Our fear:A story of forbidden love

By Malik Jobs

Our Fear: The story of a forbidden love is the emotional tale of a young Somali man's coming of age and coming to terms with his sexual identity in a country where to be gay is illegal and punishable by death. Abdul finds out quite by accident his attraction to men and must maintain his shameful secret from friends and especially his strict religious father. Ultimately, it becomes too much for young Abdul to hold in, however, coming out brings harsh derision from friends, torture by his own father and a fear for his life. Home life is painfully difficult because his mother is deathly ill and his father is abusive, physically to him and emotionally to his mom. He meets a young American aid worker and, despite his desperate efforts not to, falls in love, further endangering his life. Later, Abdul must decide whether to accept an arranged marriage or be true to himself. Navigating the decisions he makes and steps he takes makes Our Fear impossible to put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543992441

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Date

Chapter One

Sad Rainy Day

It was a cold, rainy night at about 9:35 p.m. on May 2, 1985, when my mother, Ayaan, was in labor with me in our living room. Candles were lit all around the living room, and sitting right next to my mom was my sister Sahra, who at the time was only two years old. My father, Abraham, went outside to look for our local midwife, Casho. We did not have a fancy hospital or a police department to report crimes to; this had been the case ever since the country had been at war with itself.

When Dad got back to the house with Casho he was wet from the rain. My mom was in labor for about twenty-five more minutes, and exactly at 10 p.m. there I was, coming into the world. It’s a boy, said Casho. Mom grabbed me right away, before the umbilical cord had even been cut. Dad wasn’t as excited. Nor was he expecting to have a baby boy. But Mom was beyond happy. She held me in her arms and looked me in my tiny eyes, and the first words she said to me were, Abdul… I will name you Abdul, my son.

Dad still couldn’t believe he had a baby boy, so he leaned in closer to verify that Casho was right. Oh shit, I thought we were having a girl! he said in shock. I don’t know why he would have thought he was having a girl when there was no way to perform an ultrasound to determine the baby’s sex. In my country, parents can benefit more from having a girl than from having a boy, because when the girl becomes a teenager and she is ready to get married, the parents get paid at least fifty thousand dollars for offering their daughter’s hand in marriage. Having a boy is different because it means that when the parents’ son is interested in a woman, the parents will have to pay the same amount of money to the woman’s parents. Most families wait a bit longer to marry off their sons, but their daughters are married off as soon as they hit puberty. They are more than willing to let their daughter get married, with or without her permission. My family and I, we are not rich, nor are we very poor. We live in a two bedroom house which I share one bedroom with my sister and my parents stay in the other room.

All of my life I was raised in Somalia and I have never stepped foot outside the country. I do love my country, but I have to admit, we have a strict religion where there is no freedom of speech, and abstinence from sex is mandatory until you are married. We are strict even with the food we eat: we aren’t allowed to eat certain foods, such as pork, because according to the Qur’an it’s Forbidden to you (for food) are: dead meat, blood, the flesh of swine, and that on which hath been invoked a name other than that of Allah. For example: It is a Muslim country, and animals like dogs are banned. If a man is caught having sex with a woman to whom he is not married there are grave consequences. As stipulated by Muslim laws, the punishment for all of these offenses include jail time or death; but more often, the most popular form of punishment takes place in public; Muslim law really likes to make an example out of people. The public punishment consists of you being whipped with a saddle whip before a large crowd of spectators. You are struck forty times, over and over again.

As for women, the law treats them a bit different. A woman is punishable if she is caught having sex, wearing a mini skirt, flirting or even been a victim of rape, in which case she will be beaten badly, killed, or possibly both. Men have it easier when they are caught cheating. Matrimony is always arranged by your parents; they decide who you will be spending the rest of your life with.

Today is my older sister’s wedding. Sahra is twenty years old; her husband-to-be is forty-two. I was happy for her because I get to have the whole bedroom to myself but then I will miss her not being around the house with Mom and me. It is common in our culture for women to marry older men. You see, if I like your daughter and she is older than thirteen years of age, any man can make an offer to the parents: the age difference will not matter. As long as they come to an agreement and negotiate a fair price, the woman’s opinion does not matter. Divorce is not an option unless the man wants to leave the woman. When it comes to marriage, being a man is easy for your parents, because they will just go out and pick a wife for you.

