Somalis are losing access to their poetic heritage

An archive can be both a shrine and a grave. It can etch a name into history with reverence or consign it to the shadowy realm of doubt. This truth runs through the Australian author Peter Salmon’s essay Paper Trails, where he lucidly examines the power of archives: their ability to preserve a body of knowledge, to immortalise the names of creative minds who once walked the earth, breathed ideas into existence, and left behind traces of their brilliance. 

And yet, archives are never pristine. They remain both boon and bane: as much as they can immortalise, they can also be instruments of manipulation, vulnerable to the politics of preservation, the silent tendency towards distortion, and the erasure of exclusion. Photo editing, for example, became one of Joseph Stalin’s most powerful tools during his purges. It is in this fragile space, between remembrance and revision, that Salmon invites us to ponder. 

The essay opens with the survival of Edmund Husserl’s works in the wake of Nazi censorship. Husserl, a German-Jewish philosopher and writer, is widely regarded as the founder of phenomenology, a branch of philosophy concerned with how people experience the world around them. Once a towering figure in German intellectual circles, he spent his final years exiled from the very academic world he had once dominated. Under Nazi racial laws that explicitly restricted Jewish intellectuals, he was stripped of his academic post, and his unpublished manuscripts—40,000 pages of groundbreaking thought—faced annihilation. But that fate was averted when a priest risked his life to save Husserl’s work. 

Herman Van Breda, a Belgian priest, smuggled Husserl’s papers out of Germany in 1938, hiding them in diplomatic cases to evade Nazi censors. Without Van Breda’s defiance, Husserl’s work might have been lost to history, taking with it the foundation of modern phenomenology—an intellectual legacy that later inspired an entire school of philosophy. 

Salmon contrasts this with the case of Friedrich Nietzsche, the German-Swiss philosopher and prolific writer, regarded as one of the greatest thinkers of the 19th century. Unlike Husserl, Nietzsche’s legacy was preserved but in a distorted form; Salmon says he was “selectively edited”. And the culprit was none other than his own sister, Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche. 

Elisabeth was not an ordinary sibling; she was an “antisemite” and “proto-fascist”. Along with her husband, she founded Nueva Germania, a utopian settlement established in 1887 in Paraguay. Conceived as a racially pure Aryan colony, it was an attempt to isolate German settlers from what they perceived as Europe’s moral and racial decay. 

After Nietzsche’s mental collapse in 1889, Elisabeth seized control of his dozens of unpublished notes. She played a key role in editing fragments of what later became the hit book The Will to Power. 

Salmon’s essay highlights the duality of archives. But, in the context of Somalia’s disappearing intellectual legacy, his essay challenges us and forces us to raise our eyebrows: If a devoted priest risked his life to preserve the works of a persecuted Jewish intellectual, and if one of history’s greatest philosophers had his writings “distorted” beyond “recognition”, then what fate awaits the archives of Somalia’s greatest poets? These were men who not only illuminated the social and cultural life of their time but also wielded poetry as an art of expression. What impact could the loss of this legacy have for contemporary Somalis?  

Writing about the role of Somali poetry as a form of art, the great Somali scholar and writer Said Samatar wrote: “Somali pastoral verse is a living art affecting almost every aspect of life. Its functions are versatile, concerned not only with matters of art and aesthetics but also with questions of social significance. It illuminates culture, society, and history.” Will their voices, concerning Somali poets, endure, or will they too be buried beneath the weight of historical neglect? 

It is beyond the capacity of an essay or even a book to fully capture the depth of Somali poetry and its profound literary spirit. Many scholars, both foreign and local, have attempted to analyse and explain Somalis and their culture, yet few can match the way classical poetry grasped the nation’s essence. To appreciate the depth of this poetic tradition and its artistic expression, one need only engage with a few of these works. Their richness, meaning, and literary weight are things that can be understood through dwelling on them as a unique subject. 

In an interesting contrast to contemporary Western poetry, which today holds a leading place in world literature due to its linguistic supremacy, Samatar again reminds us of the importance of poetry in Somali society. As he points out: “Whereas in the industrialised West, poetry—and especially what is regarded as serious poetry—seems to be increasingly relegated to a marginal place in society, Somali oral verse is central to Somali life, involved as it is in the intimate workings of people’s lives.” 

