Country Girl

My cousin in Rome was very nice and arranged an interview for me at an agency that employed nannies. I spoke no Italian at all but somehow managed to get hired watching the two babies of a woman doctor named Maria Fabia. Since I was living with Maria I didn’t need very much money and was able to send most of my paycheck back to my mother in Somalia. Maria’s home was huge and beautiful. She gave me my own room, my own bed, everything. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. All I could say to her was, “Oh my goodness, thank you.” It was like heaven. I had everything I needed and more, and I’ve never really needed for anything since.

At first it was very hard to communicate. Sometimes, Maria would call my cousin, who spoke Somali, English, and Italian, and ask her to relay a message to me. In the evenings, after she came home from her job, she sent me to school; she gave me opportunity. She loved me a lot. I went to home-care school for six months to learn how to take care of people who are sick. Many of the Somali girls had these jobs. This was not like the school I went to back in my village. I thank god I learned how to read and write Italian. Within six months I understood everything they were saying, and I told Maria everything about my life.

In my free time I made friends in downtown Rome. In the terminal area near the train station there was a big McDonalds where all the Somalis would gather. I met lots of new people, including a man I would eventually marry and, in 1994, follow to Minnesota. It made me feel happy to be able to meet other Somalis when I was so far from my home. These were people from all tribes and clans, some of whom doubtless would have killed me if we were back in our country—but in Rome I felt happy to know them because they were all my people.

Soon the war came to Afgooye. People in my village fled on foot, hauling only what they could carry in their hands. They ended up in refugee camps in Kenya. They had no money. No way to start new lives. It was a very frightening time for me because I didn’t know where my mother or brothers and sister were. Through the generosity of many governments, they were later relocated from the camps to homes in countries around the world. I now have family members in the United States, Canada, Europe, Australia, and the United Arab Emirates. I’ve never gotten to know everybody in the family. I have a brother who lives in Norway. We talk on the phone but we’ve never seen each other. When we talk we cry, because it’s no good not to know what your own family looks like.

The future is like the weather; you never know what’s coming. If you’re thinking one way it will turn out another way, you know. I never thought I’d be able to go back to my country because the situation there is so bad. But tomorrow it could be another way. Maybe my country will become one of the ten best places on earth. Nobody knows.

The first thing I would do if I went back to Somalia is kiss the soil, because I miss home a lot. Then I would go to the ocean. When I was young we used to go often to swim. My country has beautiful beaches. We have seasons but we don’t have winter, which is fine with me. The only thing I would change about Minnesota is the cold winter.

I wish I could go on television in Somalia and talk to the whole country about what I’ve learned since I left there sixteen years ago. I’d say, “I want a different country. I’ve seen a better life. We have to change. We will not have a good life as long as we are destroying our country. We must stop hating each other without reason. I have seen other countries and I know that Somalis outside of Somalia can be peaceful and get along. We must teach this to the new generation, to the children, so that they can grow up to take on the challenge of bringing a better life to Somalia.”

One particular incident that occurred shortly after I moved to Minnesota taught me that these things are true.

It was a very cold night in the middle of winter, and I was driving on Highway 94 through the Lowry Tunnel in Minneapolis with the three little children I had at the time. My tire suddenly went flat and I had to pull over. I didn’t have a cell phone to call my husband, and soon my children shivered and cried. I was very worried and started to pray for god to help me, when a car pulled up behind us and a man got out. I recognized first that he was Somali. Then I heard him speak and I understood from his accent that he was from the Hawiye clan, the people who had killed so many young women in my village. He looked like a really tough guy; I was worried that he was going to hurt us.

He said, “Leave your car and all of you come with me. I’ll give you a ride home.”

I had to make a decision. Should I take him at his word and trust him? Or do I listen to the voice in my head telling me to fear the Hawiye for what happened in my village? I thought of my cousin Shamso, her lifeless body propped against the door of her home.

But his tone was gentle, and my children were freezing, so I loaded them into his car. He got on his cell phone and called a tow truck.

As we waited for the truck he turned to me and said, “I know what clan you’re from. I can tell by the way you speak. But I don’t care. Back home we are fighting so much, but in this country Somali is Somali, you know?”

He paid cash for the tow, and drove me home. The next day he even called from his job to ask how we were doing. We got to know each other a little bit. He told me about his education and his wife. We talked about the situation back home. The people who are killing each other, we agreed, are really the same: same culture, same language, same history, same religion. When we kill each other we are really killing ourselves.

I will always remember how he helped me.

I said, “I hope people in our country can get to know each other and respect each other as human beings.”

And he said, “I hope the same.”