…in all this water, who owns my name
My father pulled us away from the coastline, until our limbs bloated
And we were afraid, so we used the tide like it was a tether, and we came
Back sand-filled I’m sure the sea is exhausted of me mentioning its
Name, and never writing any elegies sea, who folds in its mouth the
Teeming everyone made to cross water

Asmaa Jama, ‘Baddaan badan hoos ma leedahay’[1]

For the second iteration of Middle Ground, the yearly series that invites literature festivals from around the world to Haus der Kulturen der Welt to explore literary and oral practices and networks, HKW is pleased to cooperate with the Hargeysa International Book Fair in Somaliland.

The festival borrows its name from Chinua Achebe’s contemplation on the ‘middle ground’ in his essay collection The Education of a British Protected Child[2] as a position that is ‘aware of a future to head into and a past to fall back on; it is the home of doubt and indecision, of suspension of disbelief, of make-believe, of playfulness, of the unpredictable, of irony’. Achebe further situates the philosophy of the middle ground when he says: ‘When the Igbo encounter human conflict, their first impulse is not to determine who is right but quickly to restore harmony.’ These words are as relevant today as they were when written more than thirteen years ago, given the perpetuated acts of violence and the rise of the far right in many parts of the world, societies are increasingly polarized, leading to deepening divisions and social unrest. Through resignifying spatiality in its positioning, the concept of middle ground emerges as both a metaphorical and literal response to these challenges. In its metaphorical and contemplative sense, it represents a space of compromise, understanding, and mutual respect, echoing the Igbo approach to conflict resolution. It suggests a willingness to step back from entrenched positions and explore the common ground that exists between opposing viewpoints. Middle ground encourages introspection and self-reflection. It asks us to consider our own biases and preconceptions, and how they might hinder our ability to find common ground with others. Middle ground is a journey inward as much as it is a journey through world literatures.

Geographically, middle ground challenges us to reconsider our relationship with physical and conceptual spaces, prompting a global dialogue that extends far beyond Berlin. This initiative fosters a decentralized network of knowledge production and exchange, where insights and experiences from guest festivals and participating countries are valued equally. By collaborating across borders, contributors critically assess how our diverse environments can evolve to nurture dialogue and mutual understanding. This approach ensures that Berlin, like the home bases of our invited guests and festivals, becomes one of many interconnected hubs in a worldwide conversation about unity, empathy, and literature.

Similarly, when it comes to history, how can the Igbo philosophy be applied in this context? How should history be approached in a way that enriches understanding and contributes to the betterment of all? How can history be viewed not solely through the perspective of the narrator or the victor, and how can peace be made with it?

By redefining the perception of space—that is, reimagining the meaning and importance assigned to spaces—Middle Ground challenges us to create new frameworks for interaction. It suggests that by consciously crafting spaces (both physical and metaphorical) dedicated to dialogue and mutual understanding, conflict might be mitigated before it escalates. In a world where the impulse to divide and conquer often seems to prevail, the Igbo approach, as embodied in the concept of the middle ground, offers a timely reminder of an alternative path. It invites the prioritization of harmony over being right, to seek understanding over victory, and to view conflict not as a zero-sum game, but as an opportunity for growth and deeper connection.

Taking its cue from last year’s edition, which reflected upon, reimagined, and contemplated Caribbean literatures, this year’s iteration explores literatures from the Horn of Africa and the Indian Ocean, reflecting on oraltures, mythologies, the sea in literary imagination, questions of self-sovereignty, archival practices, and Qaraami music, among other dimensions.

The Indian Ocean is positioned historically and metaphorically at a complex intersection which explores the relationship between time and space—a relationship that Kirti Narayan Chaudhuri describes as a network of dynamic and structured relations, writing that ‘the unity of the regions we have called the Indian Ocean and that of their economic and social life takes on analytical cohesion not from the observable unity of a spatial construct but from the dynamics of structural relations.’[3] Its position means it has also served as a crucial space shaping the history of trade, migration, colonialism, and suppression. Encompassing approximately twenty percent of the water covering the Earth’s surface, the Indian Ocean can be described as a memory space, a concept reflected through the various names attributed to the Indian Ocean over the years, from the Erythrean Sea, Eastern Ocean, Afro-Asian Ocean, the Arabian Sea, Indian Sea, to Bahari ya Hindi, and the Swahili Sea.

