Translating liberation

Abdiaziz Mahdi, widely known by his nickname Guudcadde, is — in my view — one of the most vital literary translators and public intellectuals working in the Somali language today. A writer and blogger, Guudcadde has emerged as a leading voice in the effort to bring global revolutionary and philosophical thought into Somali — not through abstract theory, but through grounded, lived relevance to Somali life and struggle. His translations of landmark texts such as The Communist Manifesto, Pedagogy of the Oppressed, The Wretched of the Earth, and Representations of the Intellectual mark a quiet but important turning point: each introduced to Somali readers in their own language, many for the first time. 

He belongs to a generation of Somali thinkers working beyond the boundaries of formal institutions, yet profoundly shaping the nation’s cultural and political discourse. Through his platform Aragtixora, he has created a space for critical reflection on language, power, exile, and public responsibility — what it means, in other words, to think with integrity in a time of crisis. His writing, both original and translated, moves fluidly across political theory, memoir, and cultural critique. What binds it all is a refusal to surrender Somali pain, Somali beauty, or Somali futures to silence. His project is not simply about making “big ideas” available in Somali; rather, it is about expanding what Somali itself can carry, express, and, crucially, imagine. 

At a time when the Somali language faces both creative resurgence and existential risk — and as Somalis everywhere grapple with questions of identity, justice, and historical repair — Guudcadde’s work offers a renewed vision. I wanted to explore the scope of Guudcadde’s work, but also to understand what compels a man to translate the voices of Marx, Fanon, Freire, Said, and Barkat God into Somali. 

In this interview for Geeska, Abdiaziz Guudcadde speaks about the ethics of translation, the limits and possibilities of Somali as a language of philosophy, and why suffering — if not spoken in our own words — risks becoming permanent. 

Warsame Shiidley: Let’s start with a simple one, why did you choose these specific books? You’ve translated writers from Europe, Somalia, and Djibouti. What idea connects them all, and why is it important to ask that question in Somali today? 

Abdiaziz Guudcadde: I firmly believe that reading cultivates a profound sense of humanism and depth within us. Humanity has produced an expansive body of literature spanning nearly every subject imaginable. One compelling reason to champion and promote reading — particularly methodical reading — is its unparalleled capacity to sharpen and refine critical thinking, ultimately fostering intellectual clarity and insight in the reader. To empower the public to refine their mental faculties for debate and critical analysis, we must provide them with a broader array of perspectives. This is partly why I view translation as a vital means to enrich our intellectual landscape. The more one engages with novel and diverse ideas, the greater the variety of intellectual connections one can forge. 

I embarked on this journey of translating these works — texts that are capable of nurturing the reader’s critical faculties across political, psychological, cultural, and social domains — as a humble contribution to sharing the wisdom of great thinkers and revolutionaries. My aim is to enable the Somali readership to savour a diverse array of ideas and perspectives, broadening their intellectual horizons. 

Somalia, once a self-proclaimed socialist state under Siad Barre’s regime, embraced a heavily curated, “Siadised” version of Marxism, yet never ventured to translate the seminal works of Marx and Engels. Ibrahim Maygaag Samatar, a former Somali finance minister and ambassador to Bonn, once attempted this task, only to be thwarted by the era’s pervasive book bans. 

WS: The Communist Manifesto was written in a time of major change, calling workers to rise up and imagine a new world. You’ve translated it for Somali readers — a people who once lived with strong communal, even socialist, values in their daily lives, but who may now be moving away from that. Do you think Marx and Engels still speak to Somalia today? What kind of future, if any, do their ideas point to at this moment? 

AG: For me, translating The Communist Manifesto into Somali was an arduous yet joyous journey, marking a historic milestone as the first time this foundational text became accessible in the Somali language and to the Somali public. Somalia, once a self-proclaimed socialist state under Siad Barre’s regime, embraced a heavily curated, “Siadised” version of Marxism, yet never ventured to translate the seminal works of Marx and Engels. Ibrahim Maygaag Samatar, a former Somali finance minister and ambassador to Bonn, once attempted this task, only to be thwarted by the era’s pervasive book bans. 

