Politics
In 1960s, Somalia had a functioning, but somewhat corrupt, democratic government. The ruling party at the time was the Somali Youth League (SYL). Elections were as rampant as vote rigging because there were so many political parties that almost every major clan identified with specific political grouping; the plethora of political parties was astounding. As a young boy, I even remember a party named “Laa Ilaaha Illa Laah” (There is no god but Allah). My mother and my neighbors would cast their votes and come back home, wash off the stamp stain on their hands and go back again to the voting center to vote.
In 1960s, Somalia had a functioning, but somewhat corrupt, democratic government. The ruling party at the time was the Somali Youth League (SYL). Elections were as rampant as vote rigging because there were so many political parties that almost every major clan identified with specific political grouping; the plethora of political parties was astounding. As a young boy, I even remember a party named “Laa Ilaaha Illa Laah” (There is no god but Allah). My mother and my neighbors would cast their votes and come back home, wash off the stamp stain on their hands and go back again to the voting center to vote.
I would hear from neighbors what party won or which one was robbed from votes. Years later, my mother would tell me how I used to play with toys and make them fight with one another. Often, one of the toys represented Adan Abdille Osman ‘Adan Adde’ (the first president of the country) and the other Abdirashid Ali Sharmarke (Adan Adde’s successor). After what appeared to be a tough fight, I would make the Sharmarke toy win over the Osman one. Of course, Sharmarke belonged to the same sub-clan my mother did. My mother always told this story in order to show off my political, and definitely, clan ‘acumen’; my toy-fights were the essence of political acculturation. I wonder how my mother would have reacted if I had made the Adan Adde toy win. I had positive feeling toward Sharmarke while growing up because he seemed to me a decent human being and a popular leader. Of course, I knew nothing about his political leanings or agenda, but somehow, to me, Adan Adde represented something different and unknown. Only many years later, in mid 1970s, did I come to meet Mr. Adan Adde in person and I saw what a remarkable and ethical man he was. As a retired politician, he used to come and pray in Teacher Maryam’s mosque, which was located two blocks away from his residence. I remember an incident in which an Egyptian cleric insisted Mr. Adan Adde to give the Friday sermon but the former president gently pushed the cleric forward to the podium, and when the cleric finished his sermon, he asked Mr. Adan Adde to lead the prayer, but Mr. Adan Adde once again refused and insisted that the cleric lead the prayer.
'In 1969, a military coup transformed Somali political landscape. Like many people in the country, I was excited about the military coming to power. On October 21, 1969, I still remember the military patrolling our neighborhood, Isku-Raran, while people stayed indoors. I recall some soldiers chasing some of the children off the streets. It is no exaggeration to say that the whole country was itching for a political change. Siad Barre, initially, was not corrupt and dictatorial. As a child, I was eager to participate in school activities that celebrated the ‘revolution’, and there was high level of nationalism among us children in part because the level of indoctrination at school was also high. The mass media bombarded the populace with songs and plays that extolled the virtues of the revolution and denigrated the ‘corrupt’ and ‘self-serving’ civilian government. One of the major accomplishments of the new regime was the adoption of Latin script for the Somali language which enabled me, as a lad, to teach my mother and some of my neighbors’ how to read and write. As time passed, I became disillusioned with the regime and it mainly had to do with the fact that I was not being a conformist. Simply put, I became non-cooperative in the eyes of others.
“Your son does not want to sing ‘Guulwadow Siyaad”, a Guulwade militia man complained to my mother one time. It was a song that celebrated Siad Barre as a “victory-bearer” and as “the father of knowledge” while glorifying Socialism as a complete system that leads to prosperity. My mother laughed and acted as though she was disgusted with my brazen act of intransigence. But when my relatives were around, my mother would mockingly repeat the militia’s complaint of me as though she was indirectly endorsing my defiance. In reality, I was not trying to make a political statement but I was just bored with chanting the same song over and over. Some of my housemates did not make things easier for me as well. These Majertein youngsters were not in tune with the new regime. I recall one of their friends, a Dhulbahante high school student, being arrested and accused of being part of what the government called ‘a subversive conspiracy’.
My mother was not into politics until 1973 when she became, to the befuddlement of my family, an active organizer. She became one of the ‘Mothers’, or ‘Hooyooyinka’ as they were known, at a local orientation center in our neighborhood. Until today, I am puzzled by what made my mother join the women’s group. I can only speculate that she did it for social reasons more than anything else because my mother never imbibed the regime’s vacuous rhetoric. She and her female friends were having good time being part of something they thought to be special. My mother was not the kind of person who would neither lionize the regime nor revile it. She was, interestingly, non-committal about the political issues that were gripping the country at the time, but after 1978, my mother’s attitude toward the regime became positive. Of course, my sister got married to a government official and mother became defensive of her son-in-law and the government he represented. My mother’s change of heart was more or less a reflection of her attempt to be civil to her in-law than a political realignment.
