Comments Off on आइए हिंदी सीखने के लिए मजेदार तरीके देखें। | Some Fun Tricks to Understand Hindi
रुकावट के लिए खेद है। आपकी अंग्रेजी के पटरी पर यह हिंदी भाषा की रेल को चढाने के लिए माफ़ कीजियेगा, परन्तु मेरे मुँह दिखाई के लिए वोरोनी(Woroni) से अच्छा माध्यम कहाँ मिलेगा मुझे ANU में।
मैने सुना है कि ANU में भी कई छात्र हिंदी सीखते हैं और कई ऐसे छात्र भी हो सकते हैं जिन्हे अपनी हिंदी सुधारनी हो। तो मैंने सोचा क्यूं ना हिंदी सीखनेके लिए थोड़े आसान नुस्के बताए जाए ताकि बच्चों को हिंदी सीखने में आसानी हो और मज़ा भी आए।
पहले तो हिंदी में कोई भी मोन अक्षर (साइलेंट लेटर्स) नहीं है। हिंदी को जैसे लिखते हैं वैसे ही पढ़ते हैं और जैसे बोलते हैं वैसे ही लिखते हैं। हिंदी एकबोहुत ध्वन्यात्मक (फिनेटिक्स) भाषा है। तो जब आप हिंदी पढ़ें तोह शब्दों को ज़ोर ज़ोर से बोलकर पढ़ें और जैसे लिखा है वैसे ही पढ़ें। अक्सर लोगों को‘उ’ और ‘ऊ’, और ‘इ’ और ‘ई’, में दुविधा होती है तोह आप ध्यान दीजिए की आप शब्द बोलते समय उस अक्षर को कैसे बोलते हैं। अगर आपने ‘उ’ परज़ोर दिया तो वोह बड़ी ‘ऊ’ होगी जैसे ऊपर जहां आप ‘ऊ’ पर ज़ोर देते हैं जबकि उल्लू में आप ‘उ’ पर ज्यादा ज़ोर नही देते। ‘इ’ और ‘ई’ का भी ऐसे हीपढ़ सकते हैं जैसे इमारत और ईदगाह। हिंदी में काफी लोगों को कि और की में भी दुविधा होती है। कि यानी अंग्रेजी में डेट (that) और की यानी किसीकी चीज जैसे नित्य की किताब (possession- Nitya’s book)।
अगर आपको हिंदी सीखना है तो बॉलीवुड चलचित्र (फिल्म) देखना एक बोहुत मजेदार तरीका है। आप हिंदी फिल्म देख के हिंदी समझने की कोशिशकर सकते हैं। अगर आपको हिंदी पढ़ना आता हो तो आप उस मूवी को हिंदी अनुशीर्षक (सबटाइटल्स) के साथ देख सकते हैं। जो लोग हिंदी से ज्यादावाकिफ नहीं हैं वो हिंदी में डब किया हुआ अंग्रेजी चलचित्र (या आपका राष्ट्रिक भाषा का चलचित्र) देख सकते हैं जो आपने पहले देखा हो ताकि आपउस चलचित्र के कहानी को पहले से ही जान सके और आपको वे अभिनताओं की बोली समझ आए। या आप अंग्रेजी अनुशीर्षक के साथ हिंदी में फिल्मदेख सकते हैं। हिंदी गाने भी आप सुन सकते हैं क्योंकि धुन इंसान को ज्यादा जल्दी याद होती है।
किसी भी भाषा को बेहतर जानने के लिए आपको उस भाषा में अक्सर वार्तालाप करना चाहिए। आपके साथी जो हिंदी सीख रहे हैं आप उनके साथ याANU में जो बच्चों को हिंदी आती है आप उनसे हिंदी में बात कर सकते हैं। गूगल (Google) के अलावा (ध्यान रखिएगा कि गूगल ट्रांसलेट हमेशा सही नही होता है), ऐसे कईं ऐप (app) हैं जैसे डुओलिंगो (Duolingo) जिन्हें इस्तेमाल करके आप अपनी हिंदी सुधार सकते हैं। यूट्यूब (YouTube) परआप छोटे बच्चों के लिए हिंदी में बनाई गईं वीडियो देखकर भी सीख सकते हैं।
मेरे हिंदी सीखने के नुस्के तो समाप्त हुए परंतु आप यहां थामिएगा नहीं। हिंदी बोलते रहिए और हिंदी सीखते रहिए। हिंदी में बात करें, किताब पढ़ें, गानेसुने और फिल्म देखते रहें। एक अनजान भाषा को सीखने पर इंसान को नए दोस्तों के साथ एक नया आत्मविश्वास और कुछ नया जानने की खुशी भीमिलती है। आप सब से अब मैं अलविदा लेती हूं। उम्मीद है हम फिर जल्द ही मिलेंगे। खुश रहिए और सीखते रहिए।
***
Sorry for the interruption. I’m about to barge in with my Hindi language train onto your English language train, asI thought there was no better place at ANU than Woroni to show up.
I have heard that some students are learning Hindi at ANU, and that there are also people who simply want to improve their Hindi speaking and writing skills. So I’ve decided to write about a few fun and easy tricks to learn Hindi to make your language learning journey easier.
First of all, Hindi does not have any silent letters. The way you write Hindi is the way you speak the language, and the way you pronounce a word is exactly the way you write it. Hindi is a very phonetic language, so it’s easier if you say the words out loud while reading in Hindi. People often get confused between a few alphabets in Hindi, namely the ‘उ’ and ‘ऊ’, and ‘इ’ and ‘ई’. When using these similar alphabets, always pay attention to how you are pronouncing each alphabet. When pronouncing ‘उ’ (oo), if you stress on the word as in the case of the Hindi word for ‘up’ (‘ऊपर’), you are using the larger form (‘ऊ’). If you don’t stress on the alphabet, you use the smaller form (‘उ’), as in the case with the Hindi word for ‘owl’, (‘उल्लू’). The same goes for the letter ‘इ’ – for example when pronouncing the Hindi words ‘इमारत’and ‘ईदगाह’ (where the bigger form ‘ई’ is used), meaning a building and the festival Eid respectively. In Hindi, a lot of people are also confused when using the Hindi term for that and when saying someone’s, as both are pronounced as Ki in Hindi. When it comes to writing, ‘कि’ means ‘that’ while ‘की’ is used to say Nitya ki Kitab (Nitya’s book) – an act of possession (someone’s book).
An entertaining way of learning Hindi is to watch Bollywood movies. If you know how to read Hindi, then you can watch the movie with Hindi Subtitles. Otherwise, simply watch the movie and try to understand the dialogue. If you are new to Hindi, you can watch movies traditionally made in the English Language (or the language you are most comfortable using), that you have already seen, but this time subtitled in Hindi. This is helpful because you are already aware of the context in which the actors are conversing, so it’s easier for you to understand what they’re saying. You can also listen to songs in Hindi, as some people find it easier to memorize or remember words if they are in the form of a song.
In order to master any language, it’s important to keep practising it. Keep talking in Hindi to your peers or with other people at ANU who are familiar with the language. Apart from Google (Google translate is not always accurate), there are other apps which can help you learn Hindi, such as Duolingo. You can also watch videos in Hindi that are made for kids on YouTube to familiarise yourself with the basics of the language.
These are the only tricks up my sleeve to learn Hindi but you definitely shouldn’t stop here. Keep conversing in Hindi, read Hindi books, watch Hindi movies and listen to Hindi songs. Learning a new language does not only make it easier to make new friends but it builds your self-confidence and it’s a good feeling to know a language previously foreign to you. That’s all from me, I hope you keep learning and I hope to see you soon!
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Thuis… wat een mysterieus woord, ik denk niet dat het woord een mening hebt die iedereen mee eens kan zijn. Het kan zo veel verschillende dingen betekenen. Is het waar je woont? Het land waar je een connectie mee voelt? Of is het gewoon het land waar je woont?
