Amelia Bonea is a historian based at the University of Oxford and author of the book The News of Empire: Telegraphy, Journalism, and the Politics of Reporting in Colonial India, c.1830-1900 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2016). Originally from Romania, she has lived and worked in Japan, Australia, Germany and the United Kingdom. When not engaged in academic research, she likes to read and translate children’s literature, most recently on StoryWeaver.   

I was flattered when I was asked to contribute a post to the StoryWeaver blog to mark International Mother Language Day, celebrated on February 21st. The day also marks the conclusion of StoryWeaver's Freedom to Read Campaign launched in September last year. I was obviously flattered by the proposal, but I couldn’t help thinking that I was the wrong person for the job, since most of my adult life has been a move away from my mother tongue. These days, when I use Romanian, it is mostly to speak with members of my family on the phone or in occasional email conversations with friends, many of whom are themselves migrants scattered around the world.

‘It’s conservator, not conservativ’, my mother offers timidly, reminding me again that at some point over the last seventeen years, some invisible mechanism caused me to start translating words and expressions from English into Romanian, rather than the other way around. The lady who translates my birth certificate into English is bolder still: ‘Got you!’, she grins with the confidence of the professional, ‘It’s to write in Romanian, not to write down.’ I mumble some feeble excuse about having lived abroad for too long and head for the door with my pride visibly hurt. I am no language purist, but I care about how I speak, especially when I have ‘important’ business to conduct in my hometown.

I was born in communist Romania, during a time when bananas, chocolate and Coca Cola were prized commodities one learned to ration wisely so that they would last until uncle’s next visit home from university in Bucharest. I say Romania, but in fact I am more comfortable telling people that I am from Transylvania (not necessarily of Dracula and Bram Stoker fame, about which I came to know much later anyway, after I began my peregrinations abroad). As a child, I suspected that people from Bucharest were different: for one, they seemed to have easier access to foods we didn’t have and they kept referring to us as ‘provincials’; they also didn’t speak Romanian with a ‘Hungarian accent’, like we did. Not to be outdone, we reciprocated by feeling a tad superior to ‘those southerners’, among other things because of the dubious distinction of having once been part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and thus exposed to the ‘civilizing’ influence of the West.

In any case, I grew up with a clear understanding that the Romanian with which the nation-state so eagerly wanted us to identify was not the same across the length and breadth of the country: people in the eastern province of Moldova were known to speak with a ‘sweet’ accent, while those in the south seemed to be excessively fond of the perfect simple tense. The Romanian I spoke at home was not the same my grandmother spoke in her village, peppered as it was with regionalisms whose meaning I tried hard to remember. And although my grandmother, a wonderful storyteller whose memory seemed to know no bounds, often populated my childhood with characters from her eventful life—she had lived through WWII as a child—sadly I find that my own memory falters when I try to remember some of the words she was using.   

Romanian was also not the only language I grew up with. In fact, it might be fair to say that I have two mother tongues, at least as far as hearing is concerned. There are many ethnic Hungarians living in Transylvania—as there once used to be Germans, my own aunt included—and Hungarian is one of the languages which reminds me of home, despite the fact that I only have a superficial knowledge of it. When I was in primary school, I made a pact with a Hungarian friend that we would teach one another our languages. We moved away and lost contact before I managed to learn how to speak, but it was not unusual to have ‘bilingual’ conversations with neighbours or shop assistants: people would ask questions in Hungarian and I would respond in Romanian or the other way around.

That’s how I learned that language wasn’t just speech, but a tool that could be used to play power games: one could use it to other people and by doing so, to stake a claim to a territory that did in fact belong to both interlocutors, not only to one or the other. I was reminded of these power games soon after the Revolution of December 1989, when our brief encounter with the Russian language as secondary school students was abruptly brought to an end by the new experiment with democracy and our teacher was made redundant. Russian fell out of favour practically overnight and we ended up studying French and English instead. All secondary school students were required to study two foreign languages at the time and we had no say as to which those two should be. What we knew was that studying English and French was ‘desirable’ as far as our future education and career prospects were concerned.

When I finally had a say in the matter, I decided to learn Japanese and moved to Japan to study for a university degree in Asian Area Studies. Once there, I became interested in the colonial history of South Asia and began to study Hindi as well. The big difference from my previous linguistic encounters was that these languages did not use the Roman alphabet and so they completely unsettled my ideas about the world: from a relatively small pool of 26-31 letters, I found myself thrown into a seemingly endless ocean of characters which I wasn’t always sure how they differed from each other. It was easier with Hindi, but I still can’t remember the order of the Devanagari script, which makes searching a word in a dictionary a time-consuming affair (and yes, I have the same problem in Japanese, but I console myself with the knowledge that some of my Japanese colleagues have the same problem with the Roman alphabet).