My mother was not into politics until 1973 when she became, to the befuddlement of my family, an active organizer. She became one of the ‘Mothers’, or ‘Hooyooyinka’ as they were known, at a local orientation center in our neighborhood. Until today, I am puzzled by what made my mother join the women’s group. I can only speculate that she did it for social reasons more than anything else because my mother never imbibed the regime’s vacuous rhetoric. She and her female friends were having good time being part of something they thought to be special. My mother was not the kind of person who would neither lionize the regime nor revile it. She was, interestingly, non-committal about the political issues that were gripping the country at the time, but after 1978, my mother’s attitude toward the regime became positive. Of course, my sister got married to a government official and mother became defensive of her son-in-law and the government he represented. My mother’s change of heart was more or less a reflection of her attempt to be civil to her in-law than a political realignment.
Religion
Like most Somalis, I was born Muslim in an overwhelmingly Muslim country. My mother, my sister, and I were not religious when I was growing up. In the sixties and seventies, Somali women dressed modestly, but the veil, as we know it today in contemporary Somalia, was non-existent. The Reer Hamar women, however, had traditionally worn what is called “Shuko”; a dress that resembles the veil used by Arab women. Men did not wear Arabic ‘Thawb” or ‘Qamis’ unless they were religious clerics. There was an anecdote of an Issak cleric who went to Saudi Arabia in the 1960s and saw, in a Jeddah market, a Saudi man wearing the traditional Arabic “Thawb’ or Qamiis and singing. The Somali Sheikh was shocked and exclaimed, “Alla Shiikhani miyuu waashay”. (Oh my God, has this cleric gone mad!). The Shaikh was not aware of the fact that the “qamis” is the traditional dress for Arab men.
Like most Somalis, I was born Muslim in an overwhelmingly Muslim country. My mother, my sister, and I were not religious when I was growing up. In the sixties and seventies, Somali women dressed modestly, but the veil, as we know it today in contemporary Somalia, was non-existent. The Reer Hamar women, however, had traditionally worn what is called “Shuko”; a dress that resembles the veil used by Arab women. Men did not wear Arabic ‘Thawb” or ‘Qamis’ unless they were religious clerics. There was an anecdote of an Issak cleric who went to Saudi Arabia in the 1960s and saw, in a Jeddah market, a Saudi man wearing the traditional Arabic “Thawb’ or Qamiis and singing. The Somali Sheikh was shocked and exclaimed, “Alla Shiikhani miyuu waashay”. (Oh my God, has this cleric gone mad!). The Shaikh was not aware of the fact that the “qamis” is the traditional dress for Arab men.
The level of religiosity among Mogadishu residents was moderate. People generally emphasized on good character rather than religious rituals. One can safely argue that people cared a great deal of being good neighbors to each other and eschewed spilling blood or causing mayhem. Religious indictments or excommunicating people from Islam were not common except in few narrow circles of Sufi groups. A Qadiri follower would treat a Salihi follower with contempt and derision, and the opposite was true.
A lot of people fasted in Ramadan regardless of their religious commitments. Restaurants, by law, were closed from sunrise to sunset. There were always people who broke the law and used their homes as makeshift restaurants. As a child, I would walk in the neighborhood in the middle of the day and smell the aroma of delicious food emanating from some of these houses while throngs of men would wait outside and stealthily go in and out of these houses. My mother fasted during the month of Ramadan and so did my sister. There were occasions that I was irked when I saw my sister eating during the daytime in the month of Ramadan. “Why is Lul eating when everybody else is fasting? Mom, this girl is embarrassing us”, I would protest. No one explained to me about something called women’s ‘menstruation’. I was simply upset by the display of what seemed to me as a clear violation of fasting in Ramadan. On the other hand, I am embarrassed to admit that I was hiding under the guise of childhood to even fast. In fact, I only started fasting when I turned 14 years old which is late for a Somali boy to start fasting. My mother never suggested to me that I should fast and, in all fairness to her, I never wanted to do so. Since my mother and my sister were fasting, no food was prepared until two or three hours before sunset which left me without a hot meal for most of the day. My mother used to give me money to purchase food, and I used to go to the market to buy bread and dates to make sandwich out of them---There were plenty of dates available at the market during Ramadan. Then, I would eagerly wait to break fast with my mother and sister. My mother, like most Somali mothers, cooked variety of food that was mostly prepared during Ramadan. I always loved Ramadan meals and the oeuvres like the samboosa and ‘bur’. I remember one particular Ramadan when I was 12 years old; for the whole month of Ramadan, I broke fast –even though I was not fasting- with my uncle and his guests at his house in ‘Dabka neighborhood. My uncle always had friends and relatives breaking fast with him and the food prepared in his house was quite elaborate. First, dates, soup, and samboosa were served, which was followed by a typical dinner of rice/lamb/spaghetti/fish/sabaayad, and then tea and deserts. The meal was too much for me as a child, but the adults apparently did not mind. In our neighborhood, Ramadan brought people more out of the confines of their homes, and it made them socialize or interact more with one another.
