Somalia Loses its Shakespeare, Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame

Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame.
Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame.
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Somalia Loses its Shakespeare, Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame

Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame.
Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame.

Somalia lives in an ongoing path of tragedies, and the latest was an attack led by Harakat al-Shabaab militant group on a hotel in Mogadishu. Still, the death of Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame, known as “Hadrawi”, aged 79, on Thursday hit hard in the whole country.

This reaction was not surprising, Hadrawi has long been known as one of Somalia’s greatest poets, according to a mourning article in The Guardian newspaper. Warsame wasn’t only esteemed because of his poetry, but because he was always closely related to his country’s causes, from a young age. Prison and oppression never broke him or prevented him from writing for peace and democracy.

In 1973, he was jailed by former president Mohamed Siad Barre, for five years. He was accused of incitement against the government, his works were banned, but he kept writing poetry, and his works were secretly published and distributed.

The songs and poems he wrote were full of metaphors, so they were hard to control by the military regime.

In the early 1990s, during a civil war that killed thousands of Somalians, Hadrawi traveled the country in a “peace itinerary”, calling the different warring parties to reject violence. His reconciliation message was welcomed among Somalians inside the country and abroad.

“Poet Mohamed Ibrahim Warsame (Hadrawi) was a symbol of unity and peace. He was a major pillar in Somalia’s arts and literature, and played a pioneering role in preserving the Somalian culture and enhancing our language. All Somalian families are mourning him today,” said President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud in mourning the late poet.

Salah Ahmed, poet, playwright, and Somalian language professor at the US Minnesota University, said: “We will always be proud of the abundant poetic, cultural, and academic heritage he left.”

The European Union, Norway, and the United Kingdom sent condolence messages to the Somalian government.

“Hadrawi wasn’t Somalia’s Shakespeare, but Somalia's Hadrawi. He was more than a poet, he was a philosopher, and a fighter for freedom. He spent many years in jail because he opposed oppression and tyranny,” said Somalian singer and composer Aar Maanta about Hadrawi.

“He wrote some of the best love songs, and poems that Somalians in the Horn of Africa region adored and believed in,” he noted.

Ahmed, who knew Warsame since the late 1960s, said that “Hadrawi was one of the kindest people I have ever met. His poems spoke for those who didn’t have a voice…we will miss him, but we will always be proud of the academic heritage he left.”

Somalia is known as the “nation of poets”, but its heritage has remained vocal, as the Somalian language was written once, in 1927.



In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
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In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)

We watch video after video, consuming the world on our handheld devices in bites of two minutes, one minute, 30 seconds, 15. We turn to moving pictures — “film” — because it comes the closest to approximating the world that we see and experience. This is, after all, 2024, and video in our pocket — ours, others', everyone's — has become our birthright.
But sometimes — even in this era of live video always rolling, always recording, always capturing — sometimes the frozen moment can enter the eye like nothing else. And in the process, it can tell a larger story that echoes long after the moment was captured. That's what happened this past week in Beirut, through the camera lens of Associated Press photographer Bilal Hussein and the photographs he captured.
When Hussein set up his camera outside an evacuated Beirut apartment building Tuesday after Israel announced it would be targeted as part of military operations against Hezbollah, he had one goal in mind — only one. "All I thought of," he says, “was photographing the missile while it was coming down.”
He found a safe spot. He ensured a good angle. He wasn't stressed, he said; like many photographers who work in such environments, he had been in situations like this one before. He was ready.
When the attack came — a bomb, not a missile in the end — Hussein swung into action. And, unsurprisingly for a professional who has been doing this work for two decades, he did exactly what he set out to do.
Time slowed down
The sequence of images he made bursts with the explosive energy of its subject matter.
In one frame, the bomb hangs there, a weird and obtrusive interloper in the scene. It is not yet noticed by anyone around it, ready to bring its destruction to a building that, in moments, will no longer exist. The building's balconies, a split-second from nonexistence, are devoid of people as the bomb finds its mark.
These are the kind of moments that video, rolling at the speed of life or even in slow motion, cannot capture in the same way. A photo holds us in the scene, stops time, invites a viewer to take the most chaotic of events and break it down, looking around and noticing things in a strangely silent way that actual life could not.
In another frame, one that happened micro moments after the first, the building is in the process of exploding. Let's repeat that for effect, since even as recently as a couple generations ago photographs like this were rare: in the process of exploding.
Pieces of building are shooting out in all directions, in high velocity — in real life. But in the image they are frozen, outward bound, hanging in space awaiting the next seconds of their dissolution — just like the bomb that displaced them was doing milliseconds before. And in that, a contemplation of the destruction — and the people it was visited upon — becomes possible.
Tech gives us new prisms to see the world
The technology to grab so many images in the course of little more than one second — and do it in such clarity and high resolution — is barely a generation old.
So to see these “stills,” as journalists call them, come together to paint a picture of an event is a combination of artistry, intrepidity and technology — an exercise in freezing time, and in giving people the opportunity to contemplate for minutes, even hours, what took place in mere seconds. This holds true for positive things that the camera captures — and for visitations of violence like this one as well.
Photography is random access. We, the viewers of it, choose how to see it, process it, digest it. We go backward and forward in time, at will. We control the pace and the speed at which dizzying images hurtle at us. And in that process, something unusual for this era emerges: a bit of time to think.
That, among many other things, is the enduring power of the still image in a moving-picture world — and the power of what Bilal Hussein captured on that clear, sunny day in Beirut.