His colleague in the fight against apartheid, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, also spoke about ubuntu in a speech in 2007.20 ‘In our culture, there is no such thing as a solitary individual,’ he said. ‘We say, a person is a person through other persons – that we belong in the bundle of life. I want you to be all you can be, because that’s the only way I can be all I can be.’
Ubuntu can also be a personal quality – an individual might be described as ‘having ubuntu’, in which case they have an instinctive awareness of the importance of interdependence. They will stand by their social obligations and be as conscious of their duties as they are of their rights; they will be aware of whatever personal qualities they possess, such as beauty or wisdom, but only in relation to other people. They may be ambitious, as Mandela suggested, but along with that ambition will go a sense that the community as a whole should profit from their advancement.
However, it is as a view of the world, a prescription for how people should behave, that ubuntu is best known. It is a philosophy, not a religion, as it’s occasionally described – there is no supernatural element in it, no aspect of duty towards an all-powerful being, but simply a joyful recognition of the importance of community. It’s important to stress that it is not a matter of unselfishly subjugating one’s personal interests to those of wider society, as a communist might enjoin; rather, ubuntu is all about the development and fulfilment of a person’s potential both as an individual and as part of a community.
In the years leading up to the collapse of apartheid in South Africa in 1994, there was a widespread conviction across the rest of the world that the country was heading for a bloodbath. But though there was violence – sporadic fighting between rival opposition groups, outbreaks of tribal antagonism, the shooting of twenty-nine people by troops in the so-called Ciskei homeland in 1992 and car bombs in Johannesburg – the widely expected wholesale slaughter never happened.
‘In our culture, there is no such thing as a solitary individual.’
One aspect of ubuntu is that it specifically renounces vengeance. Many leaders of the anti-apartheid movement, Mandela and Tutu among them, believed that freedom would benefit not only blacks but whites as well – freeing the jailer as well as the prisoner. More than twenty years later, South Africa remains a nation beset by problems, but ubuntu – described by President Barack Obama as ‘Mandela’s greatest gift’21 – is a living tribute to the commitment to a sense of common purpose that transcends politics and race.
You don’t need to be South African or, more specifically, a black South African to appreciate ubuntu. Like Beethoven’s music, Shakespeare’s poetry and Van Gogh’s paintings, it is an inspiring reminder of what we might be capable of at our best.
Insha’allah
(Arabic)
Literally ‘God willing’ … but also works well as a brush-off, because nothing happens unless God wants it to happen
THERE ARE PHRASES in several languages that reflect something of the meaning of the Arabic insha’allah (insha-all-AH) – God willing in English, of course, or the Latin deo volente. The Spanish and Portuguese words ojalà and oxalà, with their echo of the Arabic, carry a dim 500-year memory of Moorish rule in Iberia; and the Welsh os mynn duw is a Celtic version of the same idea. But none of them has the same deep, universal resonance of insha’allah.
The word Islam itself means submission – submission to the will of God, that is – and through the whole religion runs a rich vein of fatalism. Nothing, the devout Muslim believes, will happen unless God wishes it to, and so it is sinful to promise anything without acknowledging that only the will of God can bring it about. The precise phrase comes from a verse in the Qur’an, which warns: ‘Never say of anything, “Indeed, I will do that tomorrow,” except [when adding], “If Allah wills [Insha’allah].”’
To that extent, then, the phrase carries with it a sense of the all-pervading influence of religion on a Muslim’s life – a brief prayer inserted into the most mundane of remarks. But it can also be used by the less devout as a way of avoiding responsibility or commitment. If all is in God’s hands, the speaker cannot be held responsible if things go wrong.
If you call on an Arab businessman in his office and his secretary tells you that he will see you later, ‘insha’allah’, then you are in for a long and probably fruitless wait. In this sense, the word might be best translated by the Spanish mañana, which literally means ‘tomorrow’, but more often has a feeling about it of ‘maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, maybe never’. Between those two meanings of insha’allah, between the devout prayer and the smiling brush-off, lies a trap for the incautious non-Muslim.
There is a story of a wise and experienced Western businessman who fell into this trap when visiting a client to get across the message that a bill that had been outstanding for several months might usefully be paid. He was greeted with smiles, coffee and lengthy enquiries about the health of his family, and questions about the bill were brushed away as a mere nothing that should not be allowed to interrupt this pleasant reunion of old friends.
‘It is nothing,’ said the client from behind his large desk, with an expansive wave of his hand. ‘Do not worry about this. The cheque will be signed tomorrow, insha’allah.’
The businessman, who had given up a whole morning to make this visit, and who had hoped to leave with a signed cheque safely in his pocket, was unimpressed. Since it was the man behind the desk, not Allah, who was going to sign the cheque, he suggested pointedly, the matter could be settled even more quickly. Like now.
And suddenly the atmosphere was different. Where there had earlier been warmth and conviviality, there was now icy formality. Instead of a relaxed conversation about an acknowledged debt that was to be paid, there was now a tense and unsmiling exchange about his lack of respect, his apparent frivolity about deeply held religious feelings and the hurt that he had caused.