A lot of people fasted in Ramadan regardless of their religious commitments. Restaurants, by law, were closed from sunrise to sunset. There were always people who broke the law and used their homes as makeshift restaurants. As a child, I would walk in the neighborhood in the middle of the day and smell the aroma of delicious food emanating from some of these houses while throngs of men would wait outside and stealthily go in and out of these houses. My mother fasted during the month of Ramadan and so did my sister. There were occasions that I was irked when I saw my sister eating during the daytime in the month of Ramadan. “Why is Lul eating when everybody else is fasting? Mom, this girl is embarrassing us”, I would protest. No one explained to me about something called women’s ‘menstruation’. I was simply upset by the display of what seemed to me as a clear violation of fasting in Ramadan. On the other hand, I am embarrassed to admit that I was hiding under the guise of childhood to even fast. In fact, I only started fasting when I turned 14 years old which is late for a Somali boy to start fasting. My mother never suggested to me that I should fast and, in all fairness to her, I never wanted to do so. Since my mother and my sister were fasting, no food was prepared until two or three hours before sunset which left me without a hot meal for most of the day. My mother used to give me money to purchase food, and I used to go to the market to buy bread and dates to make sandwich out of them---There were plenty of dates available at the market during Ramadan. Then, I would eagerly wait to break fast with my mother and sister. My mother, like most Somali mothers, cooked variety of food that was mostly prepared during Ramadan. I always loved Ramadan meals and the oeuvres like the samboosa and ‘bur’. I remember one particular Ramadan when I was 12 years old; for the whole month of Ramadan, I broke fast –even though I was not fasting- with my uncle and his guests at his house in ‘Dabka neighborhood. My uncle always had friends and relatives breaking fast with him and the food prepared in his house was quite elaborate. First, dates, soup, and samboosa were served, which was followed by a typical dinner of rice/lamb/spaghetti/fish/sabaayad, and then tea and deserts. The meal was too much for me as a child, but the adults apparently did not mind. In our neighborhood, Ramadan brought people more out of the confines of their homes, and it made them socialize or interact more with one another.
My record of praying five times a day, while growing up, was cause for alarm. Practically, I prayed only whenever I was in the mood of being religious. From time to time, I would start praying and going to the mosque; then after a week or two, I would regress back to my old habits of insolence. However, one experience had a major impact on me. I think I was either 11 or 12 years old when a young boy-who was half Arab and half-Somali-took me to the famous Abdiqadir Mosque, better-known as ‘Maqaam’, to attend a Tafseer session by Sheikh Mohamed Moalim. This mosque was a block away from the National Theatre and behind my school, Moalim Jama. Sheikh Mohamed was an Egyptian-trained cleric and a high official of the Ministry of Justice and Religion. He graduated from the prestigious Al-Azhar University, and he had an M.A in Philosophy. The Sheikh’s well-attended Tafseer lesson was between Maghrib and Isha prayers, and was held every night except Friday. The Sheikh used to sit on a platform covered with a white sheet and a microphone placed on top of it. The audience sat on the floor surrounding the platform.