However, for context, let us consider a few poets and how their works deeply understood the very foundation of Somali culture. 

Cabdillaahi Suldaan Maxamed, famously known as Timacadde, was born in Galoolley, a village on the outskirts of Gabiley, about 60 kilometres west of Hargeisa, the capital of Somaliland. A poet, thinker, and one of Africa’s literary giants, Timacadde’s mastery of language and verse has contributed to Somali literature. Many of his poems have become part of Somali poetry history and, to a large extent, Somali literature. “The greatest Somali poet of the 20th century,” the Somali scholar Ahmed Ismail described Timacadde as. 

His poetry, distinctive, prophetic, and unmatched in its artistry, explored a wide range of themes. He composed verses that felt ahead of their time, as though he had glimpsed the future and woven its fate into his words. Listening to his voice, mild yet mighty, calm yet commanding, one is struck by the weight of his foresight. His poetry foresaw the struggles of Somalis long before they unfolded, painting the despair of a nation with an artistry few could match. “If he were alive today, he would have told us many times, ‘I told you so, I told you,’” remarked Samatar.  

When Somalis gained their freedom from the colonial powers, Timacadde recited one of the greatest Somali poems, one that has remained a slogan for Somali nationalism: “kaana siib, kana saar,” meaning “Take down that one, raise this one.” This line refers to lowering the colonial flag and raising the Somali flag. The poem later became a powerful symbol. Here is how he artistically expressed the joy of freedom, capturing the collective emotions of Somalis at the time:

Soomaaloo calan taagta,

Saakay noogu horreyso

In sidayda tihiin iyo

Saddex wiig iyo maalmo

Haddaan soor cuni waayo

Safrad laygama yaabo

Sari mayso naftaydo e

Saaxirkii kala guurraye

Sarreeyow ma nusqaamow

Aan siduu yahay eego e

kaana siib kanna saar

-

Somalis to heave a flag, 

Today is the first day, 

I doubt whether you feel the same as me, 

If for three weeks and days, 

I remain without eating anything, 

Hunger will never be felt by me, 

Nor will it tear apart my body, 

We split with the devil and the demon, 

Oh! The hoisted that will never fall, 

I am fervent and excited to see, 

Lower down theirs and rise up ours. 

At the time, even as he expressed tremendous joy, he unfortunately felt let down and subsequently recited a number of poems in which he tried to show the masses how dysfunctional Somali leaders had become. Take, for instance, this poem he recited after post-colonial leadership failed to unite the country. In a single poem, he was able to unpack themes that were, and unfortunately still are, ailing Somalis. Here are a few lines from the poem: 

Muranihii gumaysiga markaynu isku maan dhaafnay 

Muqdisho iyo Hargaysaba markay murugtayay reentay 

Maatida markay guranayeen labadii maloodi 

Maandeeq markii ay foolatay ee madasha loo joogay 

Mataaanaha dharaartay dhashay ee loo mashxaradayey 

Kala meerintaan labada calan miridh is way daarshay 

Muskii baarlamaanada markaan meel isugu gaynay 

Madaxwaynayaal iyo markii ministar loo doortay 

Maskaxdii wacnayd iyo dadkii meel u wada jeeday

Nimankii malmalay waa kuwii maaley kaligood 

Hadday maalintii na horkacaan midho ma wayneen 

Manaxaanadii baa arliga meerisna u tolin 

Marnaba yaydan dhicin kuwii male ku soo goostay 

Miyigeena nimankii mindida meel walba u dhiibay 

Kuwii muusanaw iyo tolaay nagula meereystay 

Nimankii mashaqaday dhigeen reerba dhan u moosay 

Sun tay nagu mudeen wiilashii la is martiyiwaa

-

When we quarreled over the grip of colonialism,

When both Mogadishu and Hargeisa wept in shared grief,

When the poor were being exploited by the twin colonizers,
 
When Maandeeq (freedom) went into labor, and all had gathered to witness,

When her twin (South and north regions) children were born, and the people rejoiced,

When we exchanged the two flags in a minute,

When we elected leaders to sit in Parliament,

When presidents were chosen, and ministers appointed,

When the bright minds and the people stood aligned in vision

It was those who struck secret backroom deals who reaped the reward alone.

Had they led us that day, we might have prospered.

But the greedy offered nothing to the people.

