New Chuvash resources in Cheboksary

I used to be unhappy with the limited range of Chuvash publications available in the bookshops on Leninsky prospekt, but on my most recent trip I discovered a shop with a fantastic selection. Located on Egerskij bul’var near the intersection with prospekt 9-j Pjatiletki (just across the street from the Šupaškar shopping mall and McDonalds), this bookshop offers seemingly every recent publication from the Chuvash state publishing house. Chuvash books for sale in a fine Cheboksary bookshop

I saw that I. A. Andreev’s Chuvash textbook Чувашский язык has been re-released in a third edition – though I’ve never seen a second – and is now subtitled ‘практический курс’ instead of ‘началный курс’. That’s a bit of a misnomer, as Andreev still has students starting off with translating complicated poetry instead of actually learning how to use Chuvash in daily life, but there’s still enough useful material in the book to recommend it.

Gennady Aigi’s complete poems have recently been issued in a two-volume set. I was able to purchase the second volume, which collects his poems in Russian: Собрание сочинение (Чебоксары: Чувашкое Книжное Издательство, 2009) ISBN 9785767016648. However, the first volume, which collects his poems in Chuvash, is sold out. I heard a rumour from a trusted source that almost the entire print run of that volume went to Chuvash politicians and is gathering dust on their shelves.

Tuqay in Volga-Kama languages

One Tatar book being prominently displayed in Kazan bookshops is a slim volume of poems by the Tatar national poet Ğabdulla Tuqay: Габдулла Тукай, Стихотворение (Казань: Татарское книжное издательство, 2011), ISBN 9785298020398.

Remarkably, the 20 poems in this volume appear not only in Tatar and Russian translation, but also in Bashkir, Mari, Chuvash and Udmurt. This is a nice show of solidarity with other minority peoples of Russia. I’ve often bought a Russian translation of Ivanov’s Chuvash work Narspi as a gift for Mari friends as my contribution to дружба народов, but this little book allows one to present Tatar poetry to others in their own language. I’m not sure if the poems were translated into the Finno-Ugrian languages through Russian or not, though I imagine plenty of minority-language activists in this region know something of Tatar.

I’d like to give an example of one of these poems in several languages, but I don’t want to type too much, so I’ve chosen his two-line ‘Kazan’ from 1913:

Tatar

Ут, төтен, фабрик-завод берлә һаман кайный Казан;
Имгәтеп ташлап савын, сау эшчеләр сайлый Казан.

Russian

Огнем заводов дни и ночи людей ты жжешь, Казань.
Здоровых погубив рабочих, ты новых ждешь, Казань.

Bashkir

Ут, төтөн, фабрик-завод менән һаман ҡайнай Ҡазан;
Имгәтеп ташлап һауын, һау эшселәр һайлай Ҡазан.

Chuvash

Заводсен вучӗпе ир те каҫ ҫынсене ҫунтаран эс, Хусан.
Чире ярсан сыввисене, ҫӗннисене кӗтетӗн эс, Хусан.

Udmurt

Тыл но ӵын заводъёсад адямиез сутэ, Казань…
Кужмоез бырем бере, егит борды кутскод, Казань?

Meadow Mari

Еҥлам йӱд-кече йӱлалтет завод тул ден, Озаҥ.
Таза пашазе-влакым пытарен, бучет эше, Озаҥ.

Minority-language books in Kazan

If you visit Kazan and want to buy books in Tatar, the place to go is the intersection of Bauman (ул. Баумана) and Astronimičeskaja (ул. Астрономическая) streets. It’s unassuming from the outside, but if you open the door and walk down a flight of stairs, you’ll encounter a large selection of Tatar poetry, prose, school textbooks and dictionaries. There are unfortunately no textbooks (on both my 2008 and 2011 visits, the shopkeeper seemed annoyed that I even asked), but as pretty much every Tatar textbook can be found online at pirated linguistics books sites, that’s not a major problem.

The shop also sells some minority-language publications from surrounding regions. For Mari, I was able to buy two of the three volumes of Sergei Chavain’s complete works. Chuvash is represented mainly by dictionaries and cookbooks. Considerably more shelf space is dedicated to Bashkir, but as one northern Kipchak language is frustrating enough for me right now, I didn’t have a detailed look at those offerings.