Initially, I found Sheikh Mohamed’s style of Qur’an interpretation stale and boring, but after a week of attending his lesson, I started liking this new arena of knowledge. This Hawadle cleric, though from the south, received his early Islamic education under the tutelage of Somali Sheikhs in Western Somalia. He was short and overweight man with non-traditional accent. To the novice, the Sheikh’s public speaking skills left a lot to be desired. From time to time, he would repeat the monotonous phrase, “Maanta ma Arkeysaa…” which roughly translates in colloquial English, “You know what I mean…” His Quran exegesis, though, was gratifying. He always succeeded in presenting the Qur’an as lively and engaging as it was supposed to be. He was neither a fanatic nor a traditional Somali Sheikh. It was tragic that the Somali government under Siad Barre imprisoned him in 1976 and kept him locked at the notorious prison Labaatan Jirow for more than eight or nine years without any charges. Ironically, the Sheikh, at the time of his imprisonment, was the Director of Religious Affairs in the Ministry of Justice and Religion. It was only after the Shaikh’s imprisonment that Somalia experienced a wave of Islamic revivalism led by the Shaikh’s young disciples. Of course, the Shaikh will be turning in his grave had he known the current state of militancy in Somalia and the crimes being committed in the name of Islam. I had the pleasure of meeting the Shaikh one more time in his house during my last visit to Somalia in 1987 and I found him to be pleasant, not bitter, and full of humor. The Shaikh was disappointed with some of his former students and he accused them of being “myopic, intolerant, and disrespectful”. Sadly, the Shaikh died in late 1980s.
Back to the Shaikh’s Tafseer lessons, the first time I attended, he was explaining the story of Prophet Abraham’s wife being given glad tidying for bearing a baby. Abraham’s wife slapped her face in disbelief and asked the angels, in essence, how she could bear a child when she was an old woman. As a child, it was fascinating to listen to the human drama that seemed as if it was unfolding before my very own eyes. After a week, the Shaikh started the Tafseer of Surat Yusuf---the longest story in the Qur’an. I was mesmerized by the story of Yusuf because it had all the elements of drama, tragedy, comedy, and the usual stuff that we humans succumb to such as jealousy among siblings, treachery, sexual harassment, false accusation, false imprisonment, loss of faith, etc. I do not know how long it took the Shaikh to finish that long and fascinating Surah, but by the time he finished Surat Yusuf and began Surat Al-Ra’ad (the Thunder), I had lost interest in the Shaikh and his Tafseer. I was longing for stories and surprisingly the surahs that follow Yusuf hammer topics of faith and the Hereafter. I became ‘bored’ and went back to my old habit of not praying. Nonetheless, that brief experience gave me a new understanding of the Qur’an and it changed my perception of the Qur’an because all I did before that was to memorize it without knowing its true meaning.
It was in 1975 when I went back to the Shaikh’s lesson. One of my classmates, Yusuf Mohamed Elmi, a Shiikhaal, took me to the mosque. Yusuf and his late sister were devout young activists who used to give Islamic lessons at our Moalim Jama School. Yusuf and I struck friendship and he made sure that I accompanied him to Sheikh Mohamed’s lesson. Yusuf came to my house an hour before sunset one day in order to take me to the mosque but I told him that I had another important engagement that night. In reality, I was going to the movies! He was patient with me and sure enough he came back the next day and we headed to Abdulqadir Mosque. Yusuf introduced me to Shaikh Mohamed Moalim before the latter commenced his Tafseer. One day, after Maghreb prayer, we were shocked to find out that the Shaikh was arrested by the secret service.
Movies
Speaking of movies, I was a great fan of the cinema. In 1960s I often went to El Gab Cinema which was located in my neighborhood, but sometimes, I used to go to Cinema Nasr. I would never forget the first time I went to the movies. A young man named Mumin, a Geledi, and a friend of my family, took me to Cinema Super. The movie was an American Western. All I remember was seeing an image of a White woman and horses in the movie screen, and I became scared and I kept crying. I had never seen, prior to that point, a White person and horses. Mumin had no choice but to escort me out of the movie house and take me home. However, as I got older, I started loving all kinds of movies. All the American and European movies were dubbed in Italian. In essence, I can say that I grew up watching the movies of Kirk Douglas (wrongly called ‘Kirk Dabagalaas’ by Somalis), Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleve, Yule Brenner, etc. Somehow, the Spaghetti Western films resonated with us, Somalis, due to the immense Italian influence in Mogadishu. I still remember movies like, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, and admiring Clint Eastwood and that slimy and devious Eli Wallach, and loathing Lee Van Cleve. Apparently, Wallach was indeed bad, but his nefarious deeds were done with flare. There were also Italian movies that were shown in Somalia and some were bad imitation of American Westerns, but Franco Nero of ‘Django’ was popular among movie goers including myself.
