Hudeydi: I was just itching to see more places where fuun was popular. The year was 1961. At this time in Djibouti, the Afar community, though artistically not well organized, was the main political force. But the opportunities were plentiful. I threw myself into the Djibouti artistic and cultural vortex. The local artists inquired if I could help compose songs to go with a play they were eager to create. I replied in the affirmative. A journalist who was present inquired if I knew the Afar language. I responded in the negative but immediately announced to all that this piece of wood and strings, the oud, had its own ears to hear and understand. From that day, we established a bit of a partnership. The Somali community also received me well. But after a few very popular political songs, which were identified with me, the French colonial 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, who were they?
Hudeydi: There were a few. Prominent among the male singers was Mr. Said Hamarqoud. As for musicians, there was a young man by the name of Ibrahim Bay, who was part Somali and part Sudanese, and Nahaari’s nephew. There were also a few Djibouti-Arab musicians.
AIS: How long were you in Djibouti?
Hudeydi: 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—longer than I had spent in the Somali Republic!
AIS: When did you return to Somalia? Was this before Djibouti’s independence?
Hudeydi: In fact, the French threw me out so I returned to Hargeisa, somewhat unwillingly. There, I put together a play with the title, Macal Cune Ma Muuqan Doonaa (He who eats the sheep’s dewlap can’t hide). I drafted a number of schoolteachers to participate. Among them were Mohamed Warsame, Faisal Omer, Mohamed Mogeh, and Abu Shiraa.
AIS: Was this successful?
Hudeydi: Very much so!
AIS: How long did you stay in Hargeisa?
Hudeydi: 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; Mohamed Egeh; Mohamed Afweyne; Ali Deere; Abdillahi Hamari—the last an awesome 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. Just think of the fantastic Hussein Banjuni and Ahmed Naji Saad, if not the second generation headed by the breathtaking oud master, Daoud Ali Mushaf. But when you compare poetic composition and luuq (singing), northern Somalis and Hargeisa seemed more captivating. Hargeisa at this 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 artistic endowment, but I can offer a pet theory. Somali northerners have been traditionally mobile (i.e., nomadic). Consequently, their sense of repetitiveness 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, this might 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 between Fuun and the politics of post-independence?
H: A few years after 1960, the nationalist fever, which was high, began to 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 which what seemed like an era of limitless possibilities was quickly disappearing. One could hear some anti-regime Heesooyin (songs). The first of this incipient oppositional genre was composed by the renowned Huriyo.
AIS: What were the central points of disapproval by the artists?
H: In the beginning, the main issue was rather petty. It related to a perception among some that the distribution of national ministerial appointments overlooked some kin groups. But one could sense the potential 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 saw it that way.
AIS: If, as you assert, “self-promotion” by the politically ambitious was tangential, why do you think the democratic and constitutional order lasted only nine years (1960–1969)?
Hudeydi: You, Ahmed, and your colleagues who have spent years studying the evolution of contemporary Somali society are the appropriate people to answer that most difficult question. But from my perspective, I think it came down to a number of key elements: exaggerated expectations and a craving for unearned material privileges that began to blunt the daring and honorable creative mind and spirit. This was an early warning: if we, as people, didn’t see decolonization as the opening chapter of a long journey of hard work and nation-building, the future would be a massive disappointment. But few were paying any attention, for the majority was intoxicated with easy pickings delivered by the new political order and, particularly, the arrival of generous aid from 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, through constitutional 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 Mohamed Siyaad Barre took over the state, after the assassination of President Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke in October 1969. What was the mood and reaction of the Somali artists to this unprecedented national occurrence?
Hudeydi: A strange mixture of sorrow and total exhilaration! We experienced sadness because of the violent death of Abdirashid, but felt joy because of the end of a detested leadership. Once the “Revolution” set in, Somali fuun began to be the object of state attention and investment. For the first time, artists were given international exposure by being sent 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 was built, through the generosity of the Peoples Republic of China, at the center of Mogadishu. Artists of all stripes felt proud to an extent comparable only to the sweet time of the coming of decolonization.
AIS: Why do you suppose the military order made these laudable commitments?
Hudeydi: To be honest, this was not solely as a result of a mission of national cultural 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 regime in 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 we came to know were less instrumentalist; that is, they were not keen on manipulating the relations for the sole purpose of promoting the interests of the Peoples Republic of China. They were genuinely attentive to the 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 Fannaanniin were the main custodians of Somali poetic creativity, the SSRC support was authentically developmental?
Hudeydi: Perhaps, but there is more to this issue that you need to note. You see, within the first few weeks of the life of the SSRC, the esteemed composer, Hussein Aw Farah, brought forth a song, Ii sheek maxaanqoraa, Ii Sheek (Tell me what to write, tell me!). Next came the play Afqalaad 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 emit a 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 suit the 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 new zenith. 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 dimmed at 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 made the 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 signed off on the war with Ethiopia (1977), he took the regime another peg down. 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 the Somali 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 those rare moments that presents a rigorous test of leadership.
AIS: Given the above and the onset of national disappointment, how did the Fannaanniin react?
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 the National Security Service (NSS). It went like this: Aaway doobbigii xoorku dusha ka marayay, iyo dooggay warka noogu darayeen (Where is that large vessel 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 high reputation among Somalis would be ruined. This was bullying, not hogaamis (leadership), a foreboding signal (calaamad) of what would become the trademark of the regime’s form of governance.
AIS: We now enter the decade of the 1980s. What were the memorable moments?
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