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The corridors of Cedar Springs Luxury Apartments hold many secrets. If you were to peek into
the lives of Somali refugees who call this notorious run-down high-rise home, you will find all
that eighteen years of civil war has produced. Strong-willed women dealing with language
barriers, hardships, and a new country called America where everything is vastly different from
what they were used to, Americanized children and polygamous husbands.
Come and eavesdrop on the lives of these colorful refugees to get a slice of American immigrant
life with strong willed women, rebellious teens and a rare taste of American immigrant life with
a twist.
A Synopsis
Excerpt
The precise ways things were done in America amazed Nadifo. For a while, she wondered why
gigantic blue and grey plastic cans popped up every Tuesday morning, lining the street. These
cans were not there the rest of the week, but every Tuesday there they were, in exactly the same
spot at the same time. It was not until they had been in America for over half a year when she
found out this was “trash day.” For months she had been transporting their trash to the
dumpster at the corner restaurant.
Excerpt I
December 23, 2003. Salaamu Calaykum Hawo: I love this country. I love the
opportunities and the safety it has given my family. I love knowing that my kids
have had great opportunities here. I love the American people, who are kind,
generous, and sometimes annoyingly naïve. I love how they are proud to
announce they have never left this city, not knowing they admit to their own
ignorance. I love the way they take interest in you, sometimes asking infuriating
questions, once again showing their limited understanding of the outside world. I
don’t necessarily love how they love their Americanism, and definitely not when
they think America is the greatest country in the world, but then again I guess
everyone accept as true that their country is the greatest in the world.
I am amazed how narrow-minded and uninformed they can be, thinking Africa is
one country and that all Muslim people are terrorists. It’s due to this simplicity
and insensitiveness that Americans sometimes harass you; in the name of their
country they will even harm you. I was in the airport on my way to attend our
Cousin Oontire Raage’s funeral a week ago. The illness came to him
unexpectedly, and he was taken away quickly. Haybe had gotten me a ticket to fly
the day before his funeral. Everything had to move fast so I could make it to his
funeral in Columbus on time. Haybe dropped me off at the airport and I
proceeded to the security checkpoint. The lady at the security check, a skinny,
sad-looking woman who looked mishandled by life, gazed at me harshly. I knew I
was in trouble when she said, boorishly, “step over here ma’am.” I obliged,
stepping to the area she had assigned me. “Ma’am are you going to take that thing
off?” she asked, the thing being my hijab. “No,” I replied. “Well then I have to
search your hair, ma’am,” she said, pointing to my headscarf. “You need to take
that thing off so I can search your head.” I refused to let her search my head, let
alone take off my hijab. I asked her, albeit rudely, to inspect the head of the blond
woman next to me first, that I would not allow anyone to meddle with me if other
women were not put through the same thing I was going through. She was
offended: “I don’t think you should tell me how to do my job ma’am,” she
snapped, it seemed as if all the blood in her body collected on her face making her
look like an overripe tomato, she was so angry.
My plane was leaving in half an hour and I knew I would miss it if she started
this nonsensical hunt of hers. I refused to be searched. When I asked her if she
were searching for weapons under my hijab, she acted shocked as if I overstepped
my boundary; her lips twitched with fury. Grunting, she began patting me down,
aggressively shoving my body parts and backside. What could I possibly be
carrying in my back? She attempted to take my hijab off, and that is when I
pushed her away. Suddenly I was surrounded by four massive angry men, who
handcuffed me and dragged me to a hidden office inside the airport. I was
hysterical; I tried to tell them that my plane was leaving and I was going to miss
my cousin Oontire’s funeral that he passed away suddenly. I became incoherent;
scared by the large white men who took turns to scream at me. They pounded on
the table, invading my space with their foul alcohol stench by getting close to my
face. They continued to snatch off my hijab. They were hostile and I could tell
they meant business. There was not a hint of humanity in their eyes, not an ounce
of compassion for my predicament.
I became afraid for my life, wondering if my end was concealed in their huge,
hammering hands. They did not care that I was late for a funeral; all they wanted
to do was to harass and violate me by taking my hijab off. Here I was surrounded
by four muscular men who could do whatever they wanted to: they could kill me
and no one would ever know. I perspired all over my body. My heart raced, my
body trembled with fear, and painful tears stormed from my eyes. I simply felt
helpless. I didn’t care if they kicked me out of their country: I would never allow
an ignorant man at some airport to violate my religious rights by forcing me to
take off my hijab. By the time Haybe arrived to take me home, I could see the
resentment that emanated from their faces for not succeeding to take off my hijab.
The entire ordeal made me wonder, if they were not more interested to see what
was under my hijab than to safeguard against a harm I could commit. The
obsession with Muslims here is infuriating: everyone feels they have the right
topester you simply because you are a Muslim. Dear Sister, if I dislike one thing
about being in America, it’s the constant scrutiny of Muslims.
Excerpt II
Nuptial Jumble
Warsan wondered, like other married women who find themselves in less than idealistic
marriages, what has happened to her dream life. What went wrong? She and Hannad had been
madly in love when they first got married. They carefully handcrafted their life—or at least she
thought they did. She went into it with literal seriousness. She thought she had it all. A good
American education afforded to her by her parents, back in the day when her father was a big
shot government official, a well paying job as an investment banker and an amazingly fulfilling
life. When she met him, she thought Hannad was the epitome of a good man. Charming,
handsome and hard working, even her friends thought Hannad was a good catch. Warsan’s
dilemma of meeting a compatible man has become a concern. When she was finally ready for
marriage, the streets were not exactly paved with accomplished bachelors she could choose from.
