An English edition of aboriginal prose and poetry helps restore the long-silent voice of Taiwan's earliest inhabitants.
Scarcely known at all outside their native land, and until recently all but ignored within it, Taiwan's aboriginal peoples are Austronesian in background. Their settlements on Taiwan can be traced back 15,000 years. Although traditionally divided into plains peoples and mountain peoples, only one of the plains tribes, the Yami of Orchid Island, survives.
The languages of the surviving 12 groups (Balcom and Balcom, relying on earlier sources, note nine) are mutually unintelligible, whereas the languages of the far-flung Austronesian group, which include Hawaiian and Maori, show remarkable similarities. For this reason, some scholars believe that Taiwan is the origin of the Austronesian diaspora that began several thousand years ago. Austronesian cultural markers also abound, including homes built on stilts, clothing made from animal hides, tattooing, betel-nut chewing, weaving with rattan and bamboo, and circle dancing. Considerable diversity exists within these commonalities: for example, the hundred-pacer snake is the totem of the Paiwan, while the Puyuma (also known as the Pinuyumayan) practice a monkey ceremony to develop courage in young men, and the Saisiyat honor dwarf spirits. The Bunun are noted for their polyharmonic choral appeals for a plentiful harvest, and the Yami for their exquisitely carved fishing canoes.
Successive waves of migration from China resulted in the assimilation or annihilation of most of the plains tribes; the mountain peoples were marginalized. Considered savage by the Han Chinese newcomers, the aboriginals were exploited and looked down upon. When, in the 17th century, the island was a Dutch colony, missionaries learned to speak their languages, set up schools, and provided many of the groups with written languages as well as converting them to Christianity. During the period of Japanese control, from 1895, Japanese anthropologists began the first systematic studies of the indigenous peoples; it was their archaeologists who unearthed ancient aboriginal settlements. The Japanese administration is credited with preserving Yami culture by restricting access to Orchid Island. New schools taught the aboriginals to speak and write Japanese, roads were built to connect their settlements with each other and with major cities and Japanese officials appeared to administer the new system.
After Japan relinquished control of Taiwan in 1945, there began a new influx of Chinese from the mainland. Although regarding the aboriginals, with their colorful costumes and customs, as useful in attracting tourists, the mainlander-dominated Kuomintang government also wanted to assimilate them into Chinese culture. Along with those of Chinese origin who were born in Taiwan, aboriginals were required to learn Mandarin and introduced or, in the case of the former, re-introduced, to many of the other trappings of a Sinicized civilization. But their rural schools were of poor quality compared with those of the city folk, and traditional community ties exerted a significant centripetal force. The rapid economic development that brought prosperity to the plains largely passed the aboriginals by. Poverty forced many young men into the cities where they were limited to low-paying menial jobs like gravel hauling; families with few other choices sometimes sold their daughters into urban brothels. Intermarriage with Han Chinese became more common, diluting traditional culture to some degree.
Along with the Taiwanization of Taiwan came the realization that the culture of the island had many other sources besides that of China, with those of the aboriginals being among them. Rather than representing the survival of a heritage largely lost on the mainland due to communist influence, the "new Taiwanese" was to be a blend of the different waves of Han migration, various Western and Japanese influences and aboriginal cultures. At the same time, there was a growing acceptance of cultural pluralism and official willingness to support its development. After martial law ended in 1987, there was a resurgence of identity politics that included the aboriginals. The Council of Indigenous Peoples was established under the Executive Yuan; museums devoted to aboriginal history have been created; and languages that appeared to be on the brink of extinction have been rescued. Aboriginal art regularly adorns the front page of Taiwan's leading English-language newspaper, and aboriginal designs appear on elegant silk kerchiefs, cell phone holders, and in the fabric of handbags sold in upscale boutiques.
This charming book is one result of this renewed interest in the past. Yet as the Balcoms point out, the literature they have translated is entirely written in Chinese--the language of the "oppressor," which might be interpreted as further diminishing the viability of indigenous culture.
