Ahmed I. Samatar

James Wallace Professor of International Studies and Dean of the Institute for Global Citizenship,Macalester College, St. Paul, Mn. USA. 

He is as distinguished as any Somali of national accomplishment. Stilltall with a straight back, the gait strong, the mind in full alert, the greatest living Somali master of the oud (kaman), Ahmed Ismail Hussein,Hodeide, is now nearly eighty. Like almost a million of his compatriots, he is in exile from the continuing violent misery that is the Somali Republic. It is December 27, 2007.

We just ended a delicious and long lunch at one of London’s best Indian restaurants, a stone’s throw from the British Museum. 

He looks as formidable as the late André Segovia, the renowned Spanish and world-class guitarist who transformed that instrumentinto a treasure of classical music. If Hodeide was born to a country more integrated into the world, he could have been regarded as the Segovia of the oud—famous, rich, and more…We are sitting in my hotel room on a cool day in London, one of his many kaman instruments lovingly held on his lap and the famous and big right-hand fingers itching to strike and set us in at once a tantalizingly sweet and sour mood.  There is little doubt that Hodeide is a gifted man, a virtuoso that notonly can manipulate the strings to exquisite sounds, but has proven tobe capable of astonishing patriotic and romantic song compositions. Moreover, his knowledge of Somali musical performance is among themost arresting, with discriminating judgments to boot. Even a cursoryexamination of his lifetime of artistry will find it difficult to disentanglehis breathtaking technical potency from a deep-seated personal integrity and careful situational intelligence.

This is particularly remark-able given the long years of exile and personal economic brittleness. Perhaps all of the above are part of his durable allure. Hodeide was anofficial guest of Macalester College in the summer of 2004, when he, in the company of other artists, such as Fadumo Qassim Hiloule andAbdinoor Allaleh, performed, to full capacity, at the Concert Hall.During this London occasion, I had an opportunity to persuade himto visit with me and respond to a few questions. We conducted theinterview in Somali.

Ahmed I. Samatar: Welcome Mr. Hodeide.

Hodeide: Thank you, Professor Ahmed.

AIS: Before we go further, what does the Somali word fuun mean toyou?

H: Fuun connotes artistic activities that are, at their most thrilling, even hypnotizing, and worthy of celebration. Such creation ranges widely,from musical mastery in the playing of the flute, the oud, the drums,beautiful singing voice, composition of drama or poetry, to painting,sculpture, and sweet writing. In short, fuun conjures up high qualityartistic creativity—evocative power that is almost magical.    

 AIS: How did you be come Kaman player

H: From very early in my youth in British Aden [Yemen] I knew I hada fascination with music. Whenever I saw the police contingent playing their drums and marching, I would run to them, walk behind, andlet myself imagine I was one of them beating on those drums. I wouldget carried away, losing the sense of time, until a member of the familywould find me and take me home. At elementary school, I used everyopportunity to turn the top of my wooden desk into a drum-like surface, with the fingers of both of my hands impatient to experiment. Ibecame quite good at it and my classmates were impressed. Then anevent of major significance happened: a man by the name of AbdillahiQarshe arrived in Aden.

AIS: You mean the legendary Qarshe? The composer of such classicnationalist songs as Qolaba Calankeedu Waa Caynee and Aqoon La’aani WaaIftiin La’aan?

H: Yes! But he was young and obscure then—all of that renown wasyears and years away. He grew up in Aden but left and then returnedwith a reputation as a Fanaan. I quickly decided to court his attentionand, hence, offered to play the drums to accompany his oud performances. At this time, Qarshe was not highly skilled in his playingbut he was distinctive in being the first Somali in the area to publiclyand fully pick up the challenge and, in addition, began to sing againstcolonialism. I met him soon. One day, in an intimate setting, I beganto touch and caress his kaman. He noticed this immediately, retrievedthe kaman from me gently, and then inquired about what things myfather had bought for me to enter school. I replied that the items werebooks and pencils. Qarshe said that was fine, but I should also buy abasic kaman. I took the advice to heart and within no time had my ownpiece. In this formative moment, Qarshe was key—he did not give melessons, but he inspired and encouraged me to take up the practice. Atthe time I had bought my own kaman, the two artists who taught thetechniques were the late Abdi Afweyne (who had done some performances in Djibouti) and Hassan Nahaari—iconic names in the earlyhistory of Somali kaman performance. They used to rent their pieceswhen they wanted to rehearse or perform. Since I had my own kaman,they needed me, so I got many opportunities to do my practice. Afterthree months of intensive learning, I became more confident, with myname becoming increasingly associated with the instrument. You see,Ahmed, kaman playing is primarily dependent on rhythmic balance.The greater a performer’s inner sense of rhythm, the more stunning thesounds. That is the constitutive secret.

AIS: Rhythm, what does it mean?

