The man who turned laughter into a mirror

“Humor is a truth cooled down” says the Somali proverb, capturing the very essence of Somali social communication in which a truth, so dangerously sharp that if delivered plainly would breed enmity, is wrapped in laughter, so it slips past all defenses and lands gently in the heart.

No Somali embodied this delicate, vital art more completely than Ibrahim Ismail Sugulle, better known by his stage name, Sooraan. For over four decades, he was a relentless force turning laughter into a vessel of truth, and truth into an inescapable mirror in which people saw themselves, sometimes embarrassed, sometimes angry, often delighted, but always profoundly confronted.

Born in Kiridh in 1958, a small settlement in Somaliland’s Togdheer region, Sooraan's youth unfolded during a golden age when Somali arts – poetry, theatre, and song were the lifeblood of the nation. By 1979, he had found his calling, joining Mogadishu’s famed Dur-Dur Band, not as a vocalist, but as a razor-sharp screenwriter and actor, honing his immaculate sense of timing and potent satire.

When the civil war tragically erupted in 1991, scattering communities and collapsing structures, Sooraan returned to Burao, the town of his youth. But theatre was almost completely out of the picture in Somaliland after the conflict. Some of the actress and play writers who fled during the war were the only ones who, for some time, continued the Somali theatre from abroad.

However, the arrival and growing accessibility of video recording and television opened a new door to creative freedom. No longer constrained by the absence of a physical theatre, some of performers from the pre-war era began experimenting boldly. They carried the improvisational spirit of the dialogue-based Somali Riwayad and the cadences of traditional oral storytelling, into the modern medium of film. In doing so, they pioneered a form that was raw, fluid, and alive to the textures, surprises, and unpredictable rhythms of everyday Somali life.

Into this vibrant, challenging space, Sooraan poured his entire being. His performances were carefully measured fusions of fiction and stark realism, blending Maad (humor) and Murti (wisdom), the indelible soul of Somali theatre.

With no backing from schools and cultural ministries, this new form of filmmaking survived purely through the sheer will and dedication of the artist. As Sooraan's career so vividly demonstrated, a Somali actor became his own writer, producer, critic, and street-level promoter, carving out art from necessity.

Becoming a respected figure in this demanding context required not just raw talent, but relentless, patient effort, acute social awareness, and the sheer will to persist in a society that too often undervalued the very artists who defined it. Sooraan carried all these qualities. His comedy, often filmed spontaneously among ordinary people in bustling markets, quiet neighborhoods and sometimes under a tree in the outskirts, was never idle amusement; it was deliberate social surgery clothed in laughter.

He waged a gentle, humorous campaign against every ill plaguing society: the desperate illusion of tahriib (irregular migration), the crushing weight of political ineptitude, social misunderstanding, and the toxic grip of clannism. What seemed like a lighthearted skit was, in truth, a sophisticated vehicle of social diagnosis and moral awakening. Each new sketch he released resonated across the country as a communal voice, acting as the nation's informal moral compass.

He feared no topic. No one was safe –politicians, clerics, journalists, and aspiring artists all found themselves beneath his comic scalpel. Yet, crucially, even when he criticized, he never truly scolded. He laughed, and in making his audience laugh at themselves, he compelled them to see his truth.

His questions were often shaped to prick the axioms of popular belief. Blurring the line between comedian and philosopher, Sooraan embodied the spirit of Socratic questioning in a society that strongly sanctifies conformity

In one famous exchange, his longtime partner Jawaan (Isse Abdi Ismail) sings proudly, anticipating high praise. Sooraan listens patiently, then delivers the ultimate cut-down: “Oo waxaasi ma hees baa mise waa oohin?” ("Is that singing or crying?"). Delivered without malice, the question touched upon how art demands talent, and how society must never indulge mediocrity.

His handling of the sensitive rape law and the social confusion it sparked remains a masterwork of satire. When his wife mentions the parliamentary debate, he snaps back, embodying the closed-minded elder: “Aren’t you an adult, and aren’t you my wife? What is this rape talk you bring to me?” He then adds, with a masterful stroke of mock gravity, “Do you want to be raped too?”

Sooraan’s questions were often shaped to prick the axioms of popular belief. Blurring the line between comedian and philosopher, he embodied the spirit of Socratic questioning in a society that strongly sanctifies conformity. In one if his poignant sketches, upon hearing that four witnesses are required to prove rape, Sooraan delivers his devastating retort: “But why wouldn’t those four people help her in the first place?” leaving the question, unanswered, to metathesize beyond laughter. Indeed, he was the comedic gadfly of our society.

He mercilessly played the corrupt clan elder who chastises an MP for being honest: “Did you buy land here or build a house?” When the MP says no, Sooraan scoffs, “Then are you some kind of fool? Everyone else thrives on wrongdoing, why not you?” His satire was universal: mocking the jealous husband "What are these jobs that keep you out so late?", the political failure who claims he spent his term merely “learning the sublcans within the government,” and the elder who, even after a simple schoolyard fight involving his son, demands to know, “Which clan is the other boy from?” The message was unmistakable: clan identity poisons everything.

Perhaps we ought to draw on both the experiences and lessons of foreign filmmaking, while also burrowing the means of authenticity from what remains of our theatrical corpus and the likes of Sooraan.

Part of Sooraan’s enduring power lay in his vocal dexterity and mastery of improvisation. He moved seamlessly from playful humor to serious admonition, naturally weaving proverbs and geeraar (poetic chants) into his scenes. His verse carried immense wisdom within its humor, as in the chant where he advised contentment and dignity in all walks of life.

Waxa uu yidhi (He says):

“If you cannot become a sheikh or a scholar, 
May a single chapter of the Quran be your blessing. 
If you cannot afford the best of land cruising cars 
Let the bicycle carry you, that too is a blessing. 
If you cannot be a president or an elder, 
Let a there be a wife to assist you, that too is a blessing.”

Today, as Somali cinema pursues more structured, scripted narratives, its often seen that the dialogues in many modern local films can feel stiff and unnatural, the very pulse of authentic Somali cadences are replaced by a robotic rigidity; so rigid it seems that the actors are often in the act of remembering the lines. It is in this specific context that Sooraan’s work should really teach us something about spontaneity in performance. Scripts may bring discipline, but they often stifle the improvisational genius that defined our storytelling.

Perhaps we ought to draw on both the experiences and lessons of foreign filmmaking, while also burrowing the means of authenticity from what remains of our theatrical corpus and the likes of Sooraan. Considering the balance between the two, our film makers might come up with scripts that provide structure without silencing the performer’s instinctive wit.

In 2021, during the global sweep of COVID-19, Sooraan fell ill and passed away on May 26 in Burao. He left behind two wives, three children, and a nation plunged into shared grief. His death united Somalis everywhere – politicians, artists, and ordinary people alike remembering the man who not only made them laugh but forced them to think.

In one of his final sketches, Sooraan wandered the semi-arid plains of the Miyi with a goat he was trying to sell. But to his surprise, everyone he came across insisted it was a sheep. What that meant, I’ll leave to you.