Call Me American

“I watch my tall dad disappear into the dark night.”

Abdi watches his father carefully. This act of observation is a motif. As a child, Abdi would watch his father at basketball practice. At the time, his father was revered and held aloft as a person of importance. As Abdi watches his father disappear into the night, however, the family’s fortunes have fallen. Nur Iftin is no longer revered. His tribal identity could spell death if he were caught. The act of observation alters the perception of Nur Iftin, who has transformed from a happy, successful, pillar of the community into a hunted, scared man who must leave to protect his family.

“You can tell only by their speech, so people learn how to fake accents.”

The sectarian fighting between the tribes is confusing for the young Abdi, who doesn’t know the historical and sociopolitical histories of the people of Somalia. The need to survive helps him to learn fast that the only way to differentiate between the different Somali tribes is by their accent. This means that people fake accents in order to escape trouble. 

“Everything in between was herding animals.” 

Abdi’s grandparents die and their nomadic lifestyle dies with them— something anachronistic and centuries out of place. When the drought comes, it exacerbates the problems caused by the civil war and leaves many dead. Everything that made people like Abdi’s grandparents great is gone. 

“In a few days Sadia’s grave disappeared into the dust; she did not have a grave marker, just sand.”

Much like Abdi’s grandparents, Sadia fades away into nothingness: The civil war does not just kill people, but erases them from history. The baby was full of potential, but she withers away and is buried in a shallow unmarked grave. The war takes a great deal from Abdi and leaves him with only memories of his dead sister. 

“I wanted Commando to come to Mogadishu and kill all the militias in the city.” 

With the departure of Abdi’s father, Abdi takes for male role models the action stars of American films like Commando, a 1985 movie starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. Grows up in a warzone, Abdi sees the protagonist as a solution to the violence that surrounds him. Even though he cannot understand the dialogue, he comes to understand the film on a very functional level: He wants a strong figure to cast aside his enemies and return normality. Even if the solution is impossible, the films provide Abdi with some semblance of hope in an otherwise impossible situation. 

“And they will come for me soon.” 

The childlike fantasy Abdi invents for himself is that he is not actually a Somali child but an American who will be retrieved soon. This story is a coping mechanism—the desire to identify as part of the combined might of the American movies and the kindness of international soldiers. Abdi wants to be someone important, someone who can escape the Somalian conflict or even end it.

“Life in Somalia was harsh, but it was all I knew.” 

Despite the number of American action films Abdi watches in the makeshift cinema, he cannot conceive of a life outside Somalia. The thought of leaving does not even occur to him, even though he recognizes that the living conditions around him are perilous and extreme. The revelation that Hassan wants to leave Somalia throws Abdi into an existential quandary. For the first time, he thinks about the possibility of leaving Somalia. Soon, harsh life in Somalia will seem untenable to a boy who dreams of travelling to America. 

“They were still just regular Somalis on the street, while I was becoming the neighborhood star.” 

Abdi’s interest in American culture is not purely aesthetic. He yearns for America’s cultural ideals rather than just its fashion and films. Because of this, he engages with the culture on a deeper level than most of the people around him, especially since he speaks English. His growing reputation connects him to his father. Whereas his father’s reputation was built on his basketball skill, Abdi becomes the local interpreter of American culture.

“He left without saying goodbye, probably because he was humiliated.” 

Abdi’s father walks away from his family for a second time. On the first occasion, he left to save his wife and children. On this occasion, he leaves because he has nothing left to offer: The war has ruined him. It has taken his career and his ability to contribute to the household. It is a quiet, poignant exit that demonstrates the crushing impact the war has had on those who have been lucky enough to survive. 

“Then my brother disappeared.”

Just as Abdi’s father departs, so does his brother. Hassan has always been uncomfortable in Somalia. He does not fit into the set paths available for boys of his age: He does not want to be a solider or an imam. Instead, Hassan dreams of travelling abroad. Hassan’s departure echoes his father’s—Hassan has nothing to contribute in Mogadishu, so he leaves. Whereas Abdi’s father sought a return to a nomadic lifestyle, his brother’s journey will take him further.

“Of course it would not be like a Hollywood kiss, long and with hugging.” 

Abdi filters everything through the lens of the American films that have defined his life. His cultural interests, his lifestyle, and his ambitions are all based on what he has seen in movies, so it makes sense that a moment such as his first kiss would be equally as influenced by film. When searching around for a way in which to describe this moment, he laments not having a Hollywood experience. He has to make do with what he has, though he seems pleased enough with the results. 

“Don’t allow him to restrict you.” 

