Connect with us

Arts & Culture

‘For My Ayeeyo’: Two young women learn Somali poetry from a distance



Somalia is often called a land of poets, a place where everything from teenage romance to legal disputes has been recorded and passed down through poems. As conflict and drought have driven hundreds of thousands of Somalis from that homeland, the poetry has travelled with them. But here in the U.S., Somali-American poets must find new words and metaphors to describe their new environment.

Hamdi Mohamed

Amal Hussein and Hamdi Mohamed have a lot in common. Both were born in Kenya, where their parents had fled as refugees, and both came to Boston when they were just a few years old. They’re both 23 years old, they’re both poets — and equally important for this story — both their grandmothers are poets. This video shows a style of Somali poetry called gabay that both their grandmothers perform. As you can hear, the poem is as musical as it is lyrical.

But there’s one crucial difference in the two women’s stories. Hamdi grew up with her ayeeyo (grandmother) in the house, whispering poems in her ears. Amal has only known her ayeeyo on the phone — she stayed behind in Somalia when the rest of the family fled. Nevertheless, it is the distant words and stories of her grandmother that inspire Amal to take on the challenge of writing her own gabay.

Amal Hussein

From the Poet’s Notebook

In the story, we hear excerpts of several poems. Here is the full text for two of them, both written by Hamdi Mohamed. The first is written for her grandmother — “ayeeyo” in Somali — who lived for many years with Hamdi’s family in Boston, but has since returned to East Africa. The second is about water, and the fact that in Boston, people are quick to complain about the rain, even as Somalia endures years of drought.

For My Ayeeyo
by Hamdi Mohamed

Worn brown hands claps black prayer beads
A golden chest, a haven for dust
And memories
You whisper behind a veil
Wrapping proverbs like gifts
It is the festival of ‘Eid

I sat between your brown thighs
You twisted my thick hair
Into rows
To remind you of home, you say
You miss weaving baskets
For the harvest
The way the rain smelled like perfume
And clung to the skin like fresh honey
You say Hamdi, our skin and bones
Always know where they came from
Don’t forget you kin

Your eyes are pearls
Molten silver
Even the cataracts
Can’t subtract from you

At the airport
My hands crushed yours
I was the spoiled child
In every supermarket
Crying for something I couldn’t have

Still you didn’t scold me and
Shushed my mother
You were the strong oak tree
Under whose leaves I sought refuge in
It is winter now,
The leaves are almost gone
The rest are brown and worn
I wish they would stay

I feel heavy Ayeeyo
When we speak on the telephone
My memories of your hands are fading
Henna we used to wear black and red
Now gone
Make a prayer Ayeeyo,
With your black prayer beads,
God is closer to you than I

I am coming soon Ayeeyo
Listen for my skin and bones
They always know
Where they came from

by Hamdi Mohamed

I watch as the raindrops glaze off
Rain clothes, rain boots stomp out the water
Collective indifference
No one listens
To the sounds of rebirth
As the rain makes a new earth
Flowers gather dew like diamonds
The hushed silence
Between the pitter patter of rain
This sound is sweeter than any music
The fluid movements bringing
Grass and tulips

Back home,
Trees wither and wisp away
Bones protruding
Shepherds wailing for the rain
I can’t complain of water
The taste of hunger is much sharper
When lives depend on the grass
When lives depend on the herd
It’s absurd
My people carry weak collars,
bony hands clutching
Blood soaked dollars

How much is water worth?
How much would you pay for wet dirt?
Oil rainbows on sidewalks
The sound of rain on your rooftop?
How much is life worth?
Can you gather your lifeblood in your hands?
Watch as the heartbeats devolve, deteriorate into dust
How much water will be brushed away?
Like it ain’t the fabric of our bodies
Like it ain’t the fuel of our cells
Like water ain’t worth a damn thing anymore

I pray for months of monsoons
For hailstorm of water droplets
Soaking into the earth
Soaking onto their faces
May god grace us
With rain

Continue Reading
Click to comment

You must be logged in to post a comment Login

Leave a Reply

Arts & Culture

Invisibilia: Inspired By ‘American Idol,’ Somali TV Show Aimed To Change The World



Welcome to Invisibilia Season 4! The NPR program and podcast explores the invisible forces that shape human behavior, and we here at Goats and Soda are joining in for the podcast’s look at how a reality show in Somalia tried to do far more than crown a winning singer. The ultimate goal: to change human behavior.

