Bla bla bla

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nooj
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Re: Bla bla bla

Postby nooj » Tue Sep 20, 2022 6:44 pm

Aside from being an incredible bertsolari, there's another less well known side to Xalbador, which is that he was deeply religious. Another facet of the man was that he was keenly atuned and linked to nature, as befits his calling as a shepherd...he lived in the mountains after all.

Curiously enough, I don't think his books have been translated and published into French, Spanish or English. I say that this is curious, because Xalbador's poetry was immediately recognised as a modern day classic by his Basque audience. I would have imagined that in the decades since his death, someone would have translated his book Odoloaren Mintzoa 'the Voice of Blood' (1976), for example. But I can't find anything. So it seems his poetry is only available in Basque...and long may it stay that way (?). On the one hand it's a shame that non-Basque speakers can't read Xalbador, but on the other hand it feels good to have things that you NEED to know Basque to read. Something 'secret'.

In this poem which is taken from Odolaren Mintzoa, he talks about an accident that he had while he was out chopping wood. I think his final verse is amazing.

Ez dakit eman behar nukenetz suerte txarraren kondura
edo nihaurek tentatzen dutan delako suerte txar hura;
ene denboran jauzika nabil ixtriputik ixtripura,
zonbait oinaze jasaitekoa etorri nintzan mundura.


I don't know whether I should chalk it up to bad luck
Or whether I myself tempt that so called bad luck.
I have gone leaping from accident to accident,
To suffer pain did I come into this world.

Lehendik ere zonbat ez behar etorri den ene gana,
zerbait seinale aurki ditaike ene gorputzean barna;
nahiz guziek utzi dautaten orroitzapen kirets bana,
bertze guzien gainekoa da aurten gertatu zautana.


Very many misfortunes have happened to me before
Some signs of those misfortunes you can find throughout my body.
Although each have left me a bitter memory
The one that trumps them all happened to me this year.

Abar tzar batek begian jorik oldar ezin sinetsian,
zonbat denboraz lurrean egon ote nintzan hil etsian,
bizitik eta heriotzerat dagoen arte hertsian?
Nago begi hauk behin betikotz nolaz etziren hetsi han.


A big branch struck me in the eye with an unbelievable force
How long was I on the ground, near death's door
In the narrow space that exists between life and death?
I wonder how these eyes did not close once and for all right there.

Ene denboran ez dut pasatu halako memento txarrik,
nolaz etzuen nehork hauteman nik han egin deiadarrik?
Galbideko dei samin guziek etzuten egin indarrik,
oihanak ito zituen eta han egon nintzan bakarrik.


In my life I have not passed through such a terrible moment,
How did no one manage to find me, when I was screaming there?
My shrill cries of perdition did not have enough strength
The forest snuffed them out, and I was there alone.

Bainan Jainkoa, beti bezala, ene bixtatik gordea,
noiz Hari oihu eginen nion zaukitan aldetik beha;
ez nuen hanbat merexi bainan urrikaldu zen ordea,
orduan ere Bera izan zen gu denak baino hobea.


But God, like always, hidden from my sight
Was watching me from nearby, to see when I would shout to Him
I did not deserve so much but He took pity
Then as always, He was better than all of us.

Hark erran zautan: «Zertan zaude hor mundutarren haiduruan?
Gaur Nitaz bertze laguntzailerik ez baitukezu munduan!»
Alta Jainkorik etzen iragan artean ene buruan,
ene fedea zoin ahula den ikasia dut orduan.


He said to me: Why are you waiting there for earthly hands?
Because today, you will only have Me as your helper on earth!
But God had not passed through my mind until then,
I learned then how weak my faith had become.

Etxekoz nintzan geienik orroit oinaze heien erdian,
odolarekin nigarra nahas nadukalarik begian;
Jainkoaz bertze izaite asko zabilzkitan itzulian,
Hau etzen azkeneraino sartu ene gogoko argian.


I was thinking mostly of those at home in the middle of all this suffering
While tears mixed with blood in my eye.
Many beings other than God were tumbling around in my head,
He did not enter my mind's eye until the last.

Herioari so han nindagon dolamena nariola,
gal irriskuan nadukanari asko pentsatzen niola,
Lur huntarikan ene gogoa ezin baztertuz nihola;
ez nuen uste hain hortaraino josia nintzaikiola.


I was there looking death in the face, whilst lamentation flowed from me
I thought much about they [his family, I think] who were about to lose me
Unable to separate my thoughts from this world
Until this moment I had not believed that I had been so sewn to it.

Etsimenduak hestutu arte Jainkoa nuen ahantzi,
bainan ordu latz hark ez ordea ene jaidurak ehortzi!
Bixta hauste ta pairamen orok lehengoa naute utzi,
ene gogoa eta bihotza berriz lurrean dagotzi.


