“What does one do with them?”
“What can one do about the byzantine contortions of their clan-based politics, when even they know the institution does more harm than good?”
Looking around, Mugdi awakens to the fact that, so absorbed in his anger, and in the conversation, he no longer recognizes where they have walked. “Do we know where we are going?” he asks.
“My place is three minutes away,” Himmo says.
Himmo’s three-bedroom apartment is located on the third floor of a small building. When Mugdi walks in, he is struck by how pleasant and airy it is, with large windows, high ceilings, and walls painted a light shade of beige. When Mugdi asks for the toilet, Himmo shows him to the bathroom and he remembers her saying a couple years ago, not long after she first moved in, that the apartment’s one drawback was that it had only one bathroom—a massive headache when you have three children who need to get to school on time.
The bathroom is a bit of a mess, with wet towels piled on the floor, and on the sink a comb bearing traces of long curly hair. He hangs up the towels but leaves the comb for someone else to deal with. He tells himself that this is a lived-in place, with lovely young people who will grow to be responsible one day, maybe after they are married.
When Mugdi reemerges, he finds Himmo clearing up the young folks’ breakfast mess and he offers to make her tea. Himmo works night shifts a few times a week. On those evenings she’s at the hospital, her oldest daughter, Maimouna, looks ably after her younger siblings.
It is a shame that Himmo has been so unlucky in her marriages, Mugdi thinks. One of her three husbands had more blind spots than a vehicle with no side mirrors. He had a hand in the death of a Somali man, a fellow qaat chewer, and was later accused of raping a Somali woman and ended up in prison. Himmo sought a divorce, and with the help of a lawyer hired by Mugdi and Gacalo, received full custody of her children and a small settlement. Mugdi is very fond of Himmo and considers her family, the one person in Norway whom he has known for a great many years. She is the younger sister of his best childhood friend, and he treats her much as he treats his daughter Timiro.
Mugdi fills the kettle through its spout, as the lid will not give even though he pulls it hard. The gas turns on after two attempts and, with the water boiling, he searches for cups. “Tea’s ready, dear,” says Mugdi.
“Thanks,” Himmo says, approaching Mugdi with her hands held away from her. Mugdi steps out of her way so she can reach the washbasin.
“Here.” Mugdi passes her a cup after she dries her hands. “Sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
He stirs in a spoonful of sugar and waits for her approval. Himmo takes the cup, sips, and says, “Perfect.” She pauses for a moment and then says, “How come you play host to me in my own home, serving me tea, when no other man I’ve ever known has done that for me?”
Mugdi says, “You deserve far better than the misfortunes you’ve met in the men that you’ve married. But you have three lovely children and that is worth all the gold in the world.”
After a companionable silence, Himmo says, “From the window, you can see the apartment of that Iraqi-born Kurd who is often in the news for his controversial radical politics.”
“Is he the one the CIA tried to kidnap so as to take him to Guantánamo for interrogation?”
“The same. I’ve never understood why the authorities can’t deport him to Iraq, since his Norwegian citizenship has been revoked.”
“Remember, Norway is a country of laws.”
“Yes, and he exploits the legal system.”
Mugdi says, “Remember also that his wife and children are Norwegian citizens and that judges in the courts do not look favorably upon separating a man from his family.”
Hearing the voices of young girls and boys at the door, one of them turning a key in the lock, they bring their conversation to a halt. Here are Himmo’s three children and Naciim, all politely saying hello and casting their flags aside, eager to tuck into the Big Macs each is unwrapping.
“Where did you get the money to buy these?” Himmo asks. Her children surely have not forgotten that their mother disapproves of what she calls “terrible, fattening food.” She is a nurse, after all, and knows what she is talking about.
Maimouna says, “We couldn’t say no when Naciim offered to pay for ours, and for his friend Edvart’s. He described it as a gift on the happiest day of his life since coming here.”
Turning to Naciim, Himmo asks, “And where did you get the money to buy all these?”
Naciim says, “I’ve saved some money from what Grandpa Mugdi and Grandma Gacalo gave me.”