Swedish encounters with Delaware

I had never known that Swedes had contact with colonial languages until I read The History of Linguistics in the Nordic Countries by Even Hovdhaugen et al. (Helsinki: Societas Scientarum Fennica, 2007) The authors give the following brief account of Swedish missionary efforts among speakers of Delaware (Lenni Lenape).

The first Swedish colonists in America, many of them Finnish immigrants from Värmland, came to Delaware as early as 1538. John [Johannes Jonæ Holmensis] Campanius (1601–1683) stayed and served as a pastor in Delaware from 1643 to 1648. After returning to Sweden, Campanius finished the manuscript of a Delaware catechism in 1656, but by this time a Swedish colony no longer existed in Delaware. Long after his death, Campanius’s grandson, Thomas Campanius Holm, as well as others who planned missionary work among the Delawares, had the Delaware catechism published in 1696, and 600 copies were printed and brought to the Delaware Indians. The article on Campanius in the Swedish Biographical Lexicon (Svenskt Biografiskt lexicon VII:1927 p.262), contains the following informative passage:

The Swedes there, who now knew the language of the Indians as well as their own, read from the catechism to the Indians, and “a number of them observed carefully what was written”. They even asked a Swede, Karl Springer, to teach their children.

This is especially interesting in the light of Holmer’s analysis of Campanius’s Catechism (1946b), in which he convincingly shows that Campanius only had a very rudimentary knowledge of Delaware and furthermore that he had no understanding of the very complicated morphology of this Algonquian language. For instance, he never used plural forms, and he adopted very unidiomatic independent pronouns instead of pronominal suffixes, which he had not observed. Accordingly, he used nux ‘my-father’ (cf. n- ‘my’, ux ‘father’) as the word for ‘father’ and when he wanted to express the sentence ‘honor thy father’, he wrote the equivalent of ‘honor thy my-father’ which may have been unintelligible for the natives. Similarly he used mpa ‘I come’ (cf. m- ‘I’, pa ‘come’) also for ‘thou come(st)’, which is kpa (cf. k- ‘thou’) in Delaware. The syntax was worse. Sometimes Campanius even resorted to desperate devices like introducing the Swedish genitive -s into Delaware.

Holmer is right when he stated that this translation was unintelligible to a native speaker of Delaware. But actually it was not Delaware at all, but a kind of Delaware-based pidgin that had already developed through contact with Europeans (mainly Dutch colonists) before the Swedes arrived. In this respect, Campanius’s catechism may be a very valuable document for linguistics, since it would be the only record of this language.

Campanius’s grandson published an account of the Swedish colony in Delaware (T. Campanius Holm 1702), which was influential and widely read in Sweden. The book contained extensive material, word lists and short phrases as well as a dialogue, mainly based on his grandfather’s work. He also tried to prove the hypothesis going back to Governor William Penn that the Delaware Indians are one of the ten lost tribes of Israel and accordingly that their language is related to Hebrew. To prove this Holm provided about twenty etymologies of very questionable quality (T. Campanius Holm 1702:115-120).

Clauson’s terminological rebellion

It has been a minor irritation that the late Sir Gerard Clauson used the term “Turkish” to refer to the entire Turkic family, thus his An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-13th Century Turkish somewhat unexpectedly covers all early Turkic languages and not just words from Anatolia. But in reading his paper ‘The Turkish Y and Related Sounds’ (in the Festschrift Studia Altaica: Festschrift für Nikolaus Poppe zum 60. Geburstag) I finally saw his reasoning for this choice:

I use “Turkish”, not in the limited meaning of ‘the language of Turkey’, but as a generic term for all the languages geneticly related to the language of the Türkü Dynasty (6th to 8th Cent. A.D.), from whose name the word is of course derived, including those anterior to that date. In other words I use “Turkish” where some other scholars use “Turkic”, a word which seems to me open to the objection that if the Greek adjective tourkikos is to be used in English it must be transcribed consistently either as “Turcic” or “Turkik”, both of which look grotesque.