H:  Rhythm has a number of elements, but two stand out, in my opinion: emphasis on a beat and timing or the movement of a touch. Thefirst is the product of the concrete encounter between the appropriatepart of the human body and the instrument; the second relates to thevelocity of the action. But remember this: though both might seemmechanical in the first instance, the complete act is thrust forth by aless visible but a generative, sensitive, and indispensable force of artistic imagination.

AIS: How long did you stay in Aden?

H:  Until I became Doob Guraan. That is, till around the age of 25 years.

AIS: Between early youth and Doob Guraan, did you perform occasion-ally or did you decide to dedicate your whole energy to mastering theinstrument?

H:  No, no! I became a total devotee, and the Somalis in Aden encouraged me a great deal. In a citywide carnival organized at that time,Somalis were invited to participate. I was one of the younger artistsasked to make a contribution. Consequently, members of the community brought to me two white “traditional” sheets, or go’yaal, anddraped them around me: one on the lower body, the other on the torso.This outfit, one I had never seen before that day, was accompanied bysandal shoes, “Faygamuur,” made of wood, and a prayer rug. It wasreally at once a strange and beautiful profile—a very unique and, formany, authentic Somali dress! Then I was handed the oud and per-formed solo. Other competing communities filled out a small orchestra. In the end, the combination of the dress and the playing of the oud,Somali style, created enough of an alluring moment for the judges todeclare me the winner of the first prize.

AIS: I assume at this time your parents were alive?

H:  Yes.

AIS: How did they react to the direction your interests and life wereheading?

H:  We were at war with each other—kick and punch became themedium of our encounters. For them, it was as if their boy was deciding to destroy his life before it even bloomed. You see, both of themhated and despised what we call fuun.

AIS: Apparently, like the majority of Somalis of their age, and some ofthe other generations to follow, they believed a career in fuun was tantamount to failure and social disgrace?

H:Yes!

AIS: Did they ever change their minds?

H:  They never did and, in fact, died disconsolate over what they felt tobe my cursed fate. Fortunately, however, my father’s brother lived longenough to reverse his judgment and, therefore, gave me his blessings.

AIS: Heavy sadness but a bit of sweetness, too! What period are wetalking about? After the Second World War?

H:Yes, right after the War. This is the time when Bellwo will appear as agenre in Somali singing and musical imagination.

AIS: When did you leave Aden?

H:  First time was 1949. I left Aden for the sole purpose of wantingto be heard over the new Radio Hargeisa. I arrived there and playedthe drums for the rising star, Abdillahi Qarshe. After a brief period, Ireturned to Aden. At this stage in my life, my competence in the spoken Somali language was elementary and poorly developed. It was myenchantment with fuun that taught me to appreciate the combined elegance and muscularity of the Somali language. Moreover, the politicalsongs of the age were mesmerizing to me and, consequently, I threwmyself into this cultural milieu.

AIS: In Hargeisa, you stayed for a while and then, feeling excited,returned to Aden?

H:  Yes. While in Aden, I took part in another competition, one focusedon the composition of nationalist/independence songs that were beingprepared for the grand celebration of 1960. My compositions were sentto Hargeisa. You see, when the independence of British Somaliland wasbeing declared, the British colonial office in Aden arranged an impressive celebration, bigger than the one set in Hargeisa. At that time, Mr.Mohamed Hashi Abdi, an officer of Radio Hargeisa, was sent to Aden.Some members of the community convinced Mr. Abdi that I was a suitable young person to make an artistic contribution to the festival thatwould accompany the raising of the flag of independence. This wasan instantiation of the famous exaggeration that Somali Adenis wereknown for! Mr. Abdi decided to record one of my compositions andgave it the name “Dhalad,” or Birth. That song became my initial identity and with it I moved to Hargeisa permanently.

AIS: It was then the year 1960?

H:  Yes.

AIS: Who was at Radio Hargeisa? This is the institution and the city inwhich you would settle, correct?

H:  Yes. When I left for the new Somali Republic, I was already registered as an employee of Radio Hargeisa, and a member of its artisticgroup. Mohamed Hashi Abdi took care of the details. But my formalhost would be a man by the name of Abbas Dooreh.

AIS: What form of transport did you take from Aden? A plane?

H:  No, I took a boat to the tiny coastal fishing village of Meid. Duringthose days, there was a cohort of young educated and professionalSomali men who dominated social life in Hargeisa. To cut down ontheir uppity prominence, they were exiled to the remote outpost ofDayaha, near Erigavo. Among them were Abdisalaam Haji Aden, Hassan Ali Henery, Ku Adeyeh, Nine, and others.

AIS: Who exiled them? The colonial British?

