my mother had made her memorize:
Dear Uncle Hirsi,
I am here on behalf of Asha Artan Umar, the mother of your children. She wanted me to convey to you that she forgives you for any ill will that has come to pass between the two of you. She seeks forgiveness from you for any wrongdoing on her part and she wishes you an easy passage to the hereafter. She prays fervently for your admission into paradise and for Allah’s mercy on you between now and when you meet Him.
When Magool related this story to me, I asked her how Abeh had responded. “I don’t know if he heard me,” she answered. “He liftedup his head for a second, and then his head fell back on the pillows. He closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again. I am assuming he heard. At least that is what I told your Ma.”
“What did you tell her, exactly?”
“I told her that he heard me, that I could see he understood. I’m not sure he really did, but she is old and lonely and it will do her good to know that the father of her children got her message.”
I don’t remember my mother being in a forgiving mood too often, but I knew how much this would mean to her, and it made me feel better too. Regardless of her motivation, my mother’s message to my father was gracious and timely, and it surely brought her some peace.
One afternoon, less than a week after my father had passed away, Magool phoned me. “Ayaan,
Abaayo
,” she said, using an endearment that is best translated as “dear sister.”
“Yes,
Abaayo
, dear, what is it?”
Is there more bad news?
I wondered.
“Abaayo
, Ayaan …”
“Uhhhmm,
Abaayo
Magool.”
“Abaayo
Ayaan.”
“Abbbaaayyo
. Yessss.” I tried to contain my irritation but failed.
“Will you do me a favor,
Abaayo
, please,
Abaayo?”
Magool asked me. “Just this once?”
“Abaayo
, what is it?”
“Please,
Abaayo
, just say yes first?”
I hesitated. I had no idea what Magool would ask for, and I didn’t want to commit to something I could never deliver. From the old days I knew that Somali relatives ask—no,
demand
—money, immigration papers, the smuggling of people and goods; they request to be allowed to camp in your home for three days only, which stretch into forever. All this is preceded by floods of endearments of “dear sister” and “dear cousin” and all the special Somali words for every inflexion of relationship that lies beyond and in between.
“It depends,
Abaayo,”
I responded. “I will say yes if what you ask won’t compromise my safety, if it is legal, and if I can afford it.”
Magool laughed. “No problem,
Abaayo.”
I was now more intrigued than irritated. “So?”
“Abaayo
, phone your mother.”
I was silent for a few seconds, taking the time to find the right response, and when I spoke again my voice was so soft that she asked me to repeat what I said. “Magool, I don’t know if ma wants to talk to me anymore.”
“Abaayo
”—the compassion in Magool’s voice was plainly audible now—“I will give you her phone number. Yes, she wants to talk to you. She is all alone now. My ma was with her until a few months ago. Now my mother has gone to Tanzania with my brother. Your mother is all by herself and she asks after you all the time. Please, call her. Promise me you will call her.”
At first I felt a jolt of childlike excitement. Then I felt fear; I dreaded the confrontation that would be bound to occur as soon as I spoke with my mother. But that was soon overcome by the sense of duty she had inculcated in me, and the guilt of having neglected her. My father had just passed away. What if my mother was taken ill? Would I ever see her again? I knew the answer: my mother is in Somalia and I am an infidel who would be killed instantly on arrival. I would not be present at her bedside.
But at least I could talk to her. And so I tried the number Magool gave me. I got an out-of-order signal, a busy signal, a recorded female voice telling me in English and Spanish,
Dear Uncle Hirsi,
I am here on behalf of Asha Artan Umar, the mother of your children. She wanted me to convey to you that she forgives you for any ill will that has come to pass between the two of you. She seeks forgiveness from you for any wrongdoing on her part and she wishes you an easy passage to the hereafter. She prays fervently for your admission into paradise and for Allah’s mercy on you between now and when you meet Him.
When Magool related this story to me, I asked her how Abeh had responded. “I don’t know if he heard me,” she answered. “He liftedup his head for a second, and then his head fell back on the pillows. He closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again. I am assuming he heard. At least that is what I told your Ma.”
“What did you tell her, exactly?”
“I told her that he heard me, that I could see he understood. I’m not sure he really did, but she is old and lonely and it will do her good to know that the father of her children got her message.”
I don’t remember my mother being in a forgiving mood too often, but I knew how much this would mean to her, and it made me feel better too. Regardless of her motivation, my mother’s message to my father was gracious and timely, and it surely brought her some peace.
One afternoon, less than a week after my father had passed away, Magool phoned me. “Ayaan,
Abaayo
,” she said, using an endearment that is best translated as “dear sister.”
“Yes,
Abaayo
, dear, what is it?”
Is there more bad news?
I wondered.
“Abaayo
, Ayaan …”
“Uhhhmm,
Abaayo
Magool.”
“Abaayo
Ayaan.”
“Abbbaaayyo
. Yessss.” I tried to contain my irritation but failed.
“Will you do me a favor,
Abaayo
, please,
Abaayo?”
Magool asked me. “Just this once?”
“Abaayo
, what is it?”
“Please,
Abaayo
, just say yes first?”
I hesitated. I had no idea what Magool would ask for, and I didn’t want to commit to something I could never deliver. From the old days I knew that Somali relatives ask—no,
demand
—money, immigration papers, the smuggling of people and goods; they request to be allowed to camp in your home for three days only, which stretch into forever. All this is preceded by floods of endearments of “dear sister” and “dear cousin” and all the special Somali words for every inflexion of relationship that lies beyond and in between.
“It depends,
Abaayo,”
I responded. “I will say yes if what you ask won’t compromise my safety, if it is legal, and if I can afford it.”
Magool laughed. “No problem,
Abaayo.”
I was now more intrigued than irritated. “So?”
“Abaayo
, phone your mother.”
I was silent for a few seconds, taking the time to find the right response, and when I spoke again my voice was so soft that she asked me to repeat what I said. “Magool, I don’t know if ma wants to talk to me anymore.”
“Abaayo
”—the compassion in Magool’s voice was plainly audible now—“I will give you her phone number. Yes, she wants to talk to you. She is all alone now. My ma was with her until a few months ago. Now my mother has gone to Tanzania with my brother. Your mother is all by herself and she asks after you all the time. Please, call her. Promise me you will call her.”
At first I felt a jolt of childlike excitement. Then I felt fear; I dreaded the confrontation that would be bound to occur as soon as I spoke with my mother. But that was soon overcome by the sense of duty she had inculcated in me, and the guilt of having neglected her. My father had just passed away. What if my mother was taken ill? Would I ever see her again? I knew the answer: my mother is in Somalia and I am an infidel who would be killed instantly on arrival. I would not be present at her bedside.
But at least I could talk to her. And so I tried the number Magool gave me. I got an out-of-order signal, a busy signal, a recorded female voice telling me in English and Spanish,
Similar Books