Once upon a time there was music in Somalia, but then the music started fading out. First one music radio station, then another, then another, until there was almost no music to hear and people started MacGyvering workarounds.

One of the people who came up with a workaround was Xawa Abdi Hassan, a young woman who lived in a village outside Mogadishu.

“We used to use a memory card, fill the memory card with music and listen to it from our phones,” Xawa says. In her house, as she cooked and cleaned, Hassan would sing along with the great Somali singers. But even in this private space she says she was careful. “I used to turn the volume down low, so no one could hear it.”

The problem was al-Shabab, the Islamic extremist group that dominated large parts of the country. Al-Shabab didn’t like music. In 2009 it banned music at weddings, banished musical ringtones and starting punishing people who listened to music on their mobile phones by making them swallow their memory cards.

Eventually the musicians themselves were targeted. The famous soloist Aden Hasan Salad was shot and killed in a tea shop, and others were murdered in the street.

Through all of that, Xawa Abdi Hassan kept listening and practicing. Because she had a dream: “I just wanted to sing and become an entertainer.”

For most of her life though — because of al-Shabab — this was a pretty far-fetched dream. Then in 2013 an unexpected and interesting opportunity emerged: There was going to be a new reality television show in Somalia, an American Idol-style show with singers competing.

“As soon as I heard about it I knew I wanted to join,” Hassan says.

What she didn’t know — what she couldn’t possibly know — was that this reality show was part of a much larger political plan.

Using reality TV to change the world

The plan was to create a musical reality show that could undermine the power of al-Shabab, or, in the language of the memo distributed to the people involved in the show’s creation, “undercut the messaging and brand appeal of armed extremist groups.”

The United Nations, which was providing the money and support for the show, had concluded that a vivid display of Somali musical culture could serve “as a kind of inoculation against the austerity of Shabab,” Ben Parker told me. Parker was the head of communications for the U.N. in Mogadishu. He says that at this point — 2013 — al-Shabab had finally been pushed out of the capital, Mogadishu. But the situation in Somalia was far from stable. There were still regular attacks, so the new government (which had U.N. backing) needed to prove to Somalis that the power of the extremist group really was fading. This is why, Parker says, a musical reality show that challenged the power of the music-hating group was so appealing.

“The beauty of a reality show is that the form itself achieves some of your goals,” he explains.

After all, not only is there music in a musical reality show, there’s democratic voting and individual expression. So even in its form it communicates to its audience a very different way of being.

This kind of indirect political messaging, Parker told me, is increasingly popular in strategic communications: “Those working in conflict … are less and less convinced of the value of weapons and more and more convinced that other approaches can deliver the dividends.”

You get further with songs than with bombs.

So is he right?

Can a reality show actually change reality?

It turns out this question has been systematically studied.

The tricky science of changing what’s normal

How do people come to see the world around them as normal, an unremarkable fact, the way things are and should be? This is the question that interests Betsy Levy Paluck, a psychologist at Princeton University who studies media and how societies change.

Paluck told me that for a long time people assumed the path to political or cultural change depended on crafting the right argument.

“It was all rhetoric and no poetics,” she says.

But starting in the 1990s, according to Paluck, poetics started gaining ground because psychologists realized that people consumed stories in this qualitatively different way.

“Their defensiveness is disabled. Their counterarguing is at rest.”

What Paluck wanted to understand was whether this difference in how we consumed stories translated into any changes in what we thought and how we behaved. So around 2004 she hooked up with an organization in Rwanda that was creating a new radio soap opera that was trying encourage tolerance between different ethnicities.

And what Paluck found after a year of studying communities in Rwanda randomly assigned to listen to the soap opera was that their exposure had a surprising impact.

“What it boiled down to was that despite the fact that people loved this program, it didn’t change their beliefs,” she says. “But it did change their perceptions of norms, and at the same time it changed their behaviors. Which is why I thought this is something significant.”

Let me repeat that: It didn’t change their beliefs; it changed their behaviors by changing what they considered to be the social norm.

That’s a sobering idea.

“It’s a very uncomfortable thought,” Paluck says. “We like to think that all of our behaviors flow from our convictions, and what we do is a reflection of who we are and what we think. But we’re constantly tuning ourselves to fit in with the social world around us.”