Those who seized power, and vowed never to let it go

Those who planted knives throughout our countryside,

Who wandered among us, whining while scheming,

Those who engineered our division

The poison they planted still tears our people apart 

In these lines, Timacadde reflects on Somalia's journey from colonial subjugation to independence and the subsequent betrayal of that hard-won freedom by its own political elites—something that has become deeply ingrained in the psyche of Somali leadership. In a beautiful, rhythmic, and stylistic tone, Timacadde begins by recalling the emotional and political tensions that emerged during the anti-colonial struggle, where the major cities—specifically Mogadishu and Hargeisa—were united in grief and resistance. He paints a picture of how, amid the suffering of ordinary people and the cruelty of colonial forces, a new sense of purpose, freedom, and self-rule was being born. 

However, that dream quickly began to unravel. Timacadde laments the rise of self-serving leaders—those who seized power not to serve the public, but to enrich themselves and consolidate control. Timacadde accused those leaders, once seen as national heroes, of hijacking the revolution for personal gain. Rather than addressing the people’s needs or building a nation, they sowed seeds of division, tribalism, and corruption. Their leadership, as Timacadde accused them, was performative and hollow—full of empty gestures and the abandonment of the very ideals they had once championed. Their failure, as Timacadde put it, was both moral and generational, as their actions fractured communities and fueled mistrust among Somalis. 

He continues his lamentation with a critique of those who chased status symbols, wealth, and invitations to Western gatherings over nation-building—an issue that remains too familiar today. These leaders adopted “foreign values” not to empower their people, but to elevate their personal image. By doing so, Timacadde noted, they alienated their own citizens and stifled indigenous visions of progress. Timacadde’s view on these leaders was clear: he saw them as men who had traded the dignity of a self-determined Somali people for fleeting vanity. Moreover, in the latter part of the poem, it becomes even more compelling. He utters these lines; 

“Madhax male aadmigu wuxuu kuu mitamiya 

Macaluul wax kaagama taro maal laguu guro 

Midigtaadu waxay xoogsato ayaa maydha gaajada 

Marko aanad lahayn looma lulo maanka waligaa 

Magaabada hashaada ayaa ka roon maydhanaan kale”

-

There’s no real benefit in what others hand you

Hunger isn’t eased by wealth raised through charity.

Only what your own right hand labors for
 
Can truly quiet the ache of an empty stomach.

Never let your mind crave what’s not yours

Even your own sour milk, however little,

Is better than abundance from another man’s herd 

Timacadde is once again lamenting the reliance on others, the loss of dignity, and the futility of aid dependence. He argues that having ambition and inner drive is fundamental to living a meaningful life. Timacadde then critiques the value of what is handed to you (aid), stating that what people give, though perhaps well-intentioned, often lacks real worth. He brilliantly notes that even hunger cannot be truly defeated by wealth or resources acquired through others’ efforts. He proudly proclaims that only what you work for yourself, with your own hands, can truly fulfil you. 

What this tells us is that Timacadde understood, seventy years ago, that relying on others for help or sustenance leads to perpetual dependence and shallow concern. Journalists and academics don’t tire of reminding us that Somalia is an aid-dependent country. To help us understand this, Timacadde uses a striking metaphor that appears in almost all his poems: the milk of your own camel is better than someone else’s rinsed-out leftovers. In Somali culture, camels symbolise wealth and pride. By invoking this metaphor, Timacadde is telling his audience the value of what is truly yours—earned, not given. 

It’s noteworthy that Timacadde was not just known for such eloquent political poems. He understood Somalis so well that he dedicated entire poems to anti-clannism, an issue he addressed in numerous works. One of his most well-known poems is the great piece Dugsi male qabyaaladi waxay dumiso mooyane (“Tribalism brings nothing but destruction”). 

In another poem, knowing how important tribal lineage was to Somalis, he attempted to distinguish between clan and clannism. He sought to educate Somalis on the true purpose of clan, which he saw simply as a way to understand one’s lineage. However, he was also keenly aware that clan was being misused as a tool for division. Through his poetry, he calls out clannism as a force of oppression, social stratification, and societal fragmentation. 