Until desperation had closed in, I had forgotten God
But that terrible hour did not bury once and for all my (bad) inclinations
All the suffering and loss of vision has left me as I was before
My thoughts and my heart are back on earth.

Jainko maitea, hau baldin bazen nitan zen fede guzia,
lur huntaz laster asper nadien egin zaidazu grazia:
hersturak baizik ez badakarkit Zu ganako gutizia,
den baino ere gogorragoa bilaka bekit bizia.


God, if this is all the faith that I can muster in me
Do me the favour of making me tire of this world:
If it is only in difficult times that I desire You
Let my life become even more difficult than it already is.
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Postby nooj » Fri Sep 23, 2022 5:08 pm

Image

Immigrants using the Basque Country as a point of passage is not a modern thing.

You only have to talk to Portuguese people to learn that thousands of Portuguese men used to immigrate to France by passing through the Basque Country, in clandestinity. Nor are the tragic deaths of these immigrants in crossing rivers...or mountains, a recent phenomenon. Xalbador composed a bertso in 1973 after hearing about the deaths of three immigrants. This bertso won the Xenpelar prize (a bertsolaritza competiton) the same year. He writes as a preface:

Ezpeletako mendietan hatzeman zituzten Frantziarat lanketa zatozin hirugizon beltzen gorputzak; hotzak eta goseak hilak zituela ezagutua izan zen. Gertakari horrek gogoetak egin arazi zauzkitan eta pertsuak ezarri nituen hortaz. Nik, muga bazterrekoa izanik, nor nahik bezain ongi badakit mendiko berri. Gau osoak iragan ditut askotan horietan gaindi. Tokia ezagutzen duenak ere izaiten du hor lanik aski gauaz, aro txarrarekin batez ere. Ez dut egundaino hauteman gaixtaginik ibili dela gauaz mendian. Gu iduri, behartsu batzu dira beti hor dabiltzanak. Hala ziren Ezpeletako mendietan hilak hatzeman zituzten dohakabeak ere.

Beren ustez hartua zuketen, etxetik ateratzean, gogo zuten lekuraino heltzeko dirurik aski; bainan norbaitek bildu zioketen dena mendiari lotu baino lehen, eta han utziko zituzten, haur sortu berri bat gauazko sedenean, norbaitek bilduko duelako menturan, nork edo nork utzi ohi duen bezala.

Horren egitea edo norbaiten jo buruan eta botatzea dituenen ekentzeko, berdintsu zaut eni. Eta zer erran gure agintarietaz? Frantzian aski barna sartuz geroz, haizu ziren arrotz horiek egoiterat. Zendako ez bada utz mugan ere pasatzerat eragozpenik gabe? Bada zonbait holako bitxikeria munduan, nik injustizia deitzen ditutanak. Bainan ixo! Ez ditzagun iratzar lo goxoan daudenak! Horra direlako perstuak; hor agertzen ditut ene sendimenduak hobeki.


In the mountains of Ezpeleta, they found the bodies of three black men who were coming to France looking for work. It was informed that they had died of cold and starvation. These events made me reflect and I set down some bertsos about it. As I am by nature a frontier dweller, I know as well as anyone the mountains. I have often spent whole nights in them. Even one who knows well the mountains has trouble there at night, especially in bad weather. I have yet to find any evildoers in the mountains at night. In my opinion, those who are there are always people in need of help. Those poor beings who died in the mountains of Ezpela were also of this kind.

In their minds, in leaving home they had taken enough money to reach the place that they wanted. But someone took everything from them before they began to cross the mountains, and there they left them, like what happens to a newborn baby that is abandoned in the cold of the night, in the idea perhaps that someone would collect them.

To leave someone like that is the same for me as striking someone in the head and throwing them down, in order to steal what they have. And what can I say about our authorities? If they had gone a bit further into France they would have been free to stay. Why then don't they let them cross the border without hassling them? There are so many such bizarrities in this world, I would rather call them injusticies. But let's be silent, let's not wake those who are sleeping peacefully! Here then are my bertsos. I reveal my feelings better there.


Gauza triste bat publikatzeko
kantatzera naiz abian,
horra zer berri zabaldu zaukun
berriki Euskal Herrian.
Laguntza faltak berekin duen
pairamenaren erdian,
hiru gizonek beren bizia
galdu dutela mendian.


I am about to sing
To make known a sad news.
This is what has just been
Publicised recently in the Basque Country
In the midst of the suffering
That the lack of aid brings,
Three men have lost their life
In the mountains.

Etziren gure arrazakoak
mendian galdu direnak,
Jainko jaunaren bixtan ordea
anaiak dirade denak.
Kolorez beltzak izanagatik
haiek ere ama banak,
bertzek bezala sofriturikan
mundu hontara emanak.


