If you have comments or questions, or have simply been enjoying the story and want to say hello, please drop me a note!
The next morning, Maite was up early. She lay in bed, going through her slides on her computer one last time as Kepa slowly woke next to her. He sat up in bed, watching her for a moment, not wanting to interrupt. She could feel his eyes on her, though, and after she finished looking through the current slide she turned to him.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Just wanted to say good morning. Shall I run out and fetch some breakfast and coffee while you get ready?”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“That would be great!” she exclaimed. “But first…” She set aside her computer and pulled Kepa toward her, her lips meeting his as she embraced him. More than a few minutes passed before she released him again.
Kepa smiled at her. “Are you sure you have to go to this interview? We could just stay here…”
Maite returned the smile. “We’ll have time for that later. And, besides, if I don’t go, they won’t pay for the hotel.”
“Fair enough,” said Kepa as he jumped out of bed and threw on some clothes. “Be back soon.”
While Kepa was out, Maite took a shower and laid out her clothes for the day. It wasn’t long before he returned with a couple of cups of coffee, a few breakfast sandwiches, and a few pastries. “I couldn’t find any bollos de mantequilla, but hopefully these will do.”
“Mil esker, Kepa!” They sat on the small sofa on the other end of the hotel room as they ate. “So, what are you going to do while I’m on campus?”
“That’s a good question. I didn’t get a chance to look at what there is to do here in Berkeley. I guess I’ll just wander around a bit, see what there is to see.”
“I’ve heard they have some nice gardens here.”
Kepa shook his head. “That really isn’t my kind of thing.” He paused. “But, after being surrounded by so many people in New York, it might be nice to get away from people.”
“How about we plan on doing the gardens tomorrow then? Unless you want to get away from me too?”
“Ha! Ez, ez. You are the last one I want to get away from.”
Maite finished eating. “I’m going to finish getting ready,” she said as she stood. She grabbed her clothes off the bed and headed to the bathroom as Kepa continued sipping on his coffee.
She emerged a few moments later. Kepa hadn’t seen her dressed up like this before, in a professional capacity, and he found her stunning. She had opted for a pantsuit and pulling her hair back into a bun. Her make-up was understated, accentuating her natural beauty. She stepped into the middle of the room and did a slow twirl. “What do you think?”
“Ederra,” replied Kepa. “Simply beautiful.”
Maite blushed as she grabbed her bag and stowed her computer and power cord inside. “Do you care to walk me to the campus, jauna?”
“I would be delighted,” replied Kepa as he grabbed his coffee and followed Maite out of the room.
The campus was beautiful, with large ornate and imposing buildings separated by fertile green lawns. A white clock tower pierced the sky in the distance.
Maite pointed. “The physics building is next to that tower.”
“It’s an impressive campus,” said Kepa. “I can see why you want to come here.”
“It’s not really about the campus. It’s about the people. Some of the greatest minds in physics have studied and taught here.”
“And you’ll be next.”
Maite let out a nervous chuckle. “We’ll see.”
As they approached the entrance to the building, Kepa reached out for Maite’s arm. He looked her in the eyes. “You will do great, I know it.”
“Mil esker, Kepa,” said Maite with a smile. “I’m so glad you are here with me.”
“Me too, and when you are done, we’ll celebrate.”
“Sounds good,” replied Maite as she gave Kepa a small kiss on the cheek and passed through the doors, turning one last time to wave.
Professor Begoña Echeverria is no stranger to Buber’s Basque Page. Back in 2014, she wrote a guest column describing her use of song to teach elements of Euskara. However, that is only one of the myriad of activities she is leading to not only promote but also to understand Basque language and culture. Her play Picasso Presents Gernika is currently making the virtual rounds, and we’ll discuss that soon in a separate post (though you can find more information about the next screening here). In this interview, we delve into Begoña’s latest book — “Witches” and Wily Women — where she examines the place of the feminine in Basque language and culture. Begoña recently gave a presentation to mark the launching of her book, and another is coming up on April 7 — check here for details (registration required).
Buber’s Basque Page: Both of your parents were from the Basque Country but you grew up in the United States. What was it like having Basque as your first language? When did you realize that not speaking English at home was unique?
