WHICH LANGUAGE ARE YOU WEARING TODAY?
On Foreign and Home Languages
by Volha Hapeyeva
The question of how different languages refer to other languages is fascinating. German is particularly alienating in this situation because the word "fremd" means "not one's own, someone else's" or "unfamiliar". In German, language can be foreign but so can property, or language can sound foreign in the sense of "strange". Fremd comes from the Germanic fram –meaning “far from, away from”, with usage documented since the 8th century. The English word "foreign" (used to describe language) comes from the Latin foris, literally "out of the door", and is related to foris [a door]. In English, though, we say something “sounds strange”, not “foreign” or“someone else’s property”. The Belarussian variant for foreign is"zamiežnaja mova", which means "beyond the borders". Today, when we hear these words and know nothing about their origin, we still subtly feel a loop present behind them because of their compatibility with other words.With the German "fremd", we also hear a hint of "what I do not know", while with the Belarussian "zamiežny" we think of borders, of a place that is shared or that has certain borders. This is not about knowledge, but about a space.
We come to the words we learn in foreign languages in one of two ways. The first way is through textbooks, which often leave us wondering why these words are the way they are, and how or where we will be able to use them. When I learned my foreign languages (first English, then French and German), I didn't think about the words' usefulness; I don't know why, maybe because of my obedience and belief in and towards authority – when the teacher said we should memorize these words, I did so. Critical thinking and deconstruction came much later. I must admit, though, that the lexis in the text books of my time was extreme lyboring.
Table Chair Pencil
Book Blackboard
All words you could use at school – as if the main idea was that foreign languageswere only used at school and that you would never speak them outside it. This wasmore or less true in my school days (the 1990s). The situation changed when theso-called 'communicative approach' to language learning emerged. With this, theemphasis was on speaking.
However, I have heard from time to time from teachers of mine or older generations that students now speak but do not know the grammar and so make many mistakes. The fear of making mistakes can be crippling, especially if you get bad marks or harsh criticism for it. I have met many Belarusians who are even afraid to speak Belarussian because they don’t want to make mistakes and distort the language – but more on that later.
However, I have heard from time to time from teachers of mine or older generations that students now speak but do not know the grammar and so make many mistakes. The fear of making mistakes can be crippling, especially if you get bad marks or harsh criticism for it. I have met many Belarusians who are even afraid to speak Belarussian because they don’t want to make mistakes and distort the language – but more on that later.
I'm in a taxi in Regensburg and the driver is telling me stories on the way to a venue. He mentions the word "lachrymal gland", then asks if I know theword. "Yes," I reply. He is silent, waiting for something, and I realize that he needs proof that I am not lying and that I do know the word. "It's the little organ in the eye which tears come from," I say. "Yes, exactly," he says, satisfied, and then he says, "I'm only asking because you're from Belarus and there’s no reason for you to know the word. I have no doubt that you know what it means." I reply sympathetically, "Don't worry, I understand.“ He goes on, but I'm not listening, at least not that attentively; instead, I’m really wondering where I know the word from.
And here comes the second group of words we learn in foreign languages.These are words that we urgently need, words that are necessary to fulfil our wants or needs. Or to tell us about something, to tell us something about our own lives.
And here comes the second group of words we learn in foreign languages.These are words that we urgently need, words that are necessary to fulfil our wants or needs. Or to tell us about something, to tell us something about our own lives.
Hamster (I want to buy food for my hamster)
Thank you (being polite has always been my thing)
Thyroid gland (since the Chernobyl disaster, many people have had problems with it)
Cartridge fuse key (I want to fix the tap myself – it's been dripping formonths, and the plumber won't come)
When you know or learn other languages, you also start to think more about your own, your native or mother tongue – but what is this own language? I meet my colleague and publisher after a reading; he has been in German PEN's "Writer in Exile" program, where I was once a fellow, since the summer, and we exchange news, as it’s the first time I’ve seen him since 2019. He tells me about his everyday life here in Berlin, and as he describesit, he uses the word "pajezdka" (journey). He says: "You know, Volha, in this journey I have ...." and at first I don't understand which journey he means.Then I realize that he still has hope that he won't be here long and that he will soon be able to go home, to return from "this journey". The word exile or emigration is not yet in his lexicon; it is too violent, too hopeless, too uncompromising.
A few years ago, when I was already living in Munich, a Belarussian journalist asked me how I felt there, "na čužynie" [in the alien land]. At first I didn't understand what she meant, because as a child I had often heard the phrase used to refer to the unfortunate fate of revolutionaries sent to Siberia, or to misery. I imagined such a place to bevery cold and strange. And when I heard the word in relation to my life in Munich, it sounded like cognitive dissonance, because I didn't think of Germany as an "alien land", but as the country that had given me so many opportunities and so much help.