Therefore, one cannot contemplate the Indian Ocean without questioning the name itself and whether or not it is still appropriate to call it such. Can the literatures produced in and around this body of water serve as an entry point for these reflections? How can we celebrate the literatures of Somali regions without acknowledging the current discourse and the complex pluralism of these regions? While the history of conflict, which is deeply intertwined with literary traditions, cannot be ignored, literature is the focus of this year’s edition of Middle Ground. The programme aims to highlight and celebrate the profound and diverse literary heritage that has emerged from these areas, emphasizing the creativity of their writers and storytellers. If one considers literature as an exploration of experiences of co-existence, these contemplations therefore become an invitation to envisage strategies to live and better inhabit this world together.

Central to these explorations is the very medium through which these literatures are expressed: language. Like the waters of the Indian Ocean itself, language possesses the fluidity that allows its users to adapt and mould it. This liquid nature of language is beautifully exemplified not only in the evolution and blending of languages like Kiswahili, which have flowed across the Indian Ocean’s shores, but also in the intricate structures of poetic forms, such as those found in classical Arabic poetry, which has long been a part of the region’s literary landscape.

Consider the Arabic poetic metre system known as bahr, which means ‘the sea’. This allusion to the sea in the name of a metre system encapsulates the playfulness and porosity of language. Just as the sea has waves, with rhythms and patterns, so does Arabic poetry, as it ‘flows’ according to precise metrical units across different stanzas. This poetic sea provides a structural framework that shapes the verses, much like the shoreline and seabed shape the movements of water. The dynamic interplay between structure and flow allows poetry to capture the essence of the natural sound of waves. The metre division into two equal parts mirrors the symmetry seen in natural bodies of water. This balanced structure creates a rhythmic ebb and flow in the poetry, like the tides. The delicate nature of classical Arabic poetry is reminiscent of  surface tension in liquids, where molecules hold together perfectly in a precarious way. As the poet Al-Mutanabbi[4] captured it around a millenia ago:

 

                                    "هُوَ البَحْرُ غُصْ فيهِ إذا كانَ ساكناً …. على الدُّرّ وَاحذَرْهُ إذا كان مُزْبِدَا

                                    فإنّي رَأيتُ البحرَ يَعثُرُ بالفتى …. وَهذا الذي يأتي الفتى مُتَعَمِّدَا"

It’s the sea, dive in when it’s calm and still ... To find pearls, but beware when it’s wild and will

For I’ve seen the sea trip up the youthful stride … And this is what befalls him when he’s misled by pride[5]

This structured fluidity in Arabic poetry contrasts with—yet complements—the more free-flowing adaptability of languages like Kiswahili. Where Kiswahili demonstrates the linguistic ability to mix and incorporate diverse elements, like tributaries joining a river, classical Arabic poetry shows how language can be shaped into precise patterns while maintaining its essential fluidity. Kiswahili, with its rich tapestry of borrowed words, illustrates how languages can absorb and integrate new elements. Words like salaam (peace) from Arabic, meza (table) from Portuguese, and bangi (hemp) from Persian have flowed into Kiswahili, comparable to different water sources merging in an estuary. This linguistic fusion reflects the dynamic cultural exchanges along the East African coast, where Kiswahili originated and flourished.

Kiswahili and Classical Arabic have maintained their fundamental structures despite their adaptability. Kiswahili retains its Bantu roots, while classical Arabic verse maintained strict metrical systems for over 1,500 years. The evolution of Arabic poetry mirrors global shifts in poetic perception, which sought to free poetry from metre and other stylistic constraints.. The break from classical form, led by pioneers like Badr Shakir al-Sayyab and Nazik al-Malaika, allowed for more experimental and free-form expression, reflecting broader societal changes and artistic innovations.