Abdi’s parting words to his sister reflect the gender divide in Somali culture. Abdi has spent months flirting with and dating a girl whose father loathes him. In contrast, Nima’s experience of romance is a whirlwind arranged marriage that takes place a week after she hears the news. For the male Abdi, romance is a game. For Nima, it is a binding—the patriarchal society means that her husband will have complete power over her. Abdi has just enough power and agency to rebel against the system, but Nima does not.

“But first they began killing anyone who resisted Islamic law.” 

Change sweeps over Mogadishu as a rising movement of populist Islamists beats back the lawless failed state run by warlords. The Islamists differ from the previous regime—they offer law and order to residents after decades of civil war. Very quickly, however, violence returns: The Islamists are willing to kill anyone who does not agree to their way of life. 

“Now, with everything banned, my future was falling into a deep dark hole.” 

Everything Abdi loves is banned under the new regime: America, dancing, music, and films are considered illegal and sinful. The bulldozing of Falis’s cinema is a metaphorical demonstration of the extent to which every one of Abdi’s passions is about to be crushed. His hobbies and interests are no longer countercultural; they are now an active threat to his life. Abdi is now in danger simply for existing.

“Every day that I could remember was a matter of life and death.” 

Abdi’s experience in Bosaso highlights the fine line between life and death. He watches two boats he could easily have ended up on depart: The passengers on one boat survive; those on the other do not. There was no discernible difference between the two boats; survival is pure luck. There is no sense of the good being rewarded or the bad being punished. Instead, life is a coin toss. Looking out over the ocean, Abdi has a sense of the precarious nature of his own existence. 

“In the paper huts of Eelasha, al-Shabaab could hear even whispers, so Mom said nothing but just brushed her hands on mine.” 

The conditions in the tent city of Eelasha are so cramped, confined, and dangerous that Abdi and his mother have no opportunity to say goodbye. They do not dare risk saying anything aloud lest the soldiers hear and execute them both. The family has said goodbye on other occasions but such events do not become any less painful. Instead, each becomes horrifyingly unique in its own special way. 

“Abshir was on his way to class; the explosion killed him instantly.” 

The syntax of Abshir’s death is blunt and brutal, mirroring the way he dies. Abdi has known the boy only a few days before an exploding bomb takes away his student. Their time together is as short as the sentence. In a memoir filled with so much death and suffering, Abdi does not have the time or the space to go into detail about every single person he has lost. Abshir is almost relegated to a footnote. 

“Then I saw the other passengers were crying too.” 

Leaving Somalia is emotionally overwhelming for Abdi. He is not happy, sad, relieved, or hurt—just overcome. The city has been his home for almost his entire life, but it has been the site of remarkable violence. His family has suffered greatly and he has had to leave them behind; he does not know whether his mother, his sister, or his niece will survive. Faced with this extreme rush of emotion, Abdi breaks down into tears. The weeping is a universal experience, shared by the other passengers. Everyone in Mogadishu has endured so much that extreme emotional exhaustion is common to them all. 

“I stood there until all the hot water was gone.”

After being told how to work the shower, Abdi stands beneath the hot water and washes away the “dirt and blood and pain of Mogadishu” (120). Such cleansing is not quick. Abdi’s alien surroundings are both comforting and strange. The shower becomes a symbol of his search for a better future.  

“Nairobi was a roofless prison for me and my brother, and for the thousands of other Somalis.” 

After trying so hard to flee from Somalia to Kenya, Abdi is trapped in a different but similarly oppressive situation. Just as his clan identity made him a target in Mogadishu, his nationality is a problem in Nairobi. Like other Somalis, Abdi is targeted for the crimes of others. He must pay bribes and is threatened by the police.

“This transcript does not have a signature. Did you know that?”

After months of hard work in seemingly impossible conditions, Abdi arrives at his interview and discovers that a tiny detail places his entire application in jeopardy. The interviewer’s casual question reflects the miniscule nature of the issue, as though Abdi might have absentmindedly presented her with the wrong document.

“To them I was a strange African man, not the American I wanted to be.” 

The journey to America has been incredibly difficult. After finally getting a job, Abdi discovers that his hardships mean nothing to his new coworkers. In Somalia, he was already considered American, but in America, he is again African. Caught between two worlds, Abdi learns that other people are not aware of his suffering and that his life story does not matter to them.

“We wanted it all, which seemed pretty American.” 

In America, Abdi’s burgeoning relationship with Fatuma brings him face-to-face with one vestigial element of Somali culture. Her father confronts him to make sure that his intentions towards Fatuma are innocent and poses a question to Abdi: Will he and Fatuma abstain from sex before marriage? Abdi has to think about the question for a moment while he thinks of the future. The future he imagines is a blend of American and Somali culture. Abdi no longer wants to be either Somali or American. He is not a Somali dreaming of America or an American resident homesick for Somalia. He finds solace in a blend of cultures, which seems “pretty American” (169).