Language tells us a lot about culture and what people value. That is why it is so tragic when language is lost—either through the extermination or extinction of a people, or through laws and actions that require that their young be kidnapped or stolen and indoctrinated with the language and ways of the conquerors. The new language not infrequently colonizes the minds of the original peoples and teaches them to demean themselves and their own people. The struggle is to maintain a strong center and sense of self- and community-identity in the face of a great deal of opposition, almost insurmountable obstacles and very often, violence. This is a theme that emerges in quite a few of our selections in all of the literary genres we have discussed and presented.
In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer, a botanist and member of the Citizen Potawatomi nation, writes,
“When a language dies, so much more than words are lost. Language is the dwelling place of ideas that do not exist anywhere else.It is a prism though which to see the world” (p. 258).
While living in Bolivia, I learned that the Quechua-speaking people of the Andes (Quechua being the language of the Inca, and one of several indigenous languages of the region), have in their language, ways to indicate reciprocity—a highly valued cultural trait. My teacher, Federico Sanchez de Lozada, a native speaker of Quechua, explained that the Quechua suffix -naku indicates reciprocity or means “reciprocal.” So, rikunakuy is a verb meaning “to see one another,” and maqanakuy means “to argue or fight with one another.” The first day I heard the word “pasanaku” in the market place was a very exciting day for me. Before I actually knew what it meant, I understood that it had something to do with reciprocity. Indeed, I later learned that it was an informal association formed by groups of ten women, each of whom contributed daily to a fund that was then distributed at the end of the month to one of the members of the collective. Members took turns receiving the “pot” of money that had accumulated significantly over the course of the month, even though the individual contributions had been minimal. Pasanaku, was, in effect, a savings and loan association that operated completely outside of formal structures or institutions, and provided much needed resources to its members.
In Deep Rivers, Peruvian writer José Maria Arguedas, wrote that the Quechua ending -yllu is about sound vibrations. So, any word ending in -yllu is something that makes a unique, vibrating sound. Pinkuyllu is a very large flute that makes a deep, resonant sound; zumbayllu is a toy top that whirs as it spins; and tankayllu is a kind of insect whose wings hum as it flies and hovers above flowers to drink their nectar!
Arguedas also wrote about the Quechua syllable -illa which reflects a very special quality of light—a quality that is virtually indescribable in any other language, but absolutely experienced in the higher altitudes where the air is thin and virtually absent of pollutants. It is the light of the moon “killa” rather than what Arguedas describes as “the resplendent light of the sun.” My Quechua Professor Federico taught me additional illa-words: Illapu is a thunderbolt; “illapa” is a ray of light or light beam; “illariy” is the light of dawn; “illanchay” is a verb meaning to radiate. Arguedas also wrote that illa can also be used as a word itself to refer to “monsters with birth defects caused by moonbeams.” Professor Federico explained that its meaning depends on the context—so, the word “illa” can also mean enlightenment; it can refer to a light deep inside something like a jewel or a hidden treasure. It can mean lightning or refer to a sacred rock or tree that became sacred because it was hit by lightning.
For me, the process of trying to learn Quechua was both startling and mysterious, with a story behind each word; even, each syllable! The Quechua language opened up a unique world of perception, sensibility and understanding. I was lucky to have had a professor who was helping me to decode at least some of the secrets of the language which, I would guess, very few non-native speakers understand. I came to the realization that I could study Quechua for the rest of my life and still not learn even half of its subtleties. And yet, the upper classes and literary elites of Peru and Bolivia, until fairly recently, denigrated those (like Arguedas) who wrote in or spoke the Quechua language.
Another example: In Braiding Sweetgrass, Kimmerer writes about how virtually all of the Native peoples of North America have in their own languages, a “Thanksgiving Address,“ which in the neighboring Onondaga Nation is known as the “Words That Come Before All Else.” It is an address that is an “allegiance to gratitude,” a reminder, “to live in balance and harmony with each other and all living things” (p. 107) and it is recited at the beginning of every Onondaga Nation school week. The Words That Come Before All Else give thanks to the Earth, the “waters of the world,” the fish, the plants (especially the “three sisters”—beans, corn and squash), the berries and medicinal herbs, the trees, “all the beautiful animal life,” the birds, the Four Winds which “refresh us and purify the air we breathe” (p. 112), the lightning and thunder, the Sun and the Moon and the Stars. All of these are Beings, not “things,” as Kimmerer points out elsewhere in the text, and thus deserving of respect. Even beyond an expression of gratitude, the address is about the responsibility that humans have as caretakers and guardians of the Earth and all beings and lifeforms that inhabit the Earth and the universe.
What these languages reveal to us about the cultures in which they flourish (and used to flourish), is a heightened awareness about the Earth and Nature—the place where human beings are enmeshed in a web of meaning, nurturing and reciprocity with all other Beings.
