a melancholy period of isolation and loneliness.

One day, I did something stupid: I packed all my belongings, put them in the trunk of my car, visited briefly my wife at her business, and drove off to Virginia. I was not bold enough to tell her that I was leaving her. The petulance I had demonstrated did hurt her and my stepchildren. I was a jerk and acted foolishly. When my wife returned home that evening, she was shocked to find my stuff gone. Interestingly, she immediately called me and left me an odd message: “You forgot one of your suits.”

My return to Virginia was not easy. I lost weight and became depressed. I was also wracked with remorse and blamed myself for my hurtful actions toward my wife and step-children. My wife understandably asked for a divorce, and I granted her wish. However, I did one thing during that tumultuous period: I kept in contact with my ex-wife. I apologized to her profusely and implored her to forgive me. Hope, not resentment, is the predominant feeling in our relationship today.

 Do you know something?

 I am getting remarried to my ex-wife. She no longer works seven days a week or owns a small business. Most of all, she has forgiven me and has vowed to work harder to maintain our marriage. We will be living alone, as my two step-children have become adults and they have their own careers.

The Equalizer

I am a professional woman. I was once married to another Somali professional who treated me like a maid. After we were married, he asked me to stay home and cook and clean for him. I love my career as a counselor, and I will not quit. My first husband and I split because our differences in regard to household duties diverged so badly.

 I believe partners should equally share household responsibilities, including the finances. I do not like my husband paying for everything. My first husband took my monthly contribution to household expenses, and on top of that money, he wanted me to take on extra duties like cooking and cleaning. No, no, no. We both worked, so why should I carry an extra load of work? No, I can’t accept that rule. I made the difficult decision to end that marriage. Of course, the divorce was clearly acrimonious. What else would you expect?

Two years later, I met a wonderful Somali man who is a true partner. We have what is now called “an egalitarian marriage.” We share responsibilities and decision-making. We both work, but we equally share the responsibilities. When I cook, he cleans, and vice versa. We are not only partners, but great friends. He is not secretive, and I share a lot with him. He has been accused of being “Nin daciif ah” (a weak man) by my fellow Somalis, and I am accused of being a control freak, a man-eater. So what? I am happy and my husband is too.  Got any questions?

Mama’s Boy

My husband is what the Italians would call a “mamoni” (mama’s boy). We were happily married until his mother came into the picture. The family dynamics changed once she started living with us.  In so many ways, she is a home-wrecker and her son, my husband, is the most disloyal human being I have ever known. Every day, she would deliver a laundry list of gripes. She criticized everything I did. I did not cook well or clean thoroughly or take good care of her pampered son and beloved grandchildren. Simply put, I was no good for her son.

My husband, the mamoni, listened only to his mother when she directed her vitriol against me. You would think his loyalty would be with his wife, but he simply said nothing and stood like a Hawo Taako statue. I was always good to this woman, so I did not understand why she was so hostile toward me. Even my children have asked me why Ayeyo (Grandma) hates me so much.

I asked my husband to rent his mother an apartment close to our house. He became enraged and stormed out of the house screaming at me for being difficult.

Suddenly, after being the first lady in my home, I was relegated to secondary status. My marriage hit the skids. My husband left home and took his mother to a hotel, where they both stayed for a week. When he came back and started harassing me again, I couldn’t take it anymore.  The children and I moved out.  He went to court, filed for divorce and full custody of the children. It is odd that a Somali man would ask for full custody of children under the age of 10. However, he wanted his mother to raise my children and thus render me irrelevant. That was only wishful thinking. I still have my children.

 

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 3)

This article is the third of a 10-part series of true stories of 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 these individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

***      
The Snob
He is an intellectual. That is my husband, a former college professor in Somalia. Here in Atlanta, he is a high school teacher.

I am an intellectual too, but a gentler and kinder one.

My husband is egotistical, arrogant, inflexible, and antisocial. He has an inflated view of his own intelligence and sees himself as the most knowledgeable man about Somali politics. It seems he has a sign on his face that reads, “Look at me. I am a genius.” He has an unpleasant habit of putting others down. He views Somalis as “qashin” (trash). “They don’t know anything,” he says. When you meet him, you can see his haughty attitude and uneasiness in dealing with his fellow countrymen. Yes, Somalis have destroyed their country, but that does not mean all Somalis are evil. Many were victims. Try telling that to my husband, however. His response is always negative. He simply declares, “Somalis are ignorant.”