De lucht is helderblauw, geen enkel wolk in zicht. 40,000 ft in de lucht, ik vlieg over de Black Sea, en ik voel me tot rust, weg van alle problemen en vrij letterlijk in een ontsnapbaar object. Ik ben opweg terug naar huis, Australia. Maar, als ik het woord ‘huis’ zeg krijg ik een raar gevoel.
Is Australia echt mijn thuis?
Mijn hoofd gaat terug naar de vakantie die we net hadden. Nederland was mooier dan ooit. De knapperig koude winters brengt plezier naar mij, het is altijd een hoogtepunt van de vakantie. De lage temperatuur biedt een contrast tot de warme Australische zomers. Als de Europese zon opkomt, het werk van de vriezend temperatuur van de nacht daarvoor zie je pas voor het echt. Toen een heldergroen, het gras is nu onherkenbaar, een laag van ijs er op moet me denken aan de spinnenwebben in Australia. Geuren vullen de straten, als of mijn neus met mij speelt. Open gordijnen laat families zien, lekker aan het ontbijten, echt iets Nederlands denk ik. Toeristen zouden het een lack of privacy vinden, ik vind het geweldig.
Nieuwjaarsdag is altijd een feest in zichzelf. Iedereen een ‘gelukkig nieuw jaar’ wensen, zelfs vreemde mensen die je tegenkomt in de straat, de geur van vuurwerk nog fris in de lucht. Nog lekker snel wat eten van nieuwjaarsavond voordat we weer een jaar moeten wachten. Veel fietsers kom je vandaag tegen, iedereen terug naar huis naar een lange avond. Of misschien nog snel een paar vrienden of familie opzoek gaan, een voel van geluk is in de lucht, wat een mooi gevoel.
Ik voel thuis, maar wat eigenlijk is thuis denk ik?
Herringen van mijn opvoeding komen terug. Straten helemaal in oranje. Oranje speelt vanavond, iedereen vol met hoop en spanning. Het voelt alsof het hele land het twaalfde man is, zingen en schreeuwen voor ons land. Lekker een potje trappen naar de wedstrijd was altijd leuk, snel wegrennen als een auto er aan kwam. Soms stiekem een sneeuwbal gooien naar de auto’s, en snel achter de boom verstoppen. De voetbal stickers bij Albert Heijn verzamelen, wisselen met vrienden, zo snel mogelijk het boekje klaar hebben. Lekker naar de wok met de familie, altijd veel eten halen, onze ouders ons waarschuwen om niet ziek te woorden. Al die leuke dingen, weg, toen ik 5 was, naar Australia verhuisde.
Ik ben best wel benieuwd naar de woordenboek mening van het word ‘thuis’. “Woning waar je woont en waar je je prettig voelt”. Ik denk hierover na, kan eigenlijk een mening genoeg zijn voor zoon ingewikkeld woord? Voor een iemand zou dit genoeg zijn voor het woord, maar dan weer niet voor een andere. Het woord moet je veel over nadenken.
Ik vlieg terug naar Australia, helemaal aan de andere kant van de wereld, meer dan 16,000km vanuit elkaar, alsof het een andere wereld is. We zijn daarnaartoe verhuist toen ik 5 was, dus heb meer dan de helft van mijn leven daar gewoond, maar het voelt nog steeds raar, ik voel gewoon geen connectie met het land. Ik ben hier zelfs geboren, het land heeft een groot invloed op mijn leven gehad. Wakker woorden in de warme zomers was altijd erg, het huis al gevuld met warme vochtig lucht geen moment van koelheid. De fans werken amper, alsof ze het ook te warm hebben. Mesen lopen langzaam door de straat, hopen dat ze nog snel wat frisse lucht krijgen voordat het te warm wordt om naar buiten te gaan. De zon is helder en creëert een zee van kleuren overal waar je kijkt. Mesen zoeken water op, als ze maar wat cooling krijgen. Veel mensen gaan naar het winkelcentrum, wat heb je daar? Air conditioning…… De cricket is bijna op elk tv-scherm die je langs komt en de barbecue ruik je in elke straat. Je merkt echt dat Australiërs in super veel manieren gebruik maken van de warme zomers, toeristen zouden het niet aan kunnen. Ik vindt het indrukwekkend.
Ik weet nog goed mijn eerste dag op school in Australia. Niemand was mijn vriend en het land was nog behoorlijk raar voor mij. Maar nu, 13 jaar later, kan ik er wel om lachen, als ik met mijn vrienden daar over praat. Mijn eerste voetbalwedstrijd was in Australia en ik weet nog goed toen ik een ‘six’ kreeg en een 50 tijdens een cricketwedstrijd. Wilde zomers zullen me nooit ontsnappen, lagen en lagen rook overal waar je kwam, het hele land kwam samen om het land te redden. Lekker fietsen met mijn vrienden in ‘the bush’ in plaats van de kleine Nederlandse straten, langs de gums trees, ertussen door racen, de geur van eucalyptus te sterk voor mijn neus. Ik voel me eigenlijk best wel gelukkig als ik zeg dat ik in Australia woon, maar het lukt mij nog steeds niet om te zeggen dat het mijn thuis is.
Je identiteit is vaak gekoppeld met een land. Een blik naar iemands paspoort en er komen meteen stereotypen naar boven. Vooral in vandaags hypervigilant wereld is iemands identiteit misschien nog belangrijker. Voorzichtig, hou ik mijn Australian en Nederlandse paspoort in mijn handen, als of ik ze op een weegschaal zet. Welke ben ik meer trots op? Welke is belangrijker in mijn leven? Alle twee hebben ze een groot betekenis voor mij. Maar is een groter? Vaak word ik gevraagd welk land ik vandaan komt, “The Netherlands” zeg ik altijd.
Ik voel leeg als ik erover na denk welk land ik eigenlijk vandaan kom. Instinctief zegt dat het niet het land is waar ik woon.
“Down under” wordt het genoemd. “The Great Southern Land”, maar al dat ‘charisma’, zo aantrekkelijk voor zo veel mensen grijpt met mijn ‘inner self’. Ik voel eigenlijk amper een identiteit, of misschien denk ik gewoon te veel voor dat woord. Maar nee, thuis is meer dan een gebouw dat veel geld waard is. Ze hebben een emotionele mening. In Australia heb ik nooit een leuk moment met mijn familie kunnen delen. Ze wonen hier niet….. Maar Skype en FaceTime denk je misschien, dat is anders. Je kan niet herinneringen maken via een video call, het moet een fysiek onderdeel hebben. Ook heb ik nooit met het hele land dingen kunnen vieren. Australia Day dan? Denk je misschien. Maar nee, ik voel echt geen connectie. Het komt nieteens dichtbij in vergelijk met koningsdag. Alle straten oranje, de verjaardag van onze koning vieren. Het Wilhelmus met trots zingen, en lekker eten.
“Welcome to Sydney airport, we do hope you enjoyed your flight and to all Australian residents, welcome home”
Ik voel dat welkom, maar ben ik echt thuis? Ik ben sowieso fysiek terug in Australia, niet meer in het neutraal vliegtuig, maar mijn identiteit snap ik nog steeds niet. Ik weet dat misschien en dag komt wanneer ik moet beslissen tussen de twee landen, maar voor nu accepteer ik dat ik twee huizen heb. Australia en Nederland.
Thuis is echt een moeilijk woord, ja, het kan gewoon het huis zijn waar je woont, maar de mening van het word is veel dieper. Een ding weet ik zeker, er is geen beter gevoel dan om thuis te zijn.
***
Home is a mysterious word. I don’t think anyone could agree on a single definition for it. Different people understand the word and interpret it in different ways. Is it the house you live in? The place where you feel the safest? The country you feel most connected to? Or is it just simply the country you live in?
The sky is bright blue, not a single cloud in sight. At 40,000 feet, flying over the Black Sea, I feel at peace, at rest from life’s troubles whilst quite literally sitting in an inescapable object. I’m flying back home, to Australia. However, mentioning the word home gives me a sense of unease.
Is Australia really my home?