So what this work suggests is that if you change someone’s perception of what constitutes the social norm — as you convince people that the world is safe enough to sing in public even though in actual fact singing in public is incredibly dangerous — then you just might be able to move the needle on the ground.

She took on extremists with her song

Which brings us back to Xawa Abdi Hassan, the young woman who quietly listened to music off a memory card and dreamed of being a singer.

It took her some time to convince her family that it would be OK to compete in the show, called Inspire Somalia. Her mother was afraid that participating would turn her into a target, but ultimately she got permission.

Hassan says when she first took the stage to compete, her hands were shaking, and not just because this could be a big break. There was another reason: Because of al-Shabab, she had never sung in public before.

It was too dangerous.

“That was my first time,” she says. “Before that, I did not sing in public places.”

After Hassan two other contestants had their turns, both men. One had a famous musician father; the second, a man named Mustafa, had composed his own song.

Mustafa Haji Ismail competes in the TV show Inspire Somalia.

Credit: Clips from Inspire Somalia, courtesy of the U.N.
Once they finished came the part of the show supposed to serve as a democracy demonstration: the voting. Ballots were distributed to the audience and judges, and for a minute the room was quiet. In this small conference room in the middle of Mogadishu people bent over their ballots and considered the options before them.

The son of the famous musician.

The girl who practiced at home with the volume turned low.

The boy who wrote his own song.

In that room they consulted their hearts, weighed strengths and weaknesses, then marked the paper in their laps.

It was Mustafa who ended up winning, but Hassan says she was honestly not upset. For her just the act of singing in public for the first time was enough. “I was happy as … like I was born that day.” she told me.

In fact, Hassan is now a bit famous. People occasionally recognize her on the street, and even more important, she’s part of a professional singing group. As al-Shabab remains a force in Somalia, this means she is still at risk. She says she tries not to worry too much but is often spooked when she sees a car slow down when she’s walking. Still, she is committed to keep making music.

“Yes, it is dangerous,” Hassan says. “But if the young person doesn’t stand up for his country and do what’s right, how is he helping his country?”

Which brings us to this question: Did this reality show actually change reality in any way?

It would be impossible to make the case that Somalia is a completely different country now. It isn’t.

But there is at least one undeniable change since 2013. Music is back in the streets. Brought back, slowly and painfully, through a complicated combination of political strategy and personal courage.

Continue Reading


Supermodel Iman wants widespread education and earnest activism



INTERVIEW MAGAZINE — When Iman arrived in New York, in the fall of 1975, the photographer Peter Beard hosted a press conference introducing her at his friend’s apartment. The crowd was surprised to hear she could speak English. Beard, who had discovered the 20-year-old college student in Nairobi, had returned to the States with his roll of film and slightly dubious stories about an otherworldly African beauty the likes of whom no one had ever seen. As it turns out, Iman, the daughter of a Somali diplomat, spoke five languages and was as intelligent and self-possessed as she was beautiful. While she went on to become one of the most sought-after models of the ’70s and ’80s—a muse to scores of photographers and designers—Iman has always been a cultural force all her own.

Despite retiring from modeling in 1989, her legacy in fashion endures. In 1994, she founded her makeup line, Iman Cosmetics, which introduced difficult-to-find shades for women of color. With her husband, the late music legend David Bowie, she lent her time, her voice, and her face to dozens of humanitarian causes, from AIDS research to education. At 62, Iman continues to run her beauty empire while also raising her teenage daughter. To be an activist, as she tells her friend, the actress Rosario Dawson, you have to be active.

ROSARIO DAWSON: I want to start by saying how much I love you, Iman, and how blessed I’ve always felt knowing you. I’ve watched you start a cosmetics company that was inclusive, and I’ve watched you work to save children and highlight the issues of conflict minerals with the Enough Project. Where did the drive to help people come from?

IMAN: My father was a teacher, but he ended up becoming a diplomat in the Middle East because he was knowledgeable about the politics of Somalia at that time. When my mom and dad met, Somalia didn’t have independence. I was born into a family that was very politically active. Growing up, the house was bustling with people; my parents were holding meetings and discussions, so I was constantly aware of what was going on. There were no barriers between men and women because everybody was fighting for independence. My parents used to say, “To be an activist, you have to stay active.” It’s not something you can choose to do when you want to or when it’s trendy.

DAWSON: You’ve proven that over and over again. Education also seemed vital to you—so much so that when you were discovered as a model, you traded being photographed for college tuition. You were studying political science at the time, right?