They were not of our race
Those who became lost on the mountain
However in the eyes of our Lord God
They were our brothers
Although they were black of colour
They too each had a mother
Like all other mothers who suffered
To bring them to this world.

Afrikatikan hunat zatozin
eginik bide luzea,
ezin jasana zuketen nunbait
herriko ezin bertzea.
Beren bizia hobetu nahiz
gosez ta hotzez hiltzea,
basihiziek gorena dute
holako heriotzea.


They came here from Africa
Having made a long journey
Probably unable to bear
The misfortunes of home
Wanting to improve their life
To die of hunger and cold
At most, only wild beasts
Suffer such a death.


Diru zuteno laguntzaileak
bazituzten ene ustez,
baina zonbaiten karitatea
egiten da diru hutsez.
Hartarik kanpo axola guti
bertzen arima gorputzez,
gauza horrek nau orroitarazten
Judas-ez eta Jesus-ez.


So long as they had money,
They had helpers, I believe
But the charity of some
Is only done for pure money
Outside of that, little worry
For the souls and bodies of others
It reminds me
Of Judas and Jesus.

Ezin bertzea berekin dakar
betitik herri pobreak,
hango jendea tirriatzen du
bizimodu bat hobeak.
Haren ondotik zabiltzalarik
hil dira dohakabeak,
ai! Ezpeletan aurten nolako
primaderako loreak.


A poor country
Always brings
need with iit.
A better life
Attracts people from there
In search of this better life
These poor people died
Ai! In Ezpeleta
What (strange) spring flowers
Will there be this year.

Basihiziak kontserbatzeko
badute lege bipilik,
heietan zonbat ihiztatzeko
gizonak ez du perilik.
Eta gizonak norbaiten faltaz
mendian goseak hilik,
lege horien sustatzaileak
gelditu dira ixilik.


To protect animals
They have firm laws
That regulates how many to hunt
Even though man is not in any danger.
But when for the lack of someone's help
A man dies of starvation in the mountain
The supporters of these laws
They remain silent.

gizonak ez du perilik - (Even though) man is not in any danger. What Xalbador is saying that they have these strict laws to protect animals, and they're strict about it when it doesn't have anything to do with the safety of human beings. All the more reason then, for humans to be protected even more. So when human beings are in danger, where are they?

Boteretsuak hilargiraino
igan zauzkigun orduan,
nehoiz bezanbat injustizia
ikusten dugu munduan.
Batzu dirutan emokatuak
gako guztiak eskuan,
eta bertzeak ogia galdez
biziaren irrixkuan.


In these times in which
The powerful have flown even to the Moon
We see as much injustice
As ever on Earth.
Some people, stuffed full of money
Having all the keys in hand
Meanwhile others, begging for bread
Risking their lives.

Dirua deno gure nagusi
ikusiren da holako,
aberatsentzat atekak zabal
hertsi pobrearendako.
Iduritzen zaut gizona bada
erreprotxurik gabeko,
bidea libro behar lukela
nahi lekura joaiteko.


So long as money is our master
Such things will be seen
For the rich, the doors are wide open
For the poor, they are closed shut.
I think a man
Who is without blame
Should have his road free
To go where he wants

Arrotz horiek horrela hiltzen
ikusiz gure artean,
nolaz eduki ginezakegu
kontzientzia bakean.
Orroit gaitezen arratsalde batez
galbarioko mendian,
gu guzientzat hil zela Jesus
Kurutze baten gainean.


Seeing these strangers
Die in our midst
How can we have
Our consciences iat peace?
Let's remember, one evening
On Calvary mountain
Jesus died for all of us
On the Cross

Jesus maitea otoitzez nago
Kurutzearen oinetan,
ixuri duzun odol saindua
ez dadila debaldetan.
Gure lurrean hil zure haurrak
harzkitzu otoi besotan,
arraza berex eta mugarik
ez den erresuma hortan.


Dear Jesus, I pray
At the feet of the Cross
That the holy blood You spilled
Was not spilled in vain.
Take into Your arms
Your children who died in our lands
In a kingdom where there aren't
Different races, nor borders.

You can hear Xalbador sing this bertso himself in this recording, we're very lucky that he was recorded singing many of his verses before his passing. For this bertso, he won that year's (1973) Xenpelar prize.