My mind drifts back to the holiday I had just been on. The Netherlands was as sublime as ever, enticing me to give it all my attention. The crisp, cold winters fill me with joy and are always a highlight. The cold temperatures offer me a sense of contrast to the sluggish heat of the Australian summer. As the European sun rises, signalling the start of a new day, the work of the previous nights’ freezing temperatures is revealed. Once a vivid green, the grass now seems like a foreign, introduced species, full of a dull white layer of ice that reminds me of the spiderwebs in Australia. Smells rich and diverse fill the streets, ruffling my nose. Open curtains reveal families having breakfast, brightening up the whole street as the warm house lights beam onto the footpath. Tourists find it an intrusion of privacy— I find it lovely.
New Year’s Day is a celebration in itself – wishing strangers a happy new year, the smell of fireworks still fresh in the air, finishing the final celebratory foods before they become irrelevant. ‘Big Sale’ signs dangle in shops celebrating the start of the new year, bicycles flood the street, friends and family visit as many people as possible in one day, the feeling of happiness fills the air. While the temperature makes my body shiver, the sense of community gives me a powerful feeling of joy and happiness, making me feel at ease.
I feel at home, but what is home?
Memories from my early childhood echo in my mind. Whole streets decorated in orange, as the national football team competed against the world, it felt as if the whole country was part of the team, with occasional chants and angry shouts flooding onto the footpath. Juggling the football in the street with neighbours, scurrying to safety when a car approaches, occasionally throwing snowballs at them, hurrying behind the trees to hide. Collecting stickers at the supermarket, trading with friends, racing to finish the collection book first. Monthly family gatherings at the local Chinese buffet, constantly eating food with my cousins, our parents warning us not to get sick. All stolen away when, at five years old, I moved to Australia.
Curiously, I look up the definition for home; “the place or region where something is native or most common”. This resonates with me for a while, but can one definition evoke meaning to such a powerful word? One person’s home may be different from another’s. The word requires deep thoughts and self-reflection.
I’m flying back to Australia, all the way to the other side of the world. Separated by 16,000 kilometres, it is almost a world on its own. I moved there when I was five. I’ve spent more than half of my life there, yet an absent feeling fills the air. I struggle to have a connection. My place of birth, this country has had a big influence on my life. Waking up on a hot summer morning I always agonise. The house is already filled with humid hot air, there’s not a moment of relief. Fans working overtime to provide some sense of treatment, but to little avail. People trudge along the street, hoping to get some fresh air before the heat becomes too much. The sun beams bright, creating a sea of bright colours wherever you look. People flock to water sources, desperately searching for relief, the local shopping centre provides endless air conditioning – some may say there’s no better place to be. The cricket fills TV screens, while the Barbeque works endlessly to provide summer feasts. Australians will take advantage of summer in any way possible. Tourists will find it unbearable – I find it lovely.
Vividly, I remember my first day of school. There was no one I could call my friend. This country was still strangely unfamiliar to me. Yet today, I can truly laugh at myself when talking to my friends about that first day. My first club football game was played here, and I was filled with joy when I hit a six to achieve my first half century in the national sport, cricket. Wild summers will never escape me, layers of smoke engulfing everything, the whole community coming together to protect our land. Bike rides with friends were in the bush as opposed to the Dutch streets, weaving in and out of the giant gum trees, the smell of eucalyptus too strong for my nose. I feel a sense of luck when I say I live in Australia, but can I come to the conclusion that it is my home?
Your identity is often linked to place. One glance at a passport can reverberate into lasting stereotypes for someone you perhaps have never even met. In today’s hypervigilant world, our identity is perhaps as important as ever. Cautiously, I hold both my passports, almost creating a balance scale. Which one am I prouder of? Which one has a greater weight in my life? Both have had a tremendous impact, but does one prevail? I am often asked what country I am from. I instinctively, immediately reply with ‘The Netherlands’.
A sense of emptiness fills me when I think about what country I truly belong to. Instinctively, I know it’s not the country I live in.
‘Down Under’ it’s called, ‘The Great Southern Land’. Yet its charisma, so appealing to many, grapples with my inner self. I feel a lack of identity and I wonder, am I overthinking the concept of home? But no, our homes are more than a financial asset – they have an immeasurable emotional meaning. In Australia, never have I been able to share memorable moments with family or celebrate events with the whole country. But what about Skype or FaceTime? It isn’t the same. Creating memorable moments can’t be achieved with a simple call, it requires physical presence. What about Australia Day? People celebrate that, right? Yet somehow I don’t feel a connection. Not even remotely does it compare to Kings Day, during which I feel a real, strong connection. Celebrating the birthday of our king with the whole country is truly an amazing feeling, streets filled with orange, singing our anthem with pride while feasting on Dutch delights.
“Welcome to Sydney airport, we do hope you enjoyed your flight and to all Australian residents, welcome home”.
I feel that welcome, but am I home? I am physically back on Australian land, no longer on the stateless airplane, but my sense of identity is still unclear. I know that one day I might have to come to a decision between the two nations, but for now, I accept that I have two homes. Both the Netherlands and Australia have a deep place in my heart.
Home is a deeply under-considered word. Yes, you may relate it to a place of living, but the concept is far deeper. It’s not all about the physical aspect. One thing is for sure – whenever you feel at home, there is no better feeling possible.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
***
Japan has a deep history of gender inequality. Unfortunately, this history continues to this day, with many women struggling to succeed in the workforce. Each year, the World Economic Forum analyses data from four areas: economics, politics, education, and health which together assess the progress of gender equality in each country. According to the 2020 report, Japan ranked 121st out of 153 countries, and in 2019, Japan ranked 110th out of 153 countries. What is required for gender equality to prosper in Japan? How can we challenge Japan’s sexist ideology to stop “keeping on”?
To understand why gender inequality exists so strongly in Japan, I first want to clarify the history that has underpinned this social ideology in Japan.
Japan has historically been a matrilineal society, but when Confucianism emerged during the Edo period, male rule and hierarchy reduced the power of women in society. This marked the beginning of the “family system”. Similar to the role of gender in Western history, the “family system” refers to women completing household chores and men working to support their families. This has significantly influenced many aspects of life for Japanese women. For example, the new role of women was to give birth to children, in particular male children, and to serve their husbands (author’s note: gross). As Japan introduced the “family system” much later than many developed countries, it’s understandable that gender inequality continues in Japanese society. Understandable does not mean excusable.
So, how has Japan’s history manifested in society today?
I found a report describing a concept known as “endurance”, written by a foreign worker in Japan. “Endurance” is the idea that you should carry on with a smile, even if it makes you uncomfortable. The meaning behind the word “endurance” makes me sad about my future working in Japan. In Western societies, people are taught to share their opinions loudly and freely. I think a core cause of the sustained gender inequities in Japan is the suppression of personal opinions.
Japan has a long way to go before gender equality becomes the norm. In 2013, Prime Minister Shinzo Abe announced a national goal called the “Womenomics Strategy,” which stated by 2020, women should hold 30 percent of the corporate leadership roles in Japanese companies, yet when 2020 arrived, women held only 5percent of these roles. Japan has not seen rapid success, but I think things can change.
I believe there are many ways for women to be recognised and empowered in Japan. Many reports conclude that Japan’s gender inequality problem will be resolved by focusing on increasing the proportion of women in politics. Currently, according to BBC News, only 10 percent of members in Japan’s House of Representative are women. The more women participate in politics, the more women will be able to fight for their rights in Japan.
In Japan, there are many unconscious prejudices and social expectations based on traditional gender roles. If the issue of gender inequality remains the same, Japan’s future is unlikely to be bright. If women stand together and speak up about the gender injustice in Japan, we will no longer have to keep on keeping on with gender inequality.
It had been one of the words I had studied in my Chinese script lessons, with red brush strokes gently carving the translucent parchment paper.
家
‘Jiā’
Home.
As my fingers traced and drew the word, I noticed the small horizontal stroke at the top enveloping each edge of the bottom section.
A little top hat, I thought to myself, a tiny roof for a home.