I’m sorry, but that’s just daft.

When language study becomes a harangue

I’ve been travelling in Tajikistan for a few days now and I’m not liking it much as a linguist. It’s not because the people aren’t friendly; for not a single night have I lacked invitations for a place to dine and sleep comfortably. But conversations here tend to all be the same. The first repetitive response happens all over the former Soviet Union: Your name is Christopher, eh? Like Christopher Columbus/Christopher Lambert! I guess I’m used to that one, and I just laugh and pretend I haven’t heard it myriad times before.

But essentially all conversations devolve into this very quickly:

Tajik: Are you married?

Me: No, I am not married yet.

Tajik: How old are you?

Me: I am 29 years old.

Tajik: You need to get married! [The more good-humoured locals will at this point indicate the closest unmarried woman and propose I marry her]

Me: I don’t wish to get married yet.

Tajik: Why?

Me: Because I wish to travel and study and remain a free man.

After this they tend to grumble a fair bit — it does seem that some are appalled by what I said — and the conversation returns to marriage constantly. It would be nice to talk about something else and to perceive some element of culture. What happened to even fairly poor, rural locals knowing something about shashmaqâm or Persian classical poetry as travelers in Transoxania reported less than 20 years ago? It’s especially frustrating since I came here to learn Tajik, but there’s not enough of a variety of conversational topics to really expand my active vocabulary.

I’m now tempted to give up on Tajiki and concentrate on Persian of Iran. My American passport may prevent me from travelling independently in Iran, but there’s plenty of Iranians abroad to practice with and I’ve never been bored among them.

Favours in Mari and Turkic

While sitting in a bookstore reading a travel guide to Kyrgyzstan, I was struck by the following sentence from the list of useful Kyrgyz phrases: Please write it down: Жазып берсеңчи /dʒʲazɨp berseŋči/. Here we have a construction where the request is expressed as a converb followed by the imperative of the verb ‘to give’.

A couple of hours later, in reading Chavain’s novel Elnet, I found that this construction exists in Mari as well:

Матвей Николасвичын мурымыжымат пеш колыштыч.

— Ынде Тамара Матвеевна мыланна иктаж-мом муралта, — адак пелештыде ыш чыте Василий Александрович.

— К сожалению, мый ом муро, Василий Александрович.

— Туге гын, иктажым декламироватлен пу.

They listened intently to Matvej Nikolavič’s singing.

Now Tamara Matveevna will sing us something, again Vasilij Aleksandrovič would not stay quiet.

Unfortunately, I won’t sing, Vasilij Aleksandrovič.

If that’s the case, recite some poetry for us.

In the last sentence we find декламироватлен пу deklamiroβatlen pu recite-conv give(imp).

Intrigued, I asked a Chuvash informant if this construction existed in his language as well. He said that it did, and he gave the following two example sentences: ман валли чаплă сĕтел туса пар-ха man valli čaplă sĕtel tusa par-xa ‘Make me a nice table, please’, ун валли чаплăраххине туса патăн un valli čaplăraxxine tusa patăn ‘You made a nicer one for him’. The latter sentence is helpful in showing that this construction doesn’t necessarily have to be in the imperative, but can be used in declarative sentences as well.

I was curious to know if this construction made the order more polite than a simple imperative, but both the Chuvash informant and a friend knowledgeable about Kyrgyz said that this construction implies only doing something for the benefit of another. The Chuvash informant pointed to the enclitic xa as the only element of politeness.

The construction is in Turkish too, yazıver ‘write down for me’, which lends support to the notion that it is pan-Turkic and not simply a Kipchak borrowing into Chvuash and Mari.

Sheep foot month

While Mari speakers generally use the Russian names for the months of the year (which in turn are the general Western European names ’January, February, etc.’), there continue to circulate systems of wholly indigenous names, which I often use in speaking Mari because variety is the spice of life. In at least one system, December is known as шорык йол тылзе šorə̂k jol tə̂lze ‘sheep leg/foot month’. This name for December derives from an eponymous festival, which is described by Thomas A. Sebeok and Frances J. Ingemann in Studies in Cheremis: The Supernatural.