Being a wife at such an early age is always hard, as there is so much to adjust to, so many expectations to live up to — and then the hard part comes: having a baby. That’s the biggest expectation from your husband and family… and you must be ready to have baby when you get married, even at the age of thirteen. Unfortunately, suicides are more than common and occur more frequently then one would hope, and depression is more common in these young moms because they are forced into a life they may have not wanted. I sometimes thank my great god, Allah, for making me a man, for my conscience allows me to feel bad for the women of Somalia, as well as for all women in Muslim countries. As if we didn’t have enough going on —all the killing and destroying of homes…. I remember being a little boy, watching my mom cleaning, washing clothes, doing dishes. The war was so bad I like to believe that as a child I once may have saved my mom’s life: I dropped a glass of milk onto the floor, my mom bent over to clean it up, and right as she bent down… pow! A bullet came through the walls and hit the cabinet right where my mother had been standing a few seconds ago. My mom wouldn’t be alive today if I had not dropped that glass of milk. Once the shot went off, my mom immediately threw me to the ground, protecting me with her own body. We prayed all the time, hoping for a change. Hoping that one day all the violence would end. So much catastrophe and collateral damage. Houses destroyed, families torn apart, kids yelling, babies crying… it hurt me, having to hear all that. It was so much to take in.

The Muslim culture allows a man to have up to four wives at a time, but women are allowed to have only one husband. They may remarry only if their husband dies. Once, my dad finally returned home after I hadn’t seen him for eleven days, because he’d been spending time with his other families. My dad has more than one wife.

There weren’t a lot of sports activities where I came from, and I really liked to play soccer with my friends. At times, I also liked to play in the rain — it didn’t matter what I was doing, as long as I could feel the rain. Ever since I was young, I have always been obsessed with the rain. To pass time I always liked taking the cows, goats, and sheep grazing — it is almost like taking a dog for a walk.

As the only son in my family, I have always been close to my mom. All my father cares about is being a true Muslim — he prays five times a day. Yet he still rips people off to make a bit more money at the clothing store he owns. I even heard him negotiating to sell my sister when she was just twelve years old, since a lot of older men were interested in my sister at the time. Anything my dad can make money off will make him smile, even if it means selling his own daughter.

There is not much to do in Somalia as far as manly stuff goes. In fact, the only manly thing you can do is become a private soldier, or set up your own checkpoint. If you decide to go down that path, you have to get used to always having your trusted AK-47 at your side.

I always hated making new friends, because every time I made friends my family always moved away, or my friends would die in the war. All these wars would blow through my village, and we had to pick up and relocate.

Whenever I get the chance to spend time outside the house, I like to watch the animals as they run in the field. I would sometimes stay up late at night, listening to the rain hit our tin roof. I don’t know why, but somehow that repetitive sound would make me forget everything that was going on around me. For however long that moment lasted, I was somewhere else… somewhere beautiful….

I love the rain so much. It always makes me forget my problems. I can listen or play in the rain for hours. Maybe I connect more with the rain because it was raining the night I was born.

My dad was a womanizer. He would always find a way to charm every woman into marrying him. He always told me, Son, when you grow up, I want you to become like your old man. He didn’t realize that would never happen.

The reason I can’t become like my dad is because I’m gay.

I’ve known I’ve been gay ever since I was fifteen.

I never knew I was gay when I was younger because all my friends liked girls, and I thought I was like them. In fact, whenever we heard someone in the village was gay, we always threw rocks at them and chased them down, just for fun.

I found out my sexuality one afternoon after we had finished playing soccer, while I was sitting under the tree shade with my friends. This truck carrying American soldiers drove by and one of the Americans threw my friends and me a Playboy magazine. Once we discovered that it had pictures of nude women in it, we each took a turn behind the bushes, exploring the unknown images. Before I knew it, my turn arrived. I started flipping the pages slowly; then I saw this white woman. She was what most men liked: long flowing dark hair, big boobs, very pretty. My heart was beating as if I was running a marathon. Nervous, that’s how I would describe it. It was my first time seeing a naked woman. I started to touch myself, but nothing happened. Maybe it’s because I’ve never seen a naked woman, I thought. Six minutes later, I still couldn’t get excited. My friends began rushing me to finish up. Finally, I gave up and threw the magazine to the next person. I walked away confused and angry. What is wrong with me? I asked myself.