Inside and underneath it, the family unit stood protected and embraced. I imagined each of the delicate brush strokes stemming from the vertical stroke to be like the venetian pattern engraved on a fallen leaf. Each connected and protected; they gracefully stood together.
I held tightly onto the word in my heart when the real estate agent first showed us into our two-storey house in the south of suburban Sydney, complete with four bedrooms and three bathrooms. It even had a backyard with neatly trimmed hedges and a front yard lined with magenta geraniums. The yellow sunlight shone through, radiating a warm lustre and reflecting the beams on my Ma’s face.
The house echoed the clamour of our clumsy footsteps.
After having lived in a tiny government owned apartment for the first ten years of my life, this would be the place where we would build our own first home. Together.
As the days swung merrily by, the unfamiliar spaces grew to become more normal, more ordinary. We grew into the new space quickly, like an old musky couch furrowing deeper back into the walls. My parents were too focused on working, finding a way to make ends meet and keep the family alive. This in combination with the lack of garden space they had known growing up in a run-down apartment in crowded Shanghai, meant that the flowers were never tended to, nor were the bushes trimmed.
Often, I’d cry out in frustration to my Ma Ma, and demand to know why we never took better care of them or gave them the attention I thought they deserved.
“Why can’t we keep the flowers alive?”
“Can you even keep yourself alive?” my Ma would snap back in response.
I think now that they simply never had the time to worry about frivolous things, like adorning their life with beautiful geraniums. They had, after all, grown up in Mao’s Communist China.
And so the magenta geraniums that once sat boldly in our front yard, soon crawled quietly into the space they occupied.
***
At school, I found myself often wincing submissively in shame when the other kids at school asked what my dad did for work.
Some proudly boasted, “My dad works as a lawyer.”
Others beamed, “My daddy is a teacher.”
I quickly brushed aside the questions when they arose. I wanted a ‘white’ dad, who wouldn’t make me solve maths problems during my school holidays and spend my weekends jumping from a whole day of English tutoring on Saturday to Chinese school on Sundays.
At home, I quietly listened to my Ba Ba’s coughing and wheezing as he suffered alone in the gloomy corners of the house. His lungs had given way because of all the smoking, and soon enough, he was diagnosed with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. With the smoking also came the dental care. One bad tooth infection would spread quickly through his entire mouth, until it ravaged through and left nothing but empty black holes.
Each night, my Ba would brush his teeth hunched over the steel sink, pull out his porcelain set of teeth and plonk them into the jar of salt-water. He would smile at me with his lumpy gums, when he caught me watching curiously from afar, and I would hesitantly offer a toothy grin back.
The rare moments I did see of him were slipping past in the afternoon as he packed his fraying backpack and left for a night shift at the paper printing factory. The muscles of his face were still heavy with drowsiness from the evening before. There were barely more than a few meagre words exchanged – the uncomfortable silence was an unexpected guest that had somehow wedged itself in the empty distance between.
His face had quickly grown sunken in, and half his eyebrows were missing. He, an already tall lanky man, had lost more than fifteen kilograms in the space of a few months because of the combination of the endless health issues and working tirelessly. His head hung low and his shoulders heavy; it would be a long night of labour at the factory.
One day, I had carved a smiley face in the flaky red bean pastry that my Ma had made. She neatly packed three of the pastries in my Ba’s backpack.
“I was so tired from working and it was so dark outside,” he said to me the next day, “and then, I see the smiley lian. When I eat it, it also make me smile too.” He held my gaze steady through thick lensed glasses.
It was such a meagre act, but it reminded him he was not so alone in this world.
Whilst other dads played soccer on the weekends and their kids sat firmly on their shoulders, my Ba Ba’s shoulders carried the burdens of working multiple labour jobs to mend the tears of a struggling family.
***
It was many years later when my parents finally saved enough money to be able to take us on a month-long holiday during the summer break of 2010. We didn’t do any of the regular things the other tourists did in the bustling city of Shanghai.
My sister and I incessantly complained to our Ma.
“Why can’t we be like normal families? Why can’t we take a holiday to Europe, where we can stay in nice hotels?”
“Yeah, I wish we could go to Europe,” pouted my sister, “even the Gold Coast would be so much better cos there are theme parks there.”
“Ah, staying here is much cheaper, we don’t need to pay for hotels here.” she replied. “Going on holidays will be so hard.” A few moments passed, and she exhaled a long breath and added: “We have not seen your Na in such long time. She hobbles around this lonely apartment all by herself.”
As I lay staring at the concrete ceiling that was splattered with specks of mould, my eyes began to wander around the dimly lit room. The room smelt strongly of a burning incense that my Na said would heal anything, even the distance between a family.
The streetlights outside flickered in a constant motion, with the pale light casting shadows on my mother’s still face beside me.
Here we are, I thought as I pulled the red woollen blankets closer to my face, the home-town of my parents.
To fill our empty time, my sister and I found ourselves sitting on the olive-coloured couch with our wrinkled Na, watching Chinese television together that I could only partially understand. From cartoons about courageous monkey kings, to poorly made crime shows, to Han Dynasty romance dramas; these were the stories that continued to captivate me.
Over the dinner table, the stories continued to drift through. My Ba Ba chattered with liveliness to his friends and his sisters in smooth Shanghainese. His eyes creased with delight and his shoulders sighed in response as he relished on the foods he had grown up eating. An assortment of green leafy vegetables smothered in oyster sauce and meat encased in thin rice flour pastry. He gleefully slurped up the bone-broth noodle soup.
This time, when he offered a smiled at me from across the room, the smile reached his eyes and creased the corners of his thin lips.
All the while, my sister and I found ourselves bragging to our cousins about how wonderful Australia was. We reminisced about the balmy evening sunlight on the golden shores that we basked in, as opposed to the thick grey smog and pollution here. We boasted of coming home from Sunday Chinese school with a delicious pizza waiting for us every week for lunch.
“Pi-zza is for rich people here!” my cousin cried out in between mouthfuls of rice, “It’s like a high-class restaurant because you sit down and they serve you. Do you know how many hours we’d have to work to be able to eat at Pizza Hut?”
I caught my sister’s eye from across the table.
They didn’t need to know that pizzas in Australia cost five dollars and was, in fact, fast food for those with little money.
Perhaps, we were rich after all.
***
Like the food, the world around me felt familiar but also foreign. People didn’t speak English, which meant that the words I wanted to speak only tumbled out clumsily.
I clung tightly on to my Ma Ma’s hand on the Metro Station, gazing at the characters that flashed up on each stop. She was agile and swift here, knowing all the right words to navigate us to this part of town and how to order all the foods from the street markets vendors. I, on the other hand, felt as though I was swamped in water and treading just enough to keep my head afloat. I didn’t know how to ask for directions or even how to figure out how to catch the bus to the shops. I gulped and managed to fumble a few words that would immediately be drowned out by the engulf of the busy cityscape.
“Korean or Japanese?” asked the old man sitting beside my sister and I on the bus, overhearing the muffled English phrases we snuck to one another.
“From Australia,” I replied, as I reached up to touch the end strands of my black hair.
His moon-shaped eyes stared curiously back at me.
***
When we had returned to the familiar pockets of suburban Sydney, the geraniums greeted us with a solemn sadness, and diligently retreated into their unobtrusive position.
After all the five of us had lived in the cramped one-bedroom space in Shanghai, I vividly remember the feeling after setting foot back into my house. My house seemed to have physically expanded, as though it was much larger than when I had left it in my memories. The walls had grown, and the spaces fell quieter without the animated chatter of the rest of my family.
My parents softly unpacked the assortment of Chinese ornaments they brought back and had haggled the sellers from the market with. A humble cabbage made out of jade, a bottle of Moutai and a new set of decorative chopsticks. The eclectic ornaments sat neatly in our red rosewood cupboard for display and would rest alongside our swimming trophies and the seashells we had picked up from the Sunshine Coast.