The war and its aftermath created a dry spell of suitable bachelors. The likes of her were shunned
for their education, opinion, worldliness and obvious rejection of war-produced bachelors whose
soul and sanity were lost at war. Her status and education limited her chances of marriage.
Somali men detested women like her. They said she was opinionated, aggressive and selfassured.
As the pressure to get married mounted, the choices appeared limited. She would have
to remain single or marry an American?
To marry an American was totally out of the question. She’d seen enough mixedmarriage
misery with Deeqa Ladan, and her marriage to Steve Dobson was not at all what one
would call ideal. Deeqa Ladan was a close friend who struggled with her marriage. Two kids and
a plethora of problems later she was alienated from her family, as Steve felt at odds with an unaccepting
Somali culture. Awkward and lonely Deeqa Ladan often came across as defensive,
while she attempted to explain away her marital choice. She was far gone into American culture
as a soccer mom who was busy chauffeuring kids from one after-school activity to another while
her family members, mostly recent comers were struggling to decipher the required curriculum
to go from middle school to high school. She would almost always require someone to decode
Somali culture when she was around her family, appearing pretentious. As young lovers and
their ideals meet reality, the result could often be an ugly episode of uncompromising life with
daunting consequences. Steve and Deeqa Ladan attempted to fit their college puppy love and
social activism into the challenging reality of their mixed lives, one utterly haphazard and
Somali, and the other over-planned and American. There was a plethora of refugee family to
consider, two baffled kids who often felt unwelcome by both families, extended family in
Somalia who were in dire need and then of course American parents in nursing homes. All and
all from the look of things the life Steve and Deeqa Ladan planned in their respective dorm
rooms at Georgetown University, she in business school and he in medical school, appeared
difficult. Back in the day when everything appeared a possibility while hand-in-hand protesting
Apartheid in front of the South African Embassy, or in front of the Supreme Court to stand in
solidarity with one group or another, they thought their love would transcend their background.
On their wedding night they danced to Tupak’s “Letter to the President” not anticipating
the difficulty multicultural marriage would bring into their idealistic lives. They never thought
the huge divide that existed between the two cultures would ever cut into their lives. But it did,
and when Steve announced he was no longer in love with her, Deeqa Ladan would spend many
tearful evenings with Warsan, discouraging her from ever marrying an American.
Although Warsan already knew that it was never an option for her. Imagine exposing a poor
unsuspecting American man to the unrelenting trauma of her family—having an American man
under the same roof as Nadifo. Whatever sanity Nadifo had, if one could actually argue she
possessed any, would surely be further traumatized by such a predicament.
That is not to say Warsan had not had her share of trial encounter with Americans both
black and white. In fact the idea of marriage to one Connor O’Donnell presented itself with
urgency more than once when viable Somali prospects dwindled. Sometimes she wondered if she
were destined for the confusing matrimonial of Steve and Deeqa Ladan until she met Hannad.
Warsan made no excuses for desiring a man with a high intellect. She did not want an
ignoramus man who had no knowledge of worldly issues, politics, social issues, art, music and
culture. Most dismissed her desire as irrational, alluding to the fact that she was a pompous
educated woman who wanted to use her knowledge as a weapon. Indeed, she did not hide her
desires for a person who could discuss Picasso, Tolstoy and the Othman Empire. Most Somali
men were shocked by her quick intellect and immediately felt intimidated by her knowledge, and
awareness. A very beautiful cordial encounter would end up in an argument where the man
would accuse her of intellectual snobbery. One went as far as accusing her of competing too
much with males, as if books, newspapers and issues of intellect were a male domain. The men
she met expected her to show obedience, when she defied them she was compared to Arraweelo,
a mythical queen who neutered all the men under her reign.
Then came along Hannad, whom she referred to as her halyey, in a manner of speaking
her prince charming. When she first met him in her eye he defied all the misconceptions she
stereotyped about Somali men. He was romantic, kind, giving and thoughtful. He was an
engineer by profession and was gainfully employed with an engineering firm, and for Warsan
that was a plus. Theirs was a love at first sight. They met at a friend’s picnic and were married
six months later.
As they prepared for their life together, Hannad was part of every aspect of the
preparations. He accompanied her to wedding halls and caterers. He even helped pick the dress,
which was costumed made. Warsan just couldn’t stop talking about her charming fiancé. He was
generous and refined. Being part of the elite that run the country and having being exposed to
western beliefs at an early age, Warsan’s philosophy was not typical; she possessed a western
outlook on life. Hannad seemed to accept that, although it was a bit foreign to him. She loved the
fact that he went along with her ways, never expecting her to assume a typical Somali wife arrangement.
Before their children were born, they took vacations to places she fanaticized as romantic
location where they could rekindle their love. Brazil, Morocco and Jamaica in one year, Ireland
and Istanbul in another. They reserved one night a month as their special night to rediscover and
renew their love for each other. These rituals meant nothing to him, but he went along to
harmonize his life with her and she adored him for that. But suddenly, here he was, clumsy, lazy,
rude and unromantic. The Hannad she had married, the kind, romantic, loving husband, had
suddenly become someone she was unable to recognize let alone accept.
Seriously---does everyone write novels nowadays? Even the talentless inhabitants of cedar qaxooti high rises? 