H:  No. They were posted by the new Somali political and businessleaders who became somewhat envious of this educated group’s popularity among the denizens of Hargeisa. The assignment was for thecohorts to teach at the new intermediate school in Dayaha, and Abdisalaam Haji Aden was appointed as the Principal. At Meid, the customsofficer sent them word that a young man of “maddening skill” in playing the oud had arrived. The Dayaha associates sent me a vehicle, a nicevehicle—a Land Rover—immediately. When I arrived, they requestedthat I arrange a performance. In a few weeks, I composed a play called“Magaalo,” or Town. The day coincided with Eid celebrations. Theevent was supplemented with a fabulous football game the followingafternoon. This was a success, so, after a few days, we decided to takethe show to the tad bigger town, Burao, to the west. This was the firsttime in the modern history of Burao in which an artistic performancewas brought to its citizens from further east. In addition, Burao losta competitive football game to a team from Erigavo/Dayaha. Becauseof an ongoing but convivial rivalry, and in a well-understood friendlymanner, we rubbed in both victories on Burao’s folks. A good time washad at first. But the occasion did not end in complete happiness. Afterthe professionals and the young people, who loved the fuun, beganto fix their admiring and intense attention on me, a bit of envy roseamong the other artists. Some even went to the extent of pouring gheein my oud instrument! This is the time when I composed this verse: 

Hadaanan ka cuslayn xagaaga cidlaay

Ciirsilaay anna kaa calool go’ay. 

If I am not precious to you, Oh Ms. Nothing,

And your succor is no more, I, too, have given up on you. 

I stayed in Hargeisa for a brief period and then I left for Djibouti, which was then a French colony.

AIS: This was when, and why?

H: I was just itching to see more places where fuun was popular. Theyear was 1961. At this time in Djibouti, the Afar community, thoughartistically not well organized, was the main political force. But theopportunities were plentiful. I threw myself into the Djibouti artisticand cultural vortex.

The local artists inquired if I could help composesongs to go with a play they were eager to create. I replied in theaffirmative. A journalist who was present inquired if I knew the Afarlanguage. I responded in the negative but immediately announced toall that this piece of wood and strings, the oud, had its own ears to hearand understand. From that day, we established a bit of a partnership.The Somali community also received me well. But after a few verypopular political songs, which were identified with me, the Frenchcolonial authorities became suspicious and uneasy enough to, in time,throw me out of the territory.

AIS: Were there established artists at this time in Djibouti? If so, whowere they?

H:  There were a few. Prominent among the male singers was Mr. SaidHamarqoud. As for musicians, there was a young man by the name ofIbrahim Bay, who was part Somali and part Sudanese, and Nahaari’snephew. There were also a few Djibouti-Arab musicians.

AIS: How long were you in Djibouti?

H:  I had spent about seven years in the 1960s. Later, I would live in Djibouti for another eleven years—all in all about eighteen years—longerthan I had spent in the Somali Republic!

AIS: When did you return to Somalia? Was this before Djibouti’s independence?

H:  In fact, the French threw me out so I returned to Hargeisa, somewhat unwillingly. There, I put together a play with the title, MacalCune Ma Muuqan Doonaa (He who eats the sheep’s dewlap can’t hide). Idrafted a number of schoolteachers to participate. Among them wereMohamed Warsame, Faisal Omer, Mohamed Mogeh, and Abu Shiraa.

AIS: Was this successful?

H:  Very much so!

AIS: How long did you stay in Hargeisa?

H:About three months. The performance was recorded and the collection, I assume, is still in existence and available.

AIS: Who were the singers and the musicians in Hargeisa at this time?

H:This is the late 1960s. Among them were individuals of exceptional abilities: Maandeq; Magool; Iftin; Gudodo; Bahsen; Farahiya Ali;Young Hibo; Mohamed Suliman; Mohamed Mogeh; Ahmed Mogeh;Mohamed Yusuf; Mohamed Ahmed; Osman Mohamed; and Abdillahi Gujis. Musicians included Ali Fayruze; Mohamed Said; MohamedEgeh; Mohamed Afweyne; Ali Deere; Abdillahi Hamari—the last anawesome flute player.

AIS: Compared to other Somali Fuun centers like Mogadishu and Djibouti, how good was the talent pool in Hargeisa?

H:  Generally speaking, when it comes to rhythm and, therefore, music-making, I believe that the southern Somalis are by far superior. Justthink of the fantastic Hussein Banjuni and Ahmed Naji Saad, if not thesecond generation headed by the breathtaking oud master, Daoud AliMushaf. But when you compare poetic composition and luuq (singing),northern Somalis and Hargeisa seemed more captivating. Hargeisa atthis time was the headquarters!

AIS: What do you suppose are some of the reasons?

H:I am not sure, for I have not fully studied this distribution of artisticendowment, but I can offer a pet theory. Somali northerners have beentraditionally mobile (i.e., nomadic). Consequently, their sense of therepetitiveness and musical synchronization had been a bit underdeveloped. For southerners, being more sedentary might have given them a more suitable context to practice and innovate. More seriously, thismight be a subject of intriguing research for young Somali scholars.

AIS: In Hargeisa at this time, who were the reputable composers?