When asked why he writes almost exclusively in Chinese, one author, voicing the opinion of many others, replies that there is no audience for literature written in the indigenous languages. The 12 minority groups, with their different languages, total less than 500,000 people, or about 2 percent of the nation's population. If one wants one's work to be read, one writes in the language of the people who are apt to read it. Another author adds that he never learned the romanized form of his language developed by missionaries and that, in any case, since he writes about the lives of aboriginals who have migrated to urban areas, Chinese is more suitable. Others have experimented with bilingual books.
The editors, mindful that this is the first such anthology of its kind in English, have aimed to provide a representative sample of works from the three main literary genres--short story, essay and poetry--of the past two decades. They also try to include works by each ethnic group, though pointing out that some have produced a greater number of writers than others, regardless of the size of the group (the Amis, at 170,358, is the largest; the approximately 560 Thao constitute the smallest.) Topics range from folk legends to the difficulties of coping in the modern world, and include several tales that could have taken place at any time. The length of each contribution is short; apparently none of Taiwan's groups produced anything like the Buryat epic Geser, traditionally performed over nine days to the accompaniment of a horse-head fiddle, or the Norse Eddas whose Germanic version forms the background for Wagner's Ring Cycle.
Although it would be a disservice to the stories to try to categorize them, certain common themes are noticeable. All tribes are aware of their symbiotic relationship with nature and appreciative of its beauty. Images of walking through the morning mist, seeking shelter from fearsome lightning storms, and remaining completely silent while waiting for the moon to illuminate the animal one is hunting occur in several of the contributions. We share the anxiety of a young Paiwan being tested for adult status: ordered, as part of the initiation process, to spend the night on a high ridge, he shivers in the mountain wind and sees phantasmagoric images in the swaying bamboo. A Yami spearfisher weighs his desire to bring food home to the family against the persistent presence of a carnivorous stingray.
An ancient Saisiyat tale is reminiscent of the biblical myth of Eden. While hunting, a young man mysteriously meets the woman of his dreams, Youwai, standing next to a tree that has just been destroyed by lightning. On the eve of their wedding, she warns him never to inquire about her background. Beautiful, sweet natured and talented, Youwai cures her father-in-law's blindness, clears stony fields in the blink of an eye and introduces the Saisiyat to millet, which is tastier than the taro and sorghum they were used to, as well as being more drought resistant, easier to grow and able to be dried for storage. The illnesses that had commonly occurred are no longer heard of. However, all is not well in this near-paradise. Much to the dismay of her elderly mother-in-law, Youwai refuses to enter the kitchen to cook, and does not become pregnant.
Disregarding their shaman's advice to leave the young woman alone, the villagers begin to gossip: Youwai is an evil spirit; she is a demon who seduces with evil magic. Even her love-besotted groom begins to treat her coldly. She cries until no tears are left. One night, in contravention of the exhortations of the heavenly spirits, the husband goes hunting without telling Youwai beforehand. On the second night, he is suddenly awakened by the sound of thunder. His beloved is standing before him. Youwai explains that she is the thunder goddess, whom the spirits have sent to earth to help his people. However, the spirits cautioned that, if she wished to remain his wife, Youwai could not open a pot on the stove, nor reveal her true identity. Having been treated so shabbily by the people she has helped, the young woman has decided to return to heaven. Youwai then reappears in the village, enters the kitchen, lifts the lid of a pot and disappears in a cloud of thick smoke. The villagers are filled with regret for their actions, but can do nothing. The story closes lyrically: "Gone forever, sadness unending. A cold wind rose in the valley, shaking the bamboo grove. A great wave of sadness engulfed the village."
Other common themes include the encroachment of the outside world, feelings of nostalgia for the old days, and concerns with how to attain the good things of the industrial era while holding onto the sense of freedom and community that tradition provided them with. The comforts of modern life are attractive, yet there is reluctance to sacrifice what is good about the old ways. A comfortable balance between the two is considered desirable, but recognized as difficult to achieve.
