It took me a lot of thinking over and prevaricating about the bush until I finally made up my mind, from now on you'll find bits and pieces in the English language on Envazao. So I thought to myself it should aptly start with a bit of poetry.
I wrote the poem "No country for dyed-in-the-wool-men" (see further down) about what happened last tuesday in Landerne(au.
A group of people, mostly youngsters protesting against the lack of breton language in the newly refurbished post-office, invaded the premises and decided to have a die-in (see picture in the article below). The choice of the second of November is quite significant insofar as it marks the celebration of the dead in catholic tradition.
"Ai'ta", as they label themselves, is willing to promote and defend the use of breton language in public areas including administration and transportation. They claim they won't stop fighting (in a peaceful way) as long as the French State does not give the go-ahead to bilingual signposting in every post office and every train station over the five departments of historical Brittany.
Nobody knows exactly what sort of language they would like seeing implemented on signs (the ofis publik ar brezhoneg would be in charge of translating). However hard the Ai'ta people try to look and sound close to the root-speakers of rural and oral breton, at the end of the day it makes no doubt that the language they promote alongside the ofis publik ar brezhoneg is pervaded with complicated celticisms no one will really get to grasp.
Ai'taerien themselves use words that would certainly be seen but never heard in what is left of the mainstream tongue, for example in the so-called modern breton language the word treuzdougen is supposed to replace the accepted french loan-word transpor (plural : transporchou) . So it goes with quite ugly-sounding neologisms such as melestradurezh for the bretonized administrasion. In some instances, up-to-date researchers have even managed to create celtic-rooted words where any widespread indo-european language nowadays resorts to latin or greek-rooted vocabulary (skingomz as opposed to the accepted term of radio, skinwel versus television...). It's not quite clear which type of language "ai'taerien" actually stand for.
Obviously Ai'ta's strategy of seemingly spontaneous immediate open-field operation is part of a new world of outrospection in which reflection weighs nothing in the face of appearances. When confronted to a crude reality it takes another outlook. No matter where you look at, the use of breton language by the breton people themselves is on an ever-ending decline. If until the early eighties you could not walk across the market place in a Leon town like Lesneven (North of Brest) without hearing an on-going breton conversation, nowadays you have to hit the odd cultural spot to hear it on a more or less spontaneous and casual basis. Press the TV button and you get small bits and pieces in breton, five minutes a day, make it ten times more on Sunday. As for the internet, well it might well be the new sanctuary of the breton language with Breizhoweb and its four hour breton daily schedule.
The other fact that French administration keeps ignoring Ai'ta's action could quickly cause a fair amount of disillusioning among peaceful activists. Ai'ta people claim they can now rely on a growing support, mainly among students, most of whom are totally disconnected from the basic countryside old (but ever so rich) lingo. Ai'ta people organize breton crash courses, especially in areas in or close to Nantes (see pic below) or Saint Brieuc where the language hasn't been spoken since the middle-ages. In so doing they can attract new crowds under a supposedly trendy-looking orange banner. Of course in historically french-speaking areas they don't have to put up with the odd remark that would inevitably spring out about weak pronunciation or the use of "chemical breton" unknown to all but them happy lot.
Add to this the widely-spread belief that the act of translating from one language to the other tends to suck out the marrow off the original bone and that sums up how tough the job of today's militants can be.
To cut a long story short four people were detained for an hour or so. There seems to be no certainty as to whether or not the director of the Landerneau Post Office will formally complain. If he does it doesn't mean there would be thousands of ordinary bretons going on a breton orange march for Ai'ta...
Anyway, here it goes :
No country for dyed-in-the-wool men
Die in, die out
Looks like they’re fed up with this steady diet
There’s no running like hell
But lying on the ground
Tee-shirts out, orange colour sky
Oh to die in a dream
That dream of a language
Bound for doom in the no-age
They could mark out new boundaries
And if they don’t exist
They shall make it their will
Behind them on their way
They catch a sight
That’s leading them astray
Of dyed-in-the-wool breton folks
Now then that's a nice flock
Sheepish lot begging for a shave
Bleating away to their master’s pace
They are the new gentry gold spoonfed
On marmalade and orange cream butter cake
This way goes the old flock, they say
Down on the narrow path they call French Lane
Walls have dyed out
And could do with a lick of paint
The orange colour it will be
That’s part of the boundary
In a country of no colour
They’ll prove us wrong
And feed us lot on vitamins
That could make weak men strong
The old tongue born anew
With a turn of the screw
Never mind us natives
With them we shall march
Or even dye out
Right now as we speak
Lying flat out like pancakes
There’s none of the old lies
On their face you see no smiles
In Local Post Office
They’re ready for the “sakrifis”
They’ve got their LPO
Like a GPO, General Post Office
Easter Rising, orange disorder
Nowhere like a new order
Who the heck will care
About emzao ar re varo ?
Rising of the dead
To us it sounds like lead
Well then wait a minute, they had popular votes
Eighty-five percent or more
Banana, let it be over with sprout
New deal, new diet, let there be no doubts
Rising of the dead
To us it sounds like lead
Grown-ups won’t understand
Strangers in a waste land
Every train they break
Every move they fake
They’ll be watching you
Day in day out
Dye in or dye out
Die in we do
And it’s die out to you
