The libraries we must enter, the songs we will sing – by Jamil Badi
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When a griot dies, it is as if a library has burned down.
- West African saying
Since the 14th century, the griots have been the human archives of many West African communities. The responsibilities of the griot are rooted in the importance of oral storytelling as a way of preserving and passing on history. Like the saying suggests, griots would collect and memorise the history of their communities, sharing the collective past through poetry, music, and performance. Before history was written and typed, it was spoken and sung in the form of stories.
For as long as I can remember, my father has worn a ring the colour of bone. The ring is smooth but worn down on the inside, with a slight split through the bottom to adjust for finger size. Atop the ring is the head of a creature resembling a friendly lion, whose mane merges into the overall shape of the ring. In my early teens, I noticed my father stopped wearing the ring, and left it in a small wooden box, seemingly forgotten. There were a handful of items throughout my childhood I associated with my father: shirts with large pictures of lions or Bob Marley, a red beret which I dubbed ‘The Apple Hat’, a necklace with beads the colours of the Rastafarian flag, and the lion ring. Considering my father’s clothes were far too big for me, the necklace too long, and the beret not suiting my head, I decided to ask my father if I could keep the ring for myself, seeing as he clearly had no use for it. He looked over his shoulder and told me I could have it. Perhaps he didn’t think much of it, but at the time, I felt slightly closer to him, as we now shared something: we had both worn the same ring...
The practice of storytelling as a way of passing down history and shaping identity isn’t exclusive to the griots. As people living through experiences, remembering and reminiscing on what we have seen and heard, we are all human archives. The stories we hear from others, the ones which move us, are in part preserved within the library atop our shoulders. Those to whom these stories are told will be the ones who preserve the life of the storyteller.
Before we learn to access inanimate archives, such as books or the internet, we first learn to receive and preserve the stories from our primary sources: our parents and caregivers. Considering they have accumulated decades of life experiences and stories about themselves, the lands they have traversed, the people they have and still do share their lives with, they are an invaluable source of knowledge. This is especially significant if they have immigrated to another country. With Australia being home to a population hailing from a myriad of countries, each with their own collection of cultures, children are born into a non-homogenous society. Not everyone looks like them, or shares the same customs and language. A strong distinction is then created between the life within the home and the life beyond. Lacking the self-awareness which comes with age, these children are now reliant on their parents and caregivers to share with them a culture which the country cannot. Whether it be through language and dialect, food prepared and shared, music floating through the home; they are at first primarily responsible for establishing a connection to our heritage. Through this cultural sharing, we can start to build a relationship with our cultural identity, sowing the seeds of a strong sense of self in our later years. However, this is dependent on how much of the library we are permitted to peruse.
Sometime later, I believe in the same year, my father told me the story of how he had gotten the ring. Up until this point, I had assumed he had forgotten all about it. He had clearly noticed I was wearing the ring every time I saw him since he had passed it on to me...
Although I am a child of immigrants, my mother from Bermuda and my father from Zanzibar, only my father was raised in his home country. I am sure my father carries many stories from his birthplace; the sea and sand, the houses and streets, the smells of markets and cane juice. Each story he holds, each song he may sing about our family, each movement he might use to illustrate a person or a place, forms the roots connecting me to my culture, and to him. However, it is one thing to know the name of the country your heritage is from, and it is another to know that country and what makes it breathe. If our parents and caregivers are the human archives connecting us to our family’s history, then it is through hearing their stories that we may begin to know their country.
Growing up, I was fortunate enough to be taught my father’s native tongue, Swahili. Despite English being my dominant language, the environments where I spoke Swahili have always been sublime and extraordinary. It was as though I was gazing at the cover of a book I couldn’t quite open, glimpsing at a life I could have lived. With my Zanzibari heritage being intrinsically linked to my father, every interaction with him felt like an interaction with our shared culture. I remember him taking me to Swahili gatherings, whether for Islamic events such as pre-Isha prayer meals, or to meet a friend’s newborn, or simply to watch soccer on TV.
