Country Girl

Over the last few months, I have met with Fozia Mussa several times to hear about her journey from sheltered teenager in a tiny Somali village to life as a working Minneapolis mother of five children (ranging from nine months to twelve years).

Out of respect for Somali custom, I could not interview Mussa alone, and certainly not in private. Instead, she and I would convene along with several of her Somali friends at restaurants close to their college in Bloomington.

Without exception, we were greeted at these dining establishments with curious stares and occasional sneers from white patrons, one day prompting a companion of ours to comment: “I don’t like this place. These people are fucking racist.” Looking up from my notepad I could see her point; the whole place really was gawking.

Mussa, however, paid little attention to the apparent xenophobia at the International House of Pancakes. Impeccably put together in lovely flowing robes and scarves, she would focus intently on my questions and on the memories they stirred of a place she has not seen in sixteen years. She was unfailingly gracious in answering the many queries that arose about the events that caused her to flee her homeland and eventually join a community of Somali refugees in Minnesota that has grown to more than twenty-five thousand people.

On one occasion, I related an incident I’d heard about that had taken place at a rally in January for the local Somali population. The event, which was held at the Minneapolis Convention Center, was organized as a way for the local Somali population to express solidarity with the struggling government of that embattled East African nation, and to strengthen ties between community members. The evening featured live videoconference speeches by President Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed and Prime Minister Ali M. Geddi. Moments into the president’s talk, the crowd’s attention was suddenly diverted from the big screens to the floor. Two teenage Somali girls, one dark skinned and the other light, were arguing. “He’s not the president of my clan,” the dark-skinned girl complained. “Why do we have to have this big celebration?”

“You may be jealous,” the other girl said, “but we are all the same people, regardless of clan, and he is our president.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

They started to fight. In an instant the darker girl pulled out a knife, sliced the other girl from ear to chin, and took off running. Security guards arrived minutes later, but the Somalis had closed ranks; nobody knew anything. By the time police showed up, there was no one left to talk—including the victim, who had been whisked away by friends.

As I told this story, Mussa’s usual infectious smile vanished, replaced by an expression of grief.

“My people have lived through a lot, Jonny,” she said in her unwavering, gentle tone, using the name only she and her Somali friends call me. “The ones who experienced the civil war, they brought their fight with them. Those Somalis like me, who left earlier, we understand that in America we are all Somali.” —Jon Lurie

I was lucky. In October 1991, just weeks before the civil war began, I managed to get out of Somalia. I was about fourteen. The people who were not so lucky—the people who stayed and saw terrible things, did terrible things, or had terrible things done to them—are different from those like me, who got out. It’s easy to tell Somali people in Minnesota who lived through the civil war; they often have this crazy look on their faces that scares me. Some of them brought their hatred for people from other Somali clans to America; others brought their fear.

Today, I’m thirty-two or thirty-three—I’m not certain exactly when I was born—studying to be a doctor, living in South Minneapolis, and taking care of elderly Somali people in their homes. Some of my clients talk to me about the war. They say, “I saw people killed in front of me; I saw them blown up by roadside bombs.”

One lady’s right arm is missing. It was cut off at the elbow after she stepped in front of some men who were trying to kill her brother. And then they killed her brother anyway. She seems pretty normal, but when she forgets to take her medication I’m afraid to be around her.

The first time she saw me she said, “Who are you? Which clan are you from?”

I said, “I’m Somali, you’re Somali, that’s it. Don’t worry about me.”

And she said, “OK, you’re good,” and she kissed me on each cheek.

I never tell clients which clan I’m from, and I never ask. Even if we are close. Because it’s not good, you know. Bringing up these things can only lead to trouble.