H: Oh, my God! He was the most impressive of the composers when it comes to majaajil (poetic comedy). It is critical to note that this talent is rare and the competence in the Somali language that goes with it is most demanding. At the same time, he was a most delightful human being.
AIS: Among the many songs that you have composed, which is the one you 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). This was translated into English by the scholar of Somali language and literature, Professor Martin Orwin, of the London School of African and Oriental Studies.
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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 the radio play for me an Arabic song by the Egyptian Mohamed Abdulwahab that focused on the value of brotherhood. When I heard this, I tried to find a Somali equivalent but to no avail. Consequently, I decided to author a Somali one for my younger brother. I had contributed to his upbringing 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 from Djibouti and find refuge in the United Kingdom.
AIS: What about your artistic work? Are you still performing? Is there still 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, for Somalis are extremely fond of a serious oud performance. Moreover, I teach lessons every week. Professor Orwin is one of my students! As you can see, these two ouds in front of you accompany me wherever I go. 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 diasporic experience is the potential to see oneself as not only a member of a new society (in my case, British) but, simultaneously, a citizen of the world. The piece is called Dhulka (Earth). It was translated by Professor Orwin.
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. Maandeq lives in the city and I visit with her on occasion. Duneyo and Khadra Dahir 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 younger generations are caught up in the downside of the rootless diasporic situation. Though there are some already on the horizon who have good voices, there is little originality in either their compositions or tune-making. Perhaps this is one of the forms that the revenge of national destruction takes. It is cruel. For the fannaanniin of my generation, our hearts are heavy with sorrow that comes with the snap of our common history and, thus, the loss of rich cultural heritage and autochthonous social spaces for artistic inventiveness. But, I hasten to add, we have not given up. My teaching of the oud is one small initiative to counter the devastating effects of the defeat.
AIS: In these past sixteen years of national hard times, crystallizing in exile, are there any occasions that have given you uplifting memories?
H: Yes! You would remember these two: in 1995, you visited me in London. A small group of us, including the fabulous singer, Abdinoor Allaleh, spent a whole afternoon and three-quarters of the night going over some of the most alluring Qaraami songs. I felt exhilarated playing the 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 July of 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 lost time when we Somalis were a people proud of the best of our artistic heritage 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, brought unseen tears to my eyes. Oh, what two nights those were!
AIS: Last thoughts?
Hudeydi: Ahmed, fuun is the mirror for and of society. At its best, fuun is divine—that is, beautiful and useful. It is the spiritual link between the human intellect and the surrounding reality. In this sense, fuun and politics are not strangers to each other. To be sure, in my opinion, fuun is more existential than politics and, therefore, deals with other spheres of human life, as well as touches rare strings of emotion and sentiments that offer visceral consolation. Moreover, even here, the artistic imagination not only sharpens our viewing of the world but also presents us with possibilities of how to understand, speak about, dream about, and conduct our lives. The images through which these are conveyed depend on, primarily, the capaciousness of the fannaan’s endowment. 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, particularly in Wakhtiga Culus (the heavy times). Those who assert that literature, culture, and politics never mix or ought not to interpenetrate (Isgal) are either nacasyo (idiots) or they have a hidden “political agenda” that they don’t want others to know about. The first are ignorable; the latter are at once dishonest and pernicious—a view and its correlative actions that 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 the latter, he detected and warned us as early as the mid-1960s that a new craving for material things not earned was blunting, if not superseding, the daring, honorable, and creative mind and spirit of the Somali urban 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 some of the depleted spirit of a community. This, might I declare, is the task waiting 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 a sage. Much obliged, Master Hudeydi.
Hudeydi: Thank you for the opportunity, Professor Ahmed!
Ahmed I. Samatar
James Wallace Professor of International Studies and Dean of the Institute for Global Citizenship, Macalester College, St. Paul, Mn. USA.
Notes
* Permission to reproduce the interview has been given by Bildhaan and Macalester College.
- I have decidedly adopted the anglicized spelling of names and places. The exceptions are moments when the title of a composition and/or its full rendition is at stake. In these situations, I have followed the Somali orthography. Here, “x” is a substitute for “h” and “c” stands for the common Arabic letter ‘ayn.
- For some details on Qarshe’s life, see Mohamed-Rashid Sheikh Hassan, “Interview with the Late Abdillahi Qarshe (1994) at the Residence of Obliqe Carton,” Bildhaan: An International Journal of Somali Studies, Vol. 2 (2002): 65–83.
- I can testify to the judgment of the three southern musicians. Decades ago, when I was a very young radio newscaster at the national network in Mogadishu, I had many occasions to witness both Hussein Banjuni and Ahmed Nagi play a variety of instruments. They were enchanting, particularly with the oud. Last December (2007), while delivering papers and presentations during the 30th anniversary of the Somali Studies International Association, held at the city of Djibouti, I had the rare privilege of being invited to spend an afternoon and part of the evening (over seven hours) in the company of Daoud and other artists in the home of Abdinoor Allaleh. Though I had heard others speak about Daoud with some awe, this was my first direct encounter with him. Abdinoor was kind enough to organize the affair. It highlighted what, in the form of a small private concert, was a gift recording of Abdinoor’s singing of classical Qarami songs and Daoud’s playing the oud. They were a superb combination. Daoud’s abilities were stunning—he would play the instrument with such an exceptional vigor and tantalizing suppleness that one was made to think as if one was listening to a mixture of traditional oud and electric guitar. There is no question in my mind that he is a fantastic player and stands out among his generation. What a memorable time that was! The disk is now part of a collection that I listen to often and treasure. Finally, it is worth noting, too, that Daoud is also blessed with a clear, quasi-baritone and exquisite voice. To get a feel for both his oud mastery and voice, one should hear him and the legendary Maandeq singing together a famous song titled, Daallo.