After that first day, my friends and I always met there after soccer games, and I kept going through the same struggle. Then one day, as I was about to give up again, I dropped the magazine on the ground… and on the last page there was an advertisement for a gay magazine. The ad showed a group of men, all with six packs and beautiful faces. I touched the photo of one of the men with my index fingers, I could feel his chiseled chest with my hand, every single hair on my body was standing. Then I realized my hair wasn’t the only thing that was standing…. I was finally experiencing what my friends had felt all those weeks, but in a different way. My heart was racing, ready to explode — and eventually I did.

I tore that single page out and took it home with me. I ran to my favorite place, a spot I called the tree of life. When problems became abundant, I sat under that tree and just talked to myself or did my thinking there. That day, I just cried. I knew I was gay. Being gay might be acceptable in other countries, but here in Somalia, I’d most likely be killed. Homosexuality and infidelity are the worst offenses you could ever commit. All those time my friends and I chased and threw rocks at anyone who was found to be gay — and I had become the person we were chasing. How would I tell my parents, especially my religious dad? I wondered. He will literally kill me, and without hesitation, I thought. I can’t live this lie forever. Maybe I’ll have to tell him one day — and that’s probably the day I die!

The next day, my friends came over to my house and called to me to come play outside. My Mom answered the door, she wanted me to go out and have fun with them.

Tell them to go away, I told her. I don’t feel good today.

What’s wrong? my Mom asked me.

I wanted to tell her the truth, but when I opened my mouth it was as though I could not get a single word out. Then she said, Whatever you are going through, you can tell me. I am not harsh like your father.

Even though I was very close to my Mom, I couldn’t tell her, yet. Well, at least not just then. All I could think about was how I would break the news to anyone.

I started attending masjid and praying to Allah, asking him: WHY ME? I read the Qur’an and kept praying. If I could cry the gay out, I would, I pleaded. I don’t care if it takes days or months. I’ve already cried enough anyway.

That afternoon as I was leaving the masjid, I saw a group of people. They were shouting, Kill them, they deserve not to live! As I ran toward the crowd, a man was crying, holding a woman in his arms. I already knew she was dead. My stomach dropped… I couldn’t imagine the pain the man was feeling. As much as I wanted to help him, I couldn’t do anything except watch, like everyone else, or walk away. If I intervene to help them, I thought, then my fellow men would mark me guilty — the same as them; besides, I already have my own issue. I don’t need any more problems added to mine. I asked a man standing next to me, What did they do?

The father found the daughter a man with money to marry her, he said, but she loves this farm boy who has no money. She had been missing for days after running away from home. Today the father found them together in the market, shopping.

I looked around the crowd. No one helped… but no one looked away. Everyone was just watching them die — the father’s daughter and her boyfriend — as though it was the daily two o’clock soap opera. I could not watch the man die anymore, so I turned and walked away. Then someone grabbed my shirt from behind and I turned around. It was the man, begging, saying, Please help me, I love her — please stop them! He asked me, Have you ever loved someone that you would die for? Huh? We promised each other that if our parents did not agree about our relationship we wouldn’t care. We love each other, and that’s all we need. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you can’t love someone else," he said.

As he was talking to me I could see his eyes going blank, blood coming out from his mouth. He exhaled for the last time—and then he was gone. I took a few steps back from him. His eyes were dead, but I could feel him looking at me. I didn’t even notice, it was pouring rain. Everyone dispersed. I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t move. I moved in closer and looked at them. I helped them hold hands.

They died for each other. They deserved to walk together in the afterlife… wherever they were.

As I walked home in the rain, I kept going back to what the man had said. They both literally died for each other because of their love. I wondered if I’d ever find someone who could care for me that way. The entire country would enjoy watching two gay guys being beaten to death. I had to talk to myself and had to do deep thinking alone for a long period of time, realizing that there was no escaping my sexuality. I had to accept who I was.

