Island of Shattered Dreams, page 1
First published in 2007 by Huia Publishers, 39 Pipitea Street, P O Box 17-335 Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealand www.huia.co.nz
ISBN 978-1-86969-299-5
Copyright © Chantal T. Spitz 1991 – © Au vent des iles 2003 Translation copyright © Jean Anderson 2007 Cover design: Jo Duff
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.
National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data Spitz, Chantal T., 1954- L′île des rêves écrasés. English Island of shattered dreams / Chantal Spitz ; translated by Jean Anderson.
ISBN 978-1-869692-99-5 (print)
ISBN 978-1-775501-13-8 (EPUB)
ISBN 978-1-775501-14-5 (mobi)
I. Anderson, Jean, 1951- II. Spitz, Chantal T., 1954- L′île des rêves écrasés. III. Title.
843—dc 22
Ebook production 2013 by meBooks
Acknowledgements
Thanks to the following for their support, both financial and in principle: the School of Asian and European Languages and Cultures, Victoria University of Wellington, and the International Centre for Writing and Translation, University of California at Irvine.
For Toofa, my grandmother
For Emily-Emere, my mother
Women of Love
Translator’s Note:
This is a book which will transport the reader into another time, another place, another culture. The setting is French Polynesia, from World War II to the late twentieth century, and the book’s Mā’ohi and Papa’ā characters are caught up in the profound upheaval brought to these peaceful Pacific islands by their status as an overseas Territory, with its own local government, but still very much swayed by the political needs of European (Metropolitan) central French government.
From the recruitment of young soldiers for the bloody battles of the Second World War to the installation of the Centre Expérimental du Pacifique, set up by President-General De Gaulle to build and test nuclear missiles (from 1966 on, initially in the atmosphere) as part of France’s development of a nuclear deterrent strategic force, Chantal Spitz traces the impact of such political ‘imperatives’ on one family, Tematua and Emere and their children, in what might best be described as a political love story.
When the book first appeared in print in 1991, it was the first novel ever to be published by a Mā’ohi writer. Initial reactions ranged from acclamation to death threats: in basing her narrative on real events and real people, Spitz was sailing too close to the wind for some. Since then, the book has acquired an almost legendary status – yet this is the first time it has been translated into English.
This was no easy task. As a Mā’ohi writing in French, the language of her schooling, the language of the colonial power, Spitz finds herself in a position all too familiar to indigenous peoples the world over. Her solution is to radically disrupt many of the parameters of accepted literary French, and to reach beyond French, through French, perhaps, to reclaim some of the powerful and beautiful traditions of ancestral rhetoric. (Positioning the Mā’ohi account of the foundation of the world ahead of the biblical creation story at the start of the book is another way of emphasising ancient oral tradition.) This talent is referred to explicitly several times in the book, stressing that the Mā’ohi people have always had a highly articulate oral culture, to which characters such as Tematua turn in times of crisis. This is, in a number of ways, very un-French writing: there are many repetitions of words – something literary French tends to avoid like the plague – and a strongly lyrical tone throughout, including poetry inserted into the text. There are recurring metaphors, such as the dream, which provides a spiritual link to the land and Mā’ohi cultural values. Pain and suffering are represented as a tearing or ‘déchirure’: in Mā’ohi the word for this, ‘motu’, also means a low-lying island, like the one where the nuclear missile base is set up. Subtly yet clearly, the suffering of the characters is linked to the desecration of their Land – the use of capitalisation to stress cultural importance is another strategy to enhance Mā’ohi values that I have respected.
Translation always requires multiple negotiations between source culture and language and target culture and language. I have opted here to leave many cultural references unchanged, in particular the use of the term ‘belly’ or ‘ventre’, as the seat of the emotions. This could have been ‘anglicised’ into ‘heart’, but given the network of interconnected references to the belly of the land and the belly of the people (the missiles, when launched, fly up from the violated belly of the land; the placentas of the children are entrusted to the belly of the land, according to Mā’ohi custom), it seemed wisest to leave this as a culturally-specific usage. Mā’ohi terms can be found in a glossary at the end of the book; however, where these are not readily guessable from the context, Spitz generally gives some indication of their meaning in the text itself.
Regrettably, one complex referencing system did not survive the translation act: throughout the book Spitz differentiates systematically between the spoken word (‘parole’) in French and the written word (‘mot’). Even when the radio announces the dreadful news that the missile base is to be constructed, these transmitted words are ‘mots’. The spoken word, ‘parole’, remains the domain of Mā’ohi, as part of the author’s highlighting of the power of ancient rhetorical tradition. English does not distinguish easily between the two categories, and in the interests of maintaining a lyrical rather than a clinical, explanatory tone, it seemed preferable to let this important distinction go.