Begoña Echeverria: Speaking Basque at home — and with my aunts and uncles when we visited them on Sundays — just seemed normal to me. I don’t recall thinking it was odd or anything while I was in school, and I didn’t really get that Basque itself was an unusual language until I got to college. My friends would overhear me speaking in Basque to my parents on the phone (back in the day when you had to go down the hall to use a payphone), and ask me questions about it that I couldn’t necessarily answer. Like how old the language was, or why it sounded so different from languages they knew.
Begoña Echeverria is the daughter of Basque immigrants to southern California. A native Basque speaker with a PhD in sociology, she is a Professor at UC Riverside’s Graduate School of Education. Her research on Basque language, culture and identity has been published in academic journals in education, sociolinguistics, anthropology, history and folklore. She is also a singer-songwriter with the Basque-American trio, NOKA (www.ilovenoka.com), which has performed over 60 concerts domestically and internationally. Her historical novel, The Hammer of Witches, loosely based on the 1610 burnings of Basque “witches” from the Baztan Valley in northern Spain from which her family hails, was the Historical Novel Society’s Editor’s Choice for May, 2015. Other creative works include her docudrama Picasso Presents Gernika, which considers the fate of Basque refugees after the bombing of Gernika in 1937, as well as the artistic journey of Picasso’s anti-war masterpiece, Guernica. (A film screening of the play will be streamed on April 24, 7pm).
BBP: When did you first visit the Basque Country? What was your first impression of the land your parents came from?
Begoña Echeverria: We visited as a family over the summer when I was six; I turned seven while we were there. I remember playing with my cousins, running around their farmhouses, chasing the chickens (my siblings and I each had our favorites). I have very fond memories of getting to know my extended family, and I still remain close to my cousins there. I have family on both sides of the border, so I spoke to all my relatives there in Basque, as it was the only language we had in common.
BBP: Your book, “Witches” and Wily Women, and much of your research focuses on the place of the feminine gender in the Basque language, the concept of “noka.” What is the importance of “noka” in the Basque language and culture?
Begoña Echeverria: The Basque language (“Euskera”) has no “she” or “he,” or “el/le” “la” (as in Spanish or French). It’s completely gender-neutral except for the second person singular pronoun, hi. The ‘noka’ forms indicate that the addressee is female, while the ‘toka’ forms signal that the addressee is male. (These forms are so old, readers will have to forgive Euskera for conceptualizing gender in binary terms.) But while noka and toka are linguistically equal in that they occupy the same place in the language, I have shown in my research that they are sociolinguistically unequal — noka is often considered rude or disrespectful, has no unambiguously positive associations in the culture, and is disappearing from speech at a much faster rate than is toka. I believe that this is emblematic of the male bias in Basque society as a whole, where men are celebrated as the main protagonists in history and the producers of culture, while the accomplishments of women are overlooked or unknown. The loss of noka also deprives Basque speakers of the opportunity to address women and girls with as much linguistic richness as they do boys and men, which is an inequity in and of itself. But by focusing on texts that use noka (as my book does in examining biblical materials, folklore and song since the 16th century) we uncover images of the “feminine” that are not otherwise obvious — images of women and girls playing active roles in their own lives and in Basque culture, telling tales we don’t normally hear — that enrich all of us. We also learn that women have played active roles as creators of Basque culture; about a third of the folklore and song texts were written by women, but their names are usually just put in the footnotes or omitted altogether.
BBP: In the presentation you gave at the launching of your book, you described how “noka” had been vilified, particularly as compared to the masculine equivalent “toka,” and that much of that could be attributed to how the Basque translation of the Catholic Bible portrayed “noka.” How did the Protestant treatment differ from the Catholic version?
“Witches” and Wily Women can be purchased at basquebooks.com.
Begoña Echeverria: It was quite a shock for me to learn not only that the two religions used pronouns differently but that Protestants published the Bible in Basque centuries before Catholics did. The Protestant Queen Jeanne d’Albret of Navarre commissioned Joanes Leizarraga to translate the New Testament in 1571, and the Protestant convert Pierre d’Urte published a fragment of the Old Testament around 1700. I came across the d’Urte Old Testament on a library shelf when another book I was looking for was missing, and I noticed right away that the pronouns were ‘wrong.’ It was using noka and toka for all speech directed to a single addressee, regardless of the social status of the people in the conversation: between God and Eve, Abraham and Sarah. This use of the familiar to address God (as in prayer) or between spouses is almost unheard of today. Then I looked through Leizarraga’s New Testament, and noticed the same pattern there: Jesus used noka/toka with God the Father, but also with the Virgin Mary, the Samaritan Woman, Mary Magdalena, and his Apostles. Noka is used for every kind of interaction: positive, negative, everything in between. In contrast, the first Catholic Bible wasn’t published until 1865, when L. L. Bonaparte (Napoleon’s nephew) commissioned Jean Duvoisin for the task. And it uses noka exclusively for very negative purposes: only in the Old Testament, when God is condemning a city or country for disloyalty, personified as female, using violent or sexualized imagery.