Speaking of movies, I was a great fan of the cinema. In 1960s I often went to El Gab Cinema which was located in my neighborhood, but sometimes, I used to go to Cinema Nasr. I would never forget the first time I went to the movies. A young man named Mumin, a Geledi, and a friend of my family, took me to Cinema Super. The movie was an American Western. All I remember was seeing an image of a White woman and horses in the movie screen, and I became scared and I kept crying. I had never seen, prior to that point, a White person and horses. Mumin had no choice but to escort me out of the movie house and take me home. However, as I got older, I started loving all kinds of movies. All the American and European movies were dubbed in Italian. In essence, I can say that I grew up watching the movies of Kirk Douglas (wrongly called ‘Kirk Dabagalaas’ by Somalis), Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleve, Yule Brenner, etc. Somehow, the Spaghetti Western films resonated with us, Somalis, due to the immense Italian influence in Mogadishu. I still remember movies like, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, and admiring Clint Eastwood and that slimy and devious Eli Wallach, and loathing Lee Van Cleve. Apparently, Wallach was indeed bad, but his nefarious deeds were done with flare. There were also Italian movies that were shown in Somalia and some were bad imitation of American Westerns, but Franco Nero of ‘Django’ was popular among movie goers including myself.
Indian movies were also popular in Somalia in 1960s and 1970s. I used to watch Indian movies even though I did not understand the language. These movies were laden with romance, songs, and dance. There was one thing Somalis generally frown upon: public display of emotions. For instance, it is common for adults to cry in Indian movies, and somehow Somalis would stereotypically refer to someone that cried or showed emotion as ‘Hindi’ (Indian). I don’t think that I will ever forget about such classic movies like, Ram Aur Shyam, Farz, Waris, Waqt, Jawaab, Sangam, Janwaar, etc.
Music
Music
Radio Mogadishu was the only medium of mass communication that was available to Somali masses. Although it was only broadcasted several hours a day, it was very entertaining. During Siad Barre’s regime, the radio was a paragon of turgid political machine. I loved Somali songs but paid little attention to poetry. At the time, I did not understand the richness of Somali poetry but I felt that I could relate to the songs and the music. My favorite program was a live interview session during Eid day with Somali artists. I loved knowing tidbits of information about the artists’ lives and the creative process despite of my mother lamenting about the deception employed by some of the female artists. “They [artists] never age; every year they tell us a younger age”, my mother would scoff.
In early 1970s, there was a new program called “Heesaha Hirgalay” which featured a song contest. It was held every Monday night at the National Theater, which was built by the Chinese, and famous singers like Hassan Adan Samatar, Abdi Tahlil, Abdulkadir Bagaag, Salad Darbi, and Abdikhadar Hassan were some of the artists that emerged from these contests. I was a big fan of these contests and sometimes would manage to go there at least twice a month. It was a bit expensive but I looked forward to going there, and when I did not go, I would follow the contest through the radio.
Sports
I played soccer in 1960s and early 70s and was pretty good at it. My first soccer game which was viewed by many people required a jersey and I did not have one. Instead, I had to use one of my white shirts and soaked it in a bath of saffron, and later pasted number 3 on it. I was playing with youths that were a bit older than me, and being part of soccer contest at times, required money. Each player had to put some money up front in order to play against another team, and the winning team took all the money. For this memorable game, I played good defense even though my team lost. Later, I played soccer for fun.
I played soccer in 1960s and early 70s and was pretty good at it. My first soccer game which was viewed by many people required a jersey and I did not have one. Instead, I had to use one of my white shirts and soaked it in a bath of saffron, and later pasted number 3 on it. I was playing with youths that were a bit older than me, and being part of soccer contest at times, required money. Each player had to put some money up front in order to play against another team, and the winning team took all the money. For this memorable game, I played good defense even though my team lost. Later, I played soccer for fun.
I used to be crazed about professional soccer games and followed the matches by listening to the radio, but I rarely went to see actual matches in the stadium. As a child, I used to support HORSEED against JEENYO; these two teams were the best soccer teams in the country. Horseed represented the military, and Jeenyo represented the Department of Public Works. Somehow, Jeenyo players seemed to me to be rugged, tough and dirty. I was a great fan of Ismaail Gariile, a talented soccer player who had defected from Ethiopia. Players like Jeylani (Bantu), Antar Jeenyo (Murursade), Budiste (Abskool) and later Shaash (Bantu), Bin Shakir (Baajuun) were my favorite ones. Later, I became a fan of FIAT team which represented young players like Ganjab and Dhagoolka.
I used to follow the Somali national basketball team and on several occasions watched their practices. I loved basketball and admired players like Saciid Qorsheel (Warsangeli) and the kid in our block, Abdirizaak Haji Raage (Murursade). They represented excellence in a sport not known that much in the country.