The red shelves were soon filled with a multitude of things that spoke of dreams of a previous life, or perhaps it was the life they never had the chance to continue living. This was a corner of our home in Sydney that had created only but a mere semblance of the home they had packed up and left behind in Shanghai.
As the evening gave way, the four of us gathered around the round table. We sat huddled over bowls of plain rice congee with chopsticks in one hand and clutching a steamed meat bun in the other.
“I dreamed that we were all back there. Back home,” my Ma Ma faintly whispered, her face pale like thin pieces of billowing parchment paper.
No one could muster a reply. I felt my lips tremble with unspoken words. I continued to concentrate carefully on each grain of rice in my bowl as I dug through the slush with my chopsticks, waiting for the silence to linger and fill the vast space around us.
When the gathering dark fell like a curtain, I crept up the stairs to follow the dim yellow light that illuminated my parents’ room. From the smallest corner of the room, I could faintly hear weeping.
I caught a glimpse of my mother – she was hunched over, her head bowed and her figure prostrated. A faded picture of my Na hung on the left-hand side of her dresser. On the right, the magenta geraniums hung limply in a blue and white porcelain vase.
She had missed
家
‘Jiā’
Home.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Я не считаю себя слишком суеверным человеком. Я не думаю, что разбитое зеркало может принести семилетнее невезение, не шарахаюсь от черных кошек и не опасаюсь пятницы 13-го. Но тем не менее, есть некоторые приметы и суеверия, которые являются частью моего характера. Например:
• Я никогда никому ничего не передают через порог.
• Я никогда не свищу в доме, чтобы не «высвистеть» деньги.
• Перед поездкой я всегда помню «присесть на дорожку» .
• Если я скажу что-то плохое, я машинально постучу по дереву и сплюну, чтобы не накаркать…
Я не хочу сказать, что эти суеверия и приметы диктуют мою жизнь и если я не буду их тщательно соблюдать ничего страшного не произойдёт. И я знаю что в наше время в них мало смысла, но они всё равно доставляют мне уют. Они просто маленькая часть повседневной жизни, результат воздействия моей семьи и моей Русской культуры.
И вместо того чтобы считать эти вещи нерациональными, неважными или просто глупыми, я воспринимаю их как признак традиции и семьи. Это признаки влияния близких людей в нашей жизни – членов семьи, друзей и одноклассников. Это автоматическая реакция, которая выражает тот факт, что мы состоим из тех людей которые вокруг нас, их любовь к нам живёт в наших манерах и действиях. Некоторые традиции не требуют пафоса чтобы выразить свою важность и, на мой взгляд, такие традиции гораздо важнее.
Каждый раз когда я машинально постучу по дереву или присяду на дорожку мне это доставляет немножко радости. Такие действия мне напоминают про мою Русскую культуру, про моих предков и родственников, которые продолжают жить в моём сердце через эти маленькие традиции и суеверия. Жизнь состоит из мелочей и эти маленькие традиции выражают тот факт что мы никогда на самом деле не одни, что всегда есть кто-то или что-то, что нас поддержит – даже если мы не осознаем этого в данный момент.
В эти трудные времена потерь, невзгод, стихийных бедствий и несчастий давайте найдем утешение и силу в этих маленьких традициях, которые продолжают жить несмотря ни на что. Как сообщество, мы можем найти поддержку друг в друге, мы можем выжить – даже если это просто благодаря мелочам.
I don’t consider myself a very superstitious person. I don’t consider broken mirrors seven years of bad luck, and I don’t avoid black cats or fear Friday the 13th. Yet there are certain habits that have been in- grained into me nonetheless:
• I never pass an object to anyone else over a doorway.
I never whistle inside a building.
I always sit down and reflect for a moment be- fore leaving the house and commencing a long trip.
• Whenever I accidentally say something that I don’t wish to happen, I knock on wood.
That is not to say that I consider these superstitions to be the beginning and the end of everything. I know there is little rhyme or reason to these small superstitions nowadays, but nonetheless they are a comfort. They are a habitual part of my everyday life, a com- forting byproduct of my family and Russian culture.
Instead of considering these things irrational, irrelevant, or downright stupid, I consider them to be a mark of tradition, of family. They are signs of the impact that those closest to me have on my life, be that my family, friends or classmates. They are a knee-jerk reaction that embodies the fact that we are an amalgamation of those around us, that we carry the love that they hold for us in our own movements and mannerisms. Some traditions do not require pomp and circumstance to express their importance, and in my opinion, such traditions are infinitely more special.
Every time I reflexively knock on wood after speaking of undesirable things, or sit down for a moment to reflect before commencing a trip, it makes me smile. It makes me think of my Russian heritage and culture, of my ancestors and relatives that continue to live on through these small traditions and mannerisms of mine. They demonstrate that we are never truly alone, that there will always be someone or something there to provide support — even if we don’t realise it in the moment.
In these times of hardship and loss, of natural disasters and trials and tribulations that have been brought toward us, let us find solace in these small traditions that live on despite everything. As a community, we can find support in each other, we can survive — even if it is just through the help of the little things.
Comments Off on Want To Write For Edition 2? Check Out These Prompts!
Woroni is looking for YOU to write for our second edition of the magazine! You can write about pretty much anything, but here are some prompts to get your creative juices flowing (hint: the theme of this edition will be SEX!). First drafts are now due next Tuesday (25/2).
International:
What is considered ‘appropriate’ when it comes to sex? How does it differ between cultures?
Are standards of sexual attractiveness different in different cultures? Do you think we can all be sexy?
Talk about STIs – why is there a stigma surrounding it when it happens to so many people?
Reviews:
Parasite
Tame Impala’s new album
Literally anything else!
Arts:
How can sex and bodies be used as protest? Think the #freethenipple, sex strikes etc. Do they work?
How do you feel when you see your body naked? Are you liberated, or embarrassed, and why is this?
How has the tv show Sex Education brought sexual wisdom to a mainstream audience?
Talk about a sexual experience that has had a lasting impact on you, positive or negative. What was it about this experience that made it so memorable?
Multilingual (for foreign language speakers):
Talk about sex and social media! Think about sexting, online dating etc. and the impacts they’ve had on you.
Talk about the presence of sex in the films you’ve watched and the music you’ve listened to! Who are the people who engage in this, and does it matter?
How has your mental health affected your sex life? (can be anonymous)
Creative:
Poetry
Fiction
Photography
Painting and drawing
Scripts
Satire
Science
Talk about fat-shaming! How can we have productive discussions about health without implying blame?
Apparently, giraffes express sexual attraction through drinking each other’s pee! What are some examples of animal sexual practices that put humans to shame?
Are ageing and death as inevitable as we thought? Are they even preventable?
Turns out, some people don’t have an inner monologue! Do you have one? How does having a rich inner life or the lack thereof impact on your life?
Have you ever had imposter syndrome in a sexual relationship? Why was this?
According to several studies, our generation is having a lot less sex than previous generations. Why do you think this is? Why are these studies so important?
How do you really feel about your body? Tell us openly and honestly (and anonymously, if you like).
Business and Economics
Porn is a multimillion dollar industry! Why is porn so popular, and why, despite its popularity, is it still stigmatised?
Talk about sex work! Is sex work inherently oppressive? Should we legalise it?
Do you own any sex toys? Talk about them! Why are they important to you, and why don’t people really talk about them?
Give an overview of online dating. Talk about some of the various websites, how popular they are and what purposes they serve.
Un Mondo Nuovo
Penso che ogni persona debba fare uno scambio in un altro paese ad un certo punto della propria vita scolastica. È un’esperienza che sicuramente ti farà crescere come persona, che ti aprirà gli occhi ad un altro mondo. Quando si va a vivere in un altro paese, si ha l’opportunità di imparare un sacco di cose nuove — una nuova lingua, una nuova cultura, ed anche un nuovo modo di pensare.
