The Poetics, Purpose and Politics of Translation

The Poetics, Purpose and Politics of Translation

Ian Tee

When one thinks about the work of translating texts from one language to another, a common expression that comes to mind might be “lost in translation”. This speaks to the challenge and perhaps even futility of accurately expressing nuanced meanings across languages. Yet, this process is often hidden and asymmetrical in power. Inevitably, the reader has to put their trust in the translator’s words and intentions.

In this group of essays, four emerging translators share their insights and experiences on the topic. Duong Manh Hung writes about his personal journey translating Thái Tuấn’s essay ‘Phê bình Nghệ thuật’, or ‘Art Critique’, from Vietnamese to English. Hung shares the collaborative process taken with his mentor Claudine Ang and methods they adopted to refine the eventual text. Approaching the topic from a historical perspective, Htoo Lwin Myo expounds on the impact of translation on Burmese art and literature. He discusses some key issues such as intellectual property, the relationship between language and nation-building, as well as limitations in existing Burmese terminologies. Lastly, Vanessa Moll and Pikul Phuchomsri highlight an instance when translating becomes a political act. Their contribution argues for the value in translating Morlam, a traditional genre of song performed in Laos and Isan.

Here, I would like to acknowledge the Isaac Ng Jun Fellowship for Emerging Translators at ‘Southeast of Now: Directions in Contemporary and Modern Art in Asia’ for introducing us to the important works undertaken by these four translators. Collectively, their essays invite us to think more critically about the beauty, access and worldviews afforded by language.

A Symbiotic Resonance

Dương Mạnh Hùng

My journey into translation has been that of the fool: wideeyed with wonders, filled with uncharted excitement, and by default solitary. My only companions were the writers; their words my true compass. That is not to say I hold my translation to such high regard that it requires no editing. Yet, for as long as I can remember, translating has been a solo amble through mystical gardens of literary treasures and linguistic snares.

‘Câu chuyen Hoi hoa' (The Story of Painting), collection of essays written by Thái Tuan from which I selected the article 'Art Critique' for SEON. Published by Ca‬o Thom Publishing House, 1967. Image courtesy of the author.

That process shifted during my mentorship for the Isaac Ng Jun Fellowship for Emerging Translators with Southeast of Now (SEON), where I translated the essay ‘Art Critique’ or ‘Phê bình Nghệ thuật’ in Vietnamese, by Thái Tuấn, a painter and art critic of Southern Vietnam, from Vietnamese into English. As the adrenaline rush simmered down post-acceptance, I was faced with the looming reality that this translation will not be my own fruit of labour. My mentor would be a contributing factor in it, and there were too many variables:

What if we do not get along? What if they are too controlling or nit-picking? How will I handle the fact that my translation is inherently flawed, thus demanding another set of eyes to exhume it from my mental marshland?

My mentor, Claudine Ang turned out to be everything I needed and more.

The best unions happen when old friends reconnect. That was how I felt during my first meeting with Claudine: that this friendship between us had existed long before we first met, and talking to her felt like coming home. As we are both translators, albeit in slightly different yet interconnected fields, there was an ease of conversation, a willingness to share, a professional camaraderie, and fondness for languages. “Always trust your gut instinct” was my mother’s mantra. My gut instinct was cheering with joy after our first meeting.

Hùng and Claudine amidst discussion over Zoom. Image courtesy of the author.