This transformation further illustrates that the Indian Ocean itself, and the routes to India from which the name originates are as much a linguistic realm with colliding and evolving languages as they are a physical one. The malleability and agency of Kiswahili bears a striking resemblance to the enduring nature of bodies of water. Just as oceans and rivers maintain their fundamental characteristics despite constant motion and change, Kiswahili is a true demonstration of fluidity in its evolution. Much like water poured into a glass, as it adapts to the shape of the container while retaining its fundamental molecular structure, Kiswahili has preserved its core essence while conforming to the linguistic and cultural ‘vessels’ it has encountered over time. The language has flowed through various historical periods, absorbing influences and adapting to new contexts, yet it remains intrinsically Kiswahili.

Given this perspective on the fluidity and cultural importance of Kiswahili, one might argue that the body of water known as the Indian Ocean should be renamed to reflect the agency that characterizes the ocean—an agency language can encapsulate, where the ocean and language merge, each reflecting the essence of the other. The ‘Swahili Sea’ therefore, emerges as a possible alternative as Kiswahili, through the process of indigenization, which Sylvia Wynter describes as ‘a dialectical process of resistance and adaptation,’[6] simultaneously representing the socio-economic and linguistic changes and adaptations which are characteristic of this body of water. Scholar Ali A. Mazrui[7] argues that ‘Kiswahili is one of the most successful Indigenous lingua francas in Africa. Next to Arabic it is perhaps the most pan-African in terms of its transnational scope with a growing population of speakers that is estimated to be in the tens of millions.’ The scope Kiswahili encompasses, from its resistance to its malleability and the ways in which these are reflected in the ocean, foreground the theory on which the suggested change from the ‘Indian Ocean’ to the ‘Swahili Sea’ is predicated.

This reimagining of geographical nomenclature aligns with the wisdom encapsulated in the Kiswahili proverb, Bahari haizuiwi na mto (The ocean cannot be held back by a river). The concept of the Swahili Sea thus becomes more than just a geographical designation; it represents a recognition of the dynamic interplay between language, culture, and environment. It acknowledges how Kiswahili has shaped and been shaped by the peoples and lands it touches, creating a metaphorical home that travels across different shores. This linguistic and cultural sanctuary takes root in diverse communities, fomenting a sense of belonging and unity among people from various backgrounds.

In this expanded view, it becomes evident how language, much like water, is essential to life, growth, and interconnectedness. Kiswahili is constantly moving, mixing, and evolving, yet always remaining a crucial element in the cultural ecosystem of East Africa and beyond. This fluid nature of cultural exchange is not limited to language alone but extends to various aspects of daily life in the region. The Horn of Africa’s cuisine, for example, exemplifies this, incorporating Indian spices, Arabic-influenced dishes like muufo or sambusa, among others, and African staples like injera, sorghum, and millet. Just as Kiswahili has absorbed words from different languages, the region’s culinary traditions have embraced diverse ingredients and cooking techniques, creating a unique gastronomic landscape. The region’s music further illustrates this cultural interchange, its distinctive sound blending rhythms and instruments from across the Indian Ocean. Much like how the bahr in Arabic poetry creates a wave-like motion, the dulcet tones of the Arabian oud intertwine with the percussive beats of the Indian tabla and various African drums. These include the djembe, known for its wide tonal range, the bougarabou, with its deep bass tones, and the talking drum kalangu, dan kar'bi, or doodo, whose pitch can be regulated to mimic the tone patterns of speech, creating a unique sonic journey. Other percussive instruments that frequently feature in music from the region are the kebero, a double-headed conical drum from Ethiopia and Eritrea, and the dumbek, an hourglass-shaped drum popular in North African and Middle Eastern music. The Somali drum known as the muufe, a small hand drum, and the large Swahili long drum called the ngoma also contribute to the region’s rhythmic palette. These diverse percussion instruments, each with their own distinctive timbre and cultural significance, blend with other musical elements to create a sound that encapsulates the area’s rich cultural heritage. This musical fusion mirrors the linguistic adaptability of Kiswahili, with each instrument representing a different cultural influence that has been seamlessly integrated into the region’s modes of artistic expression.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o has extensively commented on the significance of African languages, including Kiswahili, and their role in cultural identity and decolonization. He argues that language is deeply intertwined with culture and identity, and the imposition of colonial languages disrupts this connection. In Decolonising the Mind: the Politics of Language in African Literature, Ngũgĩ highlights how African languages, including Kiswahili, are essential for expressing African experiences and histories, observing that  ‘language as culture is the collective memory bank of a people’s experience in history’.[8]

This perspective aligns with the broader theme of the Swahili Sea as a metaphorical space for cultural exchange and preservation. Just as Ngũgĩ emphasizes the importance of African languages in maintaining cultural identity, the literary imagination surrounding this waterscape draws upon it as a source of inspiration and a metaphor for freedom and memory, where mythology is history and history is very much still present.

