Minae Mizumura - The Fall of Language in the Age of English

The one I ended up becoming closest to was a female writer from Norway named Brit. Soon after we met, we started having drinks together, enjoying the breeze at restaurants with tables set out on the sidewalk to make the most of the fading summer light. We also went to the theater together. Red-haired and freckled, Brit was exceptionally personable, and for someone who was a writer, she had refreshing common sense. On top of being a Scandinavian, she was a translator, and so she spoke very good English too. But those were not the only reasons I became friends with her. We both came from rich countries, making it easy for us to do things together. Many writers did not allow themselves even the small luxury of going out for a cup of coffee; we two could drink beer, munch on tacos, and confess our sins of frivolous spending as the sun went down, turning the blue sky purple-red. We could also talk about whatever film was showing. Just about then, Lost in Translation , set in Japan, was playing in town.

And then, there were the diverse political situations.

Living with other writers, I saw for the first time what I had only known abstractly before: people write not just in rich and poor countries but also in various political climates. Being able to participate in a program like the IWP meant in itself that you came from a country that was functioning, at least minimally. In a totally dysfunctional society, the profession of a writer would not exist. Still, not all writers enjoyed the kind of peace I took for granted, almost indolently, as a Japanese.

For many writers, the freedom of speech, first of all, was not a given. Take, for instance, the Romanian poet Denisa. Probably because of Romania’s linguistic and cultural proximity to France, when she threw out “Bah!” in a dismissive tone, or shrugged her shoulders with both hands raised, she somehow looked French. Besides, she was a stylish woman who didn’t look anything like my image of someone from a former Eastern Bloc country. Yet her mind remained obsessed by her memory of where she and others had to draw a line in “dealing with state power.” Under Soviet rule, the state censored not only literary content but also form, and even toward the end of the twentieth century, there still remained such absurdities as not being able to publish free verse. Should one compromise with the state in order to make a living and so lose one’s dignity as a writer (and as a human being)? Or should one refuse even if it meant going hungry? Having had to make such choices still haunted Denisa, and it was as if she could not not talk about it, either in public or in private.

And, of course, there were writers currently facing state suppression. What I gradually came to understand, for example, is that the Chinese “city dude” who looked so smart in his white suit was actually a warrior fighting for freedom of speech. Having relocated himself to New York, he was editing works that writers dared not publish in mainland China, distributing them for the Chinese readership spread around the world. His English was still quite basic, and we didn’t go beyond greeting each other in the hallway, but when he found out that I was leaving earlier than everyone else, the night before my departure he slipped under my door a short story that he had written which someone had translated into English. Reading it on the airplane, I felt I was getting to know him for the first time.

The story has a tragicomic plot. The protagonist’s grandfather is raised poor, but after the Cultural Revolution breaks out, the authorities discover that his ancestors had owned some land. Labeled as having “landowner’s blood,” he is imprisoned and tortured and spends the rest of his life half deranged. Eventually, he suffers from septic poisoning, upon which he receives a series of blood transfusions. His body is now infused with “peasant’s blood.” He is overjoyed. Yet he is also full of regret. If there was such a convenient method, why didn’t he think of replacing his “landowner’s blood” with “peasant’s blood” before? Cursing his own ignorance, he begs his son and grandson to go through the same procedure as soon as possible. On his deathbed, he feels comforted in the thought that his blood is now entirely cleansed; he has nothing to fear in the afterlife and can die in peace, and so he does. The second half of the story takes place after the grandson arrives in New York, whereupon it turns into a fantasy. Failing after all to ride the wave of capitalism, one day the young man has an idea: why not transfuse Coca-Cola into his arm! Suddenly everything begins to go smoothly. The story is a critique of both Communism and capitalism; I found the first half both sadder and funnier.

And there was also a writer from Myanmar — a country under military rule — who actually defected to the United States during his residency. Wearing sandals and a colorful sarong, this man, well past middle age, was always walking quietly but briskly down the hallway of our hotel, spreading a tropical aura in the fluorescent-lit space. To my pleasant surprise, he was a Japanophile and told me he quite liked Harp of Burma , the Japanese children’s story about a World War II soldier who turns pacifist and becomes a monk in Burma. Whenever we met, he would greet me with a full smile and a cheery “ Banzai! ” Perhaps he had been taught to say it as a child in a Japanese-run school. In foreign countries, banzai is often interpreted as a Japanese war cry; in Chinese films, evil Japanese soldiers shout it while stabbing tied-up Chinese with bamboo spears. It would have been too bizarre for me to respond to his greeting in kind, so I hid my discomfort and responded with a cheerful American “Hi!” He also knew polite Japanese greetings like ohayō gozaimasu (good morning) and sayonara (good-bye), which he said he’d learned in elementary school. One time he even sang a Japanese children’s song for me. His hoarse voice echoed under the blue Iowa sky, reminding me of a time when Asian children were made to sing Japanese songs under the tropical sun; the recent, yet already distant, history of the Japanese Empire came back with unexpected vividness. He seemed to read English but did not speak it much, so everyone only thought of him as a quiet, harmless man. Then rumor began to circulate that he had made a request to the U.S. State Department seeking political asylum; we soon found out that his request was granted. Since the State Department grants political asylum only when there is a demonstrable probability that the applicant will actually be imprisoned upon his return, this writer was apparently perceived by his government as a danger to his country. We all found it hard to believe; we speculated that probably, having abandoned his country, he would never get to see his family again. But he didn’t seem particularly sad. He continued to briskly walk down the hotel’s hallway in his traditional attire, spreading a tropical aura.

Indeed, writers who came from countries with a tradition of freedom of speech were in the minority. Those from countries where there had been uninterrupted peace for more than half a century — countries where World War II inflicted the last major scar — were also in the minority. Barolong from Botswana was born when his homeland was still a part of the British Empire; Shimon from Israel lived in what could suddenly turn into a combat zone; the participant from Bosnia, the group’s only Muslim, had bullet fragments in his knee; the girl-like writer from Vietnam was born in the year her country’s long war finally ended. Latin American writers had lived through military rule or civil war or both. Even the writers from South Korea did not take peace for granted; with their country always preparing for war, men have mandatory military service that is notoriously fraught with horror. One of them told me that he still had nightmares about the hazing he endured: “I’m still in the barracks!” he would cry as he jumped up in bed in fear.