H:  On the front row were such figures as the incomparable Hussein Aw Farah, Ismail Aw Ahmed, Yusuf Haji Aden, and Ali Suguleh.

AIS: In the 1960s, how would you characterize the relationship betweenFuun and the politics of post-independence?

H:A few years after 1960, the nationalist fever, which was high, beganto sag. One could feel a slow but creeping “cold” affecting the communal élan. It felt as if we had entered a post-honeymoon period in whichwhat seemed like an era of limitless possibilities was quickly disappearing. One could hear some anti-regime Heesooyin(songs). The firstof this incipient oppositional genre was composed by the renownedHuriyo.

AIS: What were the central points of disapproval by the artists?

H:  In the beginning, the main issue was rather petty. It related to aperception among some that the distribution of national ministerial appointments overlooked some kin groups. But one could sense thepotential for greater danger, the beginnings of the divisive manipulation of communal identity by individuals greedy for self-promotion.Still, this feeling was marginal among the citizens, and many of us sawit that way.

AIS: If, as you assert, “self-promotion” by the politically ambitious wastangential, why do you think the democratic and constitutional orderlasted only nine years (1960–1969)?

H:  You, Ahmed, and your colleagues who have spent years studyingthe evolution of contemporary Somali society are the appropriate people to answer that most difficult question. But from my perspective, Ithink it came down to a number of key elements: exaggerated expectations and a craving for unearned material privileges that began toblunt the daring and honorable creative mind and spirit. This was anearly warning: if we, as people, didn’t see decolonization as the opening chapter of a long journey of hard work and nation-building, thefuture would be a massive disappointment. But few were paying anyattention, for the majority was intoxicated with easy pickings deliveredby the new political order and, particularly, the arrival of generous aidfrom outside. All in all, a normalizing of a corrupt small-mindedness started to eclipse social fuun that had moved listeners into civic belonging and action.

President Aden A. Osman and Prime Minister Abdirazak H. Hussein tried hard to resist, by their example in leadership,a rising garaad xumo (imbecility) that equated raganimo (manliness) with the looting of the commons. Aden and Abdirazak were defeated in the elections of 1967.

The national leadership passed on, throughconstitutional means, to Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke and Prime Minister Mohamed Ibrahim Egal. This new regime was very tolerant of corruption in its highest ranks.

AIS: So, the military coup d’état spearheaded by General MohamedSiyaad Barre took over the state, after the assassination of PresidentAbdirashid Ali Sharmarke in October 1969. What was the mood andreaction of the Somali artists to this unprecedented national occurrence?

H:  A strange mixture of sorrow and total exhilaration! We experienced sadness because of the violent death of Abdirashid, but felt joybecause of the end of a detested leadership. Once the “Revolution” setin, Somali fuun began to be the object of state attention and investment.For the first time, artists were given international exposure by beingsent to perform around the Middle East, Asia, and parts of Africa.Moreover, new recruits were brought in, as well as new instruments.Most significantly, an impressive and modern National Theatre wasbuilt, through the generosity of the Peoples Republic of China, at thecenter of Mogadishu. Artists of all stripes felt proud to an extent com-parable only to the sweet time of the coming of decolonization.

AIS: Why do you suppose the military order made these laudable commitments?

H:  To be honest, this was not solely as a result of a mission of nationalcultural revival by the Somali Supreme Revolutionary Council (SSRC).I think a major impetus came from the influence of the SSRC’s patron,the USSR. Culture as a source of propaganda—to give the new regimein Somalia an image of a cleansed nationalism—was a main objective,and the Soviets were masters in underscoring the deployment of cultural resources to consolidate the power and legitimacy of the SSRC.Here, I would like to add, however, that the Chinese functionaries wecame to know were less instrumentalist; that is, they were not keen onmanipulating the relations for the sole purpose of promoting the interests of the Peoples Republic of China. They were genuinely attentive tothe improvement of Somali artistic facilities.

AIS: Is it possible to suggest that given the fact that the SSRC mandated the writing of the Somali language, and the Fannaanniinwere themain custodians of Somali poetic creativity, the SSRC support wasauthentically developmental?

H:  Perhaps, but there is more to this issue that you need to note. Yousee, within the first few weeks of the life of the SSRC, the esteemedcomposer, Hussein Aw Farah, brought forth a song, Ii sheek maxaanqoraa, Ii Sheek  (Tell me what to write, tell me!). Next came the playAfqalaad aqoontu miyaa? (Is foreign tongue equivalent to knowledge?) by the equally glorious composer, Ali Suguleh. The real pressure for cultural renewal was coming from many artists, whether as celebrated individuals like Hussein and Ali or lesser figures who would emita memorable line or two. Artists of all types had become sick of the decay of civil life under the last civilian government. Once the change took place in late 1969, it triggered a national burst of creativity, and the SSRC was savvy enough to channel the intense feelings to suitthe political moment. Consequently, the invitation was wide-open for composers, musicians, singers, and playwrights.