Over the next few months, as the translation grew in length and substance, our symbiotic tree sprouted new branches. It was donned with garlands of green leaves, woven from in-depth and honest feedback, mutual exchanges of insight, hours of consulting dictionaries and thesauruses, and laughter over obscurely crafted sentences. There was a compound word that we kept pondering over, “rung cảm”, which combines both “rung” (to feel a physical vibration that runs through the body) and “cảm” (to be in a receptive emotional state where one allows oneself to be moved by others). Thái Tuấn deployed this core concept throughout the essay, and each time, it turned into a riddle to be solved. Claudine and I finally decided on the word “resonance” as the most fitting translation for its noun form (words in Vietnamese can play multiple grammatical roles, depending on how they appear in a sentence). And indeed, resonance was what I felt while working with Claudine: my dread of self-negation never materialised. We were two tuning forks, emitting and reverberating simultaneously. Our sound-thoughts converged but did not cancel out one another; instead, they merged and magnified in volume and depth. Our co-translation became a process of rung cảm, where we allowed our ideas to be moved by one another. Together, our tree grew taller, then flowers came, and finally our fruit of labour: the essay was translated after much trial and error.

An instance where I could feel such resonance most strongly was when Claudine introduced me to the technique of translating-out-loud. We were struggling over an enigmatic paragraph, where Thái Tuấn's psyche entered a mildly incongruous trance, and I was at my wit’s end. Claudine then suggested that we read the whole paragraph again, but out loud. Hearing how my translated words sounded from an audience’s perspective was an eye-opening experience, andsomething that I had not experienced during my solitary translation. I then suggested words that could be tweaked, clauses that could be switched, sentences that could be rephrased. Afterward, I read the whole paragraph again to Claudine, and the loop continued until we reached a somewhat satisfying outcome. My translation embraced a new aural identity, and I learned about the differences in effect between written and spoken words. A manuscript is a visual delight, but an audio-script can unlock doors previously overlooked or hidden.

One plus one is not only two in resonance. It becomes the universe.

“There is no such thing as luck” is another of my mother’s mantras. I believe that my mentorship with Claudine came at the exact time when I needed a reminder, that collaborative work is what the world needs at the moment. Each of us, particularly in academia and research, tends to withdraw into our own cocoon of comfort; yet, our isolated tower can sometimes turn into a prison. By allowing ourselves to submerge into various degrees of resonance, we become more than who we are. Our sense of self expanded and enriched. I have Claudine and SEON to thank for this self-realising journey.

A Brief Outline of Translation in Burmese Art and Literature

Htoo Lwin Myo

Sometimes I have imagined that, in the ocean of world literature, a translator lives like a hermit crab. They reside in different beautiful and exotic seashells of great literary works and their efforts are to convey its aesthetic beauty to readers from various continents.

Cover of Volumes 1 and 2 of Burmese version of ‘Gone With the Wind’ by Margaret Mitchell, translated by Mya Than Tint. Photos by Htoo Lwin.

The place of translators in Burmese [1] society

In Myanmar, a popular translator of prestigious world literature can expect almost the same status as the writer of acclaimed works of literature. That is, a popular and productive translator usually has the same level of recognition as famous writers. This tradition is established because most Burmese translators of world literature have their names in bigger or similar-sized fonts as the original writer’s on the cover of a translated book.

It was not until the early 2010s that Myanmar publishers considered applying for ISBN numbers and started to deal with international standards and practices, including copyrights. This is despite the fact that Myanmar is not a Contracting Party to the treatises of the World Intellectual Property Organisation (WIPO). One publisher endeavoured to acquire copyrights permissions from foreign writers to translate their works. However, Moe That Han, a famous translator and writer, notes that it is still difficult to apply for copyright permission to every translated book, as the deal is usually only successful with less well-known foreign writers who do not have strict contracts with international publishing conglomerates. Moe That Han had translated and published more than 30 books of literary works by acclaimed writers including Ben Okri, Haruki Murakami, Ryū Murakami and Eka Kurniawan. His publishers have never acquired official permission from the publishing house of the said writers. As a result, rival translators have to try to pre-emptively translate popular fiction and nonfiction titles to maintain their individual market share.