No translation is ever perfect, but my hope is that the spirit and flair of the original remain, to bring new understanding of another Pacific culture through this important and deeply-felt story.
Jean Anderson
Wellington, May 2007
Ō’muara’a parau
Nā tamanui
Nā tepaiaha
Nā teuruari’i
Mā’ohi nō inanahi
Mā’ohi nō ananahi
Mā’ohi nō a muri a’e
’A tai’o i tō pehepehe
’Ia ite ’oe i tō ’ā’amu
’Ia riro teie ’ite ei papa pāpū
Fa’ati’ara’a i te hō’ ē ao ’āpī nā ’oe
Ao ’āpī nā tō tama
Ao vī ’ore nō te nūna’a vī ’ore
Ao tura nō te nūna’a faatura
Ao ti’amā no te nūna’a mā
Ao mure ’ore nō te nūna’a mure ’ore
Ao mā’ohi nō te nūna’a mā’ohi
I noho maoro na o Ta’aroa
I roto i tōna ra ’apu.
Mai te huero mau ra i te menemene.
E tē ta’aminomino ra i roto i te aore
Mai te pō tinitini mai ā.
’Aore e rā, ’aore e marama.
’Aore e fenua, ’aore e mou’a.
Tē vai ’are’are noa ra.
’Aore e taata.
’Aore e pua’a, ’aore e moa.
’Aore e ’urī, ’aore e mea oraora.
’Aore e tai, ’aore e vai.
Ia tae rā i te hō’ē ra tau,
Tē patapata ra o Ta’aroa
I tōna ra pa’a i roto i tōna nohora’a iti piriha’o,
’Afā a’e ra, pararī a’e ra te huero iti,
’Ua unihi a’e ra o Ta’aroa,
Tū noa atu ra i ni’a iho i te pa’a
E ’ua pi’i atu ra :
«’O vai tō ni’a na ē ?»
’Aore reo i te paraura’a mai.
«’O vai tō tai na ē ?
’O vai tō uta na ē ?»
’Aore reo i te paraura’a mai !…
E vevovevo ana’e nō tōna iho reo
E ’ati noa a’e,
’Aita atu.
Ta’u atu ra o Ta’aroa :
«E te papa ē, ’a ne’e mai !»
’Aore rā e papa i ne’e atu.
’Ua ta’u atu ra :
«E te one ē, ’a ne’e mai !»
’Aore rā e one i ne’e atu.
Riri atu ra i te mea ’aita ’oia i fa’aro’ohia mai.
Huri iho ra i taua pa’a nō na ra.
Fa’atia iho ra i ni’a
Ei au nō te ra’i,
Topa atu ra i te i’oa, o Rumia.
Rohirohi atu ra, e i reira noa iho
’Ua unihi atu ra i te hō’ē pa’a hou
Nō te vehi iāna iho
Rave iho ra ’ei papa ’e ’ei one.
’Aore ā rā i māha tōna riri.
Rave atu ra i tōna tuamo’o ’ei pana’i mou’a.
Tōna ’ao’ao ’ei puro’u mou’a,
Tōna manava ’ei pāti’i ata mārevareva,
Tōna toāhua ’e tōna ’i’o ’ei pori fenua,
Tōna rima ’e nā ’āvae ei fa’a’eta’eta nō te fenua,
Tōna mai’u’u rima ’e te mai’u’u ’āvae ’ei ’apu e
’ei poa nō te i’a,
Tōna huruhuru ’ei rā’au, ’ei nana’ihere,
’E ’ei rā’au tāfifi, ’ia ruperupe te fenua,
’E tōna ’ā’au ’ei ’ōura’e ’ei puhi nō te vai ’e te tai.
E ahu atu ra te toto o Ta’aroa,
Māreva atu ra ’ei ra’i ’ute’ute ’e ’ei ānuanua.
’Ia ’apuhia te fenua, mai iāna iho
E ’apu h
E ’apu te ra’i, ’oia te aeha’i,
I fa’anahohia e te atua te rā,
Te marama te tua ta’a,
E te hui tārava a te atua.
E ’apu te fenua nei nō te ’ōfa’i,
Te vai,
’E te rā’au e tupu mai.
Tō te tāne ’apu, o te vahine īa,
Nō te mea nō reira mai ’oia i te ao nei,
E tō te vahine nei ’apu, o te vahine iho īa,
Nō te mea nā te vahine ’oia i fānau.