AIS: Many propose that from 1969–1978, Somali Fuun reached a newzenith. Is this a viable judgment?

H:  Very much so! It was like no other time, certainly not since.

AIS: When did that momentum decline?

H:  From my perspective, it was a problem of the leadership of the SSRC. Siyaad Barre’s initial star as a substantial new leader dimmedat three occasions. First was the moment in the mid-1970s when the

Somali Revolutionary Party (SRP) was created. Rather than being the dominant figure over the two-dozen or so military officers that madethe SSRC, the SRP became a huge conglomeration that brought its own unmanageable dynamics and numerous interests—many difficult circumstances for any one person to control. Second, the day he signedoff on the war with Ethiopia (1977), he took the regime another pegdown. Third, when the Somali army was defeated (1978) and Siyaad Barre did not offer his resignation to the nation, his legitimacy evaporated. By the way, if after the defeat, he solicited the advice of theSomali people as to where to go from there, I am confident that the vast majority would have blessed him to stay on. This is one of thoserare moments that presents a rigorous test of leadership.

AIS: Given the above and the onset of national disappointment, howdid the Fannaanniinreact?

H:  The level of awareness of what was happening was, naturally,uneven among us. I, for one, decided to send a line to the Chief of theNational Security Service (NSS). It went like this: Aaway doobbigii xoorkudusha ka marayay, iyo dooggay warka noogu darayeen (Where is that largevessel brimming with fresh milk and the lush grass they had promised)? Soon, the boss of the NSS sent a stern word to me to the effect that if I did not stop such mischief, they would see to it that my highreputation among Somalis would be ruined. This was bullying, not hogaamis (leadership), a foreboding signal (calaamad) of what wouldbecome the trademark of the regime’s form of governance.

AIS: We now enter the decade of the 1980s. What were the memorablemoments?

H:  The overwhelming direction of Fuun composition became the lionization of Siyaad Barre. Increasingly, all institutions, including the SSRC, began to atrophy and their place was taken by an overblown Siyaadism. This profane personality cult drove many of us into internal exile. I, for example, decided to avoid reporting to work at the National

Theatre and did not collect my paycheck for two months. My dejectionbecame so acute that, in 1983, I once again moved to the now Republicof Djibouti. In 1986, Siyaad Barre visited Djibouti City to meet with thenEthiopian ruler, Colonel Mengistu Haile Mariam. Under the auspicesof President Hassan Gulaid of Djibouti, the purpose was to reconcile the Somali Republic and Ethiopia. During one of the evenings, I had anencounter with Siyaad Barre. He inquired why I was living in Djibouti.I retorted that Djibouti was an old zone of comfort, the place that I hadventured from years ago to come to Mogadishu. He suggested that Ireturn with him, but I declined. Nonetheless, I gave him some advice,including rescinding the ill-advised state policy of burning qat farms inthe North. I told Siyaad that the armed resistance to his regime outsideof the country was numerically tiny. However, any further alienationof the citizenry, particularly the destruction of qat farms, would createan exodus to dissent politics. My sense is that he was not listening. Ithink he internalized the sycophantic praise that became the routine ofofficial symbolic production to such an extent that he saw himself asa paragon of truth and wisdom—Aabihii garashada—as his retainers orthe tribalists in Mogadishu sang in those years.

AIS: I assume that the deepening of regime illegitimacy and worseningconditions of civic life became an unavoidable preoccupation amongthe artists. Would you comment on this?

H:Waa run (It is true)! Two series of songs stood out. One was calledSeenlay (given the name of the letter S). Scores and scores of Abwaanjoined the effort, with each contributing a line. This started with thesong line, Saxarlaay ha fududaan (Saxarlaay, don’t be berserk). It reachedthe line, Dhulku waa sanqadhayaa, cagta saarimaynee, socodkeennu xeel iyoha ahaado laba suul(the land is making noises, we will not put on our fullfeet, our walk should be clever and light on the toes). The end point ofSeenlay was the symbolic presentation of a naxash (coffin)—the death ofcollective history! For some, the composition conjured up the need fora mobilization of serious resistance.The second was Deellay, whose impetus came from a poem authoredby a man who was a member of the resistance group, the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF). In order to diminish the attraction ofthe poem, Siyaad Barre convened a number of major Abwaan.Thoseincluded Gaariyeh, Yum-Yum, and Hadrawi. The President gave thema mandate to respond to the poem effectively to such an extent thatit would be “run out of public circulation.” Gaariyeh, known for hismental quickness, was the first to pick up the challenge, right in frontof “the old man.” Gaariyeh said, “Digdheh deelka maansada.” During thelong circulation in the Somali-inhabited lands, many contributed. Thisbecame a long composition, with multiple dimensions. Even I addeda piece, with the concluding thought, Aan ka tashanno (Let’s deliberatetogether). My key point was to ask the nation that we leave the captainof the ship of state to do his work while the rest of us discuss, withoutviolence, what to do next. Of course, you know now that such advicewas not adopted and soon everything deteriorated from bad to worseand then to the worst of times.