The role of translation in historicised and contemporary literature of Myanmar

In 1904, James Hla Kyaw published his novel ‘Maung Yin Maung, Ma Me Ma’ which set the foundation for modern Burmese novels with prose writing for the next century. Although the novel was actually a translation of ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ by Alexandre Dumas, today’s literary critics have judged that it was created more as an “adaptation” than a direct translation, as the writer created his own characters and blended Burmese culture and beliefs into the storyline. [2] Nowadays, academic circle and university faculties unanimously established that ‘Maung Yin Maung, Ma Me Ma’ is the first modern Burmese novel despite its hybrid nature of adaptation and translation with the inherited narrative of a European novel. Therefore, since the turn of the last century, translation has played, albeit in a somewhat controversial way, a big role in the advent of Burmese literature.

The late veteran modern poet Aung Cheimt remarked that Myanmar modern poetry developed from “the Burmese translation of poetry from world literature which delighted the palates of poets". [3] He wrote so in the preface for the poetry book ‘Lu Hnet York Nè Ga Byar’, or ‘Two Men and Poetry’, which was published in 2000 when the Myanmar modern poetry movement commemorated its 30th anniversary. It was widely accepted among the poets like Aung Cheimt that poetry translation has emancipated the modern poet’s desire to compose free-verse style with loose rhymes.

Founders of Burma Translation Society. The late prime minister U Nu wore a black traditional jacket, and seated in the centre front row. U Thant, former Secretary-General of the United Nations, had the same black jacket and stood at the far right in the back row. Standing from left to right: U San Htwa, U Ba, U Khin Zaw, U Myo Min, U Thein Han, U Kaung, U Wun, U Thant; sitting from left to right: Dr Htin Aung, Education Minister U Than Aung, retired Supreme Court Chief Justice Sir Mya Bu, Prime Minister U Nu, Finance Minister U Tin, Supreme Court Justice U E Maung, U Cho. Image from lostfootsteps.org, run by historian Thant Myint U.

Sarpay Beikman Building in downtown Yangon. Image from Global New Light of Myanmar.

Burmese Translation Society

The Burma Translation Society was founded a year before Burma gained her independence from the British in 1948. It was later renamed Sarpay Beikman in 1963. One notable achievement of the society was its compilation and publication of 15 volumes of the Burmese Encyclopedia between 1954 and 1976. It also enlightened the Burmese public by publishing 30 volumes of Ludu Theikpan books which introduced general knowledge of science and technology of the day. The society’s first few books, including the encyclopedia, were printed in England and the Netherlands. The quality of its printing and its publications started to decline in the late 1990s. While the society printed at least 10,000 copies per title in its early days, only a few hundred to a thousand copies are printed today.

Loan words, direct translation and poverty of non-Buddhist terms

As a translator of art-related books and articles, I noticed that translators of my generation have easily adopted English loan words into their writing as transliterated Burmese ones. They include terms such as performance art, video installation, conceptual art, visual art and so on. Few people have successfully tried to translate contemporary art practices and related theoretical literature without using Pali terms from the Buddhist canon. This is due to the strong influence of Buddhism and monastic education which has been a part of high school education in Burma since time immemorial. Many influential Burmese writers used loan words from Abhidhamma Pitaka to translate western philosophy. As a result, it is hard to find secular words for the translation of contemporary art and its related conceptual and philosophical literature. The poverty of non-Buddhist canon words for such translation sometimes impedes a translator from developing nuanced and not too simplified meanings in their translation works.

As state institutions like National University of Art and Culture are running under outdated policies and guidelines from the Ministry of Religion and Culture, it is unimaginable to extend and radicalise approaches in art-related translation. The possibility of advancements in the near future is uncertain too.

A note on my translation experience and preferences

When I was selecting and reading potential books for the Southeast of Now Fellowship for Emerging Translators, I thought of several local art historians. I compared their presentation and interpretation of Burmese art history and noticed that most writers, including prominent ones, ended up constructing some kind of nation-building narrative in their approach. It is as if Burmese artists in the last century were members of a syndicate which promoted or inherited the thousand-year-old tradition of Bagan mural paintings. This happened partly because they wished to localise the development of art in an imagined community. They were scared of tarnishing the “pure” tradition from a thousand years ago which they thought they were defending from becoming diluted. In their own way, they were undertaking an unfinished project of decolonisation.