“Qabiil waa dirkaagiyo

Qoys kaad u dhalatoo

Tahay inaad qadarisaa

Qabyaaladina waa qurun

Waa Qaaxo iyo cudur

Dadka kala qoqoba oo

Qololola u qeybshee

Qabiilkoo la dhalan-rogay

Xaqa qoomiyaha kale

Lagu qaado weeyaa”

-

A tribe is your lineage,

The kin you are born into,

And it deserves your respect.

But clannism is filth,

A plague and a disease,

That divides people,

And splits them into factions.

A tribe, when distorted,

Becomes a tool of oppression,

Used to strip others of their rights. 

These are just glimpses into the life of a poet, thinker, and cultural critic – a man whose existence was defined by verse. Timacadde and his poetry are the embodiment of classical Somali poetry: profound, philosophical, and rooted in the rhythms of the land and its people. Like many Somali poets, his literary life was part of a tradition that shaped Somali thought, values, and resistance. Yet, his legacy leaves us with a question: how did Timacadde’s poetry manage to survive, while the vast majority of classical Somali poetry has been lost to the ashes of history? 

This question opens up an even more compelling reflection: why was so much Somali classical poetry lost in the first place? The answer lies in the nature of Somali society, which has historically been an oral one. Poetry was not written down; it was heard, memorised, and passed from one person to another. Entire epics, love songs, and political commentaries were preserved through memory alone. People memorised poems as they listened to poets recite them, and through this act of collective memorisation, Somali poetry was able to survive for centuries. But such a fragile system had its vulnerabilities. Without written archives, much of the poetic heritage was left at the mercy of time, war, displacement, and the fading memories of its custodians. And even worse, an entire society was deprived of access to the ideas that provided it with artistic guidance and moral ambition. 

A small part of Timacadde’s poetry survived because one Somali scholar and writer recognised the danger of classical Somali poetry being erased from history. That man was none other than Boobe Yusuf Duale. Unable to find and archive all of Timacadde’s poems, Duale writes: “It is certain that I have not completely collected all of Timacadde’s poems in this book.” He reminds us of the difficulty of retrieving a wealth of literary works and the depth of Timacadde’s poetry. This is a sobering fact: even for those whose poetry and literary works have survived, we only possess a very small portion of their literary legacy. 

Interestingly, Duale wrote the book twice. When he first compiled the archives, he lost them while watching a football match but decided to write it again. “I would have presented this book to you a long time ago, but unfortunately, while I was watching a football match at Banadir Stadium on March 16, the bag containing the book, which I had left in the car, was stolen. I had to rewrite it all over again,” Duale wrote. 

Thanks to this dedication, generations of Somalis and the world can still read, hear, and feel the beauty and brilliance of classical Somali poetry through Timacadde’s words. If Breda saved Husserl’s work, and if Elisabeth somehow found her place in philosophical discourse through archiving her brother’s work, then Duale has played an equally incredible role in saving the literary legacy of one of the greatest African poets. 

Unfortunately, many Somali literary works did not have the chance to survive. Even more troubling, those that did are slowly fading from the Somali intellectual sphere. The histories they hold, the philosophies they illuminate, the culture they embody, and the ideas they promote are becoming increasingly irrelevant. This is largely because many of our intellectuals, writers, and even the wider public are deliberately choosing not to engage with them, preserve them, or honour them. 

This leaves us in a peculiar and tormenting position. If we fail to preserve Somali classical literature—those epic poems, lyrical laments, and sharp-witted verses that once carried the soul of our people—if we deny and deprive our thinkers of the reverence they rightfully earned through thought, artistic expression, and philosophical know-how, then what literary legacy will remain?  

We’re left with nothing but an abstract pride, a hollow sentiment we gossip about without substance. As terrifying as it sounds, the outcome will be a society with no literary memory, no roots to draw wisdom from, no voices echoing through time to remind us of who we are and who we once dared to be after we entered the family of nations. 

Salmon’s piece frames this duality: archives are both shrine and grave. Husserl’s papers, now enshrined in Leuven’s hushed library, testify to how one act of preservation can defy erasure. Nietzsche’s story, however, warns of how easily archives can become tools of distortion. 

Together, they compel us to reflect and, in some sense, to mourn how we have neglected the preservation of Somali classical poetry. What has been saved now faces an even greater threat of disappearing from our public intellectual spaces. This puts the question squarely to Somalis: how much do we care about preserving our thinkers and our classical literary and poetic culture? The answer lies in how much care we, as Somalis, give to archiving our classical poetry.