Now, in 2020, we have the privilege of realising the aspirations of our forebears. The translation’s release elicited a spectrum of reactions, as anticipated. Some argued that Marxist ideas are incompatible with Somalia’s predominantly Muslim society. To this, I counter that our pursuit is not theological warfare, but an intellectual odyssey. Somali culture has long been steeped in communal and egalitarian traditions, encapsulated in the adage wax-wada-qab waa aad — roughly, “communality is perfection”, or “I am because we are.” This ethos, which I term “the Somali doctrine”, is reflected in concepts like Martisoor (hospitality), Xoolayn (community crowdfunding), Beelnimo (sense of community), Tolnimo (belonging over alienation), and Talawadaag (collective leadership). These values resonate deeply with core Marxist principles. 

Among the spectrum of ideological frameworks, leftist thought aligns most closely with the Somali way of life. The ideas of Marx and Engels can enrich this communal ethos, fostering critical thinking and collective action. By nurturing class consciousness among Somalis, this translation could spark a modest revolution, paving the way for humanisation and development on the horizon. 

WS: The Wretched of the Earth is not just about colonial rule — it’s also about what happens after. Frantz Fanon speaks of violence, betrayal, and the deep scars left behind. Did translating this book make you think differently about Somalia’s postcolonial story, or about the kinds of wounds Somali society still carries today? 

AG: Of course. Frantz Fanon’s work has guided me into the depths of the Somali protracted tragedy, prompting critical reflection on what went astray. How have our historical encounters with colonialism, dictatorial governance, civil wars, and societal fragmentation shaped our collective and individual psyche? Fanon extensively explores the psychological toll of oppressive regimes — a phenomenon Dr Hussein A. Bulhan terms “the psychology of oppression”. 

As a nation, Somalis grapple with profound psychological desensitisation on a massive scale (I prefer to use the Somali term Axgab — literally meaning “the retirement of pain”, when we become numb). Observing societal responses to the frequent crimes and abuses in our cities reveals a disturbing trend: victim-blaming has become normalised, and there is a troubling ease in deriding those who suffer. 

Yet, as a wounded society that has shied away from confronting its persistent historical traumas and injustices, Somalis remain ensnared in a cycle of repeating past errors. Fanon’s insights illuminate this predicament. As part of the “wretched of the earth”, we are mired in internecine conflicts, diverting energy from the urgent task of collective healing. 

WS: In Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Paulo Freire argues that oppressed people must become the subjects of history rather than merely its objects. Given that Somalis have experienced decades of war, displacement, and aid dependency, did this idea influence your approach to translating the book? And if so, how? 

AG: Yes. Like Frantz Fanon, Paulo Freire’s seminal work Pedagogy of the Oppressed, alongside his broader oeuvre, provides a profound framework for articulating the plight of marginalised communities. Freire delivers a compelling manifesto, advocating for the emancipation of the oppressed through the transformative potential of education. He forcefully critiques the conventional “banking” model of education — in which students are passive recipients of knowledge — and champions an interactive, dialogical approach that fosters critical consciousness and praxis. 

For the Somali people — who have endured decades of colonialism, civil war, religious extremism, and entrenched poverty — Freire’s ideas resonate deeply. His vision of education as a catalyst for social transformation and personal empowerment offers a pathway to disrupt the cycles of violence and deprivation that have long afflicted Somali communities. The outdated “banking” model, as Freire argues, perpetuates systemic inequities, producing individuals who conform to rather than challenge the status quo. By embracing Freire’s liberatory pedagogy, Somalis can forge a path towards a more equitable and hopeful future. 

The Somali context, marked by a turbulent history and ongoing struggles for stability, underscores the relevance of Freire’s concepts of oppression and liberation. Translating his work into this setting not only invites reflection on Somalia’s historical and contemporary challenges but also opens avenues for envisioning a just society. Freire’s ideas, when applied thoughtfully, hold the promise of empowering individuals and communities to confront adversity and build a future grounded in dignity and justice. 

Warsame Shiidley: Let’s talk about Waa Inoo Muqdisho by Mohamed Adan Sheikh. This book feels like a return — to memory, to place, to pain. Did you find anything in his writing, or in what he left unsaid, that felt especially urgent to share with readers today? 