That is probably why Zaw Gyi (Thein Han), one of the founding members of Burma Translation Society, referred to the Bagan murals as a point of comparison when he wrote about paintings of the 1950s in Myanmar: “I think that most contemporary artworks are not strong enough if I compare them with good works from the Bagan era. Contemporary works are less lively too. For example, most of the subjects in paintings are recycling the same subject matter: the same landscape of temples, the same thatched hut in landscape, the same village landscape and the same river landscape again and again to the extent that audiences become bored and hate to see these same old landscape paintings." [4] I believe that some institutional and influential writers such as Zaw Gyi usually take on this popular self-ascribed role as champion of Burmese tradition. If only such writings were translated into English, few people outside of the country would realise that there was an alternative narrative of art history in Burma/Myanmar in the last century. Hence, translating art related writing into another language requires careful deliberations so as not to promote and disseminate cliché approaches with nation-building narratives.

In selecting books and articles for translation, I can excavate old assumptions and understanding of what high art is in Burmese society. These are my considerations in choosing suitable material by writers of art from the past and contemporary works:

How did their career start in the colonial or post-independence period? How and why did they get connected with their contemporaries? How did they promote their works in Rangoon (now Yangon) and abroad? How did they struggle in their lives as artists during political turmoil and world wars? How did their disciples and close friends of the old master artists view their important works? And what are lesser-known facts about the lives of these artists?

Sometimes, I am also highly impressed by writings with detailed accounts of the unique expression and approach in artworks that deviate from popular religious landscape or Jataka paintings. I hope that those records would be useful for researchers in Southeast Asia to discover lesser-known works by old masters and help bring them back into public view. I believe that if the translators in Southeast Asia work like archaeologists to excavate the stories of the successful artist careers in pre-independence period of their nations, we would be able to compare the turning point for artists of many generations in pre- and post-independence eras of other nations in the region with similar historical experiences.

Notes

1. Although the writer acknowledges that there are leading artists of ethnic nationalities from Myanmar in the international contemporary art scene, the term "Burmese Art Scene" is his personal preference and there is no political implication in his usage.

2. Myanmar Encyclopaedia, volume 9, part B, 1st edition (Yangon, Burma: Ministry of Information, 1963), 260.

3. Aung Cheimt, 'Preface', Two Men and Poetry (Yangon, Burma: Tailing Publishing House, 2000).

4. Sarpay Beikman Monthly, volume 7, number 8 (Yangon, Burma: Ministry of Information, January 1959).

Translating Isan’s Morlam as 'Cultural Poetics'

Vanessa Moll and Pikul Phuchomsri

“History repeats itself so often”, a student observed, in response to a description of Stephen Greenblatt’s inaugural essays on ‘Cultural Poetics’, 1 as he preferred to call his approach to literary criticism. Greenblatt had begun with an anecdote from the turn of the 17th century relating Queen Elizabeth’s anxious reaction to Shakespeare’s ‘Richard II’. He proposed that literature could not be understood outside of its historical context. In fact, ‘Richard II’ was a perfect example of how literature and history were co-texts – they made each other.

Meanwhile in Thailand, artists Pronthip Mankong (Kolf) and Patiwat Saraiyam (Bank) were arrested for their participation in a performance of ‘The Wolf Bride’, and only released from prison in 2016. Though the play was not part of a rebellion, that fact was of no consequence in their sentencing. While Patiwat eventually received a royal pardon for his first lèse-majesté case, his freedom, like that of other Morlam artists throughout Isan, Northeast Thailand, continues to be at risk. If Greenblatt were ever bored of the English Renaissance, he would surely find a perfect area of study for his ‘Cultural Poetics’ in Lao/Isan Morlam.