Language is an emotional issue because it is part of our identity, and the question of identity is always painful. Especially when you have to fight for its recognition.
The Russian language is a privileged language (like English or Spanish); it doesn't need support, but that doesn't mean you have to hate it. Hate is something to be avoided. Language doesn't work in a vacuum – certain people speak certain languages, and if someone bad uses a language, we may consciously or unconsciously associate it with him or her. Yet there are thousands of other people who use that language – good, dignified people.
An elderly colleague from Belarus, who is about 80 years old, told me about the aggression and rejection she experienced as a student because she wanted to learn German after the Second World War. She often heard: "You want to learn the language of the enemy". This is understandable, a normal human reaction from people who have been traumatized, but it does not mean that this is how things should always be. Everyone has to decide for themselves and there is no universal answer because we are all unique and different. There is one thing we all have in common – this life on this planet, and everything we do or think affects not only us but others. The impact may not be direct or immediately visible, but it is present nonetheless.
Language itself, as a human phenomenon, belongs to no one and to everyone. When we think about mother tongues or native languages as a concept, however, it is not so clear and simple. Two things become visible. Firstly, the situation in both family and society is understood as monolingual (although this is not always the case), and secondly, the language in question is the collective property of a particular ethnicity or people. Here language becomes a political issue, even though it is not something that can be owned, and the state can decide its fate (e.g. on writing reforms or the status of the language). The state can even ban a language as if it were a dangerous thing, a drug or a weapon, as was the case for a long time with the Belarusian language, which was banned from being taught and printed. We can only imagine what it feels like to be deprived of one of the most important means of communication and to have this part of one's identity declared to be something wrong, even forbidden.
In sociolinguistics, a priority criterion that helps to decide whether we are dealing with a language or a dialect is what speakers call this entity or what they consider it to be, and this criterion is more important than a structural linguistic criterion (how close the languages/dialects are and whether people can understand each other without an interpreter). If someone considers their language to be separate from the languages of all their neighbors, then it is a separate, distinct language and not a dialect.
The Russian language is a privileged language (like English or Spanish); it doesn't need support, but that doesn't mean you have to hate it. Hate is something to be avoided. Language doesn't work in a vacuum – certain people speak certain languages, and if someone bad uses a language, we may consciously or unconsciously associate it with him or her. Yet there are thousands of other people who use that language – good, dignified people.
An elderly colleague from Belarus, who is about 80 years old, told me about the aggression and rejection she experienced as a student because she wanted to learn German after the Second World War. She often heard: "You want to learn the language of the enemy". This is understandable, a normal human reaction from people who have been traumatized, but it does not mean that this is how things should always be. Everyone has to decide for themselves and there is no universal answer because we are all unique and different. There is one thing we all have in common – this life on this planet, and everything we do or think affects not only us but others. The impact may not be direct or immediately visible, but it is present nonetheless.
Language itself, as a human phenomenon, belongs to no one and to everyone. When we think about mother tongues or native languages as a concept, however, it is not so clear and simple. Two things become visible. Firstly, the situation in both family and society is understood as monolingual (although this is not always the case), and secondly, the language in question is the collective property of a particular ethnicity or people. Here language becomes a political issue, even though it is not something that can be owned, and the state can decide its fate (e.g. on writing reforms or the status of the language). The state can even ban a language as if it were a dangerous thing, a drug or a weapon, as was the case for a long time with the Belarusian language, which was banned from being taught and printed. We can only imagine what it feels like to be deprived of one of the most important means of communication and to have this part of one's identity declared to be something wrong, even forbidden.
In sociolinguistics, a priority criterion that helps to decide whether we are dealing with a language or a dialect is what speakers call this entity or what they consider it to be, and this criterion is more important than a structural linguistic criterion (how close the languages/dialects are and whether people can understand each other without an interpreter). If someone considers their language to be separate from the languages of all their neighbors, then it is a separate, distinct language and not a dialect.
Something similar could also be said about the term "mother tongue". Linguistic (political) situations are very different across the world, and a traditional understanding of mother tongue is not the only possible one. Your mother tongue is not necessarily your first language or the one you know best or use most often. It is something much deeper and more existential. Some Belarusians speak English or German much better than they do Belarussian, but I doubt that they consider these languages as their mother tongue. We grew up in a different linguistic environment, so the term "mother tongue" cannot be used by us in the sense in which it was understood in the classical interpretation. It is rather an emotional attachment. The fact that my Belarussian mother tongue does not correspond to the parameters of the canonical mother tongue – that is, I did not learn this language from my mother – does not mean that I cannot perceive it in this way. The mother tongue is a highly emotional and strongly identity-related phenomenon.