Kiswahili has served as a lingua franca along the East African coastline for centuries, facilitating trade, cultural exchange, and the development of vibrant Kiswahili-speaking city-states. These coastal communities have been integral to the region’s history, contributing significantly to global trade networks and spreading ideas and technologies. By suggesting renaming it to the Swahili Sea, we are acknowledging the profound impact that Swahili-speaking peoples have had on the region’s maritime history and culture, as well as the historical and symbolic importance of Kiswahili, which simultaneously adapts and is resistant to a dominant reality, creating a unique agency. The term ‘Swahili Sea’ more accurately reflects the extent of the Swahili-speaking regions, which stretch along the eastern coast of Africa from Somalia to South Africa. This resignification would highlight the importance of this specific coastal area in the broader context of the ocean’s history and current significance.

The proposal to rename the Indian Ocean also addresses the lingering legacy of colonialism in geographical nomenclature. The current name is a remnant of a time when European powers dominated the region, often overlooking or minimizing the contributions of Indigenous cultures. Renaming it the Swahili Sea constitutes a symbolic gesture of decolonization, recognizing the agency and importance of local communities in shaping their own narratives and identities.

While some may raise concerns about historical revisionism or the practical difficulties of implementing such a change, the potential benefits outweigh these drawbacks. This renaming proposal does not erase history, but rather enriches understanding of it by highlighting previously underrepresented perspectives. It encourages a more nuanced and inclusive approach to studying and discussing the region’s past and present. Moreover, this change aligns with broader global efforts to reassess colonial legacies. It would set a precedent for recognizing Indigenous contributions to global history and geography, potentially inspiring similar re-examinations in other parts of the world.

Renaming the Indian Ocean to the Swahili Sea represents more than just a change in nomenclature. It is an opportunity to acknowledge the rich cultural tapestry of the East African coast, to re-examine historical oversights, and to explore a more inclusive understanding of global maritime history. As we move towards a more interconnected and culturally aware world, such changes can play a crucial role in fostering mutual understanding and respect among diverse global communities.

Mozambican poet Glória de Sant'Anna exemplifies this approach in her contemplation of the Indian Ocean through poetry. Using intimate and universal poetic imagery, she captures the essence of the sea’s vast influence. In her ‘Poem of the Sea’[9], she writes:

... all words,
all calls, shouts, tears
are dispersed into the shadow of the wind
and into the secret blue of the water.

The image of the vast, unpredictable, and merciless sea in the poem, with its own memory and melody, calls to mind the deep sea melodies that have long been a part of maritime culture. This unforgiving entity evokes the haunting underwater soundscapes that framed the adventures and perilous lives of pearl divers throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and till this very day, the deep ocean still retains the lingering echoes of their struggles and triumphs.

Work songs, or sea shanties, as these melodies were sometimes called, provided solace, spiritual connection, and strength to sailors and pearl divers. These individuals spent most of their days diving into the ocean in a repetitive and almost rhythmic performative cycle. This cycle has become embedded into both the tangible and intangible history of the ocean, evident in the physical traces left behind—from shipwrecks on the ocean floor to the altered coastlines shaped by centuries of maritime activity. Maritime myths and legends, passed down through generations, continue to influence our collective imagination. The ocean has inspired countless works of art, literature, and music, shaping cultural identities, and serving as a canvas for human dreams, fears, and aspirations, much like how Ngũgĩ argues that language is embedded in the cultural fabric of a society. This reimagining of spaces could lead to a form of cultural liberation, honouring the voices that have long called these shores home and moving beyond colonial naming conventions. By recognizing and celebrating the Indigenous languages, literature, and musical traditions of the Swahili sea region, we can challenge the dominant narratives imposed by colonial powers. One might call it reimagining, while others call remembering; and one might argue that the past holds answers to dilemmas of the present if one listens to the stories that make up legends.