E ’ore e hope i te tai’o te ’apu
O te mau mea o te ao nei.
When God began to create the heaven and the earth, the earth was without form, and void and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the surface of the waters.
And God said, Let there be light! And there was light, and God saw that the light was good. God divided the light from the darkness, and he called it ‘Night’. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters! (…) He divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament. And it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven (…). And the evening and the morning were the second day.
And God said, Let the Earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind! And it was so. And God saw that it was good. And the evening and the morning were the third day.
And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night, and let them be for signs, and for seasons and for days and years, and let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth. And it was so (…). And God saw that all this was good (…). And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.
And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven (…). And God saw that it was good (…). And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.
And God said, Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle and creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind! And it was so (…). And God saw that it was good.
And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness, and let him have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.
And so God created man in his own image
In the image of God created he them:
Male and female created he them.
And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth and subdue it (…).
And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for meat (…). And it was so. And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.
And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.
Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them.
And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made.
And he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made.
And God blessed the seventh day and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God created and made.
These are the generations of the heavens and the earth when they were created.
Prologue
It is a magical moment. Tetuamarama, the moon, with her long silver hair, is spreading her sequined carpet above the world. Tetuamarama, goddess of the night, faithful companion of all lovers, offers the shining caress of her light to Ruahine, the Land sanctified by the blood of her sons. Moanaurifa, the bountiful sea, stretches herself voluptuously over the sand, bursting into a glittering spray, lulling all souls with her immortal music. The birds have tucked their bright feathers beneath their wings. The fish have smoothed their shining scales beneath their fins. Even the gods in the heavens have suspended the fate of man, waiting for the music of the words to be spoken.
On the distant headland, Ruahine’s sons are silent. Sitting on pe’ue finely woven by the work-worn hands of the women, they are waiting.
It is a magical moment.
Now rises up the deep voice of Tematua. Voice of the eternal Land. Voice of the immortal Fathers. It rises up from the depths of the night come down through the ages of man. Bearing life and love. Echoing light. Echoing eternity. Song of love and pain. Song of my People. Song of my Land. Song of Ruahine.
‘They will come on a boat with no outrigger, these children, these branches of the same tree that gave us life. Their bodies will be different from ours, but they will be our brothers, branches of the same tree. They will take our Land for themselves, they will overturn our established order, and the sacred birds of land and sea will gather to mourn.’
A clear-sighted prediction that no one wanted to hear. The Word cast on deaf ground.
They did come one day, on their boat with no outrigger, proving the old forgotten prediction was right. We welcomed them, these strange brothers come from a strange land, as it was foretold long ago. We loved them, these unknown branches of the tree, these children of the One and Only Ta’aroa.
We shared our land with them, the great house created by Ta’aroa so that all his children might grow up in its shelter. We welcomed them, these strange brothers from another place, whose coming was long foretold. We offered them our love. Our trusting love, that made us forget the rest of the old prediction. Our boundless love, that turned to pain and tears.
They took our land for themselves, with the help of some of our own people, thirsting after undeserved power. They shattered our established order, forcing their world upon us.
Oh my People, what was predicted has come to pass, and now we weep.
We told ourselves then that their spirit must be as luminous as their skin. White, the colour of light, and therefore of intelligence. Brown, the colour of darkness, and therefore of lack of intelligence.
The old prediction said ‘branches of the same tree’, and so that it would be right, we convinced ourselves they were the upper branches and we were the lower ones.
Everything was as it had been foretold. The old prediction was true.
Divinely true.
So we submitted to these strange brothers, distant branches tossed for months on this ocean they didn’t understand, washed up by chance on our shores and putting down roots on Mā’ohi land.
Just like the mārara that wash up in clusters on the fine sand of our beaches, more and more of them set off, fleeing their old world in decay.
These pale men, with their different bodies, with their white skin, looked upon our women.
Vahine Mā’ohi, golden-skinned woman
Daughter of the sun
Daughter of the moon
Your long black hair tumbling down
Like waterfalls cascading down the mountains
Your great dark eyes
Like the sea and its infinite depths
Vahine Mā’ohi
Ray of sunlight
Stardust
Moonbeam
Mystical by day
Magical by night
Made by love, made for love
Most beautiful amongst women
Dream of white men
Always desired
Sometimes loved
Vahine Mā’ohi
Envy of white women.
These men dreamed then of our women and thought they possessed them.
Their women, pale, abandoned, with their different bodies, with their white skin, began in their turn to look upon our men.