In winter, toward the end of December falls šorə̂k jol, a holiday lasting from three days to a week. Merrymaking, masquerading, fortune telling, and magic rites are the principal activities of this holiday.

One of the most widespread customs, perhaps the one from which the holiday gets its name, is that of predicting the appearance of a future husband or wife by means of grabbing a sheep’s foot. The young people go out to the sheep pen in the dark and grab either the foot of a sheep or some of its wool. If a white sheep is caught, the future mate will be a blond; if a black sheep, a brunet. From the size and age of the sheep it is also possible to predict the size and age of the future husband or wife.

Yet that’s just one possible explanation. Later on they write:

In some places [the masqueraders] scatter hemp seed indicating that the hemp will grow well. Sometimes are taken out in the sheep pen to pull the sheep’s feet and say that the sheep will have twin lambs.

More linguistics through Bible translations

As a followup to yesterday’s post on the debate about relying on SIL International for linguistics resources, I should mention that SIL is not the only Christian organization producing documentation of minority language that the academy finds useful. The Institute for Bible Translation has published translations of individual gospels, children’s Bibles and occasionally entire Bibles into many minority languages of the former Soviet Union. These texts are often cited in Uralic studies, as there are few contemporary texts in many of the smallest languages. For example, when I first attended an Enets class, we analyzed the text of an IBT gospel. I just recently proofread a paper by Kittilä & Ylikoski ‘Remarks on the coding of Goal, Recipient and Vicinal Goal in European Uralic’ that uses IBT translations of the same Biblical passage to compare variant coding across the language family.

The Helsinki university library collects IBT publications in the basement of the Metsätalo building. It’s fun to occasionally pass by here and look at the huge variety of Cyrillic scripts in use, with the Caucasian languages especially standing out for their use of the palochka letter (ӏ).

The field of linguistics and non-linguistic heritage

The September 2009 (Volume 85, Number 3) issue of Language features a series of articles on the controversial relationship between the academy and the Christian missionary organization SIL International. The authors make some good points on the problems inherent in relying so much on an organization with an agenda beyond saving languages, and one that has shown shifting priorities, but they suggest that linguists must have an agenda of their own going beyond languages. In ‘Practical language development: Whose mission?’ Dobrin and Good write:

But academic linguists—especially those who encounter missionaries in the course of their fieldwork—at times contend that missionary activities are at odds with their professional goals of supporting cultural and linguistic diversity.

Linguistic diversity, sure, but cultural diversity? I’m troubled by this suggestion that linguists, specifically in their work as linguists, must be concerned with preserving aspects of culture separate from language. If linguists don’t even agree that it is worthwhile to save all endangered languages, as when Ladefoged suggested that the disappearance of Dahalo might be a good thing inasmuch as its speakers were choosing to abandon it, then linguists certainly cannot be expected to approve of aspects of culture beyond language. As a Christian (though not of the SIL variety), I don’t wish to lend support to the survival of indigenous religious beliefs. And I’m met more than one linguist who believes that Western common-practice tonality is the apex of music and indigenous musical traditions are just so much noise. And is it not obvious that many of us will not wish to preserve practices that contradict universal human rights, regardless of how deeply ingrained they are in a culture?

Certainly protection of minority languages leads many to support at least one extra-linguistic matter: political and perhaps financial empowerment, since the survival of a language in low-prestige conditions is unlikely. This empowerment may allow the survival of other aspects of culture, but that shouldn’t be the goal of specifically linguistic undertakings, and I reject the suggestion that linguists are obliged to celebrate practices and beliefs they don’t like.

The authors here warn against relying on SIL, as tempting as their help is, yet as Courtney Handman’s paper notes, linguists have widely supported UNESCO’s campaign to protect minority languages, even though this campaign imposes the obligation of celebrating a people’s entire ‘intangible cultural heritage’. If linguists accept the extra-linguistic goals of one organization while voicing concern about the extra-linguistic goals of another, then it seems Kenneth Olson is right when he writes, in his paper defending SIL, that often the controversy around SIL often revolves around dislike of its specific message.