It has been said that, once upon a time when Baba Abdullah met the sea serpent, an intense encounter that would become a legend along the Swahili coast of East Africa. This wise, elderly fisherman, known for his deep understanding of the ocean and its creatures, found himself face to face with Nyoka wa Bahari, a massive serpent feared by many and believed to guard the sea’s treasures. Under the light of a full moon, as Baba Abdullah fished alone, the serpent emerged—its length rivalling that of a ship, its eyes glowing like lanterns in the dark. Rather than fleeing in terror, Baba Abdullah calmly addressed the creature, showing respect and requesting safe passage. Surprised by the fisherman’s bravery and reverence, the serpent spared him and offered to grant a single wish. Baba Abdullah, true to his reputation for wisdom, asked not for personal gain but for protection for his village from storms and assurance of plentiful fish. Moved by this selfless request, the serpent agreed before disappearing into the depths. From that day forward, the village thrived, blessed with calm seas and abundant catches. This tale, still recounted along the Swahili coast, serves as a powerful parable emphasizing humility, respect for nature, and the rewards of selflessness. It underscores the deep connection between humans and the ocean, highlighting the importance of living in harmony with the natural world.

This legend speaks of a possible future for the Indian Ocean, one that will always remember its complex history. Unlike what is widely known from mainstream media, one could argue that piracy takes on multiple dimensions: on the one hand, there is the mediatization of piracy, which focuses on the raiding of merchant ships by smaller vessels, and on the other, colonialism could be looked upon as an act of piracy, as seen in the systematic plunder, not just of physical wealth but also of cultural heritage and sovereignty. Artefacts were stolen, traditions and communities were erased, and foreign governments were imposed, facilitating the pillaging of both the past and future of smaller nations. Colonialism as a form of piracy left deep scars, still visible today as many former colonies struggle to reclaim their history and rebuild their identities. The story of Baba Abdullah reminds us of the importance of respect and solidarity, a lesson that extends to acknowledging and addressing the historical injustices inflicted upon nations around the Indian Ocean.

Historically the Swahili Sea has been the stage upon which the drama of human memory has played out. It has witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the exchange of ideas, and the flow of commodities that have shaped our world. For instance the French and later British invasions of Egypt were not merely about territorial conquest, but about controlling the arteries of global commerce, especially the route to India. By occupying Egypt, they sought to secure their influence over global commerce and maintain a stronghold on the vital connections between Europe and the riches of the East. The influence of this commercial route extended beyond the Indian Ocean region to encompass areas around the Mediterranean and all the way to West Africa. Countries like Angola, São Tomé and Príncipe, Cape Verde, Guinea-Bissau, and Mozambique fell under Portuguese influence.

The Portuguese influence in these territories was far-reaching and long-lasting. Portugal’s colonial strategy focused on establishing coastal settlements and trading posts, which served as gateways for the extraction of resources and the slave trade. In Angola and Mozambique, Portugal’s presence led to deep-rooted economic exploitation and cultural assimilation. The smaller island nations of Cape Verde and São Tomé and Príncipe became important stopover points for Portuguese ships traversing the Atlantic. Guinea-Bissau, though less economically significant, was still vital for Portugal’s colonial prestige. This influence persisted well into the twentieth century, shaping these nations’ languages, religions, and socio-economic structures, with lasting impacts that are still evident today. These colonial powers recognized that true dominion lay in the ability to dictate the flow of trade. The Swahili Sea therefore, became a liquid highway of power and influence, its waters carrying not just ships and cargo, but the very essence of economic supremacy.

It is impossible to reimagine the Swahili Sea as a memory space without acknowledging the poetry that has pervaded all the countries in and around it for centuries, stretching from the Timor Sea to the coastline of Somalia. As the late Mohamed Hadraawi once said, ‘Without poetry, we would not exist as a society’.[10] The Somali regions in particular serve as a central crossroads for the material and immaterial, poetry and philosophies, human and nonhuman histories, traces of which can be found in oraltures. As Said S. Samatar puts it:

In Somalia, poetry is more than just an art form; it’s a medium of communication, news-sharing, and persuasion, drawing on history, culture and politics. Poetry is also used in inter-clan disputes, where a poet composes a poem insulting another tribe. The highly respected Somali poet is tasked with composing verses to commemorate every significant event in his clan, thereby recording his people’s history and preserving the feelings around those events. The poems are then memorized by others and passed down through the generations.[11]

The Swahili Sea is a repository of memories where the movement of peoples, ideas, and cultures has created a mosaic of shared heritage and literary traditions. The poetic traditions that flourish along these shores are not just artistic expressions, but vital components of social and cultural identity. In the Somali regions, poetry is a living, breathing element of daily life, interwoven with the very fabric of society. It serves as a powerful medium for communication, often employed to address social issues, convey emotions, and preserve collective memory. Much like in Asmaa Jama’s poem, the ocean near the Somali regions becomes a powerful symbol of identity and migration. Jama reflects on the ocean as both a lifeline and a barrier, representing the perilous journeys many Somalis undertake. The imagery of being pulled away from the coastline captures the fear and desperation of these crossings. The sea, vast and indifferent, holds the weight of countless untold stories, silently witnessing the struggles of those forced to cross its waters. Exhausted by these repeated journeys, the ocean carries the memory of lives left unnamed and unremembered. Somali poetry’s spoken tradition reflects the ingenuity of its creators, weaving together personal and collective narratives while bridging historical and contemporary themes. This tradition underscores the ocean’s role as more than a geographical space.

Through its collaboration with Hargeysa International Book Fair, Middle Ground contributes to the decentralization of imaginations and histories across the world. By shifting focus to this historically rich yet often overlooked region, Middle Ground challenges perceptions of what are the centres of knowledge production. The programme, running from 27–29 September 2024, offers a series of workshops, poetry readings, performances, and installations that celebrate and explore the fluid, ever-evolving traditions stretching from the Horn of Africa to the Indian Ocean.

This partnership not only highlights the cultural wealth of the Swahili Sea, but also redefines the global intellectual landscape. Through its activities, Middle Ground is creating new pathways for ideas to flow, much like the currents of the Swahili Sea itself, connecting disparate shores of thought and creativity. By centering and amplifying voices from these vibrant coastal regions, Middle Ground is reshaping our understanding of global knowledge systems, highlighting and accommodating plural forms of knowledge production linked to different waterscapes and a wider spectrum of contexts.

 Kenan Khadaj and Dzekashu MacViban

 

[1] The Previous Song: Focus on Somali Poetry, summer issue of MPT (Modern Poetry in Translation (2022), 58.

[2] Kirti Narayan Chaudhuri, Asia Before Europe: Economy and Civilisation of the Indian Ocean from the Rise of Islam to 1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1990), 24.

[3] Chaudhuri, Asia Before Europe, 23.

[4] Martin Nick, ‘Al Mutanabbi: the greatest Arabic Poet,’ Al Shindagah 54 (Sept/Oct 2003), www.alshindagah.com/sepoct2003/almutanabbi.html.

[5] Translated by Kenan Khadaj.

[6] Sylvia Wynter, ‘Black Metamorphosis: New Natives in a New World’ (1970),unpublished manuscript, https://monoskop.org/images/6/69/Wynter_Sylvia_Black_Metamorphosis_New_Natives_in_a_New_World_1970s.pdf.

[7] Ali A. Mazrui, ‘Roots of Kiswahili: colonialism, nationalism and dual heritage,’ Ufahamu: A Journal of African Studies 20/3 (1992): 88–100.

[8] Ngũgĩ wa Thiongʼo, Decolonising the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature (Portsmouth, New Hampshire: Heinemann, 1986), 15.

[9] ‘Gloria de Sant'Anna: 21 Poems’, translated by John Mitras, in Stained Glass: Poetry from the Land of Mozambique, ed. Luis Rafael (London: Roman Books, 2011).

[10]  ‘Somalia’s most famous poet, Hadrawi, passes away in Hargeisa’, Hiraan Online (18 August 2022), www.hiiraan.com/news4/2022/Aug/187470/somalia_s_most_famous_poet_hadrawi_passes_away_in_hargeisa.aspx.

[11]Said S. Samatar, Oral Poetry and Somali Nationalism: The case of Sayyid Muhammad ‘Abdille Hasan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982).