And here is a cover made by Erramun Martikorena with his inimitable beautiful voice:



And finally, when Amets Arzallus won the Xilaba bertsolaritza competition in 2011, his farewell bertso was a wink to Xalbador's bertso. Amets is deeply influenced by Xalbador as a bertsolari so it's not surprising that he can recall his imagery and refrains, but there's also another factor that links the two, which is that Amets co-wrote a beautiful book called Miñan (written in Basque) with Ibrahima Balde, a Guinean immigrant that he met in Irun, where Amets was working as a volunteer for the organisation Irungo Harrera Sare 'Welcoming network of Irun'. They give immigrants who are traveling into Europe a place to stay, clothes and food. It's a biography of Ibrahima's life, and his journey to retrace the steps of his little brother who had left for Europe. And discover what happened to him.

Image




Biriatuko mendira
lore bat eta muxu bi
beste bat urte osoko
bertsozale maite zuri
muga madarikatu bat
erantsi ziguten guri
jendea han ibiltzen da
ito larrian urduri
zuriak ez baigara beltz
beltzak ez baitira zuri
har dezadan makila hau
ta mugak bihurtu zubi
bidasoak ez dezan
beste malkorik isuri
primaderan hiru lore
baietz hazi Zibururi!


Two kisses and a flower
For the mountain of Biriatu
And another kiss
For you, year-long
bertsolari lover.
They have added
A damned border between us
People are there
In dire straights
For we white people are not black
And black people are not white
Let me take this stick
And make these borders into a bridge
Let the Bidasoa river not spill
A single more tear
In spring, instead let it
cultivate three flowers
For Ziburu!

ito larrian - 'in dire straights', but literally it is something like 'in the middle of asphixiating'. And indeed every couple of weeks we get another story of an immigrant drowning in the Bidasoa river in an attempt to cross without alerting the police.

makila - 'stick'. Winners of the Xilaba competition get a stick and a hat as prizes.

zuriak ez baigara beltz - 'for we white people are not black'. Aside from the literal meaning, he's playing on words here. The expression zuri-baltz, literally 'white-blacks' means troubles, problems, tribulations. So he's saying that white people don't have problems in crossing the border.

A couple of days ago, while coming back from Madrid, I was on a night bus where there was one such immigrant. He must have left his country, crossed Morocco and entered Spain. He was heading for the border with France. He did not speak Spanish, and when the bus driver mentioned that he would stop to clean the bus so we would all need to get off, he did not understand. I translated it to him in French, and told him that we would get back on the bus in 20 min, so to stick close by. He had a backpack with him, nothing else.

When we arrived in Irun in the early morning, he showed me a Whataspp message from a woman, a local Basque woman, who I assumed to be a volunteer from the aforementioned organisation that helps immigrants. In the message she was explaining to him in French how to reach her house. I accompanied him from the bus station and showed him how to get there.

Somewhat later in the morning, I was catching another bus...and through the windows I could see the Guardia Civil lining young black men against the walls, spread eagle. Checking their documents. Arresting them. I hope that the man who I was talking to was not among them, I hope he made it.
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Re: Bla bla bla

Postby nooj » Mon Sep 26, 2022 4:05 pm

Maria Teresa Campá Grané (1924-) was born in Bossòst, in the Val d'Aran. In this passage, from the publication Ûn libret dera Val d'Aran (1983), she explains the linguistic advantages of being Aranese. This was before the normalised orthography of Aranese.


PARLEM DER ARANES

¡Èm riqui es aranesi!

Riqui des sus que prununciam, des lengües que cumprenem, der impuls que mus porte
a parla'c tut. Em riqui d'aguesta lengua nosta «perla en sa curuna» cum diguíe Musén
Condó; lengua que mus ajûde a cunprene as paísi que sun at noste custat è que mus da
entrada fácil ta tutes es lengües rumanes.

Aquestes lengües, que se deriven det latin, sun tar aranés cum en ûa familia ûn germá
que turne ta casa è trobe et son puestu, era sûa cagira, e et son quartu, tut preparat è que le
demure. Atau en esprit der aranés semble que ¡ ha ûn puestu ta cada ûa, a mesûra que
arriben, des paraules catalanes, castelhanes o franceses (tabé italianes é purtûgueses),
que van aumplin aqueri locs uedi è cum en ûa tenca de cera, cumplèten poc a poc es
cèldes... ¡Dûbèrtes en sun tustem es portes!... Per acró entren è se apusenten tan de-
pressa.

Puderíe espressa-se de forca maneres aguesta facilidad que han es aranesi ta parlá è
aprene difrentes lengües. Ju he trigat aguesta sencilha fantesía dam era ilusiún de que ûa
rialha alegrará es vosti uels en tut liege-la è sentirats at madech tens ûa duça satisfacciun.


LET'S SPEAK ABOUT ARANESE

We Aranese are rich!

We are rich in the sounds that we pronounce, the languages that we understand, the impulse that takes us to speak everything. We ae rich in this language of ours, the 'pearl in the crown', as Mossen Condó once said, a language that helps us to understand the countries that are our neighbours and that helps us easily learn all the Romance languages.