A Tsou, returning to her native village for the New Year holiday, hears the unfamiliar sound of wooden clogs on the cobble stones and thinks backward to the time of the Japanese occupation, when this traditionally Japanese form of footwear, geta, was introduced. The forests from which geta were produced turned into a sea of fragrant white blossoms every spring, forming the narrator's most vivid childhood memory. Although the Japanese felled many trees to make the geta, the forest regrew after they left. Later, to get money to build a new home, her family sold their forest to the Chinese recently arrived from the mainland. They cut down the trees, destroying the beloved white waves. And plastic sandals replaced wooden clogs everywhere. This is not a simple story of nostalgia for the old days: the narrator tells us that she never liked to wear geta, finding plastic footwear more comfortable. She is grateful that her family has a new home, and is hopeful that the forest may some day return.
An Amis story concerns an elderly shaman. Questioned why, in a village where everyone else has become Christian, she keeps to the old ways, the woman explains that, when she was a young girl, the spirits chose her for this calling in order to protect the community. Recently, they have instructed her to train a successor. Secretly called by Christian families whose desperately ill children fail to respond to either modern medicine or modern prayers, the shaman continues to perform her rites. Later, as she begins the annual ceremony of protection of the village for its traditional festival, the chief informs her that the elders have invited the priest to bless the ceremony; her services are no longer needed. Speaking an Amis dialect with a foreign accent, the priest intones that protecting the people is god's work and god's blessing. Contemplating the significance of this, the woman chooses a moonlit night to dig a hole beneath a betel-nut palm. Singing ritual songs to the accompaniment of tinkling bells representing the spirits, she buries her robes and headdress forever.
In "Ginger Road," a Puyuma tale with universal resonance, an aging farmer, feeling the strain of carrying heavy loads of produce over a treacherous mountain path, worries that none of his four sons will be able to carry on his work. While the harvest has been good, there are many claims on it: school fees for the children and a new roof for the house. Meanwhile, his wife dreams of purchasing a sewing machine, and his youngest child covets a bicycle. This story has a happy ending: both wife and child are rewarded. Just afterwards, a typhoon destroys the transport road. But, hinting that modernization is not always bad, the author informs readers that a new and safer road will be open to traffic by the end of the year.
Perhaps the saddest notes are to be found in the poetry: a man mourns the death of his childhood friend, sent to work at age 13 as a welder. He works 12-hour days with no chance of leaving: his boss keeps the workers' identification cards locked in the company's safe. His contract finally fulfilled, the friend hauls bricks, but is never paid because a foreman embezzles the payroll. The man then becomes an indentured worker in Saudi Arabia, where his suffering ends when a backhoe breaks his neck. Philosophical in his lament, the author concludes: "I understand. A man is forced to wander. And death is a release from worldly cares. Go, you wanderer to that unknown world. For perhaps it is a peaceful place." In another poem, a young man roams the mountains calling the name of his love, "bought with a military pension" and taken from him forever. Yet a third poem probes the irony of the Han belief that the hundred-pacer snake, whom the Paiwan revere as the ancestor of their people, is a powerful aphrodisiac. Their totem is being hunted to the edge of extinction. Meanwhile, a young Han, having drunk the elixir, "struts his false majesty into the red light district. There at the brothel door to meet him is the descendant of the hundred-pacer snake: a young Paiwan girl."
There are playful notes as well. A Bunun poet describes his childhood self as having feet that are the same as himself: both hated to wear clothes. But the sun did not agree, baking the asphalt road until his feet hurt. Then came the rain, bringing relief as well as joyous puddles to jump into. Another poem envisions the clouds as puffs of cotton candy; the poet envies the sky for being able to taste them every day while he wishes for just a single bite. Nonetheless, the dominant mood is dark.
The editors have performed an impressive feat of translation: their graceful prose and poetry evoke vivid images and emotions. This fascinating introduction into complex cultures should be of professional interest to historians and ethnographers. But it is to be hoped that they, and many others, will read it for the sheer pleasure of the reading experience.
___________________________
June Teufel Dreyer is professor of
political science at the University of Miami
and a commissioner of the congressionally
established US -China Economic and
Security Review Commission.
Copyright (c) 2005 by June Teufel Dreyer.