Sometimes it seems that some Belarusians regard the Belarussian language as something sacred or like porcelain. They put it in a cupboard under a glass dome and say how much they admire and love it, but they do not dare to use it in everyday life. A common statement is: "I make many mistakes and do not want to damage the language". Many of us suffer from this perfectionism, but language is not a porcelain statue, it is an ink cartridge, and if you don't use it, it dries up. If you want to use it, you should use it regardless of what others say about it. No matter what our language or background, nobody’s speech is ever "clean" or without mistakes.
Many Belarusians use Russian in everyday life, but they do not consider it their mother tongue. Russian was historically the language of the oppressors, the language of the Empire (the Tsarist Empire) for us, and that is why there is this alienation (conscious or unconscious). You use the language, but there is no emotional connection, because you know genetically that this language is imposed from outside, that through this language we were systematically denied our basic linguistic rights. That is why so many Belarusians call (and think of) the Belarussian language as their mother tongue, although they do not actively use it. This is a peculiarity of our linguistic situation. That is why the question of language is so important and becomes a battlefield. It is still seen as a means of liberation from empire. Language is not just a system of grammatical rules and letters, it is a world view, a particular culture, and although Russian is not only the language of the Soviet Union, for those of us who lived close to this vast territory, it was for most of the time the language of the Empire. This is another reason why Russian is not recognized as a mother tongue.
Another thing we need to talk about is the responsibility we have for language. We could mention eco-linguistics in this context – a relatively new direction in sociolinguistics that looks at how linguistics can be used to address important ecological issues, from climate change to biodiversity loss to environmental justice. Another responsibility is that of promoting linguistic diversity, which is as important as biodiversity. The more languages there are, the better, so there is an impetus to learn not only the majority languages, but also the minority ones, to keep them alive and visible.
Sometimes it seems that some Belarusians regard the Belarussian language as something sacred or like porcelain. They put it in a cupboard under a glass dome and say how much they admire and love it, but they do not dare to use it in everyday life. A common statement is: "I make many mistakes and do not want to damage the language". Many of us suffer from this perfectionism, but language is not a porcelain statue, it is an ink cartridge, and if you don't use it, it dries up. If you want to use it, you should use it regardless of what others say about it. No matter what our language or background, nobody’s speech is ever "clean" or without mistakes.
Many Belarusians use Russian in everyday life, but they do not consider it their mother tongue. Russian was historically the language of the oppressors, the language of the Empire (the Tsarist Empire) for us, and that is why there is this alienation (conscious or unconscious). You use the language, but there is no emotional connection, because you know genetically that this language is imposed from outside, that through this language we were systematically denied our basic linguistic rights. That is why so many Belarusians call (and think of) the Belarussian language as their mother tongue, although they do not actively use it. This is a peculiarity of our linguistic situation. That is why the question of language is so important and becomes a battlefield. It is still seen as a means of liberation from empire. Language is not just a system of grammatical rules and letters, it is a world view, a particular culture, and although Russian is not only the language of the Soviet Union, for those of us who lived close to this vast territory, it was for most of the time the language of the Empire. This is another reason why Russian is not recognized as a mother tongue.
Another thing we need to talk about is the responsibility we have for language. We could mention eco-linguistics in this context – a relatively new direction in sociolinguistics that looks at how linguistics can be used to address important ecological issues, from climate change to biodiversity loss to environmental justice. Another responsibility is that of promoting linguistic diversity, which is as important as biodiversity. The more languages there are, the better, so there is an impetus to learn not only the majority languages, but also the minority ones, to keep them alive and visible.
One language dies every fortnight. In the next century, almost half of the 7,000 or so languages spoken on earth are likely to disappear as communities abandon their mother tongues and replace them with English, Mandarin or Spanish. I am not an idealist, but I do believe in individual responsibility. On the other hand, as a linguist, I understand that for a language to live its best life, it needs support and space where it can act as a master or owner – not a wallflower. This cannot be achieved by an individual; it is a task for the state or a larger international community.
Mother-tongue speakers or native speakers are "nos'bit movie" in Belarusian – which literally means carriers of the language. Not a word about mother or homeland: what is important is the action, the process. Maybe this means thinking about language like you think about a dress or a suit. There are certain fashion trends in the linguistic wardrobe of the world. And yes, it is useful to have great languages like Spanish or English, but without our conscious support, languages like Belarussian, Montenegrin or Tuvan (and who knows how many others) risk becoming mere vintage goods.