The matter went no further and – several weeks later – he got his money. But he never forgot the lesson he had learned about the dangers of insha’allah.
Veline
(Italian)
The job title of the glamorous young dancers employed to deliver the news – on sheets of paper – to male newsreaders
IT WOULD BE a dull old world if everywhere were just the same. What inspires a sharp intake of breath and a sucked-lemon expression in one place is likely to be greeted with whistles of approval, stamping feet and raucous laughter in another.
Take veline (vel-EE-neh), for instance. It’s an old Italian word that, back in mediaeval times, used to mean the fine calfskin on which manuscripts were written – the same stuff that was called vellum in English. From there, it was a short journey to thin paper, and today sheets of tissue paper are referred to as veline. But the word developed another, more specialized, sense. During the last century, it came to be used specifically for the thin sheets of paper on which carbon copies were made – piles of them famously emanated from the offices of the Fascist government of Benito Mussolini, with official statements and decrees.
Then and afterwards, they featured prominently in newsrooms, where multiple copies of stories were rewritten and circulated as they developed. In English, they were called flimsies, which remains a good translation in more ways than one for the way the word veline has evolved in Italian.
The magic of computerization has replaced the endless flow of updates carried by copy-boys, runners or harassed television producers, but back in the 1980s, the Italian television channel Canale 5 launched a satirical, irreverent news programme called Striscia la Notizia. The word notizia means news, and striscia can be either a comic strip or a line of cocaine, which tells you something about the character of the programme. We’re talking a mixture of Mock the Week and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart rather than the evening news. But one of its most notable features was that stories were carried to the newsreader onscreen by slim and sexy young dancers – the veline. The word flimsy was applicable not just to the papers they carried but a
lso to the clothes that they wore.
And that is how the word veline gained its modern meaning. The people who produced Virgil, the Roman Empire, the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo gave us a new word for half-naked young women dancing across the studio clutching the details of the latest Cabinet appointments or news of the economy. ‘Bimbos’, we might say in English.
But ‘bimbos’ has too much of an air of disapproval to work well as a translation. Bimbo isn’t a word that suggests that a woman might have a university degree or political ambitions. No young woman is going to describe herself as a bimbo, but in Italy the veline developed a culture and a popularity of their own. Under the premiership of Silvio Berlusconi – who owned Canale 5 – several of his personal favourites among the veline without any discernible political experience appeared as candidates for the European Parliament or were appointed to high-profile positions in local and national government. This was the golden age of velinismo, or bimbo-ism.
Before we get too judgemental, perhaps we should remember that in England Page 3 no longer simply means what comes between Page 2 and Page 4. Famous or infamous, depending on your point of view, over the past forty-five years the Sun newspaper’s bare-breasted glamour models have given the phrase ‘Page 3’ a meaning of its own. They also, like the veline, became famous for their pronouncements on the news stories of the day. The British have form when it comes to sexism in advertising and the news media.
The word flimsy was applicable not just to the papers they carried but also to the clothes that they wore.
However, Page 3 girls, popular as they have been, haven’t yet started appearing on the benches of the House of Commons. The regional Police and Crime Commissioner or the head of the Drinking Water Inspectorate are unlikely to supplement their incomes by leaping around on a television screen in their underwear. Veline is not a word we’re often going to need in English, but it might still be better than the sneering superiority of ‘bimbo’.
Perhaps veline would just sound a little gentler – more relaxed and less critical of the people we’re talking about and how they earn their living. And some of us at least would find that a distinct improvement.
Krengjai
(Thai)
An acute awareness of other people’s feelings; a desire to make others feel comfortable
IN THAILAND, A bizarre dance ritual is performed at almost every Western embassy function. The guests arrive – a visiting trade delegation from the UK, perhaps, and a number of potential contacts from the local Thai community – and drinks and canapés are served. And then the conversations start, about business or politics – serious stuff.
The Western guests approach to what feels like a comfortable distance from the Thais and begin to talk; the Thais, embarrassed to have someone standing so unreasonably far away from them, shuffle forward a few inches. The Westerners, puzzled at this advance, retreat away from them, and the Thais, smiling politely but feeling as if they are having a long-distance conversation by loudhailer from one ship to another, advance again. And so it goes on, with little groups of Westerners moving slowly backwards around the room, followed by the earnest and well-meaning Thais.
The problem is simply that neither side appreciates the expectations of the other in relation to their personal space. What seems to someone used to Western drinks parties to be a reasonable distance to stand apart is a peculiar experience for the Thais. Wanting to be friendly and welcoming, they move forward – and so the dance begins. It’s hard to understand local customs that are so deeply ingrained that they are seldom talked about. And so it is with krengjai.