BBP: To what extent are these differences due to the different outlook between Protestantism and Catholicism, versus each individual translator’s relationship with the Basque language?
Begoña Echeverria: Good question. I wondered that myself, but as I don’t have a time machine (or do I?) to see how the translators spoke in their daily lives, I compared other texts that they translated, and I found that the pronoun differences definitely had to do with theology rather than personal preference. Leizarraga, for example, uses the formal pronoun (zu) in thanking Queen Jeanne d’Albret, who commissioned him to translate the New Testament, which suggests he felt that the use of noka with an actual female monarch was inappropriate, even though his text uses noka to address every single female character, regardless of status. Similarly, Pierre d’Urte published a grammar in addition to the Old Testament fragment, and he uses zu in addition to hi (the familiar pronoun) in sample dialogues he includes. As for Bonaparte, his preference for zu follows the pronominal tradition established in Roman Catholic texts going back to the 17th century. Zu is used almost all of the time; hi is used only for very negative interactional purposes, like when the mob mocks Jesus on the cross, or Jesus casts out a demon from a possessed person. The only use of noka I found was from Axular’s Gero from 1643, when God uses it to chastise a lazy person’s soul, which is addressed as if it were female. A negative precedent for noka, indeed.
BBP: In your presentation, you noted how there is an effort to create a gender-neutral versus of the familiar pronoun. Would it be easier to just ‘lose’ gender completely in the language? What, in your opinion, would be lost if Basque became truly genderless (losing both noka and toka)?
Begoña Echeverria: Much research has shown that whenever gender matters in a society or culture, that will be reflected in (and reinforced) by the language. So the answer is not to keep or get rid of noka and toka, but to create a Basque culture that is more gender-equitable that can support a gender-equitable language, whatever its pronouns are. Most Basque speakers do not know or use noka or toka, but they still use language to construct gender identities or (re)create gender power dynamics. For instance, in my research many years ago I found gender differences in language use even among bilingual Basques: girls and women spoke Spanish or French in domains outside the home where boys and men often spoke Basque. This was not due to language ability — female speakers were as linguistically competent as male speakers — but to the social values ascribed Basque. In processes I discuss in my book, over time the Basque language and identity have been constructed in terms that favor male speakers, because Euskera is used in positively-valued male-dominated domains (rural sports like pilota, activities like bertsolaritza), so that speaking Basque also has connotations with rugged masculinity. But for female speakers, speaking Basque has not had such positive associations, and was actually used as an epithet. So girls and women, understandably enough, would speak Spanish and/or French at work or in social contexts outside the home to construct more positive “feminine” identities. This also made sense economically, as the more socially-mobile jobs for women required proficiency in languages other than Basque.
Even so, losing noka would be shame because it provides unique perspectives on the world that would be lost without it. As Euskera is a language isolate, there is no other language it could bequeath noka’s insights to, if noka itself were to disappear. The danger is not nearly as great with toka, as there are still many domains in contemporary life as well as the historical record to keep it alive.
Begoña historical novel, The Hammer of Witches.
BBP: Where is your research taking you now? What’s next?
Begoña Echeverria: Thanks for asking! I have a few projects in the works. I just started a collaboration with the Riverside Arts Academy called “Improving Literacy Using Music,” which we hope will ILUMminate (I can’t help myself…) ways to integrate music and perhaps other creative expressions into the K-3 curriculum in California. With Dr. Heather Sparling at Cape Breton University, I am co-editing a volume on “Music and Heritage Language Revitalization” for the Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development. With UCR colleagues Drs. Annika Speer, Bella Merlin and Richard Cardullo, I am conducting a workshop based on the film of my play Picasso Presents Gernika, which will be screened on Saturday, April 24, 7pm PST. (Visit here for more information.) Now that “Witches” and WilyWomen is done, I hope to take a closer look at Basque versions of global fairy tales like Cinderella and Rumpelstiltskin that use noka to see what perspectives and life lessons they might offer. I’m working with illustrator Lara Scott on a series of children’s books: Basque-ing in Numbers is currently available through basqueimports.com, and we hope to have Basque-ing in the ABCs available for Jaialdi, 2022. I also hope to have a Spanish version of my historical novel, The Hammer of Witches (basquebooks.com), loosely based on the 1610 burning of Basque “Witches” from Baztan, available by then. Right after finishing this interview, I will be revising the first draft of my historical novel in progress, Apparitions, which explores the supposed apparitions of the Virgin Mary to Basque children amid the political and religious tumult that preceded the Spanish Civil War.