Quando avevo 16 anni, sono andata in Italia per due mesi, e quest’esperienza mi ha completamente cambiato la vita. Avevo studiato l’Italiano per un bel po’ di tempo alla scuola superiore prima di questa esperienza ma quando sono arrivata lì, non sono riuscita neanche a dire cose semplicissime, perché avevo così tanta paura di fare sbagli di fronte alle persone. Ma dopo un po’ mi sono abituata, e piano, piano potevo comunicare con la gente — in questo caso la tendenza Italiana di gesticolare mi aiutava tantissimo, perché con i gesti potevo spiegare le cose che non riuscivo a dire con le parole. A dire la verità il fatto che la mia capacità di parlare e di spiegare i miei pensieri fosse come quella di una bambina di cinque anni era un po’ frustrante. Non volevo solo imparare la lingua ma anche mostrare il fatto che non ero una sempliciotta. Adesso, posso capire che l’unico modo in cui si può migliorare la propria capacità di parlare in una lingua straniera è molto semplice: si deve solamente parlare tantissimo, e si deve per forza lasciare tutta la paura, tutta l’ansia che si ha di sbagliare. Quando si impara una nuova lingua, si fanno sempre tanti sbagli. Questa non è una cosa che si può evitare — quindi avere paura di una cosa che si farà sempre non ha senso. È come avere paura di respirare.
Mi ricordo che una cosa con cui facevo sempre fatica in Italia erano i vari modi di dire che si usano in Italiano. Ad esempio, mi ricordo che un modo di dire che non capivo per niente era, ‘ti sto prendendo in giro,’ che vuol dire che la persona con cui stai parlando sta scherzando. Ma la prima volta in cui la mia sorella ospitante me l’ha detto, non ho capito che parlava di uno scherzo — tutto il tempo pensavo, “Ma dove dobbiamo andare? Dov’è questo giro? Perché dobbiamo andare a quest’ora della notte?”
Il mio ricordo preferito dell’Italia è sicuramente il giorno di Natale. In generale, penso che gli Italiani conoscano il miglior modo in cui si deve festeggiare. Non ho mai visto prima così tanta gente, e così tanto cibo, in una sola stanza. Era davvero incredibile. Si poteva proprio sentire il livello di felicità nell’aria durante quella giornata. Direi che per la maggior parte dell’anno, gli Italiani sono molto felici, carini, ospitali — ma durante il periodo natalizio, secondo me tutto questo si moltiplica al 200 percento. Tutti sorridevano, ridevano, chiacchieravano. Mi sentivo parte di quella famiglia, invece di una strana ragazza straniera. Questa giornata mi ha colpita tantissimo a causa del fatto che ho visto più o meno tutti i buoni stereotipi Italiani in un solo giorno. Quella famiglia mi ha insegnato tantissimo e mi ha fatto vedere la propria cultura. Mi hanno insegnato come comunicare con le persone, come esprimermi, come ci si deve rilassare e come adattarsi alle sfide della vita — ed ovviamente, come fare la lasagna nel miglior modo… Per questo, li dovrei ringraziare per tutta la mia vita.
Se non si viaggia mai, se non si esce mai dalla piccola parte del mondo in cui si abita, non si avrà mai l’opportunità di vedere tutte le gioie del mondo. Quindi, se avete qualche opportunità di andare a vivere all’estero, cogliete l’occasione. L’Australia è un paese molto isolato, ed è molto semplice dimenticare tutte le cose belle che si possono trovare all’estero — basta solo avere voglia di andare.
Title: A New World
I think that every person should go overseas on exchange at some point in their lives, if they have the opportunity. It’s an experience that will let you grow as a person and that will change your outlook on the world forever. When you spend time living in another country you have the chance to learn an immeasurable amount of new things – a new language, a new culture and even a new way of thinking.
When I was 16 years old I spent two months in Italy on exchange. This experience completely changed my life. I had studied Italian at school for a while before my exchange, however when I arrived I couldn’t even get myself to say the most basic sentences. I was afraid of making mistakes, of making a fool of myself in front of other people. But after a few weeks I eventually got used to living there, and I was gradually able to communicate with others. In this case, the Italian tendency of gesticulating and talking with their hands helped me a lot, because I could use gestures to explain the things that I couldn’t with words. The fact that my capability of expressing myself had reverted to that of a five year old child was slightly frustrating. After a certain point, I honestly wanted not only to learn the language, but also to demonstrate that I wasn’t completely simple-minded and capable of having a coherent, intelligent conversation. Now, I understand that the only way to improve your ability of speaking a foreign language is simple. You just have to talk and talk and talk as much as you can and stop worrying about making mistakes. This is easier said than done, of course. But when you’re learning a new language you will always make mistakes. It’s something that you can’t avoid doing. So logically, being scared of something that you’re always going to do just doesn’t make sense. It’s like being afraid of breathing.
I remember something that I found difficult to understand in Italy were the various idioms that people used. For example, I remember the first time my host sister used the phrase ti sto prendendo in giro I just stared at her blankly for about 30 seconds straight. I now know that those words literally mean, ‘I’m taking you for a trip’, but they actually mean, ‘I’m joking’. During our entire conversation I was just stuck on that phrase thinking, “But where are we supposed to go? Where is this trip exactly? And why do we have to go at this time of night?” In the end I think it took about 10 minutes for me to understand her explanation…
My most beloved memory of Italy was definitely Christmas Day. In general, I think it’s fair to say that the Italians know the best way to throw a party. I had never, ever seen so many people and so much food in just one room before. It was truly incredible to see. I’d say that for most of the year the Italian people are usually quite happy, kind and hospitable, but during Christmas all of this multiplies by a factor of at least 200. Everyone was smiling, laughing and talking. I felt like a true part of that family, instead of just a strange girl from Australia. That experience left an impression on me, because that was the day I saw just about all the positive Italian stereotypes that you can think of. That family really welcomed me into their lives and showed me their culture. They taught me how to communicate and express myself, how to relax and adapt to life’s challenges without getting caught up in all the minute details – and of course, how to make the best lasagna in the world. For this, I will be grateful to them for the rest of my life.
If you don’t ever travel or leave the town in which you’ve grown up, you will never be able to truly experience all the world has to offer. Australia is a very isolated country, and it’s easy to forget all the wonderful things you can find if you go travelling. So if you ever get the opportunity to go on exchange, don’t think twice about it. It will change your life completely.
Comments Off on Из России с Любовью / From Russia with Love
CONTENT WARNING: Brief Mentions of Crime, Alcoholism, and Violence
Из России с Любовью
Тот момент в моем детстве, когда я заметила что все стереотипы о моей культуре уже были задействованы у злодея в фильме о Джеймсе Бонде, был очень странным. Я не думаю, что те дети, с которыми я играла в начальной школе, знали про Холодную Войну и соперничество между Россией и Западом — но эти расхожие стереотипы всё равно оставались в моей и их жизни.
Еще более странным было то, что я сама начала в них верить. Россия всегда была показана на Западе, как что-то чуждое и странное, что-то граничащее с преступлением, алкоголизмом, насилием. Такие фильмы как, «Из России с Любовью», «Красный Воробей», «Борт Номер Один» и «Рокки IV» только несколько кричащих примеров, которые приходят в голову. Когда критическое мышление ещё не развито, у ребенка нет возможности оценить информацию, которая обступает тебя со всех сторон. Ты просто привыкаешь и начинаешь в нее верить. Но это моя любимая культура, моя семья, мой родной язык! И в то же самое время это было что-то опасное, ненадежное, заполненное коррупцией. Так две противоположные идеи, которые развивались одновременно, формировали в моём сознании когнитивный диссонанс о России. Конечно, когда я повзрослела, я научилась не обращать внимание на эти стереотипы: просто люди есть люди. Ни одна страна, ни одна раса не имеют монополию на насилие или зло. Но желание стать членом одного общество осталось, входить в одну категорию или в другую.
Честно скажу, я всё еще не знаю: кто я на самом деле — русская или австралийка? Думаю, этот вопрос возникает у многих людей, у которых семьи эмигрировали в Австралию со всех точек земного шара. Мы всегда будем восприниматься как иностранцы, где бы мы ни находились в мире. Конечно, я рада что я родилась в Австралии, и благодарна за моё беззаботное детство здесь. Мне очень повезло, моя жизнь полна безграничных возможностей и ресурсов. Но почему мир всегда толкает тебя – то к одному, то к другому: быть Русской или Австралийкой? Как говорит пословица, на двух стульях не усидишь.