Abdiaziz Guudcadde: My relationship with Mohamed Aden Sheikh is, to say the least, steeped in irony. I never had the opportunity to meet him in person or engage in conversation, yet I feel a profound familiarity with him. This stems from the accounts I’ve heard and the writings I’ve read, which portray him as a sane voice trapped in a mad world. His introspective analysis of Somali affairs, coupled with his self-reflective examination of his own role, is utterly compelling. He not only chronicles what went awry but delves deeply into the underlying reasons with remarkable clarity. 

Reading his memoir, Back to Mogadishu, just a year after its English publication, I became convinced that Dr Mohamed Aden’s work deserved renewed attention among Somali readers. This conviction led me to the privilege of connecting with his daughter, the late Somali-Italian writer Kaha Mohamed Aden, whose untimely death in 2023 was a profound loss to all who knew her. 

To address your question, Mohamed Aden’s methodical and critical approach to interpreting modern Somali history — particularly his use of Marxist lenses to dissect the failures of state-building and the roots of civil strife — remains strikingly relevant. His work offers an incisive framework for understanding our past and its enduring impact. 

What fascinates me about Dr Abdourahman Barkat God’s work is its masterful integration of political psychology and sociological inquiry, illuminating the intricate existential realities of the Somali condition. 

WS: Abdourahman Barkat God’s books — Portrait of the New Being and Exile, Another Form of Suffering — are deep and poetic. They talk about pain in a quiet, thoughtful way. What do you think these books offer to Somali readers, especially those living in the diaspora or in exile? 

AG: What fascinates me about Dr Abdourahman Barkat God’s work is its masterful integration of political psychology and sociological inquiry, illuminating the intricate existential realities of the Somali condition. His work deftly traces the emergence of the “new” Somali being within the crucible of dual alienations: the external imposition of foreign colonialism — spanning its imperialist origins and neocolonial persistence — and the internal oppression of domestic authoritarianism. 

Through what might be described as a psychological autopsy, Barkat dissects the human condition forged in this dehumanising matrix. He probes profound questions: what kind of individual — man or woman — emerges from this crucible of systemic degradation? And what transpires when these individuals, seeking liberation from their homeland’s primal suffering, venture into exile, only to encounter what Barkat poignantly terms the “land of the second suffering”? These are the complex, thorny dilemmas at the heart of his intellectual pursuit. 

Barkat’s two seminal works hold immense significance for the Somali populace, whether residing in their ancestral homeland or scattered across the diaspora, with particular resonance for those in Djibouti, where the shadow of dictatorship still looms. These texts serve as profound excavations of the psychic conflicts that define the Somali experience, unravelling their external manifestations to yield transformative insights. By engaging with these works, readers are equipped not only to understand the depths of their collective and individual struggles but also to cultivate a yearning for growth and a resolute commitment to the pursuit of a more equitable and just world. 

WS: Edward Said’s Representations of the Intellectual is like a call to action for public thinkers. Do you see your translation work as part of that role — not just explaining ideas, but also challenging people and systems? 

AG: Edward Said’s conceptualisation of the intellectual’s societal role resonates profoundly with the aspirations and challenges of Somali society. By rendering Said’s seminal work, Representations of the Intellectual, into Somali, this endeavour seeks to democratise access to transformative ideas, igniting robust intellectual discourse and catalysing a renaissance of critical thought within the community. The translation aims to contextualise Said’s insights, enabling Somali readers to interrogate their relevance to local realities and fostering a dynamic space for dialogue that emboldens societal transformation. 

In the Somali context, where conflict and instability have fractured the social fabric, intellectuals bear a pivotal responsibility to shape discourse, challenge entrenched power structures, dismantle pernicious stereotypes, and envision a cohesive, thriving society. As the esteemed Somali scholar Ismail Ali Ismail eloquently argued in his essay The Intellectual Paralysis of the Educated Somalis, a nation’s intellectual capital is indispensable to its survival and progress. Yet Somali intellectuals have often fallen short of this mantle, underscoring the urgency of reinvigorating their role. 