BBP: What are your favorite places in the Basque Country? Your favorite things to do?
Begoña Echeverria: My favorite places are wherever my family lives, in Baztan and the countryside around Baiona. As for things to do: visiting, singing and eating with family and friends — preferably all at the same time — and communing with old Basque books in the archives!
BBP: Do you have any parting words before we conclude?
Begoña Echeverria: I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Basque immigrant communities for all their support of my various endeavors over the years — and to you, Blas, for your continued interest in my work. I am having a book talk through UC Riverside’s Center for Ideas and Society on Wednesday, April 7, 3pm PST [check here for details (registration required)] for those readers who can make it. But if there are Basque clubs or other groups out there interested in additional presentations on my book, I’d love to hear from you!: b.echeverria@ucr.edu.
Basque mythology is full of colorful characters and beings. With the dense forests that cover the imposing mountains rising from the sea, it should come as no surprise that the mythology features beings that dwell in those forest and are closely connected to nature. However, the Basajaunak — the wild lords of the forest — are a paradox wrapped in an enigma. While they are wild beings that almost embody the primal nature of the forest, they are also protectors of humans, especially shepherds. They are also repositories of knowledge, that humans have tricked to learn new technologies.
In one story, a group of four cowherds were watching their flock in Esterenzubi, on the border between France and Spain. When they slept, they would leave a ration of their food for Antxo, the local Basajaun, who would come and warm himself by their fire as they slept. One day, only the youngest left any food out for him and so Antxo, after eating his share and warming his body, took the clothes of the other cowherds. It snowed heavily that night and, upon waking, the three cowherds were dismayed to find their clothes missing. They begged the young boy to go find them, finally offering him a lame heifer as a reward. He found Antxo, who after some coaxing returned the clothes, but also gave the young man a hazelnut wand, telling the boy to hit the heifer one hundred and one times. The boy did, and the heifer eventually produced for him a herd of one hundred and one beautiful animals.
The Basajaun is covered in hair that falls to his knees, covering his chest and belly. He protects flocks from wolves and oncoming storms, announcing their imminence by shouting in the mountains. The character of the Basajaun sits on the border between nature and civilization. He is of nature, living in the forests, but he protects the shepherd from the worst that nature has to offer.
The Basajaun is a complex character, an amalgamation of many stories that have combined to create the being we know today. At least three main motifs coexist in the Basajaun:
The wild Basajaun, covered with hair, agile and vigorous, capable of running faster than wild beasts, wandering naked in winter or summer, never getting sick and feeding on forest animals and plants.
The shepherd, who helps human shepherds and collects their offerings (bread, milk, and warmth) in exchange for his help.
The victim of robberies perpetrated by malicious heroes such as San Martín Txiki or Haxerihargaitz; this last version is the owner of valuable riches or secrets.
Because of this synthesis of many stories over centuries, the character of the Basajaun is often contradictory. In some stories, he is a protector, defending the shepherds and flock from wolves and storms, in exchange for a small offering. In others, he steals from the shepherds and scares the sheep. In some, he is impervious to the elements, his hairy body protected from the cold, but in others he warms himself by the shepherds’ fire.
There are of course similarities and maybe even common origins with other beings in European mythology. There are beings that roam the Alps and the Apennines that teach humans important knowledge. And the Greek and Romans had deities such as Silvanus and Pan protected herds and promotes their fertility. However, any direct associations are, of course, lost to time.
If you have comments or questions, or have simply been enjoying the story and want to say hello, please drop me a note!
Getting to the hotel had been relatively painless. Their bags were on time — Maite was nervous that her suitcase would get lost and then she’d have nothing to wear for her interview — and the Uber they hired picked them up and took them straight to the hotel without incident.