 

Much later, I also came to realize that these linguistics encounters have tweaked my brain in other, more subtle ways. I often find myself listening not only to what people say, but also to how they say it. I pay attention to their use of vocabulary and grammar. I read posters and billboards not necessarily because I am interested in the ads, but because I want to know what that character or expression means. Come to think of it, living abroad feels like a continuous language learning exercise. It gets tiring at times, but it is also exciting and enriching. Languages opened doors into worlds I didn’t know or knew little about. More than anything perhaps, learning languages has taught me to listen. Yoko Tawada, herself a straddler of worlds who lives in Germany and writes in German and Japanese, wrote in her book Where Europe Begins that, ‘Perhaps the ear is the organ of storytelling, not the mouth. Why else was the poison poured into the ear of Hamlet’s father rather than his mouth? To cut off a person from the world, you must first destroy not his mouth but his ear.’ I am reaching a stage in my life where I feel that I have come full circle and can now begin to translate some of the things I heard back into Romanian. And what better place to begin than with some of the best examples of storytelling out there, children’s books?

You can read Amelia's translations to Romanian on StoryWeaver here.

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International Mother Language Day is celebrated annually on 21 February to promote awareness of linguistic and cultural diversity, and multilingualism. 

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The ability to read is the ability to learn, to explore, and to imagine. But without books to read, how will children become readers?

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Anurima Chanda is a PhD research scholar working on Indian English Children's Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU). Recently, one of her papers on Nonsense Superheroes was  chosen as course curriculum at the Berklee College of Music. She loves translating to and from Bengali, her native language. She loves writing and illustrating for children.   

I am doing my PhD from the Centre for English Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University. I am at the last stage as I submit in July this year. My topic (and this you would be glad to know) is on Twenty First Century Indian English Children's Literature and how it has been challenging previously held taboos within this area. So I look at texts that are not afraid to talk about caste, class, crime, violence, death, disease, disability, broken families, alternate sexualities, so on and so forth. The Pratham Books title ‘Chuskit Goes to School’ is one of the many stories that I am looking at - and I should inform you that I absolutely loved the story. I remember that I was looking for the English version of the story at the Delhi Book Fair this year, but they had already been sold out. That is when I started searching for it online and was glad to see that it was made freely available online on StoryWeaver.

I discovered StoryWeaver when the Pratham Books page on Facebook advertised about the Retell, Remix and Rejoice Contest 2017. When I went through the site, I realised how easy it was to upload one’s stories through the platform. That is what got me so excited! But I saved all my excitement for later, as at that moment my prime target was to send a story for the contest. I got to know really late as it was already 27th or 28th of April and the last date for submission was 30th. I knew I had a story but I did not have enough time to weave it properly. When I saw the subheadings under which I could write, I knew I wanted to write about "Body Parts" but with a slight twist. I wanted to tie it up with disability, so that we bring a break in the way body parts are taught at schools. Children are made aware that there are people for whom eyes and ears function differently. The motive behind it was not just spreading awareness but also to find a way against bullying that disabled children face at school.

StoryWeaver has given me that confidence to tell my story, even if it is not polished. Plus, it is an added advantage, that you guys are so open to new ideas. Unlike most other publishing houses, who still have concerns about the suitability of sharing stories around certain topics with young children, Pratham Books has always been a forerunner in breaking that pattern and showing the way ahead. So thank you, thank you for changing the scene of children's writing in India and for giving us - people who are so passionate about this field, an opportunity to experiment.   

By that time the story bug had hit me hard. I started with simple translations. Then I thought of writing my own story, and the easiest was telling my own story - yes, Mohar is my nickname and that story had really happened. I wrote in Bengali, because although I am an English student, I still 'think' my stories in Bengali - even today. About the illustrations, one of the biggest grouse against Indian children's literature has been that it uses western pattern of illustrations. Even though there have been experiments with indigenous art-forms, it has shot up the prices of the books, making it out of reach for majority of the children in India. So, I knew that whenever I tell my own story, I will experiment with indigenous art-form. That was the reason that I used the Warli art-form for the book. And, in the future too, I intend on using similar art-forms - be it Poto-chitro, Madhubani, Gond or the others.

 

You can read Mohar in English, here.

There were so many people who complimented me on Mohar, that now I know that I am doing something right. I always knew that in the future I wanted to write for children. But this one, just made me more confident. Now I know for certain that I can do it. And thanks to you guys for making it so simple! So, my major aim is to get through complex ideas to children in the most easy way possible. To tell stories about children who do not fit into the mainstream idea of childhood in India. Then, to have my friends translate these stories into as many languages as possible to spread them far and wide. And yes, to experiment with folk art. I also want to help open libraries for children in the country - starting with my hometown Siliguri. At present I do not have the money, but once I submit my PhD and have a job, I would love to initiate that project. It is all a dream!

 

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