Many of my relatives and friends have asked me why I am married to this jerk. I am a sociable, caring, and outgoing woman. I am always smiling and welcoming people to my house. It is my husband who receives my friends, and even his own relatives, with blatant contempt. He has no manners. He even treats me like one of his students. I am supposed to kowtow to him, stroke his ego, and never overshadow him. For all practical purposes, he wants me to feel like I was put on this planet to serve him. 

Oh, yes, we have been to therapy, too!

That did not work because the therapist, according to my husband, was an “idiot” who did not graduate from a prestigious university. After three sessions, I realized the futility of the meetings and ended them.

Recently, I found a good job as a university academic advisor. The pay and benefits are great. There is only one problem: My husband is displaying a streak of jealousy and pettiness. He is not happy because my salary is more than his. He has begun making demeaning remarks about the students I advise. “They are unmotivated, rude, and losers in the making,” he will quip. Suddenly, he is floating the bizarre idea that I quit my job and stay home with our children. He has even threatened to divorce me if I stay employed and continue “wrecking” our family life. My parents, unfortunately, agree with him.

I think I know what I will do, and it will surprise my husband. I am going to leave him this summer when the schools are closed. He will never change, and if I quit my job, he will have total control over my life.

The Two-Faced One

My community loves my husband of eight years. He is one of its top leaders, and the people always consult him, especially the newly arrived refugees. We attend social functions and community events, and I am always impressed with the respect and adulation given to him at these gatherings. He is full of fun with other people and regales them with interesting stories and anecdotes. We are constantly invited to lunch or dinner.

At home, my husband is a totally different person. He is detached, distant, cold, and aloof. He does not joke with me or the children. He comes home from work, settles on the couch, eats his meal, and watches TV. When the children talk to him, he mostly admonishes them not to bother him. When I try to talk to him, he is absent-minded and gives me perfunctory responses. The only time he utters loving words is when we are intimate.

Two months ago, I complained to three elders in my community about my husband’s abusive behavior. In hindsight, I see it was a big mistake. Two of the elders cursed at me and accused me of engaging in what they called “been-abuurasho” (making up stories). They kept defending my husband. “Anybody but Abdirashid,” bellowed one of them. One elder, however, did reprimand the other two for not being impartial. “This woman came to us to solve a problem,” he complained, “and you have already issued a verdict.”

Then, my husband heard about the incident. He was furious and accused me of soiling his reputation in the community.  All of a sudden, I became an instigator, an ungrateful and disloyal wife. My husband wanted to divorce me and, to his chagrin, I was not opposed to the idea. “Go ahead,” I told him. He was even more furious that I would actually be content being out of his life. Then, one day he came home and told me that he had changed his mind about the divorce.

You know why, don’t you?

He is protecting his image and his reputation in the community. This man does not care about his children and his wife. His only concern is his standing in the community. I think I am now empowered, and I am going to use that power to my advantage.

The Altruist

My wife is an angel. She is the kindest and most caring person I have ever met. She is not selfish and always puts her family ahead of everything else.  I guess you can’t teach kindness to anyone, can you? I can confidently say that I have a happy marriage. On a scale of 1 to 10, it is an 11. It is not due to my doing but rather the great efforts of my wife. I do little at home with the children, and she is the one who is involved in their homework and activities. I honestly do not know much about our household matters. In fact, I am lazy when it comes to housework. I do hire people who help clean our big house, but I am talking about the nitty-gritty of the household needs.

My relationship with my wife is based on respect and love. It is a unique relationship that bounces back quickly from any conflict that may arise.  We never argue in front of the children and never go to bed angry at each other. I spend two hours every night talking to my wife. We never run out of conversation. There is always something to talk about and share. I believe, in addition to being married, that we are best friends. I give her all the credit for making our marriage great.

Although I am blessed with a good marriage, I am confounded by how many jealous people there are in the community. Our close relationship is common knowledge. My in-laws, for instance, have a habit of constantly trying to come between my wife and me. She says that she has been accused of everything from “worshipping” her husband to “marginalizing” her relatives. Our community members cause problems too. Because my wife does not participate in weddings, she has been labeled as a weakling who “listens” to her husband. I do not like Somali weddings because they last until the wee hours, but I never prevented my wife from attending. I encourage her to go with her female friends for outings and have fun, but she rarely does.

I have been accused of keeping my wife from attending weddings. My wife is the one to blame. Some women had asked once about going to a wedding and she made a relatively innocuous comment—or maybe jokingly said: “My husband does not allow me to go to weddings.” The rumor mill began to churn.  Now, everybody in our community thinks I am a dictator and wife oppressor. My wife and I laugh about the incident when we are by ourselves. This is, perhaps, one issue I have no intention of correcting. Do you know why? Women in our community have stopped asking my wife to join them in their all-female late parties and weddings.