“What do you want to do for dinner?” asked Maite as she unpacked her suitcase and made sure her clothes for tomorrow hadn’t gotten too wrinkled in transit.
“Something mellow?” replied Kepa. “How about a burger and a beer?”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“That sounds fine to me. Can you find something nearby?”
Kepa nodded as he pulled out his phone and searched for nearby pubs. “There’s one just around the corner,” he said. “It has four and a half stars.”
“Sounds good,” replied Maite. “I want to get back early and go through my talk one more time.”
“Don’t you have that thing memorized yet?” asked Kepa. “You’ve gone over it so many times.”
Maite replied with a sheepish smile. “I just want to do well. It’s a big deal.”
Kepa stood and walked over to Maite, putting his hands on the small of her back and pulling her close. “You are the smartest person I know. You’ll do fine.”
“But, what if I don’t get in? What then?”
“You’ll get in. But, even if you don’t, there are many opportunities for someone like you. You’ll be fine.”
Maite shrugged. “I guess. But, this is Berkeley.”
Kepa smiled. “You’ll do great things, with or without Berkeley.”
“Eskerrik asko, Kepa.”
“Ez horregatik,” replied Kepa as he pulled her closer and kissed her.
The pub was filled with people of all ages, from undergraduate students who were releasing some steam after some big test, to a group of graduate students who were huddled with their advisor, talking about their latest research, to a few older professors who had grabbed a corner table and were amongst the loudest in the pub as they discussed the day’s news.
Maite took a sip of her beer and, then, looking at Kepa, said “Isn’t this awesome? There is so much energy here!”
“I guess it has its own flavor of marcha,” replied Kepa with a smile. “Not quite the discotech, but still pretty lively in its own way.”
Maite gave him a playful punch in the arm. “You’re just disappointed there are no ladies dancing.”
“To this?” Kepa replied, absently waving his hands to indicate the alternative music that was playing over the speakers. “Nah. And, besides, you are the only one I want to watch dance.”
Maite blushed as she finished her beer. “Ready to go?”
Kepa downed his beer as well. “Yep, let’s get you some rest before the big day.”
Lunch atop a Skyscraper is one of the most iconic photographs ever taken. Taken in 1932, it features 11 men casually eating their lunch while sitting upon a crossbeam dangling above New York City. The photo was a publicity stunt, taken to promote the construction of Rockefeller Center. Even so, much about the photo remains a mystery: Who was the photographer? Who were those 11 men? This last question has spurred a lot of speculation. There is now enough evidence that the second man on the left, the one lighting the cigarette of his coworker, was a Basque from Bizkaia — Ignacio Ibargüen.
Lunch atop a Skyscraper, 1932; photo from Wikipedia.
Ignacio “Natxo” Ibargüen was born in Balmaseda on November 4, 1899, the sixth child of Ignacio Ibargüen Urrutia and Micaela Moneta Luzuriaga. He left home in 1919, heading for Argentina, possibly to avoid fighting in the Rif War. However, Argentina wasn’t to his liking, so he made his way to England, serving on an English ship. This took him not only to Bristol, where he made his new home, but to other ports around Europe, including in Russia.
In the early 1920s, Natxo made his way to the United States, where he met Esperanza Ojinaga. They married in the mid 1920s and had four children: Tomás, Shirley, Daniel, and Louise. The family made their home in New York City, in Brooklyn to be exact. Natxo died in 1957.
While it is now near-impossible to definitively prove who the men in the photo were, there is abundant circumstantial evidence that the second man from the left was Natxo. Other pictures were taken that day — one showing the group considering an American football and another where the guys are listening to a radio — that more clearly show a man who has been identified as Natxo. Natxo’s connection to the iconic photo was only realized when his son, during a trip to visit family in the Basque Country, saw a copy of the photo and told his Basque family that the second man was his father.
Of the 11 men, only a few have been identified with any certainty. The men on each end are thought to be immigrants from Ireland, though the last man has also been said to hail from Slovakia. At least one other is thought to be from Newfoundland while another is a thought to be a Native American from the Mohawk tribe. There is even doubt about who took the photograph — it was only in 2003 that Charles Ebbets was finally given credit. And, while it does seem reasonable to conclude that the second man is Natxo, there are other claims as to the man’s identity.