Half an hour later, Mugdi is ready to return home and he suggests that Himmo ring the widow to inform her that her son will be home before nightfall.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s been two years since Naciim’s arrival in Oslo and he is going to Johan and Birgitta’s dinner party to welcome home their son, Fredrik, visiting from the US, where he teaches. Fredrik, as it happens, was his stepdad’s playmate when they were both young. Lately, he has been spending more time at his grandparents’ than at his mother’s, following his set-to with his mother about the flag-waving festivities he took part in. And what a joy it has been to enjoy sleepovers at Auntie Himmo’s, in the company of Mouna, with whom he is infatuated.
Mugdi and Gacalo haven’t seen Frederik in years, though they were quite fond of him as a young friend of their son.
Over lunch, Mugdi and Gacalo’s conversation inevitably leads them back to Naciim, their only topic of discussion as of late, and whether to take him along to visit their friends or send him home to his mother. Mugdi puckers his forehead in concentration and says, “What about school tomorrow? You realize his satchel and books are at his apartment.”
“That is no longer a problem,” says Gacalo. “I took him shopping earlier, when you were working in your study, and bought him a new satchel to replace his secondhand one. I also got him everything he needs for school, plus toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a pair of pajamas.”
Mugdi lifts his arms from his sides in the way of a bird readying for flight, as his eyes focus on a distant patch of the heavens visible from where he is sitting in the kitchen. He extrapolates from her words that a room in their home will soon be designated as Naciim’s and that the boy will occupy it whenever he visits. He allows himself time for this new reality to sink in and says, “So we’re taking him along to dinner?”
“I want Naciim to get to know our friends.”
“Then we must let them know.”
“I’ve already taken care of it.”
“Anything else you haven’t told me?”
“I’ve booked a cab to take us there. It’ll be good for Naciim to meet Fredrik, who knew his stepfather in his preteen years. And they are both so bright.”
“He’s done well, Fredrik,” says Mugdi.
Gacalo interprets Mugdi’s assertion as an implicit condemnation of Dhaqaneh. There is nothing new in this; Mugdi has always believed that their late son squandered his potential, whereas Fredrik stayed on the right path. Still, Gacalo finds this sentiment enraging. Unable to come up with a defense of her beloved son, she leaves the kitchen, no doubt to have a good cry alone in the upstairs bathroom.
It is not lost on Mugdi that Fredrik earned a PhD at the University of Chicago at the very same time that Dhaqaneh was becoming embroiled in radical extremism. The two boys were both keen on sports, Dhaqaneh on soccer and Fredrik on swimming, and they remained close during their formative years, when their parents were diplomats representing their respective countries in Bonn and Moscow. Mugdi and Gacalo were as fond of Johan and Birgitta’s son as the two Norwegians were fond of Timiro and Dhaqaneh. At dinner, Gacalo will be at pains to show that she is happy for Fredrik, whose partner, a journalist, only recently discovered she was pregnant while traveling between Aleppo
and Mosul on assignment. As fond as she is of Naciim and Saafi, how Gacalo wishes Dhaqaneh had been survived by his own biological child, “not,” as she put it to Himmo, when Waliya first arrived, “two stepchildren that are part of a package.”
As it happens, Mugdi and Fredrik have overlapping interests, and have been in close correspondence with each other. Fredrik, an associate professor at St. Olaf College in Minnesota, has been of great assistance with Mugdi’s Somali translation of Giants in the Earth. Its author, Ole Edvart Rølvaag, taught for many years at St. Olaf, and the novel was even written at the college. Fredrik has been helping Mugdi to unlock the work’s mysteries. And as Mugdi’s interest in the history of Norwegian migration to North America has sharpened, Fredrik’s concomitant interest in Somalis in Minnesota has taken shape. The two speak and write often to each other, each relying on the other’s expertise.
As Mugdi waits for Gacalo to regain her composure, he joins Naciim in the TV room, where they watch Serena Williams in the finals of a tennis match, until Gacalo, calm once more, comes downstairs and suggests they turn off the TV. “Surely you can find a more useful way to spend the hours until dinner,” she tells Naciim.