These languages which derive from Latin are like - for the Aranese person - when a brother in a family comes back home and finds his spot, his chair and his room, all prepared and waiting for him. That's how it is for the mind of the Aranese person, it seems that there is a place for each word, as they arrive, from Catalan, Spanish or French (and Italian and Portuguese as well), and they progressively fill in these empty spots, and it's like in a hive, they slowly fill in the cells...the doors are always open for them! That's why they come in and they find their rest in our mind so quickly.

This facility that the Aranese have for speaking and learning different languages can be expressed in many ways. I've chosen this simply fantasy, with the hope that a laugh will light up your eyes while you read it, and that you will feel a sweet satisfaction at the same time.

PET MUN ENDAUAN ÛN ARANES ANAUE

Cunde era gent que ûn aranés
s'en anèc ta Barcelona
è en dûs dies aprenec
et parlá de Catalunha.

Tut cunten d'aquet prugrès,
s'arribèc enquia París
è deprèssa ja parlèc
cum parlen es det país.

Animat a curre et mun
En Ruma anec a pará
è en menus de ûa semana
ja parlaue er italiá.

Diden que enquia Purtûgal
tabé anec er aranés
è que at cap de quinze dies
s'esplicaue en purtûgués

Caucarrés le pregûntec:
¡Aranés!... que viatges tan,
¿nu has pensat james turná
en tas tèrres der Arán?
—Si, ja hè tens que acró hè pensat
ja me'n vau tara mía Espanha
perque vui turná a parlá
era lengua castelhana.

Quan aquest gûst m'aja cumplit
ta Bussost me'n turnaré
è se veigui as més amics
¡aranés... les parlaré!...

Cunclûsiun

Cercats ¡aute espabilat
que nu sigue ûn aranés
que sies lengues ha parlat
è nu l'ac ha ensenhat arrés.


AN ARANESE PERSON WENT THROUGH THE WORLD

People tell the story that an Aranese person
Went to Barcelona,
And in two days they had learned
The language of Catalonia.

Very pleased with themselves,
They then went to Paris
And they quickly spoke
How the people of that country speak

Encouraged to travel the world
They went to Rome
And in less than a week
They were already speaking Italian.

They say that the Aranese person
Went to Portugal as well
And after 15 days,
They were already speaking Portuguese.

Someone asked them:
Aranese! You who travel so much
Have you not thought about going back
To the lands of Aran?

Yes, I've been thinking about that for a while
I'm going to go back to my Spain
Because I want to speak
Spanish again.

When that desire of mine is fulfilled
I will return to Bossòst
And if I see my friends
I'll speak to them in Aranese!

Conclusion

Look for another clever person
Who is not Aranese
Who has spoken six languages
Without anyone teaching it to them!
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Re: Bla bla bla

Postby nooj » Tue Sep 27, 2022 2:00 am

I just learned of the death of Fiorenzo Toso on the 24th of September. Toso was the finest linguist to ever study his native language, Genovese (Ligurian). Among many other things, he studied the impact and history of his once-world-striding Mediterranean language, which even reached the Americas with Genovese immigrants. Today, his language is in serious danger of extinction in Italy. He was not unaware of the irony.

Toso also had a keen interest in the other Italian minoritised languages, as well as minoritised languages in Europe in general. He taught Linguistics at the University of Sassari in Sardinia. Strangely enough, he never taught in the University of Genova, I believe for not innocent reasons, as his academic merit was unimpeachable. In particular he was very involved with the Tabarchin community in Sardinia, a very special group of Ligurian speakers who are the descendents of Ligurian fishermen who came to settle on the island of Tabarka, off the shore of Tunisia (!). A group of them were later settled in a few small towns in Sardinia where they preserve the language to this day and also in Valencia (!), where they didn't.

Image

Another cosmic irony, Tabarchin is the healthiest variety of Ligurian there is, as it still has healthy intergenerational transmission in the community between parents and children. So Ligurian is healthiest in Sardinia, far from its original homeland and spoken by what is ultimately a small bunch of peripheral immigrants whose ancestors made North Africa their home. Whereas Ligurian in what was once the centre and homeland of Genovese political, economic and cultural power has been almost completely displaced by Italian.

I didn't have any personal contact with the man, but I liked to read his books and articles and listened to his lectures and interviews. He was only 60 years old...in the span of a few months a brain tumour took him. He also wrote and published (beautiful) poetry in Genovese. This is a short story that he wrote a few years back but which is strangely appropriate today.