AIS: Who were the most significant Fannaanniinat this time—in thedecade of the 1980s? Whose moon was visible?

H:For composers, one would be, first, Hadrawi. Then there wereGaariyeh and Yum-Yum. But, of course one would have to also mention the long celebrated (from the beginning, decades ago) personalities such as the mighty Ali Suguleh, so creative and versatile. Whateverthe occasion or the issue, Ali always brought forth a notable piece.He was endowed with the gift of matching poetic expression and thetopic at hand. In any event, by the last years of the decade, the speed ofthe cascading social and institutional decomposition accelerated, witharmed opposition engaging government troops on a number of fronts.By early 1991, Mogadishu itself exploded and the end of Siyaad Barre’sregime was complete.

AIS: But for you, the decision to get out of Mogadishu and the SomaliRepublic was made earlier, right?

H:Yes, as I said before, I left in 1983 for Djibouti.

AIS: Who were you working with in Djibouti at this time?

H:  Everyone who was involved in serious fuun. You know, the DjiboutiFannaanniin and leaders have always been sweet to me—that is, cordial,hospitable and caring. At this time, Djibouti was already so differentthan Mogadishu: more peaceful, open, and congenial.

AIS: Who were the Somali cultural figures that received you so well inDjibouti? Could you name some of them?

H:There were a number of notable individuals. These includedMohamed Abdillahi Rerash, a man of intellectual distinction when itcomes to Somali history and culture, the late Ibrahim Gadhleh, whowas a master of Somali language and literature, Hassan Elmi, AdenFarah, Shibeen, and many more… .

AIS: How about the singers? Were there, at this time, Djiboutians whowere recognized for the quality of their voices?

H:  There were young and upcoming individuals but they were notregionally acclaimed persons yet.

AIS: The time from 1991 to the present, over sixteen years, has beendescribed by some of us as the era of violent political squalor, withassociational life and national institutions no more. What about fuun?What has become of it?

H:  Somali fuun has had the same depressing fate—maybe even moredifficulties! The supreme mode of the vast majority involved in fuunhas been depressingly instrumentalist, a kind of, as Somalis aptly say,“working solely for one’s stomach.”

AIS: Are you saying that hardly anyone, in these sixteen years, haspaid any attention to the national or collective agony?

H:Yes! Everyone witnessed the toxic developments and the subsequentdemise of national identity. Yet, from my perspective, the nationalcause was deliberately cast aside. That is, Iyadoo la arkayo ayaa lagadhaqaaqay (Everyone saw clearly but decided to walk away).

AIS: So, parallel to the death of national political order was the evaporation of national fuun?

H:Affirmative! You must realize that patriotism (a love of one’s country, not chauvinism) and the awaking and flourishing of the spirit offuun are directly linked. It seems to me that when one is destroyed, theother is drastically diminished. More than anything else, a fannaan isliterally orphaned in such circumstances.

AIS: Now to some random and wide-ranging reflections. As you lookback these past fifty or so years, since decolonization, and historicallyspeaking, whom would you identify (according to your own taste andjudgment) among the grandest of female singers?

H:  There are many astounding women, and it is extremely difficultto name some and leave others behind. However, since you insist, Iwould name Maandeq and the late Magool. They were, to say the least,stupendous.

AIS: Could you comment on each?

H:Maandeq had, still has, the sweetest and most natural of voices;Magool, on the other hand, knew how to sing. The unrivalled raw talent was Maandeq’s gift but Magool excelled in the sheer effort of projecting her voice. The first was natural; the latter worked ever so hardat it. Here it is also important to mention Shamis Abokor, Gududo. Shewas a pioneer and remains a monument among the fannaanniin. More-over, there is the fantastic star, Asha Abdo. Besides in Somali, shecould sing in Swahili and Arabic with equal gusto and effectiveness.

AIS: How about the male singers of national stature?

H:There are many here, too, and I am not comfortable in rank-ordering them. However, since you are insistent again (you are going toget me in trouble, Professor Ahmed!), here are a few names thatare held in highest esteem among Somali communities around theworld: Mohamed Suliman, Omer Duleh, Mohamed Mogeh, MohamedAhmed, and Shimbir come to mind. But Mohamed Suliman towersabove all others in this way: he has the unique capacity to finish a longverse in a song without breaking his breathing rhythm. He has powerful lungs like the majestic Egyptian, Um Kulthum. In fact, you couldlight a matchstick and Mohamed Suliman, at his height, would nottake a second breath until the whole stick burned out! Do you knowhow long that is? He is phenomenal!

AIS: How about the composers?