Later, in the taxi on the way to Birgitta and Johan’s, with the boy sitting in the front and the elderly couple in the back, Gacalo asks Naciim, “So what did you do after I requested that you turn off the TV?”
He replies, “I’ve been busy writing.”
“Writing? Writing what?” says Mugdi.
“A book.”
“What’s the book about?”
“It’s about my life, from the moment I became aware of what was happening around me, and all the people who were there, the men and women, our neighbors,” says Naciim.
“How did you come up with the idea of writing a book when you haven’t yet read a great deal yourself?” asks Gacalo.
“I watched a program on TV earlier about several teen writers who have published books in the past,” he replies. “The presenter gave summaries of their stories, which I did not find uplifting. By the end, I was sure I could write better. And so I decided then and there to start writing a book about the experiences I’ve had growing up in the refugee camp.”
Mugdi exchanges a look with Gacalo and then asks Naciim, “In what language have you chosen to write the story of your life?”
“My plan is to write it in Somali now and, later, when I have mastered Norwegian, translate it,” answers Naciim. He pauses and then adds after reflection, “I’ll do the translation in reverse order to what you are doing, in translating from Norwegian into Somali, though I do not think that my book will be anywhere near as good as the classics you are working on.”
Impressed, Mugdi imagines helping this ambitious boy any way he can, reading as many drafts as necessary until the book is licked into publishable shape.
Gacalo asks, “Do you remember the names of any of those young authors mentioned in the TV program?”
“A young Dutch author, something Frank?”
Mugdi says, “Anne Frank?”
Naciim says, “She died before the book about her experiences, which took her years to write, was published, didn’t she?”
Mugdi says, “That’s right. She died early.”
“I want to finish writing before I die.”
Mugdi hopes that the boy’s frenetic intelligence does not dissipate in the way of his own son’s squandered abilities. He says to Naciim, “We are here to help you in any way we can.”
Naciim appears to be about say something when the taxi slows down and he falls silent. Having arrived at their destination, Gacalo, whose idea it was to take the taxi in the first place, tells Mugdi and Naciim to wait for her on the sidewalk. She settles the fare, giving a generous tip to the Ethiopian-looking driver, and collects a receipt. Then she joins them and they walk together, Naciim between them.
It has always disturbed Mugdi that Somalis in Norway tend to attract bad press, and seem relegated to the lowest rung on the economic ladder, unable to see beyond their ideological and religious constraints, and so unable to ever really advance. As Mugdi steps aside for Gacalo to enter the Nielsens’ home, he feels certain that Naciim and his generation of fresh-faced ambitious young Somalis will change all that.
The Nielsens greet them exuberantly, welcoming them with hugs and solicitous pleasantries. Mugdi is attentive to the sounds and scents of the house, wondering if their friends have put their German shepherd in the back garden, suspecting that the animal might frighten Naciim, who is not used to dogs. As diplomats serving abroad, their hosts have always been considerate of their guests, hospitably accommodating their cultural and religious demands. There are few people Mugdi has known who are as inclusionary as the Nielsens.
Fredrik is a giant of a young man, standing over six feet seven inches, close in height and bulk to his father. He has the bearing of an athlete, even if his movements are as elegant as a dancer’s. He takes Gacalo’s hand, as if they are about to perform a foxtrot, and follows Birgitta into the kitchen. Johan, meanwhile, is chatting to Mugdi and Naciim as he pours them drinks, an orange soda for the boy, red wine for his friend, and white wine for Birgitta and Gacalo. Naciim’s anxiety level ratchets up as Mugdi takes quick mouthfuls of wine as though it were water, and Gacalo returns to the living room and does the same. Unfamiliar with wine drinking, Naciim assumes that anyone who has a sip of it will straightaway be drunk, and he asks himself what will become of him if Mugdi and Gacalo are unable to take him home.
Johan asks Naciim, “Do you like Norway?”
“I love it so far,” answers Naciim, glad to have the conversation as a distraction.