Hence, translating Said’s work into Somali offers a powerful instrument to disrupt intellectual stagnation and empower emerging thinkers. It validates the struggles of Somali intellectuals, equipping them with frameworks to confront the enduring legacies of colonialism, authoritarianism, and religious dogmatism. By adapting Said’s ideas to the Somali milieu, this project aspires to cultivate a bold, transformative intellectual environment, fostering critical engagement and advancing the nation’s collective journey towards enlightenment and renewal. 

WS: Let’s talk about the Somali language itself. Was there any word, sentence, or grammar choice that surprised you — either because it fit perfectly, or didn’t work at all? Did you ever feel like Somali was responding to the book in its own way? 

AG: The Somali language enjoys an ancient lineage, recognised among the world’s oldest spoken tongues, with origins tracing back to at least 3000 BCE, as noted by Charles Barber in his seminal work The English Language: A Historical Introduction. Yet, remarkably, it acquired an official written script only in 1972 — a mere fifty-three years ago. This relatively recent development naturally constrains the volume of written literature, with estimates suggesting a modest corpus of Somali titles, though precise figures remain elusive. Despite this, the language, along with its authors and translators, has demonstrated remarkable resilience. As the English adage goes, “It’s not the years, it’s the miles,” and Somali’s progress defies its script’s youth, undeterred by the turbulent decades since its formalisation. 

In these fifty-plus years, marked by significant challenges, Somali has sustained steady literary production and adaptation, endowing it with vital endurance. For an aspiring translator or author like myself, the scarcity of linguistic resources poses a hurdle, yet it also invites creative improvisation. Somali excels at articulating tangible, concrete concepts, though it may carry less weight in conveying intricate, abstract ideas. Nevertheless, my experience with the language reveals its latent flexibility and adaptability, capable of leveraging traditional terms or forging new ones to meet expressive demands. This malleability signals a promising future for Somali as a dynamic literary medium. 

WS: Many of the writers you’ve translated — like Fanon, Said, and Barkat God — write about suffering as something we must understand, not just feel. What do you think happens when people suffer without being able to explain or think about it? 

AG: Suffering is an intrinsic facet of the human condition, as inescapable as breath itself. It cannot be outmanoeuvred or evaded. Yet, while suffering is inevitable, it must not define our essence. Rather, our response to it shapes who we are. The weight of historical and contemporary burdens — colonial oppression, tyrannical regimes, civil wars, social discord, religious extremism, warlordism, and stark economic and class disparities — forms a collective tapestry of anguish that permeates our shared memory and lived reality. 

To merely endure suffering without interrogating its causes, mechanisms, and implications is to teeter on the edge of existential demise. As Paulo Freire argued, to be truly human is to exist as a Subject, not a passive Object, within one’s reality. This demands agency, autonomy, and a critical engagement with the nature of suffering. To authentically articulate and “name” one’s suffering — in Freire’s terms — is not merely a psychological exercise but a profoundly political act: a praxis of liberation. Without this capacity, one risks becoming a perpetual victim of systems meant to be dismantled. 

WS: You’re building a powerful library of translated books from all over the world. What are you hoping this work will lead to? Are you writing for the Somali reader of today or the Somali reader of the future? 

AG: When I am doing what I do — the cultural and intellectual (re)production — I feel a sense of meaning in a world devoid of any. I hold a steadfast conviction that human civilisation endures only when each of us contributes according to our capacity. Having reaped immense rewards from the works of others, I strive to reciprocate this gift, honouring both present and future generations. This act of translation is not merely an expression of my passion but a humble venture to repay the incalculable debt I owe to the intellectual giants upon whose shoulders we, as dwarfs, precariously perch — as St Bernard of Clairvaux so eloquently observed. 

WS: Last question. Translation is serious cultural work, but also a quiet work. When you finish a translation, who do you imagine reading it? Who is the person you hope it will wake up or inspire? 

AG: I write for the majority — for those whose voices echo in the margins. I write for the dispossessed. I write for the resilient masses who rise each day against the weight of injustice. I write for my kin — those bound not by blood, but by shared struggle and unyielding hope. In the spirit of Paulo Freire, my pen is for “the oppressed, and to those who suffer with them and fight at their side.”