H:  There are categories. On the composition of romantic songs, thelate Mohamed Ali Kariyeh is preeminent. When dealing with weightysocial and historical circumstances, Abdillahi Dhodan’s command ofSomali language and poetic insight is in the same league as the legendary poets, such as Ragge Ugas and Qamaam Bulhan. Of course,Hadrawi and Yum-Yum are also leaders. Ali Suguleh distinguisheshimself in creative flexibility—he could compose to fit the momentand the type of audience. As I said earlier, the late Hussein Aw Farah,among the greatest, had a talent for anatomizing important politicalquestions with a combination of stylistic elegance and profundity. Andthen, of course, there is Hassan Sheikh Muumin. Known for his ethicalsensibilities and principled perspectives on the issues of the day, hegoes down as Somali modern culture’s most discerning and mercilesscritic. He is not only a highly original dramatist, but he is also fearless. His play, Nebi Daayeer (The Prophet Monkey), during the tenure ofPrime Minister Mohamed Ibrahim Egal, is one example of Muumin’sfortitude. Also, he is the only one who has the gift of creative fertility tocompose a major play of two volumes.

AIS: What about Abdillahi Abdi Shubeh? Where does he fit in the pantheon?

H:  Oh, my God! He was the most impressive of the composers whenit comes to majaajil (poetic comedy). It is critical to note that this talentis rare and the competence in the Somali language that goes with it ismost demanding. At the same time, he was a most delightful humanbeing.

AIS: Among the many songs that you have composed, which is the oneyou judge to be the most significant?

H:  I think most Somalis in the know have already weighed in on this.They believe, and I agree, that it is Uur Hooyo (Mother’s Womb). Thiswas translated into English by the scholar of Somali language and literature, Professor Martin Orwin, of the London School of African andOriental Studies. 

Listen (2'49) to 'Urhoyo' performed by Hudeydi   Listen (00'43) to Hudeydi describe the oud   Listen (29'52) to 'My Oud and I', an edition of Art Beat, BBC World Service, tx. January, 2003 which featured Hudeydi. The presenter/producer was Jenny Horracks Source: BBC

Mother’s Womb 

You, the abundant light

That my eyes graze on

Do not take me lightly

You who shared

My mother’s womb

You born of my father’s back

Who shared the breast

We weaned from the same

I shall never forget you

Two born of a father

Children who are brothers

Who, whatever occurs

Help and lend

Each other a hand

The soul is a pledge

At the time of my death

It’s you who’ll place me

In the grave, and your hand

Throw the final soil

My human inheritance

The one closest to me

The trials of the world

Have brought us apart

I cannot endure

Being on my own

I sway with melancholy

I’m no better off

Than a lone son. 

AIS: When did you compose this?

H:  In 1967.

AIS: Why did you create it?

H:My sisters, who were still living in Aden, had requested that theradio play for me an Arabic song by the Egyptian Mohamed Abdulwahab that focused on the value of brotherhood. When I heard this, I triedto find a Somali equivalent but to no avail. Consequently, I decided toauthor a Somali one for my younger brother. I had contributed to hisupbringing and, hence, we had become very close.

AIS: You have been in London for how long?

H:  It has been twelve years since you helped me to immigrate fromDjibouti and find refuge in the United Kingdom.

AIS: What about your artistic work? Are you still performing? Is therestill more juice left, as it were, in your creative engine (laugh)?

H:  (A chuckle.) But of course! I continue, selectively, to play the oud.There are many invitations that come my way, from many lands, forSomalis are extremely fond of a serious oud performance. Moreover,I teach lessons every week. Professor Orwin is one of my students! Asyou can see, these two ouds in front of you accompany me wherever Igo. This one next to you is always by my side—it is my qardhaas (amulet)! Your readers might be interested to note that I composed, in 2005, a piece that addresses the well-being of the whole earth, not just Somalia. Among the positive effects of an otherwise sorrowful diasporicexperience is the potential to see oneself as not only a member of anew society (in my case, British) but, simultaneously, a citizen of theworld. The piece is called Dhulka (Earth). It was translated by ProfessorOrwin. 

Dhulka, dhulka, dhulka, dhulka

Qumbuladii haddii ay ku qarxayso

Dhagax la ridqay oo kaleetoo hadday ka dhigayso dhulka

Dhirtuna dhuxusha haddii ay noqonayso

ooy buuruhu dhalaalaan

Dhimbiil iyo caleen iyo dhuub iyo

Midna dhogor la arki maayo

Dheddigiyo labood, dheddig iyo labood

Midna dhaafi mayso

Dharaartaas wixii dhaca kii dhihi lahaa

Ayaa dhigay?

Iyo kii lagu dhigi lahaa

Midna dhaafi maayoo

Yaynan dhaxal wareeginaa, yaynaan dhaxal hamaaninaa

Yaynaan dhaxal wada dhimanin

Buuqiyaha ha kaga dhawaajinina

Qiyaamaha ha soo dhoweynina. 