The photo itself has its own story. It was taken to advertise the new building. While the girder the men are sitting on hangs some 800 feet above the city, it was suspended directly above a finished floor, so any fall, while still dangerous, wouldn’t have taken anyone to the street. It was one of several photos taken that day but became famous when it was published in the New York Herald Tribune on October 2, 1932.
Primary sources: Harresi Kulturala Elkartea, who have a series of articles detailing what is known about Natxo and the photograph; Lunch atop a Skyscraper, Wikipedia. A special thanks to Koldo San Sebastian and Eneko Sagarbide whose postings on Facebook alerted me to this story.
If you have comments or questions, or have simply been enjoying the story and want to say hello, please drop me a note!
The next morning, earlier than any of them cared for, Edurne took Maite and Kepa to the airport. Before they left, Maite slipped a note under Amaia’s pillow, saying goodbye and hoping to see her soon in the Basque Country. It was still dark out when Edurne pulled up to the airport.
“Are you sure I can’t help you carry your bags in?” she asked for the fifteenth time. “I can park in the garage.”
“Ez, ez, lasai!” responded Maite. “We got it! We don’t have that many bags.”
“Ok,” said Edurne, still unsure. She followed the sign pointing to departures and parked the car. As Kepa grabbed their bags out of the trunk, Edurne gave Maite a big bear hug.
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“It was so good to see you!” she said. “We can’t let it be so long until the next time.”
“Ados,” replied Maite. “You have to come visit soon!”
“Well, if you go to Berkeley, you won’t be there for me to visit,” said Edurne with a smile.
A look of doubt flashed in Maite’s eyes. “That’s still a big if,” she finally said. “They may not accept me.”
Edurne let out a good natured laugh. “They would be fools not to. You’ll be the best thing they’ve seen in a while, I’m sure.”
She then turned to Kepa. “You take good care of her out there.”
Kepa smiled. “Oh, I will. I’ll make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble, at least not until after her interview.”
Edurne gave Kepa a squeeze. “It was good to meet you.”
“Berdin,” replied Kepa.
Edurne gave Maite one last hug. “He’s a keeper, you know,” she whispered into her cousin’s ear.
Maite smiled as she whispered back. “I know.”
“Ikusi arte!” called Edurne as she climbed back into her car and drove away.
The flight to California was relatively uneventful. Maite claimed the window seat and put on her headphones, putting some final touches on the talk she was going to give as part of her interview. Kepa sat next to her in the middle seat. To his left, in the aisle seat, sat an older gentleman. Kepa had pulled out a book and had begun reading when the man interrupted him.
“Where are you from?”
“The Basque Country,” replied Kepa.
“Where?” asked the man.
“The Basque Country,” repeated Kepa. “In Spain. Why do you ask?”
“I just noticed that your book wasn’t in English, so I was curious. So, you are Basque?” he said excitedly.
Kepa nodded.
“I’ve heard about you guys! Aren’t you the long-lost descendants of Atlantis?”
Kepa sighed as he tried to explain the history of the Basques and the Basque Country, but every time he debunked one theory, the man brought up another.
“What about Adam and Eve? Isn’t Basque the language that was spoken in the Garden of Eden?”
“Aren’t you all really aliens?”
“What about being Neandertals? That one has to be true, doesn’t it?”
By the end of the flight, Kepa was wishing he had pretended not to understand English at all.
On the furthest reaches of Canada’s eastern coast lies Saint Pierre and Miquelon, a small group of islands just south of Newfoundland. A French Territorial Collectivity, the islands are the last remaining vestige of New France, at least in North America – the people are guaranteed French citizenship. However, perhaps more interestingly, if you look at their coat-of-arms, you’ll notice that the ikurriña is displayed prominently, a monument to the Basque history of the islands.
Humans have visited these islands for at least 8000 years, with the Beothuk and Paleo-Eskimo or Pre-Inuit peoples at least stepping foot on the islands, though it seems that, if they ever settled the islands, by the time Europeans arrived, there were no inhabitants. By at least 1517, Basque whalers, primarily from Donibane Lohizune (Saint Jean de Luz) and Ziburu, had found the islands and, alongside Normans and Bretons, began to settle the islands in the 17th century. Captain Juanes de Liçaurdi, commissioned by shipowner Adam de Chibau from Donibane Lohizune, established a fishing station in the south of the islands between 1602 and 1611.
