By: Nadhif Seto Sanubari, University of Iowa.
A certain myth persists that ancient humans were physically incapable of perceiving the color blue. This misconception first stemmed from scholars who had noticed the distinct lack of references to color in ancient works such as Homer’s Odyssey, in which he described the ocean as having “the color of dark wine”. We now know that the ancient Greeks were not, in fact, blue-blind. Instead, there were so few things crucial to their survival that sported the color blue that they had not seen it as its own separate color and never thought to come up with a word for it. Especially when compared to the black of night, white of sunrays, red of blood, and green of plants, all of which came about much earlier in most budding languages.
Meanwhile, on the other side of this mythical coin, the Inuit people have been said to have a hundred words that describe snow. While this is also not necessarily factual, it does demonstrate how much language is entangled with the things that are deemed essential by each respective culture. Another example, one which is true this time, is with Indonesians and rice. This grain is such a crucial element of our daily meals that every KFC order comes packed with a ball of rice, and I have personally known people who insist that their bellies will not be satiated until they have ingested several mouthfuls. It is that important, even, that we have come up with at least four words for the rice, one for each act in its life story. Padi for the lanky stalks swaying in the fields, gabah for the brownish grain seed we pluck out of them, beras after it has been peeled by man or machine and then sold in markets by the bag, and nasi for the sticky, cooked final product that comes with your happy meal. In English, however, the entirety of this saga can be succinctly summarized by uttering a single syllable: rice.
I’ve never considered myself a “no rice, no meal” type of person. While rice was often included in most meals I ate back home, I would also jump at the chance of ordering a supreme pizza or replacing my chicken and rice combo with a chicken burger (or a chicken sandwich, as my US-born wife would correct me, even though every Indonesian menu I’ve ever read lists them as chicken burgers). So much so, in fact, that I considered pizza and hamburgers my favorite foods, leaps and bounds over any Indonesian dish I’ve ever had. This preference was reflected in my other interests as well. The number of Indonesian books, movies, or music I am familiar with pales in comparison to how much English-language media I consume. To this day, I’ve always attributed this to my fluency in the English language, which in turn earned me much praise and high marks in English classes, which then strengthens my passion for anything written in English. A continuous cycle. I must admit that, growing up, the many compliments I’ve received by peers and teachers on how well I write and speak English became something of a point of pride. It intensified my belief that “this is what I’m good at”. It also created a problematic perception that, in my mind, set the English language on a pedestal higher than Indonesian. “Everyone around me can speak and write Indonesian easily enough, but they often have trouble doing the same in English. Therefore, English must be the ‘higher’ language.”
Little did I know at the time that this borderline obsession with comparing the two languages would eventually lead to my foray into translation. While watching an English-language film on Netflix, I suddenly had the compulsion to turn on Indonesian subtitles, even though I didn’t need them, just to see how the subtitlers chose to translate certain things. I found myself “editing” the subtitles in my head and noting how I would do things differently. This seemingly inconsequential curiosity eventually snowballed into flying halfway across the world to study literary translation at the University of Iowa. And just like that things were flipped on its head.
No longer did I hear Indonesian spoken casually around me, or saw it plastered over passing street signs and billboards, and neither did I have anyone who I could converse with in my native language on a daily basis. Strangers still complimented me on my fluency in English, yet they now illicit a different reaction in me. They didn’t praise me because I received good grades in English class or that I speak more fluently than everyone else. They praised me because they were surprised that I didn’t sound different, that I didn’t have an accent or speak in broken English. They praised me because they didn’t expect me to sound “American”. I could no longer pride myself on how fluent I was English, or how much knowledge I had of English-language media. Now people were more interested in that I was Indonesian. A part of my identity that had long lied in the back of my mind was suddenly dragged onto the forefront. Like countless others, an identification badge was thrust upon me as soon as I stepped on American soil. Suddenly I was “Indonesian”, “Southeast Asian”, or just “Asian”. I stopped being just a person and became a “person of color”.
I looked at my American cohorts and noticed that they had exceptional knowledge of their source languages because they chose to learn and consume them as their second or third languages, just as I did with the English language. I wrestled with a persistent self-doubt that I had comparatively limited knowledge of literature in my source language, even though it’s my native language. Once again, an identity I never thought existed was given to me. I was no longer just a writer or translator. I’m now an “exophonic” writer and translator.
I began telling people that I aim to introduce the lesser-known Indonesian literature to the English-speaking world. “That’s a very noble goal,” people would say. Then they would ask what the Indonesian literary scene is like, and I would realize that I had no answer. I soon realized that not only was I mentally alienating myself from anything Indonesian, but now I was also physically removed from it. If I had continued on my present course, my connection to my home would slowly but surely fade into memory, and my roots would recede into nothing. I began flipping through the stack of Indonesian books that my dad packed for me before I left. Books from his shelf that I’ve always ignored up until then. It was a search for a justification for my choices because whatever justification I had before suddenly wasn’t enough.
But in this frantic search, I found something that I didn’t expect to find. The Indonesian prose and poetry gave me a kind qof profound appreciation and acceptance that I had not felt before. In a way that no English-language literature had ever managed to do, I was able to see myself within these written words. In these authors, my predecessors, I saw a history that I’m a part of. This was not an identity that was swiftly carved onto my forehead while I wasn’t looking, it was one that had always been a part of me, and one that I had begun to learn to embrace. There has never been a higher-lower hierarchy between languages. While my Indonesian peers might praise me for my fluency in English, my English-speaking cohorts find more fascination in the Indonesian works that I translate. It is all a matter of perspective. The fact that I was born on an island in a series of islands that just so happened to be Indonesia is entirely circumstantial. It’s how I perceive this fact and what I choose to do with it that really matters in the end. Through this epiphany, I began to view things differently. I started to share my cohorts’ passion as they showed fascination in the magical Indonesian stories I translated. I found joy in introducing my wife to Indonesian dishes that I loved to eat growing up, though I previously never bothered to learn the recipes.
Like the Greeks and their odysseys through their wine-dark sea, it took me a trip halfway around the world to finally realize the sheer inseparability of one’s ways of perceiving and their language. However, to master a language, as well as convert it into another requires you not only to learn the grammatical syntaxes but also to imbibe yourself in its culture and the mindset of its people much like a young Nadhif once did with the English language. I now find fulfillment in reacquainting myself with my own roots, and the rules and the rice that make it.
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