Earth

The earth, the earth, the earth, the earth

If the bombs explode

If they make of the earth

Pulverized stone

If trees become charcoal

If mountain glow

The spark, leaves and bark

Will no longer be seen

Nor any living creature

Male and female will not be spared

The one who asks

“Who did it?”

And the one who is asked

Will not be spared.

Let us not all be disinherited

Let us not all come to an end

Let us not all die together

Don’t make the trumpets sound

Don’t bring the Day of Judgment near. 

AIS: In the diaspora, do you see much of your fanaaniin cohorts?

H:  Yes, Fadumo Qassim, though much younger, is here and very attentive to my care. She is a charming singer and a compassionate person.Her son, Mohamed, is proving to be a talented musician. Maandeqlives in the city and I visit with her on occasion. Duneyo and KhadraDahir are not too far, too.

AIS: What about the future of Somali fuun?

H:  This is a horrid time and the future does not look good. The youngergenerations are caught up in the downside of the rootless diasporic situation. Though there are some already on the horizon who have goodvoices, there is little originality in either their compositions or tune-making. Perhaps this is one of the forms that the revenge of nationaldestruction takes. It is cruel. For the fannaanniin of my generation, ourhearts are heavy with sorrow that comes with the snap of our commonhistory and, thus, the loss of rich cultural heritage and autochthonoussocial spaces for artistic inventiveness. But, I hasten to add, we havenot given up. My teaching of the oud is one small initiative to counterthe devastating effects of the defeat.

AIS: In these past sixteen years of national hard times, crystallizing inexile, are there any occasions that have given you uplifting memories?

H:Yes! You would remember these two: in 1995, you visited me inLondon. A small group of us, including the fabulous singer, AbdinoorAllaleh, spent a whole afternoon and three-quarters of the night goingover some of the most alluring Qaraami songs. I felt exhilarated playingthe oud and recording those melodies for you. Do you have that disk?

AIS: Certainly! It is in my study at home and I listen to it very frequently. It was an unforgettable day and night.

H:The other occasion is my formal visit to Macalester College in Julyof 2004. You invited me and, in a full and lovely musical hall, requested that I perform solo for the large audience. I was touched by the dignity of the two nights: a well-behaved, enthusiastic, and mixed audience, and a splendid stage. This occasion reminded me of that losttime when we Somalis were a people proud of the best of our artisticheritage and genius and, most importantly, knew how to honor the talented amongst us. Instrumentally playing the classic love melody, Beerdilaacshe (Liver slasher), by the magnificent Abdillahi Qarshe, broughtunseen tears to my eyes. Oh, what two nights those were!

AIS: Last thoughts?

H:  Ahmed, fuun is the mirror for and of society. At its best, fuun isdivine—that is, beautiful and useful. It is the spiritual link betweenthe human intellect and the surrounding reality. In this sense, fuunand politics are not strangers to each other. To be sure, in my opinion,fuun is more existential than politics and, therefore, deals with otherspheres of human life, as well as touches rare strings of emotion andsentiments that offer visceral consolation. Moreover, even here, theartistic imagination not only sharpens our viewing of the world butalso presents us with possibilities of how to understand, speak about,dream about, and conduct our lives. The images through which theseare conveyed depend on, primarily, the capaciousness of the fannaan’sendowment. However, gololol (metaphor, in the case of poetic composition) and laxan (with regard to music and voice) are paramount.

That said, then, mature fuun cannot totally avoid politics, particularlyin Wakhtiga Culus (the heavy times). Those who assert that literature,culture, and politics never mix or ought not to interpenetrate (Isgal) areeither nacasyo (idiots) or they have a hidden “political agenda” thatthey don’t want others to know about. The first are ignorable; the latterare at once dishonest and pernicious—a view and its correlative actionsthat demand from us consistent foojignaan (alertness) against it. In short,fuun is suitable for expressing aesthetic beauty and giving voice to collective aspirations for development that brings forth qayir (transformation). The greatest poet of Somali society in the post-colonial era,

Abdillahi Sultan, Tima’ade, typified both dimensions. In the case of thelatter, he detected and warned us as early as the mid-1960s that a newcraving for material things not earned was blunting, if not superseding, the daring, honorable, and creative mind and spirit of the Somaliurban people. This was among the first signs of the now fully enveloping syndrome: psychotic and humiliating politics, torpor, and beggary.Timaade summoned a different vision: order, reverence and justice. So,despite the horror of the age, I believe a fannaan can help restore someof the depleted spirit of a community. This, might I declare, is the taskwaiting for the few that still survive from my generation and certainly those who are coming after us. Perhaps you scholars and we fannaanniin could think of collaborating to both preserve Somali artistic excellence and work on the moral resuscitation of our ummad (people). I suspect that the wellsprings of scholarly talent and fannaannimo are not too dissimilar…

AIS: Not only are you a grand fannaan, but you have also spoken like asage. Much obliged, Master Hodeide.

H:Thank you for the opportunity, Professor Ahmed!