This is who I am, I told myself. I can see it more clearly now. I’d rather be burned alive than try to live a fantasy dreamt up by my parents, or try to make them happy. I’m sure that I’m not the only gay Somalian out here, but I could be the first to stand up. I accept who I am, and I will not be scared to live my life. Will there be consequences? Yes. But I am prepared to die today for it, if necessary. It’s either that or live my life as someone who I am not. I did not ask god to make me this way, maybe I am special, maybe god chose me to be different. I will tell my friends first, before I tell my parents, just so I can get used to rejection.

Once I got home, Dad and his friends were in the living room listening to the five o’clock radio news, drinking tea, and smoking cigarettes. Same as every Somalian household each afternoon. As I passed them on my way to my bedroom, Dad called me to introduce me to his friends. One of the men asked, So when is your wedding? Did you find him a wife yet?

Oh, I am looking, my father replied. I have lots of girls lined up for you, son.

I stood there quietly, not saying a word. Then I lied, just to get out of there, and told them that Mom was calling me. I was tired and hungry, plus Mom had cooked my favorite dish, pasta with steak and banana. Every Somalian loves banana. Maybe that’s a cultural thing; I don’t know why we eat banana with everything. I mean everything. You can’t name one dish, pasta, rice, poultry, that doesn’t have banana.

Before I could eat, Mom told me to change my clothes since they were wet from the rain. I went to my bedroom to change my clothes; then, as I walked out, I saw my pants on the floor. The pants that had the magazine picture inside. I almost ripped my pants, searching for that picture. I began getting nervous; I couldn’t seem to find it. I panicked, walking back and forth in my room, thinking about the worst-case scenario: my dad finds the picture. The best-case scenario was that I lost the picture outside while paying soccer, before I got home. But maybe my dad already found it and was just waiting for his friends to leave….

Abdul, the food is getting cold! my mom called.

I walked out of the room, just looking at my mom to see if she was acting differently. I told myself, Just act normal, pray no one in this house has found it and that it got lost somewhere outside.

I walked out of the room then into the kitchen to eat with Mom. I was nervous that she would bring up the picture, but she acted normal. As soon as I finished my meal I went back to my bedroom to lie down, thinking, Where did I lose the picture…?

After thinking for a while I decided to let it go. Hopefully, I had really lost it.

Chapter Two

M&M

That Friday, my best friend Mohammed Mohammed was coming, we called him M&M. He was the only best friend I had. We knew everything about each other, and I was almost shot because of him when we were young.

We were about nine years old, playing soccer like usual, when a shoot-out between two different clans began. Most of the buildings were vacant in Somalia, due to war. So when the shooting began, everyone ran into different buildings to hide from the flying bullets. M&M and I ran into a building together to hide — but then he realized he had forgotten his soccer ball.

He ran back to the field. I ran after him, trying to catch him and pull him back. All of a sudden, I felt a burning in my left arm, then I fell to the ground.

I’m shot, M&M! I yelled.

He looked back and ran towards me, picked me up off the ground. We went back inside the building. My body was shaking, my left hand was numb. I couldn’t feel anything. I was crying like a baby, thinking, I’m going to die.

M&M tore my sleeve shirt. Let me see? he said.

It was nothing more than a scratch.

M&M looked at me and said, Do you like being a big pussy?

What, why? I asked.

Because you are one big pussy. The bullet barely touched your arm.

If I’m not hit then why I am bleeding? I said.

Maybe you are losing some fat to donate to the poor people who can’t eat like you, he joked. Then he got up to reenact me screaming like a girl. " ‘Help, M&M, I’ve been shot!’ " he said. Then he fell on the floor, still making fun of me.

I missed those days. That’s why I was happy he was coming back to the village. He had been staying in Kenya for a few months, applying for a visa to go to the United States.

Everyone in Somalia dreams of being able to leave. We hear that in the United States you don’t have to work, they have robots that do everything for you. Like wash your clothes, clean your dishes, clean your house, clean your car. America is so rich they leave money on the floor; all you have to do is pick it up. Here, a lot of people have the same name, like Mohammed Mohammed, or Mohammed Ali. They would kill you for your visa then travel to America using your identity, because who would stop them?