In light of recent discussions about identity, the Welsh are similar to us Goans. --------------------------------------- Last weekend, I went to Cymru. Not many people would recognise the name Cymru but it is the Celtic name for Wales. The history of a nation’s language is the chronicle of its struggles and triumphs.
I’d wanted to visit Wales for a long time. Like us Goans, they are passionate about their identity and in a constant struggle to defend it from the onslaught of Anglo-Saxon cultural incursions. Although I firmly believe that the identity of a society is in continuous formation, I also have an admiration for those pockets of humanity that cling tightly to their past. Perhaps it is this act of clinging itself that garners respect from me. Driving through, Glamorgan’s winding roads with hedges on either side, I am reminded of a labyrinth, which quite frankly I wouldn’t mind getting lost in. Our delightful Bed & Breakfast is a farm, nestled in a valley so lush and green, I expected to see Eve plucking apples somewhere. Glamorgan was the first coast in Wales to come under Heritage Coast protection in 1973 and has remained untouched by the scorn of 21 century concrete. Meandering black Welsh cows take little notice of tourists with cameras. The occasional tractor stops to let the cows cross the road. Walking through the Cardiff market, buying specialty cheese from a plumb old lady with ash-blond hair, and chatting with the half-Russian, half-Persian vendor of knick-knacks, its difficult to remember that Welsh is the language. Indeed, one would be lost without English. It’s even more difficult to imagine that once fierce Kelts known for their flaming tempers and esoteric rituals rampaged through these moorlands. The market is a mélange of redheads, blonds and here and there bobbing its head in defiance of a polluted gene pool, is the quintessential dark-haired Kalli. Despite its absence amongst the milling crowds at the Cardiff market, the Welsh are very protective of their language. In 1847, a report, which later came to be known as the Treachery of the Blue Books, inferred that the “moral and material depravation” of the Welsh was due to the absence of the English language in their medium of instruction. As a result, Welsh children became acquainted with the Welsh Not. A placard with the letters WN was hung over any child who dared to speak Welsh in school. This child would then pass on the placard to any other child found speaking Welsh. At the end of the day, the child wearing the placard would receive a lashing. Although, it is said this bizarre form of punishment was rarely instituted, it does show how desperately hard the Welsh have had to fight to preserve their language from ritualistic culling. Perhaps the more important question is, have they succeeded? Welsh has made a comeback but in a limited fashion. The owner of my Bed & Breakfast, Marian, tells me that it has skipped a generation. It gained equal status to English in 1993. Since then, children who have been sent to Welsh medium schools can speak the language but many a times, their parents cannot. Her cursory assessment seems to tally with the statistics. In a 2004 survey, 21% of the population could speak Welsh, in 2001 only 20% and in 1991 just 18.7%. This however was no cause for celebration. The increase in fluency was amongst the 3-15 year olds and only in the heartland of Welsh-speaking Wales, the South East. Everywhere else and in every other group tested, the fluency had decreased. Infact, a new language had emerged called Wenglish. I had to wonder about Konkani and if indeed our efforts to salvage it would succeed. Sadly, Darwinian evolution cannot make exceptions for language. Marian is English. Her father, whom she describes as a “proud man from Kent”, moved to Wales and married her “English but brought-up in Wales”, mother. She says her father never became part of Wales and never felt accepted here. The older Welsh are wretchedly averse to anything or anyone English. A hatred that found voice in a nationalist movement called “Sons of Glydwr”, who in 1979 went on a rampage burning Holiday Homes bought by the English in Wales. This campaign lasted for twelve years, amidst a growing fears that locals could no longer afford housing in the very place of their birth. I had heard this story before. A deja-vu from the place of my own birth, Goa. The Sons of Glydwr movement, died of natural causes in the eighties, and tourism continues to be an important source of income for Wales. Marian has a curious habit. She leaves her front door open for all. She went shopping one day leaving her entire Jane Austen-type house to the mercy of strangers she had never met. I asked her if this was typical in Wales. She said the neighbours down the road went on holiday leaving their front-door open. I look into her honest, trusting face and tell her I too come from a place where the doors were left open but now we can’t do that anymore. This isn’t sad. Our front-doors may have closed in Goa but I live in the hope that thousand others will open up for us, as we embrace change. The Welsh have been through experiences similar to us Goans. They’ve come out of this journey wiser and perhaps a little humbled in the knowledge that life goes on. The young, I am told are more tolerant and inter-community marriages between Welsh and English are common. Indeed Marian’s closest neighbour is Canadian married to a Welsh man. Driving to St.Fagan’s Museum I come across a poem by the Welsh National poet, that best exemplifies what they’ve learnt: I am Singular My time is Now And I am here But I am not alone At my back I hear The ticking of Time past …I ponder here on the meaning of Me I ponder here on the meaning of We In this hall is where I’ll see Clues to my identity “I contain Multitudes”. By Gwen Thomas I can feel the hair on my skin stand on edge. This realisation that all of us whether Goan, Welsh or just part of the greater humanity contain Multitudes and yet are Singular, is what I take home as a souvenir from Wales. selma
