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Die Hand vol Vere
Right at the beginning of our SAWIP journey, at the orientation camp, we were each asked to bring along one item that represented our South African story and identity.
If someone asks me what my South African identity is, that's easy to answer. I'm Afrikaans. But once you start asking questions around that it starts getting more tricky, quite quickly. Apart from the language that I speak at home, what exactly is it that makes me Afrikaans? Many of the stereotypical "Afrikaans" characteristics are ones to which I don't relate particularly strongly. Hunting, Khaki, Rugby, Biltong, Castle Larger, the majority of Afrikaans popular music - all of which have their appropriate place and time - don't feature particularly strongly on my hierarchy of needs.
I find myself, perhaps, in a space similar to many other young Afrikaans speaking South Africans who are currently searching for ways to redefine themselves as Afrikaans speaking South Africans.
In thinking about what item could represent my South African story, I remembered the poem bellow, Die hand vol vere, by Breyten Breytenbach that he wrote while in exile. While his story is very different from my own, there are certain core elements of his message to which I relate quite stronly.
I remember reading it at the orientation camp, and what I thought about the poem and my relating to it back then. Little did I know back then just how much I would lean about what it means to be Afrikaans from the kids on our team who aren't, my experience in Washington and my interaction with the students from Ireland, Palestine and Israel. This is just one more of the numerous things I can attribute to my SAWIP 2012 experience, and something that I am grateful for.
The translation on the right has been borrowed from this site by"TonyMac".
A Handful of Feathers
Mummy
I always thought
that when one day I came home
it would be unexpectedly at dusk
with the accumulated riches of years
on the backs of iron cows
It's still blueish
Softly, quietly I open the gate to the back yard
old Wagter* growls and barks
but then he tail-wags recognition
Frits Kreisler will play sweetly on his violin
Ma you know
like Viennese waltzes
and the surprised windows begin to listen
people I don't know
or almost know from very far
leaning out with nighties full of smiles and elbows
people whose laps I peed on as a child
ma stands inside her heart stopped
(and where are the specs?)
dad wakes, confused, with a start
but mummy is already outside
with a dressing gown and red cheeks
And there I stand large as life
on the lawn near the cement pond
where the new outside rooms have been added
slightly worn out by the long journey
a top hat
a smart suit on
with a carnation in the jacket
new Italian shoes for the occasion
my hands full of presents
a song for my ma and a little pride for my dad
But mummy knows it's me
and behind me my caravan
as befits a traveller from overseas
my wife and children bow-tied
each with three Boland words
my musicians
the gun bearers
friends companions
political advisors
and road managers
a creditor or two
Just this side of the vineyard a meek rose grows
good grief the air is bitingly clean
there's dad coming to see what's up
like that on his empty tummy
the mountains have gone grey
and the oaks thick
but still
mummy
I had thought I would just be there
like a Coloured choir on Christmas day
mummy
I had though how we would cry then
and drink tea
Blind Wagter it seems couldn't wait
and just died
Fritz Kreisler maybe doesn't like such a long journey …
but if he can't come
then I'll hire Paganini …
sleep well with one ear open
not like old Dog
wherever I plant a feather
a clucking hen comes up!
Die Hand vol Vere
Mammie
ek het gedog
as ek een dag huis toe kom
sal dit onverwags so teen die skemerdag wees
met jare se opgegaarde rykdom
op rûe van ysterkoeie
Dis nog blouerig
ek maak sjuut en saggies die agterplaas-hek oop
ou Wagter* knor-blaf
maar stert-herken my dan
Fritz Kreisler sal soet op sy viool speel
ma weet mos
sulke Weense walse
en verbaas begin die vensters luister
mense wat ek nie ken nie
of net nog van baie ver
leun uit met nagrokke vol glimlagte en elmboë
mense op wie se skote ek gepee het kleintyd
binne staan ma se hart still
(en waar is die bril?)
pa skrik wakker verdwaas so deur die wind
maar mammie is reeds buite
met 'n kamerjas en rooi wange
En daar staan ek lewensgroot
op die lawn naby die sementdammetjie
waar die nuwe buitekamers aangebou is
effens verweeer deur die verre reis
'n keil op
'n deftige pak
angelier in die baadjie
nuwe Italiaanse skoene vir die okkasie
my hande vol presente
'n liedjie vir my ma 'n bietjie trots vir mý pa
Maar mammie weet mos dis ek
en agter my my karavaan
soos dit 'n reisiger van oorsee betaam
my vrou en kinders strikgedas
elkeen met drie Bolandwoorde in die mond
my musikante
die geweerdraers
vriende kamarade
politieke raadgewers
en road-managers
'n skuldeiser of twee
Net duskant die wingerd groei 'n mak roos
mensig maar die lug is knypskoon
daar kom kyk pa ook wat skort
so op sy nugter maag
die berge het grys geword
en die akkerbome dik
maar wat
mammie
ek het gedog ek sal sommerso daar wees
soos 'n Kleurlingkoor met Kersoggend
mammie
ek het gedog hoe ons dan sal huil
en tee drink
Blinde Wagter kon glo nie wag nie
en is glo-glo dood …
Fritz Kreisler hou dalk nie van so 'n verre reis …
maar as hy nie kan kom nie
dan huur ek vir Paganini …
slaap gerus met die een oor oop:
anders as ou Dog
waar ek 'n veertjie plant
kom 'n kêk-kôk hoender op!
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I recall your reading of this poem
Indeed much has changed since our DC experience and it is a though our iddentities have been redefined and shaped in so many ways. I now look forward to reading a blog about your experience in Hong Kong.