To outsiders, the ancient Thai system of krengjai (kreng-JEYE) may seem to be little more than formalized deference – a stultifying sense of hierarchy that affects every area of life. And it’s true that, traditionally, teachers, parents, company directors, senior police officers and other high-ranking government servants and officials would expect to be treated with respect, homage, reverence and even fear by their juniors. It would be rude and inappropriate to criticize them or even question their decisions – and extremely unfriendly to stand so far away from them while they had a conversation. But that is only a small part of krengjai.
Sometimes it’s translated as consideration, but that is a feeble echo of the way the word resonates in Thailand. To a Thai, krengjai is an all-embracing concern to demonstrate awareness of other people’s feelings, to show them politeness and respect and never to make them lose face. The word literally means ‘respect-heart’, and it involves not just surface courtesy or deference but a deeply felt desire to make people feel comfortable and at ease.
Foreign tourists sometimes claim that if you ask a Thai a direct question – ‘Is this the bus for Phuket?’ for instance – he will be unwilling because of krengjai to disappoint you by saying no. The safest way to find out if it is the bus for Phuket, the story goes, is to ask where it is bound, without giving a hint of where you want to go. Similarly, tradesmen may agree to appointments that they have no intention of keeping, just to avoid the embarrassment of a refusal. These examples are a misunderstanding of a feeling that reflects Buddhist ideas that one should not seek fulfilment for oneself but concentrate on achieving happiness for others. In Thailand, thoughtlessness, selfishness or unkindness are deep and lasting disgraces.
Understanding the way other people see the world is one of those things, like playing with your children, watching the sun set, or smiling, that are simple, unalloyed good and positive things to do. Perhaps having the word krengjai in English could help to achieve that understanding in some small way. If it did, it would certainly make the world a happier place.
Inat
(Serbian)
A stubborn expression of courage, often with nationalistic associations
BACK IN 1999, when NATO’s bombs were showering down on Belgrade, the Serbian word inat (EE-nat) became a favourite of Western journalists trying to explain the frustrating refusal of the Serb inhabitants to do what was obviously in their best interests and surrender. Civilians were walking the streets with paper targets pinned to their chests in a ‘Come and ’ave a go if you think you’re ’ard enough’ challenge to the pilots thousands of feet above them. One report described a Serb fighter boasting about how he would tackle the bombers with his pistol. Runners in the Belgrade marathon dodged potholes as they ran past the ruined buildings of the city, determined to finish the race, bombs or no bombs.
It was, journalists suggested, all down to inat – a word inherited from Turkish after centuries of Ottoman occupation, which means spite or stubbornness. But, as they were keen to explain, it means a lot more than that as well.
Inat has a sense of having your back to the wall, of being determined not to do what is asked of you. Inat suggests you are ready to cut off your nose to spite your face, and your ears and lips as well, if that will make your point. It’s an absolute refusal to countenance surrender. If chivalry, gallantry and all the panoply of military virtues traditionally belong to the wealthy and privileged, then perhaps inat is a stolidly peasant expression of stoic courage.
It would be a mistake to see it as an emotion that is only expressed in wartime. A schoolboy being bullied who turns to face his attackers, ready to be beaten up but not to do whatever it is that they want from him, is driven by inat. So is the worker who is pushed too far by an overbearing boss and finally tells him in no uncertain terms exactly where he can stick his job. So is the driver in a narrow lane who refuses to reverse out of the way of another car, because he reckons that he was there first. Later, as they mop their bloody nose, clear their desk or inspect the scratches on their car, they may well feel a twinge of regret, but there will always be a defiant little bit of them feeling that they did what had to be done.
A dangerous hard drug for a government to feed its people.
In a war, though, inat really comes into its own, and it is seized upon by governments who have little else to offer their people. As the bombs fell on
Belgrade in 1999, the inat of the people fed into the story of a defiantly Christian race under attack down the centuries from a succession of powerful and brutal outside forces, and so it conveniently stilled the voices that might otherwise have been heard from civilians demanding how the hell the government had got them into this mess. A lot of people thought at the time that the strongly nationalist government of President Slobodan Milosevic was quietly encouraging this upsurge of inat as a specifically Serbian unifying force of national pride.
Inat, in fact, can be a dangerous hard drug for a government to feed its people, building up a feeling of persecution, a resentment of outsiders and a sense that it is us against the world – catnip for potentially violent nationalists.
In 1999, there was nothing specifically Serb about either the emotion or the government’s exploitation of it. For people anywhere in the world sitting terrified under a modern bombardment of high explosives, fire and shards of red-hot metal, the only realistic alternatives are probably blind panic and a dogged stubbornness that takes no account of life or death but is just determined not to give in. Much the same feelings were encouraged, for much the same reasons of fostering implacable and defiant nationalism and improving morale, in the London of 1940, when the battered inhabitants looked out on the devastation of the Blitz and snarled, at least according to a government propaganda film, ‘We can take it.’ In fact, the most famous expression of inat is in English, not Serbian: ‘We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets. We shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender …’
The Greeks Had a Word For It Page 7