Arrivo a-a neutte, a-a fin d’agosto, inte unna çittæ do meridion da Spagna, con l’urtimo treno. Ceuve, cösa che da quelle parte a no sòlita. Son stranscio. Sciòrto d’inta staçion in sciâ ciassa veua.
M’infio inte l’unico tassì che gh’é, m’assetto derê a-o conduttô, no l’ammio manco. O mette in marcia e o parte, sensa domandâme dond’o m’à da portâ. Passemmo pe di quartê anònimi, into scuo quarche fanâ o manda de maniman unna luxe futa, giänente.
«Vs. scià l’é Toso», o me fa un bello momento: a l’é unn’affermaçion, no unna domanda, «son che ô spëtan».
No me mäveggio ch’o me conosce e ch’o parle zeneise.
«E ma aloa voî savei ascì donde m’ei da portâ», ghe diggo.
«Na, mi vaggo e basta».
Manco mi no sò dond’agge d’anâ, coscì staggo sitto e me strenzo ciù che pòsso: fava freschetto inte quella vettua. Feua ceuve delongo, lento, oua piggemmo di carroggi streiti, che a machina a ghe passa à ïsa à ïsa.
«L’ea megio se scià no vegniva», o me dixe tutt’assemme.
«No poeiva fâ da meno», ghe diggo.
«Se capisce. Nisciun de niatri o l’è patron de fa quello ch’o veu. Coscì no son mi che pòrto a machina, a l’é lê ch’a ne pòrta, tutti doî».
Se no ciuveiva, maniman no dava a mente a-a scituaçion insòlita. Ma l’é che ceuve e semmo a-a fin d’agosto, into meridion da Spagna.
«Coscì semmo che giemmo abrettio?».
«Do resto, Vs. scià no m’à dæto nisciun adresso».
«L’é che mi no so dond’agge d’anâ. Ma, e quelli che me spëtan?».
«Za, quelli ô spëtan. Gh’é delongo quarchedun ch’o ne speta, ghe pâ?».
Comme dâghe tòrto. Intanto, sò che à chi me speta aviò da rendighe conto. De cöse, no sò, ma aviò da rende conto.
Oua i carroggi son ciù streiti e ancon ciù scui, a machina a va delongo de ciù in gattixon, comme in çerchia d’unna pista da stâghe apreuvo. Vorriæ açendime unna çigaretta, dapeu me vëgne in cheu che no ò mai fummou in tempo de mæ vitta. Straniamento. Atti d’un copion. Comme ëse int’un cine, e avei coæ de sciortîne.
«Fæme chinâ chì», ghe braggio.
«Scià ô sa ascì vs. che no se peu», o me dixe, «o l’é un viægio ch’emmo da fâ».
«Ch’emmo da fâ insemme ò ch’ò da fâ mi?».
«No l’è guæi differente, no ghe pâ?».
O ton de voxe. Na, a voxe, oua â conoscio. O se me vira un momento, o m’ammia co-i mæ euggi inti mæ euggi, e co-o fattoriso ciù grammo arreixou in scî lerfi:
«No l’é guæi differente, Toso», o me replica, «o l’é un viægio ch’emmo da fâ».


I arrived on the last train, one night in late August, in a town in southern Spain. It was raining, which was unusual in those parts. I was exhausted. I walked out of the station into an empty square.

I got into the only taxi there was, sitting to the back of the driver without even so much looking at him. He started the engine and drove off, without asking me where I wanted to be taken. We drove through anonymous neighbourhoods, a few street lamps occasionally sent out a pale, yellowish light into the dark.

"You are Toso," he told me at some point: it was a statement, not a question, "they are waiting for you".

I was not surprised that he knew me and spoke Genoese.

"Then you know where you have to take me," I said.

"No, I limit myself to just driving."

Since I didn't know where I was going either, I kept quiet and curled up as best as I could: it was cold in that car. Outside it was still raining, slowly; we drove into narrow alleys where the car struggled to pass.

"It would've been better if you hadn't come," he told me suddenly.

"I couldn't help it," I replied.

"Of course. None of us is free to do what we want. I'm not driving the car either, she's driving us."

Had it not been raining, I might not have realised how unusual the situation was. It was raining at the end of August in southern Spain.

"Well, we're going in circles."

"But you didn't give me an address where to take you."

"The thing is, I don't know where to go. But the ones waiting for me?"

"Yeah, they are waiting for you. There's always someone waiting for us, isn't there?"

He wasn't wrong. Besides, I knew I would have to account for myself to those waiting for me. I didn't know what for, but I would have to give an account.

In the meantime, the alleys were getting narrower and even darker, the car was groping its way along as if looking for a trail to follow. I wanted to light a cigarette, but then I remembered I had never smoked in my life. A sensation of strangeness. Attitudes like in a script. Like being in a movie and wanting to get out of it.

"Let me out here," I told him.