The fishing industry, in decline throughout the nineteenth century, was revitalized by an influx of new Basques, who hailed primarily from Getaria (Ghétary-Bidart), Donibane Lohizune/Ziburu (Ciboure), Urruña (Urrugne), Hendaia (Hendaye) and Senpere (Saint-Pée).
The name Miquelon is thought to be of Basque origin, likely related to the name Mikel. Though, the true origin seems lost to time.
Even today, there are vestiges of the Basque history of the islands. Pelota is a popular sport, and the Basque cultural group on the islands – Zazpiak-bat – takes its name from the fronton on the island of Saint Pierre. Every year, the islands hold a Basque festival, featuring traditional dance and sporting events. There were even traces of the Basque language into the twentieth century.
As a final testament to that long Basque history, there are numerous Basque surnames associated with the inhabitants of the islands, names such as Amestoy, Bildosteguy, Doyharcabal, Errecart, Gastambide, Hiraburu, Iturbide, Jaureguiberry, Larranaga, Mendizabal, Oyarzabal, Puchulutéguy, Sabarotz, Telletchia, Uzandizaga, and Zagaramurdy.
During World War II, there was a bit of an international dust up when Free France, the French government-in-exile, under the orders of General Charles de Gaulle, took the islands from the Nazi-sympathizing Vichy government. The United States decried this use of military power in the Americas by a European force, contrary to the Monroe Doctrine, but the incident seems to have been just as suddenly forgotten.
If you have comments or questions, or have simply been enjoying the story and want to say hello, please drop me a note!
The next couple of days were a blur as Edurne and Unai led Kepa and Maite through the sites and sounds of New York City. Edurne made sure they spent some time in Central Park — “It’s like an oasis of peace in the middle of the chaos” — while Unai dragged them all to a baseball game.
“Why are they all just standing around?” asked Kepa.
“They are waiting for the batter to hit the ball, then they can run,” replied Unai.
“They sure don’t run very often,” interjected Maite as Edurne just smiled. Maite suspected she’d heard this argument play out many times before.
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“It’s all about the strategy,” replied Unai with an exasperated sigh. “The duel between the pitcher and the batter, about who will out-think the other. It’s like a chess match, with each side trying to out maneuver the other.”
Edurne shrugged. “To me, it’s an excuse to indulge in overpriced beer and hotdogs.”
That evening, they all gathered again at Anton and Feliciana’s house for one last dinner before Maite and Kepa left for California. The spread was at least as abundant as last time, but this time, the food reminded Maite of home: platters of chorizo for appetizers, porrusalda, thick chunks of cod cooked in red peppers, and, to top it all off, rice pudding for dessert.
“I thought you might like a taste of home before heading off for the big interview,” said Feliciana as Maite marveled at the feast laid out in front of them.
“Mil esker, Feliciana! This is so wonderful!” replied Maite as she engulfed Feliciana in a huge bear hug.
“Bah!” said Feliciana with a beaming smile. “Ez horregatik.”
As they all sat down to eat, Anton passed the carafe of wine around the table. “Are you ready for the interview?” he asked Maite.
Maite shrugged. “I guess?” she replied tepidly.
“She’s going to do great!” replied Kepa with enthusiasm. “She’s by far the smartest person I know.”
“Well,” interjected Feliciana, “if you do get the position, maybe it will be an excuse for your parents to come out and visit. They can stop by here on the way.”
“I think they would love that,” replied Maite as she scooped a ladleful of porrusalda into her bowl. “They’ve never really left the Basque Country, it would be nice for them to see something new.”
“As hard as they worked, I doubt they’ve seen any of the Basque Country either,” added Anton.
Maite smiled. “Egia da. Just the beach every once in a while.”
The night continued with lively conversation about all manner of topics. After dessert, Maite began helping clear the table.
“Put those down!” exclaimed Feliciana, her voice stern. Then she smiled. “I’ll take care of those later. You have an early flight in the morning, you better get back and get some sleep.”
Maite smiled as she gave Feliciana another hug. “Mil esker, for everything. It was so good to see you.”
“Berdin,” replied Feliciana.
They all said their goodbyes, which took another thirty minutes, before Edurne literally dragged them out of the door. “Seriously ama and aita! They have to get some sleep!”
A chorus of “Gabon!” filled the air as Edurne led them all to the car, Amaia fast asleep in George’s arms.