When we attended these gatherings, I witnessed my father’s storytelling. Had I known what a griot was when I was a boy, I would have bestowed upon him the title in childish awe. His words would race to catch up with one another, yet never stumble like his English speech. I could never tell which emotions he cycled through, as he was so constantly animated. The men would put down their tea, lean towards my father, as his words grew softer and slower, then he would erupt with a slick succession of words and chuckles, leaving the men roaring with laughter, sometimes spilling their tea. I can only remember the shadow of a story, its silhouette cast upon the floor. What I would give to learn of its colours, the contours on its body, the way its heart beats. Instead, I am left staring at the ground.
In all of those moments, I would be amongst people who all spoke the dialect of the same place, prepared and ate the food bearing names first uttered in the same country, in a language I spoke nowhere else. These experiences of collective cultural practices are what revealed my cultural heritage to me, perhaps more so than my conversations in Swahili with my father. These people I shared mandazi and chapati with, brought with them stories and memories of Zanzibar. Perhaps they would’ve offered me a story, had I asked. Until we hear the first knock, we aren’t aware someone is at the door.
When my father was a boy, he had a friend, whose name I do not know. This friend was the original wearer of the lion ring. One day, my father asked his friend if he could have the ring for himself, as he had been admiring it for quite some time. His friend replied by telling him he could have the ring, on the condition that my father trade his shirt for it. My father agreed, and the friends made their trade. That is the story of how my father got the lion ring.
For a variety of reasons, we may find ourselves at a distance from our parents and caregivers – we may vow to never even glance at the library we desire to enter. Unfortunately for the children of immigrants, the consequences are all the more complex. To distance ourselves from those who gifted us our heritage, is to distance ourselves from a direct path leading to it. For children of immigrants, this sacrifice is severe, as we may be left struggling to breathe in a society dominated by a culture other than our own, without the lifeboat of a strong connection to our own heritage. In trying to stay afloat, our minds may turn back to our childhood; we may spend time wondering why we were never told stories of how to swim. Instead, we find ourselves alone, attempting to tread choppy waters.
It is understandable to create a deep, immovable connection between parental figures and a culture we seldom see elsewhere. If we catch sight of a person humming a tune, we cannot help but associate the sound with the person. Especially if we are only beginning to learn about music. It is only now, years later, while I am attempting to sing my own song, that I wish I had known more. I know that there is more to music than the humming of a tune: there are the cries and shouts of instruments, the silken voices of singers, the snaps and claps of fingers and hands. Yet I cannot ask the person who I first heard hum, how he managed to make such music; I have had to sever the ties that once bound us together.
When I was a boy, I visited my aunties, uncles, cousins and anyone else who happened to be at my grandmother’s house. We all walked to a beach. I do not remember the name of the beach, or the route we took (I may never be able to retrace my steps). Amongst us was a boy whose name I was not told. I cannot say whether he was a cousin by blood or a cousin by culture, but I was told he was family. The boy was about my age, I assume, and couldn’t speak English. I attempted a conversation in Swahili, but my words fizzled in his ears, and so we resorted to silence and blank stares...
Throughout my life, I have only been told a handful of stories about my father. As far as I can remember, all but one has been told to me by my mother, all texts borrowed second hand from the same library. The only text my father has shared with me is the story about the lion-shaped ring. It is therefore one of the strongest links to my father and the island from which he came.
It is one thing to hear a story, to let your imagination paint a picture to accompany the words, it is another to hold a piece of the story in your palm. My father has had this ring for most of his life, possibly worn it through some of his most important experiences. The ring is attached to this story, and many others from my father’s home, and is a tangible connection to Zanzibar. To hold the lion ring in my hand is to hold a piece of evidence proving that the story exists beyond words. Like one may visit a museum to seek evidence of the history before us, all I need do is look at my finger. To me, the story is Zanzibari in every way. The people, the place, the object, all hail from the same island, teeming with our culture. And now I can hold the story in my hand, as well as my head.
