Haicw Haiku

 

Y pentre tawel                           

Dim ond sŵn adar y môr  

Tan y penwythnos

The quiet village

Only the sound of seabirds

Until the weekend

Haicw/Haiku 2016

It’s taken me a decade to realise that I believe in parallel universes. Casually meeting neighbours and new found friends around the village, it strikes me how much of our conversation focuses on celebrating identity and language, in and about Cymraeg. In my second tongue I try to keep up. Thankfully none of this is for my benefit. Idly eavesdropping in waiting rooms, bars and shop queues I notice the same passion for the language’s intrinsic value to community and nationhood.  I struggle to imagine similar happening elsewhere. Discussing the subtleties of English in Suburban Surrey just wouldn’t happen on a daily basis.

Those Cymry I know who don’t speak the language are at least familiar with some of it, and are still rightly proud of its place in their identity. After a recent bi-election in a much less Cambrophone area, political pundits talked of the tactical voting that had kept the far right out. Perhaps those clever commentators didn’t want to admit that many were, in fact, voting for their Cymreictod, for their Hunaniaeth: fighting to defend their Welshness and identity from the threat from The East. Well, from Clacton.

The village mostly comprises two communities who inhabit the same space. They intertwine amicably, but behind the entente cordiale some things are little understood by each other. On moving here, I naively thought it would be good to have a few words of Cymraeg. I quickly learned that knowing the words was not enough: it would have been a pidgin. The different idioms, the grammar and consequently ways of thinking were a revelation. To give a trite example, a week in Cymraeg literally comprises eight nights (“wythnos”), from say, Saturday sunset to a Sunday sunrise. True immersion in a new tongue demands insight into the culture, history and politics. Reality itself is constructed by language, and here two realities co-exist.

For those who choose to make the leap, a richer, deeper and more nuanced world of experience opens up. I once welcomed a couple who had recently moved to the village. In passing I mentioned an added value of learning the  language, in the many new friends they would make. “We’ve got enough friends” they replied, quickly closing their door. I’ve not seen them around since. They don’t know what they’re missing. I’m relieved to observe that those who choose to inhabit just one of the “parallel universes” are in the minority. 

For me the surprises continue to delight. Out walking yn nghanol nunlle (“in the middle of nowhere”) our path was blocked by a farmer and partner taking sheep into a dosing pen. On realising we were fairly fluent in Iaith y Nefoed (“the language of Heaven”), they wouldn’t open the gate until they had told us  their long family history. Through learning Cymraeg, I now have many friends and acquaintances among “new speakers” originating from over 25 nations across six continents. A new/old international language maybe that looks outwards as well as inwards. It feels as if I have experienced many lifetimes through my new tongue.

“Cenedl heb iaith, cenedl heb galon”

(a nation without language, a nation without heart) Anon.

LINKS

Consuming Welshness: Fetishisation, mysticism, and uninterrupted life

Cartographic Time – Celluloid Wicker Man

Symbolic interactionism - Wikipedia

Eight-day week - Wikipedia

Ifor ap Glyn On Speaking Welsh |The Welsh Language | Wales.com