One of the challenges with studying and understanding the origins and evolution of the Basque language is simply that it is only until relatively recently that it has been written down. Thus, whenever a new fragment of Euskara is discovered, it is a big deal. While the oldest known phrases in Euskara data back to 950 or so, the oldest text is a letter written in 1537 by the then-bishop of Mexico. Or, it was the oldest, until now.
Dr. Rosa Ayerbe discovered a new poem in Euskara while doing research on notary records in Gipuzkoa at the Provincial Historical Archive of Gipuzkoa. She found one document, in the records of one Miguel Ibañez de Insausti from Azkoitia, in which a poem written in the Gipuzkoan dialect of Basque is inscribed in the margins of the otherwise unremarkable legal document.
With the help of other researchers, including Ramon Martin, Iago Irijoa and Ander Ros, they were able to transcribe and translate the ancient text. It isn’t clear that this Miguel wrote the poem. More likely, it seems, one of his scribes wrote the Basque text, sometime around 1515. It’s a love poem, not particularly remarkable in and of itself, but now being the oldest poem we have written in Euskara, it becomes one of the most fascinating items written in the language.
Here is the poem, translated to English with the help of Google translate and thinkSpain.
My sweet beautiful beloved you pity me
Having me so “zulez”, How did you make me fall in love with that sword in hand?
You take me with your hands from here to there
I will forgive you, squire, I have not used it to kill a person save the young man
Hurting me with love pains the feathered hen me sweating of love in my tears the horses appear to the fight
My love left me I usually have the first one inside my heart.
Going one day
PartII
I got up early in the morning, one day a week one day a week, and Monday morning my dear “belagai,” broke in front of me in the “bia” that I did not want, next to where you were the great blow shook me, in the middle of the heart.
I was going to church when I was hit I got down on my knees, in front of the altar [to] confess my sin, as I did she gave me penance, as I should.
Meanwhile, here I am (you got me)
It is particularly amazing that Dr. Ayerbe discovered this document as it has been scanned and digitally available for some time, just waiting for someone to find it. How many other such treasures are buried in the archives?
If you have comments or questions, or have simply been enjoying the story and want to say hello, please drop me a note!
The show, a musical reenactment of Sherlock Holmes’ last adventure in which he fell from the waterfall, was remarkably well done. Maite was taken with the costumes and the stage sets and was thoroughly engaged by the dramatic story. Kepa, who struggled to follow the dialog and who had had his fill of adventure for the day, as predicted, fell asleep. Maite nudged him more than once as his snores threatened to drown out the actors.
“Would you be quiet?” she hissed in his ear, clearly exasperated, as she poked him in the ribs for the fourth time.
Kepa shrugged apologetically. “Barkatu, I can’t help it.”
Buber’s Basque Story is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
Just then the first act ended. The curtains fell and the lights came on for intermission.
Kepa stood and stretched. “I may hang out in the lobby for the rest of it, so I don’t disturb the play,” he said.
“I’d hate for you to miss it,” said Edurne as she also stood.
“Lasai, Edurne,” replied Maite with a glare at Kepa. “He’s already missed the first act.”
Kepa gave her a sheepish look as he made his way down the row of seats and into the aisle. As they all headed to the restrooms, Kepa headed to the lobby. “See you when it’s done,” he said.
Maite pulled him close and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Try not to snore too loud out there either,” she said and then queued for the restroom.
Kepa made his way to the lobby. Fortunately, the theater had a bar. He found a seat. The bartender eventually found his way to Kepa. “What will you have?” he asked.
“Gin kas, please,” replied Kepa in his heavily accented English.
“Gin and what?” asked the bartender.
Kepa shook his head, exasperated. He was too tired to figure this out.
“Could he get a gin and tonic with an extra splash of lemon juice?” a voice next to him asked. “Make that two.”
The bartender nodded as Kepa turned to see Unai settling in on the stool next to him.
“Eskerrik asko,” said Kepa.
“Ez da ezer,” replied Unai.
“What are you doing out here?” asked Kepa.
“Truth be told, I really don’t go for these plays. It’s not really my thing.”
“Isn’t Eric going to be upset?”
“Nah, he knows that I only tolerate these things at best. And this time, I have an excuse for ducking out.” The bartender brought the two drinks, placing them down in front of Kepa and Unai. Unai held his glass up. “Mil esker,” he said with a smile.
“Ez da ezer,” replied Kepa, returning Unai’s smile as he took a sip of his drink.