I have friendships, relationships with different people in different languages, and there are those with whom I only speak German, or only Belarussian, or only English. After a long time, when you suddenly hear a friend speak another language, they seem like a different person. Language is part of identity, and different languages give us different perspectives on the world and ourselves. English allows us to make friends very quickly. In English, people often use words that sound too "strong" for everyday conversation in German or Belarussian, such as happy or friend. Where an English woman says HAPPY to meet you, in German she would say es freut mich, and not everyone is a friend – some people are just Bekannte or znajomyja (acquaintances). At a literary festival I spoke English with an older colleague, also a poet, from India. Then we suddenly discovered that we both spoke German and wanted to speak German. I opened my mouth and suddenly everything stood still. I was taken aback and didn't know whether to address my new friend (or acquaintance?) as Sie
or du, whether to speak formally or informally; in English I hadn't had to make that decision. At such moments I almost feel the physical presence of language, its movement inside me, as if it were standing there, staring at me, waiting.
I have friendships, relationships with different people in different languages, and there are those with whom I only speak German, or only Belarussian, or only English. After a long time, when you suddenly hear a friend speak another language, they seem like a different person. Language is part of identity, and different languages give us different perspectives on the world and ourselves. English allows us to make friends very quickly. In English, people often use words that sound too "strong" for everyday conversation in German or Belarussian, such as happy or friend. Where an English woman says HAPPY to meet you, in German she would say es freut mich, and not everyone is a friend – some people are just Bekannte or znajomyja (acquaintances). At a literary festival I spoke English with an older colleague, also a poet, from India. Then we suddenly discovered that we both spoke German and wanted to speak German. I opened my mouth and suddenly everything stood still. I was taken aback and didn't know whether to address my new friend (or acquaintance?) as Sie
or du, whether to speak formally or informally; in English I hadn't had to make that decision. At such moments I almost feel the physical presence of language, its movement inside me, as if it were standing there, staring at me, waiting.
There are also moments when I think about which language I should write in. The pressure to decide has sometimes been so great that I unconsciously withdrew from writing and turned to art. At first, I couldn't understand why I was painting so much and experimenting with different techniques: watercolors, pastels, acrylics, prints, encaustics. There are various reasons – my curiosity, my love of art and a desire for interdisciplinarity. Yet then I read about Etel Adnan, who was an important representative of modernism. She was born in Beirut in 1925 and grew up speaking French in Lebanon. Her mother was Greek and her father Syrian. After the Algerian war of independence (1954-1962), she wanted to stop writing in French as a sign of solidarity with Algeria, and turned instead to painting: "I no longer needed to write in French, I wanted to paint in Arabic. That's also a way. I try it when I'm tired of words, of thinking in words, I switch off and think in colors and shapes, lines and tones."
I always wanted to try painting, but it was never possible in Minsk. I can't explain it. When I was staying at Villa Waldberta near Munich in the autumn of 2020, a dear friend and colleague, Ulrike Roos von Rosen, gave me a small box of watercolors. And I just started. I read a lot about painting and practiced, and each time it was something soothing, more therapy than a duty, it was the joy of life and colors.
When I read about watercolors, I realized that they have a lot to do with poetry. Watercolors are difficult to control and almost impossible to correct. The combination of water and pigments is difficult to foresee and predict, just like in a poem. If you are looking for an equivalent in painting, sumi-e – Japanese ink painting – comes to mind. The main idea of this painting technique is to capture the moment, to express the beauty of nature in a concise form. In Sumi-e, as in Zen, everything superfluous is discarded. Lightness is also important in Sumi-e. The creative act must be immediate, in the same breath. There is only the 'now'. So before the artist starts to paint, she thinks about her picture for a long time and then creates the whole picture with a few strokes in a few minutes. In Sumi-e, as in poetry, there is something unspoken that leaves room for thought. Prose, on the other hand, is like oil painting, when you work for a long time and with many layers, which you apply over and over again.
Painting came into my life at an existentially difficult moment, when languages could no longer help me to explain everything, and when I was too exhausted to explain over and over why I am not "at home", what language Belarusian is, where my "home" is, etc. I could not explain everything. Tired of words, I turned to art. Now I feel so much richer because I write in Belarussian and German, but I also have my art. Sometimes I like to think that the language I use or speak is poetry – it can sound Belarussian or German, look like a pastel or a watercolor, an idealized entity, a metalanguage where multi-interpretability and empathy are its most important elements, where it is safe for me to speak – but also to be silent.