IMAN: Yes, I was. I cannot stress enough the importance of education, especially for girls. When I started school—this is how I knew how important it was for us—my mom sold all of her jewelry to put me in the country’s best school. My father taught me there was nothing I couldn’t do better than my brothers. That instilled in me self-worth, which has sustained me all my life. When people know that you can say no and walk away from things that aren’t right, they see your power. They see that you’re powerful.

DAWSON: I thought of you this past year when I was in Liberia and Sierra Leone for a month. It was so fascinating. Even after Ebola and all of the different things that have hit these places a mudslide happened in Sierra Leone just as I left—there’s still so much infrastructure that was being built and development that was happening. You could see a lot of progress. I couldn’t believe how many people had cellphones! There’s still such a lack of awareness around what they’re doing to communities in the Congo.

IMAN: I remember my parents used to make sure we didn’t drink Coca-Cola. They were dumping all of this Coca-Cola into third world countries in the same manner as cigarettes. Nobody smokes more than people in the third world. And the same applies to iPhones and all of that. At the end of the day, awareness is the most important part. A lot of people, especially young people in Africa, don’t understand what’s going on with minerals used in smartphones and how they’re affecting places like the Congo. People are kind of loaded up on unimportant stuff nowadays. I’m so glad about what’s happening with the #TimesUp movement. When people are aware of what’s going on, true change happens. And it usually starts underground. It does not happen from the top down. It goes from down to up.

DAWSON: It feels like a shift in cultural consciousness.

IMAN: People really need to pay attention. I’m worried about the new generation of young people who are not fully aware of what’s going on. They’re tuned in but not for the right reasons. “Oh, I’ll be nude and I’ll put it on social media.” Well, what’s your point? What are you trying to say? I love social media because you can showcase what you want to say, but a lot of times it’s just noise. It doesn’t matter, and it goes so fast; five minutes later it’s gone, and everyone’s moved on to something else.

DAWSON: I think it’s unfortunate how nudity has so often been proliferated because of the male gaze. And it’s been about making it taboo or fetishizing certain aspects of it. I personally find it very empowering. I grew up around nudists. I heard a story about a teenage girl—she and her boyfriend were going to be intimate for the first time, and he freaked out when they got naked because she had a labia, and she had hair. In all of the pornography he had seen, there was no hair.

IMAN: [laughs] Yes, there’s no hair!

DAWSON: He was used to Barbies. So this moment that should have been really special between these two people who loved each other ended up turning into this crazy situation because we are so distanced from any kind of healthy exposure and acceptance and expression of our bodies and ourselves. I have been seeing a proliferation of art exhibits that are showing all different kinds of vaginas. I think that’s actually critically important. It’s not always perfect, but that’s what makes us human.

IMAN: That is art to me—showcasing what the body looks like, rather than posing and putting a filter on it.

DAWSON: I find how messy it all is actually kind of empowering.

IMAN: The world is messy.

DAWSON: There is no one right way to do anything. And what I’m just grateful for…Wait, my dad’s about to go on a 20-mile bike ride. [to her dad] I love you. Text me. Make sure you check in with me! I’m nervous. [laughs] Wow, what a great moment to interrupt.

IMAN: [laughs] The keyword is messy!

DAWSON: It is! It’s messy and complex. We’re seeing this as we’re getting more into #TimesUp and into #MeToo and understanding that it’s beyond people just telling their stories and healing—it’s work.

IMAN: Absolutely.

DAWSON: When you first started modeling, what was that like for you? You’ve joked about the fact that you were just like any other Somali woman. So how crazy was it to suddenly have to make all of these decisions about how to represent yourself?

IMAN: Somalis are actually considered some of the most beautiful people in the world—and we definitely think we are. [Dawson laughs] I was an average girl. Somali people still say, “If Iman can be a model, any girl in Somalia can be a model because we’re all that beautiful.” But for me, where I came from, beauty was secondary compared to your mind and your thoughts. I pushed myself toward education. I looked at everything in terms of politics. So when I came to the United States, it was all about the politics of beauty. When I first arrived, one of the top models was Beverly Johnson. At first, I had no notion that there was any competition between us, because I had never seen a fashion magazine in my life. But they actually pitted us against each other. I also compared myself to the white girls. They were paying white models more money than black models. I’d refuse to take those jobs. I’d say, “I’m providing a service. It doesn’t matter what color I am. My services should be paid the same as the white model.”
DAWSON: What are your thoughts about sexual and power dynamics in your industry, like the allegations against Bruce Weber and Mario Testino? How do we allow for body positivity within an industry that can prey on very young people? Where does the line get drawn around manipulation and freedom of expression?