Но почти всегда самые лучшие вещи в жизни невозможно легко распределить по полочкам. Пытаться вписаться в один или другой национальный стереотип — это никогда не принесет полноценного счастья. Одна из самых замечательных особенностей Австралии это то, что наше общество многонационально, построено на разных культурах, которые переплетаются, учатся друг у друга. В этом и есть наша сила.
Итак, если ваша жизнь хоть немножко похожа на мою, пожалуйста не заставляйте себя выбирать между культурами, которые сделали вас такими какие вы есть — даже если это означает отказ от карьеры злодея в фильме Джеймса Бонда…
From Russia with Love
Realising as a child that the central stereotypes surrounding my culture were all encompassed in a James Bond villain was weird to say the least. I doubt anyone I played with in primary school had any inkling about the Cold War rivalry that had existed between Russia and the West. But the stereotypes, for better or for worse, persisted.
It was even stranger when I started to believe in those stereotypes myself. Russia has almost always been presented in Western media as a distinct ‘other’, something synonymous with crime, alcoholism, and violence. Movies like From Russia with Love, Air Force One, Red Sparrow, and even Rocky IV are just a few examples that come to mind. As a child, you have no frame of reference to counter the information that is barrelling towards you from every direction. And so, you tend to believe it. Slowly, a cognitive dissonance formed surrounding Russia in my mind. It was my beloved culture, my family, my mother tongue. But simultaneously, it was also imprinted in my brain as corrupt, dangerous, and untrustworthy. Two contradictory ideas running side by side, like two people riding a tandem bicycle. Of course, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learnt to put these stereotypes aside — at least for the most part. People are people. No country, no race, has a monopoly on violence or ‘evil’ (whatever that means). But the yearning to be part of a community remains, to fit neatly into one box or the other.
To be honest, I still don’t know how to categorise myself — Russian or Australian? I suppose this is an issue shared by a lot of people whose families have also migrated to Australia from all over the world. We will always be perceived as foreigners, no matter where we are. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for my upbringing and my childhood in Australia. I’ve been very lucky, living a life filled with opportunities and resources that my parents were never privy to as children. But it’s still painful to know that you will never completely be able to be part of the culture from which you came. It’s very human to want everything, including your own psyche, to be easily categorised. You’re always pushed to be one or the other. Russian or Australian. You can’t have your cake and eat it too, as the saying goes.
But more often than not, the best things in life lie in the grey areas and ambiguities. Trying to fit into the stereotypes being pushed towards you is never going to bring you absolute happiness. One of the most wonderful things about Australia is our multiculturalism and diversity, a community built on generations of different cultures, interweaving and learning from each other. In this, we find our strength.
And so, if your life is anything like mine, please do not force yourself to choose between the cultures that make you who you are — even if it means giving up a career as a James Bond villain…
When I first learned the word ‘love,’ it was from my mother. My mother has always loved me, and has told me so.
“I love you,” she would say.
“I love you too,” I would respond, before it became a tennis volley of, “I love you,” and, “I love you more.” I suppose that’s why a tennis score of draw is always ‘love.’
I learned later that love meant more than a transaction. It was always a word that I was fascinated by, and looked up the foreign variant when I was learning a new language.
To love someone is to show commitment, adoration and affection.The European languages, because of their similarities with English, gave me an expanded expression of this concept. When I learned German, I learned that you could call a beloved person liebling (basically ‘loveling’). Likewise, ‘to love’ in French is aimer and related to the word amicable (friendly). Interestingly, amis means ‘friends.’ It took me such a long time to understand why a French-speaking friend of mine had such an open view towards relationships. She did not have the English conception of ‘love’ as something a friend does not have the right to. And perhaps this is something that is encoded in the language.
Meanwhile, my actual language learning focus has mainly been on Chinese and Japanese.The first Chinese character I learned, which has the same meaning universally, is 愛. It is a highly aesthetic symbol composed of other meaningful symbols such as ‘heart’ (心), and ‘receive’ (受). In Chinese, like in English, there is familial, platonic and conjugal love, but the love that you have for your family always outstrips other kinds of love. The list of kinship terms that Mandarin and other Chinese languages have is immense, but it is not limited strictly to family. In order to express his affections for me, my Chinese housemate called himself my gēge 哥哥 (older brother).
In Chinese, love is habitual. Hobby, for instance, is aihao (love-like). One of the first questions that my Chinese housemate asked me, a native of Shanghai, was ni ai ganjing ma? With the word-for-word translation of, “Do you love cleaning?” But with the implied meaning of, “Will you clean the house often?” Ke ai 可愛 and the Japanese kawaii have the same meaning – ‘adorable.’ Literally, it means ‘loveable.’ If you are into manga and anime, you may have thought to yourself that you overused that well-known Japanese phrase and that it has lost the meaning of ‘cute.’ Well, I am here to tell you that it doesn’t matter.
The special thing about Japanese from an English-speaker’s point of view is how popular it is as a foreign language. Almost everyone I have been in a relationship with has either known a few Japanese words or been receptive to learning new ones. And because of the contextual nature of Japanese, it is the perfect language for exploring the nature of a relationship. For instance, aishiteriru 愛している: (I) love (you) and aishiteimashita 愛していました: (I) loved (them). It’s not necessary to overburden the sentence with lots of subject words such as I, you and me. You say aishiteiru when you are with someone you love, and you say aishiteimashita when you are describing someone that you loved. Somehow, I think not having to name the object of your love or define yourself before you even begin to love is potentially a liberating tool.
What is love but a tool with which to relate to other human beings?
Glossary
Aimer: To love
Libeling: Darling
愛: Love
心: Heart
受: Receive
愛している: (I) love (you)
愛していました: (I) loved (them)
Comments Off on Dos Panqueques al Día / Two Pancakes a Day
Dos Panqueques al Día
Vivía con una amiga una semana antes de emigrar. Habíamos vivido juntas en una casa de ‘refugio’ dos años antes y acabábamos de terminar el colegio juntas. Bueno, ¿qué íbamos a hacer ahora? Sin familia y sin casa, yo me fui a Sudamérica. ¿Por qué? Porque no sabía nada sobre esa parte del mundo, y por supuesto, quería ser libre de todo, explorar y olvidarme de lo que había dejado atrás en Australia.
Durante esa semana sufrí ansiedad. No quería cocinar, comí un montón de helado, y vomité la noche antes irme. En la mañana, mis amigos me llevaron a la estación de trenes, me despidieron y vieron cómo me volví mochilera.
Cuando llegué a Chile, no hablaba nada de español. No sabía ninguna mierda aparte de ‘hola’. Traje un pequeño diccionario e imaginé que todo saldría bien ya que tenía mi conocimiento de la calle – crecí rodeada de flaites, pues, soy flaite de corazón.
Pues, no pasé ningún problema con los taxistas al fuera del aeropuerto en Santiago. Sabía que me querían estafar – soy blanca, entonces debo ser rica, ¿no? Hablé con un taxista (en inglés), y le pedí consejos sobre cómo llegar a Rancagua, un pueblito en el sur, sin tomar un taxi. Me ayudó, y reí porque todo el tiempo él seguía diciendo “…pero un taxi sea más fácil.”
Llegó mi primera duda poco después. Tenía que convertir mi dinero, pues pedí ayuda de unos empleados del aeropuerto. Me ayudaron otra vez, aunque no sabían mucho inglés, pero esta vez me despidieron con la palabra ‘ciao’. ¿Ciao? Es italiano, ¿no? ¿Se estaban burlando? Pero bueno, la única vez que he escuchado alguien decir ‘adiós’ en vez de ‘chau’ fue mi amiga chilena dejando un chico después de sola una noche juntos. Pues el ‘adiós’ debe significar ‘el fin’.