4K Timelapse Video
Translation of the poems from the video:
and she dreamt about the word
and she dreamt about the word
and she awoke
and she could not remember it
and the word was simple and whole
making the world quiet and light
as if everything were now known
and everything became clear
explained and evident
and she wanted to remember the word
and in her search she learnt languages
her tongue touched gums
– her own and those of others –
she listened to birds and heard the trees
she listened to murmurs and heard the wasps
she listened to silence and heard not a word
and she returned to the cities
and sat there in silence
so as not to scare off her timid word
and among the crowd she saw others
and called to them – word, is that you?
and many of them answered her
and many of them she believed
because she wanted to believe because she was tired
because she hadn’t slept in so long
and she began to doubt whether her word even existed
no matter who she asked, no one had heard of it
only one time somebody said
this word will be the last word
and when you remember it you will forget all others
and will become a word yourself
Translation into English Annie Rutherford
*(from the book “”In My Garden of Mutants”, Arc Publication, 2021)
and she dreamt about the word
and she awoke
and she could not remember it
and the word was simple and whole
making the world quiet and light
as if everything were now known
and everything became clear
explained and evident
and she wanted to remember the word
and in her search she learnt languages
her tongue touched gums
– her own and those of others –
she listened to birds and heard the trees
she listened to murmurs and heard the wasps
she listened to silence and heard not a word
and she returned to the cities
and sat there in silence
so as not to scare off her timid word
and among the crowd she saw others
and called to them – word, is that you?
and many of them answered her
and many of them she believed
because she wanted to believe because she was tired
because she hadn’t slept in so long
and she began to doubt whether her word even existed
no matter who she asked, no one had heard of it
only one time somebody said
this word will be the last word
and when you remember it you will forget all others
and will become a word yourself
Translation into English Annie Rutherford
*(from the book “”In My Garden of Mutants”, Arc Publication, 2021)
while waiting for the bus
I warm the insides of my thighs
on a wooden bench
in summer you must be obsessive
and just have to go swimming
to tire yourself out
and realise there is no time
only memory
the sea can be replaced with a lake
the lake with a river
poplars with plane trees
the Belarusian town with a Swiss village
but you’re still sitting on a wooden bench
thinking of nothing
kids return from the beach
they don’t yet know how to read or write
they have to carry everything inside themselves
that’s how memory grows
they fidget, chatter, argue
tussle
the teacher says something
and straight away
they take the hand of whoever’s standing next to them
that simply, that naturally
it doesn’t matter who it is
a friend or enemy
they don’t exist yet
they’ll arrive later with the letters
but right now there’s only here and now
and the feel of a hand being put into yours
so as to be there
in case of danger
Translation into English Annie Rutherford
I warm the insides of my thighs
on a wooden bench
in summer you must be obsessive
and just have to go swimming
to tire yourself out
and realise there is no time
only memory
the sea can be replaced with a lake
the lake with a river
poplars with plane trees
the Belarusian town with a Swiss village
but you’re still sitting on a wooden bench
thinking of nothing
kids return from the beach
they don’t yet know how to read or write
they have to carry everything inside themselves
that’s how memory grows
they fidget, chatter, argue
tussle
the teacher says something
and straight away
they take the hand of whoever’s standing next to them
that simply, that naturally
it doesn’t matter who it is
a friend or enemy
they don’t exist yet
they’ll arrive later with the letters
but right now there’s only here and now
and the feel of a hand being put into yours
so as to be there
in case of danger
Translation into English Annie Rutherford
how to capture a year in a hundred words
beyond
but
myself like never before
weightlessness
but
cement pain too
as if it weren’t home
but
as if it were
life in antonyms
I check the meanings of words in dictionaries
patria
locus natalis
heimat
which one is радзіма
the sedge warbler closes her eyes, waiting for the first leaf to unfurl
a true homeland only exists in dreams
ancient scrolls offer more answers than my newsfeed
which I haven’t read for a year now
and I talk with moths and birds more and more often
they don’t ask any questions
they just are
and let
me
simply be
where there is no time
and no words
Translation into English Annie Rutherford
beyond
but
myself like never before
weightlessness
but
cement pain too
as if it weren’t home
but
as if it were
life in antonyms
I check the meanings of words in dictionaries
patria
locus natalis
heimat
which one is радзіма
the sedge warbler closes her eyes, waiting for the first leaf to unfurl
a true homeland only exists in dreams
ancient scrolls offer more answers than my newsfeed
which I haven’t read for a year now
and I talk with moths and birds more and more often
they don’t ask any questions
they just are
and let
me
simply be
where there is no time
and no words
Translation into English Annie Rutherford
Artists in Talk:
Anna Bakinovskaia with Volha Hapeyeva
Anna Bakinovskaia with Volha Hapeyeva
English essay for Download
German essay for download
