Diaspora Suite - translations

Anton de Kom 

Mother, far away from this cold country where I am writing, 
Mother dear in Suriname, 
with your grey hair, and figure hunched so soon in life, 
who worked and toiled from day till night
so I could learn,
to You I dedicate this darkest chapter in our history

This is how it goes:

When the male slaves return from the fields at sunset,
then they can rest their weary bodies until daybreak,
then they can stretch out their painful limbs in their wretched huts 
upon their mass of rags,
and rest until they are called for the new day’s labour.

When, however, the last line of women return home through the fields,
carrying the heavy baskets of cotton on their heads,
then often the master will cast his gaze towards a young woman
and beckon her to put down the cotton basket.
Then for her, 
in the night, 
the second task begins,
of satisfying the rampant lusts of her master.
There was no exemption from this obligation.
Since the slaves were not human after all,
so the sacraments of the church did not apply to them,
nor did civil laws

As for the children who were born of such a union,
these were simply viewed as a multiplication of the human herd,
and the whippings from their father, 
or perhaps from their white half-brother, 
were dished out with total impartiality as severely to the flesh of their backs, as to those of full-blooded black people

You only have to see the many people of mixed-race in Suriname
to understand,
that the pretended aversion of the white race towards black people,
was never an obstacle to their sexual intercourse with our women.

Anil ramdas

I know a man who has imprisoned himself so firmly within his memories, that he has reversed the relationship between truth and falsehood: in Suriname he was successful, he had sunshine, a job, a car, his own house with a yard, his chickens and flowers; he could go wherever he wanted, enjoyed general esteem and respect, he lived in a relaxed and adventurous manner, his friends and relatives came to visit, they would booze it up and play cards well into the tropical late hours, have a kickabout at dawn while still drunk, take an afternoon dip in the fresh water of Cola Creek, and head out to Albina or to Nickerie at weekends, to tease the Guyanese streetwalkers: hey, that was the life man.

Now he sits there lonely and without hope in the Bijlmer [in Amsterdam], staring at his television for hours on end, just as he once watched the outside world from his balcony in Suriname. That outside world in Suriname was real to him though, and he understood the life his neighbours led there, but here in the Netherlands, even the 8 o’clock news seemed like fiction in his eyes.

Still, this man might still be able to be shaken into action, if you're insensitive enough to yell "Go home!" loudly and rudely at him. With some other people, things can end on a much sadder note. On the street where I used to live, an old woman used to appear in the doorway from time to time; suddenly, like some sort of ghost. A Hindustani woman wearing a headscarf, who wandered barefoot throughout the neighbourhood, and would constantly talk to herself. She was crazy, I was told, and I always used to keep my distance from her, out of a typically childish fear.

One day she startled me. She was suddenly standing right behind me, and held out a packet of heavy-duty rolling tobacco, a dark blue packet of the White Ox brand, which we referred to as blakka-tee. "Look," she said to me, and made eye contact with her old and saddened eyes. "Look, this bull is mine, I'm looking for this bull. Do you know where he went?'

And, on the shabby looking packet there was actually a tiny picture of a bull. She’s as mad as anything, I thought to myself. Now though, I realize what must have happened: as a girl or as a young woman, she moved with her family from the Surinamese countryside to the city, and was never able to adjust to that huge change in her life. It literally drove her insane.

Joceline Clemencia

A moth is living in the rug of my skin

A moth is living in the rug of my skin. It didn’t just appear recently. It has been there for years – no, centuries in fact. A moth is living in the rug of my skin. It hurts. The pain stuns me. I cannot feel anymore. My skin has withered and has long lost its glow. My skin is no longer mine. It hasn’t been for years – no, centuries. 

The moth affected my eyesight. I can no longer see clearly. I saw the colourless as crystal and the coloured as charcoal. I too wanted to be crystal, not charcoal. I screamed.

I didn't want to be charcoal, only crystal. I asked my brother and sister: “What skin have you got?” They answered “Crystal”. I saw that it was beautiful deep charcoal... All the brothers said they were crystal. All the sisters yelled after me: “Charcoal, are you crazy?! None of us are charcoal. Neither are you.” But I saw my skin: it was charcoal, beautiful and deep. But my eyes were affected by the moth, so I didn't see it, or so I thought, and assumed I was crystal.

Glenn de Randamie

I’m standing here, we’re standing here, you’re standing here
On the shoulders of giants, 
that reveal to us a view 
of a tomorrow that was unthinkable yesterday.
Now we are living their future as our today, 
Just as our children see what once seemed unthinkable to us. 

So let's talk. Pleasantly.
This is the voice of progress, of my generation,
This is the voice of not agreeing to a gradual transition,
but to call for action. 
This is the voice that sets new conditions - and not on the basis of what once was,
Because the mirror we still gaze into far too often is shattered and – what’s more – it was never our glass in fact.

Progress. 
I now recognize the voice of deception, the untruths, the fear.
I am no longer afraid. Because I know who I am,
And I can be persistent in praise. 
I am the voice of progress. 

So long stragglers. Love to you all. 

I hope you find me. What are you hoping for? 
I would like to make you aware that our conversations will remain safe and pleasant, 
But I find the truth more valuable  
I want to tell you that your own pain will have ample space, 
But there, too, the truth is more valuable.

You can tell me how unfair it is that you are pigeonholed, 
But some of us here have had to make those holes our home, 
and then hide in them for decades. 

So let’s talk. What are you hoping for? 
If I have to ask you for empathy, what is that worth? 
If I have to ask you to put yourself in my shoes so that you experience me, 
before you talk to me as an equal,
What then, is that experience worth? 

What are you hoping for?
No one scores a 10 in this debate, 
There are no damage-free egos, no prizes,
No polonaise, no applause, 
Before we have harmonized our story 
And folded the last knee
We’ve all taken a tumble, but are also wiser, with respect.
Moving forward is the only option, and you are needed too, in your hopes and especially your actions 
I’m standing here, we’re standing here, you’re standing here
Be brave in your discomfort, 
welcome to our generation.

(G. De Randamie & K. De Randamie)