Así comencé a aprender español. Pasaba mucho tiempo escuchando, aprendiendo poco a poco. No era tan urgente, pues hay muchos hispanohablantes que hablan un poco de inglés, siempre dispuestos a ayudar.
Sentí más confianza en mi dominio del español cuando empecé mi primer trabajo voluntario en un hostal de Copacabana, Bolivia. Estaba comiendo mi desayuno, todo tranquilo, y la jefa del hostal me paró.
“Tengo que ir a La Paz por una semana, ¿podrías ayudarnos?”
“Ehhh… ¿Con qué? Mi español no es…”
“Limpiar, cocinar, cosas así.”
Bueno, ¿por qué no?
Por supuesto me pasaron momentos difíciles. Tiré vasos, y siempre me preguntaba, “¡¿qué wea significa ‘falta’ en la mesa?!”
Pero no fue hasta mi tiempo en Cusco que sentí marginada por no hablar español.
Viví en un hostal que se llama ‘Bananas’ que estaba lleno de mochileros argentinos, peruanos, colombianos, chilenos, venezolanos. Sí, podía hablar español en aquel momento. Pero escuchar a tantas personas de varios países, hablando rápido y sin pensar – eso fue una cosa diferente.
Como no piensas cuando hablas tu idioma nativo; me enseñaron una manera de vivir y compartir sin intentar. A pesar de que no les podía entender, nunca me dejaron sola. Los escuché tocar su música y hacer sus artesanías. Cantábamos, jugábamos, fumábamos, tomábamos, comíamos juntos, y salíamos juntos.
Como no podía unirme a sus conversaciones en la forma tradicional, pasaba mucho tiempo mirando y pensando. Intenté entender todo lo que estaba pasando enfrente de mí – ¡ay, como quería saber!
Sin embargo, seguía en la cocina de Bananas; siempre tomando un café, o un té de coca – las hojas de los Incas, o una chicha – la cerveza andina. Mi cara de asombro al escuchar a ese tipo de español siempre les daba la risa. Escuchaba así, aunque todo parecía muy raro, porque algo me resultaba familiar; cada emoción, y cada voz.
¿Pero dónde quedaba lo mío? ¿Qué era mío? ¿Aún tenía voz?
No tenía ningún idea. Trabajé con lo que tenía de todas maneras. Les mostré – me mostré – que era capaz de ser alguien con pocas palabras. Alguien nueva pero aún como soy. Dejé de pensar tanto, y empecé a reír.
¿Sabían que el español de Chile es como el inglés de Australia? ¿Sabían que si comes panqueques cada día por dos meses vas a estar harto de ellos?¿Sabían que si dejas de ser tú por un momento, quizás recuerdes lo que eres?
No quería volver a Australia. Pero sabía que era afortunada de poder ir a la universidad, vivir con una pensión, y encontrar un trabajo. Tenía que regresar, y tenía que cambiarme otra vez.
Poco a poco he aprendido cómo preservar una parte de mí que no significa nada en Australia. ¿Sabían que hablo español de la calle? Ahora sigo en la universidad y trabajo en una terminal de buses, veo las despedidas, los reencuentros; los viajeros y los trabajadores. De vez en cuando escucho la voz de una peruana o un chileno.
¿Hablas español?
¡Sí!
Hago su reservación en español y siento como si una parte muy esencial de mi ha vuelto. Cada momento que hablo este idioma, y cada palabra que escribo ahora me hace sentir más feliz. Más como soy, y en quién me estoy volviendo.
No porque es mi lenguaje, sino porque me lleva a un lugar lleno de risas y desorden. Un lugar tan extraño, pues nunca lo voy a entender, que sin embargo me deja respirar.
Two Pancakes a Day
I stayed with a friend the week before I left. We’d lived together in a refuge two years earlier and had just finished high school together. So, what were we going to do now? Without a family and without a home, I went to South America. Why? Because I didn’t know anything about that part of the world, and of course, I wanted to be free of everything, to explore and forget what I’d left behind in Australia. During that last week I was sick with anxiety. I didn’t want to cook, I ate buckets full of ice-cream, and I vomited the night before leaving. My friends took me to the train station the next morning, they said their farewells and watched as I started my journey as a backpacker.
When I arrived in Chile, I didn’t speak any Spanish. I didn’t know a goddamn thing apart from ‘hola’. I brought a little dictionary along and figured it would all be okay since I had street smarts – I grew up surrounded by bogans, so really, I’m bogan at heart.
I had no problem with the taxi drivers outside of the airport in Santiago. I knew they were there to rip me off — I’m white, so I must be rich, right? I chatted with a driver (in English) and asked for some advice on how to get to Rancagua, a smaller town in the south, without taking a taxi. He helped me out, and I laughed because he ended every piece of advice with: “…but a taxi would be easier.” My first worry came soon after. I had to convert my money, so I asked for help from some airport employees. Again, they helped, even though they barely knew any English. But this time, they said goodbye with the word ‘ciao’. Ciao? That’s Italian, right? Were they making fun of me? But look, the only time I’ve heard someone say ‘adiós’ instead of ‘chau’ was my Chilean friend leaving a guy after a one-night stand. So, ‘adiós’ must mean ‘the end’.
And with that, I began to learn Spanish. I spent a lot of time listening, learning bit by bit. It wasn’t so urgent since there are so many Spanish speakers that speak some English, and they’re always ready to help you out.
I was feeling more confident in the language when I started volunteer work in a hostel in Copacabana, Bolivia. I was just eating my breakfast, no worries, and the boss stopped me.
“I have to go to La Paz for a week, can you help us out””
“Uhhh… with what? My Spanish isn’t…”
“Clean, cook, things like that.”
Well, why not?
I had some difficult moments, of course. I dropped glasses, and I was always trying to figure out, “what the hell does ‘falta’ on the table mean?!”
But it wasn’t until my time in Cusco that I simply felt isolated for my inability to speak Spanish. I lived in a hostel named ‘Bananas’ that was full of Argentinian, Peruvian, Colombian, Chilean and Venezuelan backpackers. Yes, I could speak Spanish by then. But listening to so many people from various countries, speaking quickly and without a second thought – that was a whole other thing. Just as you don’t think when you speak your native language, they showed me a distinct way of living without even trying. Even though I could barely understand them, they never left me alone. I listened to them play their music and watched them craft. We sang, we played, we smoked, we drank, we ate together, and we went out together. Since I couldn’t exactly join their conversations the traditional way, I spent a lot of time watching and thinking. I tried to understand what was going on in front of me – ah, how I just wanted to know!
I stayed on in the Bananas kitchen, always drinking a cup of coffee or coca tea – the leaves of the Incas, or some chicha – the beer of the Andes. I had such a face of wonder when I listened to that kind of Spanish, and it always made them laugh. I listened like that because although it was all so strange, something felt familiar; every emotion, and every voice. But where was mine? What was mine? Did I still have a voice?
I had no idea. I worked with what I had either way. I showed them – I showed myself – that I could be someone with so few words. Someone new, but still as I am. I stopped thinking so much, and I started to laugh.
Did you know that Chilean Spanish is like Australian English? Did you know that if you eat pancakes every day for two months, you’ll get sick of them? Did you know that if you stop being yourself for a moment, you may just remember who you are?
I didn’t want to return to Australia. But I knew that I was fortunate to be able to go to university, to live on welfare, to find a job. I had to come back, and I had to change myself once again.
Bit by bit, I’ve learnt how to hold onto a part of me that means nothing in Australia. I’m still going to university and I now work in a bus terminal, I see farewells, reunions, travellers and workers. Every now and then, I hear the voice of a Peruvian or a Chilean.
¿Hablas español?
¡Sí!
I go through their reservation in Spanish, and I feel as if an important part of me has come back.
Every moment I speak this language and every word I write now makes me feel happier. More like myself, and who I am becoming. Not because it’s my language, but because it takes me to a place full of laughter and confusion — a place so strange, I’ll never understand it, but that allows me to breathe nonetheless.