Morlam is a genre of poetic and rhythmic narrative traditionally sung with the khaen, a Laotian wind instrument. In the Thai context, Morlam is a fundamental part of Isan culture which is historically oppressed, and it has often attempted to subvert historical narratives perpetuated by Thailand’s power structures. As such, the art form has undergone all forms of appropriation. In the late 1800s, Morlam and the khaen were both banned. Later, the Thai State learned that they were better off co-opting the art form as a vehicle for their own propaganda.

Today, lèse-majesté is not the only law that keeps Morlam contained. Since the 2014 coup, free thinkers, artists, and youth in Thailand have had to think carefully before they speak about anything “political”. The laws used against them are diverse and arbitrarily enforced. Another Morlam artist, Kongsin Fahluangbon, faces five different charges for his debut performance of the song ‘Hai Man Job Ti Run Rao’ (‘Let It End With Our Generation’) during a youth-led protest in November 2020.

Traditionally, Morlam is performed by two experts: a mor lam (expert singer) and mor khaen (expert khaen player). Image courtesy of Goo Khaen.

Morlam Kongsin receives garlands from his fans after being summoned on five different charges for his performance at a youth-led protest in November 2020. Image courtesy of Goo Khaen.

In this setting, translation becomes even more of a political act. Translation of editorials and articles has become routine largely thanks to the media and academia, two powerful institutions that privilege “conforming” voices. But Morlam Kongsin is unlikely to write an editorial piece for the Bangkok Post or an academic article describing corrupt practices. His point of view, and likely that of many of his Isan listeners, is well represented in his art form.

Before we could begin to translate ‘Hai Man Job Ti Run Rao’, we had to ask Morlam Kongsin to write down the lyrics. The first challenge to translating Isan is that there is virtually no written Isan language. A Morlam usually learns his art from another Morlam, rather than from written texts.

Learning such lyrics is also a challenge for the speed at which they are performed. Morlam Kongsin prepares his audience and khaen player for a fast pace, likening his song to a speeding car or motorcycle.

I’ll sing real fast, real fast, I shan’t hold back at the bend/ Will I hit someone dead, with my song?/ Oiy no, If I hit someone dead, make it a hit and run.

Morlam Kongsin may, in fact, be hoping that his song destroys someone or at least contributes to certain people’s downfall. The song references a number of politicians who have ensured Thailand’s institutionalisation of authoritarianism or whose unpunished crimes illustrate the country’s corrupt legal system that has poor people by the neck. Yet, it is more than a slew of insults. It also offers a grassroots analysis of how the structures are kept in place, zeroing in on the weaponisation of knowledge:

Thai law which is only for the poor, the destitute, / For the students, the kids and grandkids, the kindergartners, / For the checkpoints set in the centre of the road, / For extorting poor, assuming villagers. / Civil servants’ve got only debt, liability / So, it’s a way to make something, a bit supplementary / Two or five hundred a car, up to you, the haggling you can do. / Our country full of smart people… and wickedness worse than dogs, / Knowledge, then, makes a weapon, / Turns into a danger, is used to destroy, / Used to break and take advantage. / They’re bigger than their britches, brazenly, blatantly, / Wrongs become right in many an institution, and now it’s tradition…

After charges were made against him, Morlam Kongsin continued performing at pro-democracy protests. Image courtesy of Goo Khaen.

A full translation of ‘Hai Man Job Ti Run Rao’ would need to be annotated due to the richness of cultural, social, and political references, as well as the witty word play and culturally specific symbolism. As for us, we believe that translation of Morlam can add a worthwhile perspective to the international discourse surrounding the pro-democracy movement while also lending value to its form as a type of historical narrative. After all, while few working-class Isan men or women regularly join street protests, many do enjoy their Morlam.

QR code linked to Morlam Kongsin’s song ‘Hai Man Job Ti Run Rao’ sung in Isan language.