As we arrived at the beach, the boy and I headed straight for the water, which lay still and clear. The boy kicked off his shoes and ran straight into the ocean’s arms in his soccer jersey and shorts. I followed. I remember us casting looks at each other, trading laughter, splashing each other occasionally. Not a word of English or Swahili was spoken in the water...
After years of turning the lion ring story over in my head, mining the words for meaning and significance to better understand my father and our shared heritage, I came to realise something distinct about this story: it was told to me in Swahili. What if the library door has always been open, but the texts are in a different language? Although my Swahili wasn’t as fluent as I wished it was, I was still capable of listening to this story and translating it into English. If I did not know any Swahili, this story may have remained forever untold. My father’s English has never been strong, and his decision to speak to me exclusively in Swahili means any stories he wishes to impart to me will be spoken in his native tongue. However, given the state of my Swahili, I can’t help but feel at a certain distance from the story. I know that, given the right storyteller, a brief anecdote can be spun into an immensely engaging epic. Perhaps I would have learnt more details about my father and his homeland, had the language barrier been removed. Instead of peering over it to glimpse at what lay beyond, I could have walked straight through.
I cannot remember who spotted it first, but one of us noticed a dinghy floating on the water. It was more than a stone’s throw away, with no passenger inside. The boy dove under, and resurfaced with a handful of stones from the seabed. He picked one from his pile and tossed it towards the boat. The stone fell short. He tried again, this time with more power behind the toss. Almost. I joined him in diving down, blindly grabbing at the seabed, filling my hands with the same stones. I resurfaced next to him and began to throw my own. As if an unspoken game was agreed upon, signed by our grins, we took turns throwing the stones at the boat...
Now that I am attempting to hum my own tune, one which celebrates and appreciates my cultural heritage, I am beginning to truly understand the complexity and fluidity of culture. To learn the language of your parents and caregivers is a significant step to embracing your culture, but it is only one instrument in a greater, vibrant collection of sounds, and the stories our parents may choose to tell, stories brought from one country to another, will be told in that greater cultural language.
If it is a language barrier which separates us from culture then we must try to break that barrier and build a bridge from its bricks. Our parents and caregivers hold a lifetime of stories close to their hearts, and if we are to learn to speak their language, we must hear how it is spoken. If the towns had not heard the griots sing their stories, and the time had come for the library to crumble, the history of a community would disappear. So, while we might learn the language of our parents and caregivers, without a story to translate and listen to, our connection will only go so far. We need to be an audience first. This is how we will preserve our cultures. This is how we keep our stories alive.
When I was younger, I visited my family in Zanzibar, and haven’t been back since. To walk through the maze of houses and smell the sizzling seafood was like travelling through my father’s memories. Yet, I cannot know for certain which paths he took, which people he met, which markets he frequented. Although I did not leave Zanzibar with even a single story of my father, I carried home something more valuable: a story of my own. It is a story which isn’t attached to my father, one which reaches out and pulls me towards Zanzibar each time I tell it. This is the kind of story I wish I could have borrowed from my father’s library, but it is a story which sits on the shelf of my own. Strangely, like my father’s lion ring story, it is about a moment of connection between two young boys, as if my father’s story somehow influenced my own. Perhaps this story may not be the only one I tell about Zanzibari people on Zanzibari soil. Perhaps I can teach myself to sing the tune my father hummed.
I do not know how long we stayed in the water, tossing stones at the dinghy, but I remember when we stopped. The boy tossed a stone, the light catching its watered edge. We both heard a dull thud, no splash. He had landed it in the dinghy. We both broke into laughter, then looked at each other, smiling. Without a word between us, we left the water. I cannot tell you the boy’s thoughts, only my own. I can tell you that I was trying to land a stone into the dinghy. Perhaps he was too. I cannot know for certain. ▼
Image: Lidia Stawinska - Unsplash
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