IMAN: I stopped modeling in 1989, but I don’t think the industry has changed in any big way. In terms of being taken advantage of by a photographer, that never happened to me. But I can see how it happens, because it’s a power thing—because of the suggestion that if you are topless, it will make a better picture, and that if you don’t do it, somebody else will. At the same time, as you said, where does one control the artistic endeavor of the business? A lot of these models start very, very young. I started when I was 20, and I was clueless about what modeling was—but I was not clueless about life. I personally don’t know why anybody would allow their own children to go unchaperoned. It’s an adult business, and it’s very difficult to protect a child.

DAWSON: My very first film was Kids [1995], so there were a lot of young people. I was 15 when I did the movie, and my parents worked, so they weren’t there for my first rehearsal. They let me go and spend quite a lot of time with a bunch of strangers, really. I was a very body-positive person. I was raised with nudists and with a lot of activism; I knew how to speak up for myself. I was very comfortable in my body. But there were moments when that was exploited. I don’t necessarily think my parents did a bad thing by not being more present; they trusted me, and that was really important to me. But there were times I felt taken advantage of. And that’s why I find this moment so critical, because it is complex. It is a full spectrum.

IMAN: When I was 14, I could also make a decision for myself. But I know a couple of young kids, my daughter’s friends, or even my own daughter, who I don’t think would be able to be in those positions. My daughter might not know that she has the power to walk away from something.

DAWSON: I love how travel is such a big part of your story. So many people in this country do not travel. They don’t travel city-to-city, state-to-state, let alone country-to-country. How do you feel that this is affecting the conversations that we’re having around everything? For me, travel is an education.

IMAN: I totally agree. There is nothing more educational than travel. The only way you will understand how other people think is by going to where they live. Somalia is a nomad country, so we’ve always been on the move. For me, moving is essential. Books are great, googling is great, but there is nothing that can replace traveling. I’m so surprised when I hear young people who are not really curious about travel. I started traveling when I was 9—without my parents. I went to high school in Egypt; I visited Beirut. I went to Syria. In my generation, we did the Peace Corps after high school. My parents always said, “You’ll have time in your adult life to travel to the west. How are you going to see Africa? You’ve got to see Africa before your 20s. You have to travel through Africa to understand where you came from.”

DAWSON: Your name means faith, right? My name means rosary. I feel like I worry about everything all the time. [laughs]

IMAN: It’s appropriate!

DAWSON: How has your name guided you?

IMAN: Funny enough, my given name, when I was born, was Zahra. Which is a flower of the desert. It’s an oxymoron: flowers and desert. But my grandfather changed my name to Iman, because I was the first daughter in six generations of just sons. I think if I were Zahra, I would be a totally different person. I am Iman. I am totally my name. I have big female and male parts in me. Iman in Somali is a man’s name; it’s not a woman’s name.

DAWSON: Rosario can be either-or, too. I’ve met a lot of male Rosarios.

IMAN: See, your name makes you. You’re outspoken and fearless; those are the qualities that they attribute to boys. When a woman gets a man’s name, they get that with it. I think if I were Zahra, I would be much more soft-spoken. I would be one of those feminine girls, which I’m not.

DAWSON: I’ve always been of the opinion that we’re all male and female. It takes a sperm and an egg to create a human, so we’re equally half. I remember I didn’t like my name when I was younger, and I’ve definitely grown to love it more.

IMAN: I was the same, because I was the only female with a man’s name in my country. I was the first girl Iman.

DAWSON: We started off with notoriety.

IMAN: All those things shape you. Tough things shape you, sweet things shape you, hugs shape you as much as tears shape you.

DAWSON: It’s women like you who make me excited about getting older, and hopefully one day also being able to proclaim that I’m wise. I’m not quite there yet.

IMAN: You will be.


Continue Reading

Arts & Culture

Somali Funk Music in the 70s: Caashooy by Ahmedey Abukar



Caashooy by Ahmedey Abukar, a blind singer.

This song is the first of a series of five recordings that tell the story of Abukar’s tragic & unrequited, love for a woman named Asha

Continue Reading