"You know as well as I do that that's not possible," he replied, "it's a journey we have to make."

"That we have to, or that I have to?"

"Not much difference, is there?"

The tone of voice. No, it was the voice, that's when I recognised her. She turned to me for a moment, locked her eyes with mine, and with my wickedest smile plastered on her lips:

"There's not much difference, Toso," she repeated, "it's a journey we have to make."


- it is indeed my smile with which she is smiling at me, not hers (seu) as you would expect. Makes it creepier.
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Re: Bla bla bla

Postby nooj » Wed Sep 28, 2022 3:33 pm

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Last edited by nooj on Sat Feb 17, 2024 12:44 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: Bla bla bla

Postby nooj » Fri Oct 28, 2022 7:04 pm

I'm afraid that if I wait any longer to go back to Urepel in the North Basque Country, Jean-Claude will not be there


I'm back in Urepel after having hiked in from Elizondo. I'm happy to report that Jean-Claude and his wife, Marie are alive and as healthy as ever.
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Re: Bla bla bla

Postby nooj » Tue Nov 01, 2022 10:05 pm

I asked Québécois people what lessons France should learn to protect its own French languages, using as an inspiration Québec's defense of its language. Such a question is absurd, really, as France would have to be willing to protect its own French languages from the French language itself, which it has no interest in doing. But among the comments, an interesting reply from a Québécois/French person. By the way, what is the preferred term in English to refer to a person from Québec?

Je suis québécois et français (gascon).

Honnêtement, j'essaie de garder la langue de mes ancêtres vivantes dans ma vie de tous les jours, mais la situation entre les deux langues est juste trop différente.

La grande force du français au Québec, c'est que c'est un État qui a une langue officielle et majoritaire. Même si ce n'est pas un pays, c'est une différence incroyable. La Gascogne traditionnelle, elle a été fragmentée, modifiée, refragmentée, etc. Les départements ou les régions n'ont rien de similaire au Québec en termes de pouvoirs. La reconnaissance n'est pas du tout similaire non plus quand on parle de la culture concurrente: le français est (mal) protégé au Canada, mais c'est là; en France, on est encore dans un situation de domination/négation des cultures traditionnelles du pays. Ça va durer jusqu'à l'extinction, à mon avis.

C'est triste, mais comme l'a dit un autre commentaire ici, ça ressemble beaucoup plus aux langues et cultures autochtones, comme situation.

Imagine-toi que du temps de mon grand-père, c'était la majorité qui parlait encore notre langue (la noste lenga), et qu'il y avait plus de gens qui parlaient une variante d'occitan que de gens qui parlaient français ici. C'est une langue millénaire, en plus, qui se lit encore très bien après autant de temps.

Et pouf. Une génération et c'est fini. La génération de mon grand-père a été élevé avec la honte de leur langue, et la génération de ma mère a eu honte de leur accent, et on se retrouve avec un Midi qui ne pourra jamais plus être ce qu'il a été.

Si j'aime le gascon, c'est que j'ai eu la chance d'avoir passé beaucoup de temps avec mon grand-père et ses vieux amis, qui ne parlaient pas ou presque français entre eux, et qui avaient tous la folie de la langue dans leurs échanges. Ça semblait tellement plus naturelle et je voulais tellement faire partie d'eux. Ils ne se rendaient juste pas compte que j'étais là et que je ne comprenais pas grand chose, alors j'ai eu de la chance de les voir se laisser aller. Quand on allait en ville ou en famille, toutes ces belles personnes étaient souvent mal à l'aise avec leur langue seconde, leur gros accent impossible et leurs expressions ridicules.

Je suis dans presque tous les groupes de protection du gascon qui sont en ligne. Il y a énormément de petits mousquetaires de la langue qui se battent. Il y a beaucoup de manifestations, en fait, il y en a même plus de ce que je sais que dans le reste du Canada quand vient le temps de manifester pour le français, mais la France d'aujourd'hui reste une force centripète, avec une population énorme, un tout petit territoire qui invite à se déplacer et donc à se déraciner en quelque sorte, et surtout une culture principale qui écrase tout sur son passage.

Résultat? Dans ma famille, je suis sur quatre générations à avoir pris la peine d'apprendre la langue (à un niveau très basique).

Cet apprentissage, je le dois au Québec, parce que c'est en apprenant les combats de tous ceux autour et avant moi ici que j'ai voulu faire un peu de la même chose pour ma famille là-bas.

Une génération et pouf. C'est juste... tellement plus fragile qu'on le croit.

Chaque fois qu'on me dit que le français est garanti au Québec, je pense à ça.