“What do you love about it?”
Fredrik and Birgitta have also returned to the living room, and there is eagerness in their eyes as they wait for the boy’s answer. Naciim plays his part, pleased with having such an attentive audience.
He speaks with the slowness of someone searching for the right words in Norwegian, and when he feels the language failing him, he lapses into Somali, occasionally requesting that Mugdi or Gacalo act as interpreter. He says that he loves the diversity and beauty of Norway’s nature: the fjords, green valleys, mountains, and sea. Then he elaborates that he spent much of his previous life in a refugee camp, where one seldom saw a tree, as they were all cut down and used as firewood.
“Have you been out of Oslo yet?” asks Fredrik.
“On school trips, twice.”
“Where did you go?”
Again he combines languages, now stopping as if in search of a word, now stammering and looking in Mugdi’s direction for help. Eventually, with encouragement from the old man, he spells out that the school trip took him to the Borre National Park, where he saw Viking burial mounds, which he found fascinating. He loved the carefree nature of the place, the fjord, and the mature forest in the hills. He concludes that he has never seen anything quite like it.
“I’m curious, what did you find so fascinating about the Viking burial mounds?” Fredrik asks.
Naciim, feeling shy about addressing the young man directly, gives his explanation to Mugdi, who then translates his words into Norwegian. “Naciim says he remembers his stepfather Dhaqaneh stripping the hide of two Shabaab members accused of digging up the corpses of a number of Italians buried in a Mogadiscio cemetery and scattering their remains elsewhere.”
When Mugdi pauses, Gacalo, who knows that her husband has no time for Dhaqaneh, thinks that he may be playing the role of a traduttore—quite literally, a translator traitor. So she assumes that task of translating, saying, “Naciim says that when people discovered street children kicking these human bones around as though they were footballs, Dhaqaneh described the desecration as ‘the work of a despicable lot.’”
As Johan tops up Mugdi’s glass, Birgitta jumps in with a question about Shabaab, asking, “What’s wrong with them, these barbarians?�
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“I would say that the violent culture of right-wing groups here in Europe is very like Shabaab’s,” says Mugdi. “I am of the view that the two radical groups feed off each other.”
“And we are their victims,” says Johan.
“Both here and there,” agrees Birgitta, heading into the kitchen to give the last touches to the dinner, before announcing “à table.” Just as everybody rises to obey, Fredrik, walking alongside Gacalo, says, “I was shocked to learn about Dhaqaneh’s involvement in radicalism.” Then he adds before taking his seat, “Who would have thought that would be his fate?”
Gacalo says, “None of us did.”
Fredrik remembers Dhaqaneh as someone who thought of himself as a bridge builder, a bringer-together of peoples from different beginnings, a Somali proud of his place in Europe. There was the time when the two of them saw a film adaptation of Albert Camus’s The Stranger. Dhaqaneh was very upset, not because Meursault couldn’t care less about his mother’s death, but that he was so uncaring and emotionless that he could bring himself to kill an Arab.
Fredrik now turns to Mugdi, who sits across from him to his left. The old man says, “The major regret in my life is not only that this did not cross my mind when something might still have been done for him, but also that I blamed Gacalo, among others, for failing to do their part in saving Dhaqaneh from ruin.”
Dinner served, Gacalo and Johan attempt to shift the tone of the conversation, revisiting old memories that their two families have shared, until Naciim, who does not figure into the reunion stories being told, suddenly recalls the type of food Dhaqaneh cooked on special occasions, to celebrate a birthday or New Year’s. A sense of unease spreads around the table and no one can think of anything to say.
Eventually, Fredrik finds his tongue and says, “Well, as you may know, I have some happy news—I’m about to become a father.”
Tears spring to Gacalo’s eyes, but no one is certain if she is sad, remembering her late son, or happy, because she is thinking of Timiro, who has given her a grandchild. She smiles at the Nielsens, sure they are looking forward to becoming grandparents when Fredrik and his partner have their child, then lets her gaze fall fondly on Naciim, before drifting to Fredrik.
North of Dawn Page 15