Pour l'anecdote: mon grand-père qui ne me comprend pas vraiment avec mon accent, quand je viens tout juste d'arriver du Québec, est vraiment soulagé quand je lui parle en gascon. On a beau être français tous les deux, c'est le seul moyen que j'ai de vraiment connecter avec lui, même quelques minutes.
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Re: Bla bla bla

Postby DaveAgain » Tue Nov 01, 2022 10:23 pm

nooj wrote:By the way, what is the preferred term in English to refer to a person from Québec?
French-Canadian? Quebecker?
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Re: Bla bla bla

Postby nooj » Wed Nov 02, 2022 12:20 am

I went up to the peak of Larrun, a mountain that has a special place in the Basque imagery, if nothing else because it dominates the area and is visible from kilometres around, but also because it has a prominent place in Basque mythology and history.

It's also without a doubt the most touristic of the Basque mountains, due to the ease with which tourists can access the peak. There is a train from the North side that goes straight to the summit, meaning that on normal days, it is packed with French tourists. Lately they are doing some repair work on the train, meaning that those who wanted to reach there had to do so by walking. So I had the summit mostly to myself.

On a good day, you have incredible views looking to the South Basque Country and to the North Basque Country. First picture is my own, looking to the South. Second picture is something I found on the net, looking to the North.


Image


Image

Aside from the beauty, the overwhelming impression I got was the fragility of it all. In the second picture, you can see most of the Lapurdi province of North Basque Country spreading out before you. At the horizon, the border between Gascony and the Basque Country, traced by the Aturri/Ador river.

To your left, the coastal regions, an ever growing and expanding concrete wilderness.

As you draw your sight to the east, you see fields, tree plantations and farmhouses, and a smattering of towns to hold the thing together. But this is it, Lapurdi? 266 237 residents of Lapurdi, of whom 16.1% are Basque speakers, fit into this? It seems so small a territory to have harboured generations of Basque families...and it must have seemed so too to its inhabitants, for from the Basque (and Gascon) speaking coastal towns, whalers and sailors launched their ships to travel the world and make their fortune.

From the peak of Larrun I was looking at one of the territories where Basque is traditionally spoken, and I was suddenly afraid, because not only could it be all wiped out with the lazy swipe of a divine hand, to a large extent it already has been, not by divine fiat, but by something as ludicrously ordinary and devastatingly effective as an efficient state that only promotes one official language.

I saw this sign on Larrun. The Basque is plagued with errors:

Image

No one would dare imagine writing the French version with mistakes. Or better yet, the French original, because it was assuredly done first in French, there exposed to the daily scrutiny of the thousands of French tourists. Basic orthographic errors 'Pottoekin' (no need to write with capital letters) and 'izidiren' which should be 'bizi diren' or 'ez Ferekatu ikutu', which if we tried to represent that into equivalently bad French, would be something like 'Ne pas Caresser toucher'. If they had used an online translator, the result would have been better! It shows a basic lack of respect for the Basque language, for the Basque Country...and we were on a Basque mountain, in the Basque Country, on Basque soil...

On another subject, this cool thing was brought to my attention. It is a tourist guide of the Basque coast written in 1956 by one A. Germond de Lavigne, a Parisian author who writes for a Parisian audience. You can read the full copy here. At the end, he includes a vocabulary for tourists, in French, Gascon, Spanish and Basque. At this point in time, Gascon and Basque were the majority languages spoken in the coast, something difficult to imagine today. To such an extent that it was helpful for the traveller to be able to say at least a few things in Gascon and Basque, because you couldn't take it for granted that everyone knew French.

Image

Image

Image

I assume the author had an informant to help him. That said, it is obvious there were misunderstandings. Take for example, dormez bien. His informant ditched the niceities, because the Basque says quite brutally eguizu lo, 'go to sleep'!

The Basque variety that is recorded is Lapurdi dialect, faithful to the location. And surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, it is strikingly modern. In fact, there are very few differences, in my opinion, to how any of this would be said today in Lapurdi, if we ignore the horrendous orthographical differences.
Last edited by nooj on Wed Nov 02, 2022 12:40 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: Bla bla bla

Postby Purangi » Wed Nov 02, 2022 12:33 am

DaveAgain wrote:
nooj wrote:By the way, what is the preferred term in English to refer to a person from Québec?
French-Canadian? Quebecker?


Generally speaking, English media use "Quebecers", by which they usually mean all residents of Quebec, irrespective of their language affiliations (i.e. both Francophones, Anglophones and Allophones).

Quebecois (Québécois) is also used in English, with the implied meaning of "French-speaking Quebec residents."

"French-Canadian" refers to anyone in Canada with French roots, inclusively of Acadians, Fransaskois and Franco-Ontarians and Québec Francophones. Seldom used in Quebec as it sounds outdated (pre-Quiet Revolution), but not sure about the rest of Canada.
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