KOLEKA
PUTUMA: AGUA
KOLEKA PUTUMA en GRIOTS ES POETAS
KOLEKA
PUTUMA
AGUA
El
recuerdo de ir a la playa en vísperas de Año Nuevo
Lo
comparto con primxs y la mayoría de quienes crecieron siendo Negrxs.
Como
nos prohibían los ancianos meternos mucho en el agua
para
reírnos y chapotear con medias negras
y
bolsas de plástico del Shoprite envueltas alrededor de nuestras nuevas
extensiones,
nos
prohibían montar la ola
por
miedo a que fuéramos a ser una masa de negritud barrrida por la marea
para
nunca volver,
como
la basura.
Los
ancianos nos lo prohibían como si el océano tuviera una intoxicación
Alimentaria.
A
menudo me pregunto por qué siento como si me ahogara cada vez
que miro mar adentro,
eso
y sentirme increíblemente pequeña.
Y
a menudo oigo ese chiste
Sobre
cómo la gente Negra no sabe nadar,
o
que le da miedo el agua.
Se
burlan de nosotroxs
Y
a menudo nos hemos burlado de nostroxs también
Por
limpiarnos la cara con las manos de esa forma cuando salimos del agua.
Compáralo
con cómo lo hacen ellxs, en plan Vigilantes de la playa,
y
nosotrxs tan rudxs con nuestras posturas y rizos.
Pero
cada vez que nuestra piel se sumerge,
es
como si las cañas recordasen que una vez fueron cadenas,
y
el agua, inquieta, querría poder escupir a la orilla a todxs lxs esclavxs
y los barcos,
enterxs
como cuando embarcaron, zarparon y naufragaron.
Sus
lágrimas son lo hizo salado al mar,
por
eso arden nuestros iris cada vez que metemos la cabeza.
Cada
16
de diciembre,
24
de diciembre,
31
de diciembre
y
1 de enero,,
nuestra
piel re-traumariza al mar.
Se
burlan de nosotros
por
no ser capaces de tirarnos a algo que fue instrumental en el intento
ejecutar nuestra extinción.
Para
vosotrxs, el océano es para tablas de surf, barcos y bronceados
y
todas esas cosas divertidas que hacéis en él con vuestros bañadores
y gafas de buceo.
Pero
nosotrxs
hemos
venido aquí a que nos bauticen.
Hemos
venido aquí a despertar el otro mundo.
Hemos
venido aquí a purificarnos.
Hemos
venido aquí a conectar a nuestrxs vivxs con lxs muertxs.
Nuestro
respeto por el agua es lo que habéis llamado miedo.
Tenéis
el valor de vendernos matarnos a través del agua
Y
luego burlaros de que le tengamos miedo.
Si
esta tierra fuese en verdad vuestra,
resucitad
los huevos de los colonizadores y utilizadlos como brújula.
Y
dejad de usar cuerpos Negros como guía turística
O
recinto de vuestra auténtica experiencia africana.
¿No
estamos cansadxs de bailar para vosotrxs?
¿De
dar vueltas y cantar cuando nos mandan?
¿No
estamos cansadxs de reuniros como una masa de negrura
para
expiar nuestra mera presencia aquí?
Para
rogar a Dios que nos salve de una guerra que no empezamos.
Para
manifestarnos por una causa causada por la intolerancia de
nuestra existencia.
Levantar
las manos para que no nos disparen.
Levantar
las manos en misa para rezar por protección,
y
aun así nos dispara también ahí
con
las manos levantadas.
Invadir
os sale de forma natural.
Así
que también habéis venido a robarnos nuestros templos.
También
habéis venido a asesinarnos en prisiones.
Eso
tampoco es nuevo.
Hay
demasiadxs blancxs por ahí haciéndose pasar por Dios.
Hay
demasiadxs blancxs por ahí haciendo el trabajo de Dios.
Y
este Dios suyo me ata un nudo en el estómago.
Siempre
hemos tenido una relación complicada con él y yo.
Este
Jesús de ojos azules y pelo rubio al que seguía en catequesis
ha
tenido a mi gente postrada ante un cielo blanco y patriarcal,
postrada
ante un Cristo, su hijo, y 12 discípulos.
¿Cómo
sabemos
que
los discípulos no eran maricas,
la
Santísima Trinidad un triángulo amoroso raro y retorcido
y
el Espíritu Santo, transgénero?
Pero
solo elegís entender las escrituras que sirven a vuestros fines.
Os
habéis tomado la libertad de colonizar el concepto de Dios;
le
disteis a Dios un género, un color de piel,
y
un nombre en un idioma que tuvimos que contorsionar la boca
para pronunciar.
Blasfemia
es envolver la esclavitud en evangelio y llamarlo libertad.
Blasfemia
es tener que ver lxs míxs usar el mismo evangelio para
esclavizarse unxs a otrxs.
Desde
los días de Elías, nos han construido para arrodillarnos ante la
blanquitud,
y
ni siquiera estamos segurxs de si los días de Elías existieron,
porque
quienquiera que escribió la Biblia no nos incluyó.
Pero
preferiría existir en ese libro sagrado sin Dios
que
en los libros de historia que no contaron la verdad.
Sobre
nosotrxs.
Para
nosotrxs.
En
nuestro nombre.
Si
teníais que escribir nuestras historias,
deberíais
haberlo hecho en las lenguas de nuestras madres,
las
que cortasteis cuando les disteis de comer un idioma.
Nunca
damos nuestro consentimiento.
Aún
así nos piden que comamos con los opresores
Y
les sirvamos perdón.
¿Cómo,
Cuando
los únicos ingredientes que tengo son el dolor y la ira?
Otrxs
(que es como yo) murió hoy.
Otrxs
(que es como yo) fue asesindx hoy.
Que
ese sea el tema de conversación en la mesa
y
podamos todxs después lavar con amnesia esta comida amarga.
Y
después irnos a nadar.
Solo
por diversión
Solo
por diversión.
KoleKa
Putuma
Fuente:
Amnesia Colectiva – KoleKa Putuma - Traducción de Arrate Hidaldo y Lawrence
Schimel – Editorial: Flores Raras – Noviembre de 2018.
Official Video for Koleka Putuma's poem Water - directed by José Cardoso
Official Video for Koleka Putuma's poem Water - directed by José Cardoso
Water
The memory of going to the beach every
New Year’s eve
Is one I share with cousins and most people raised black
How the elders would forbid us from going in too deep
To giggle, to splash in our black tights and Shoprite plastic bags wrapped around our new weaves, forbid us from riding the wave,
For fear that we would be a mass of blackness swept by the tide
And never to return
Like litter.
The elders forbid us as if the ocean has food poisoning
I often wonder why I feel as if I am drowning every time I look out into the sea
This and feeling incredibly small
And I often hear this joke
About Black people not being able to swim,
Or being scared of water;
We are mocked
And we have often mocked ourselves
For wiping our faces the way that we do when we come out of the water-
Compare it to how they do it all bay-watch like
And how we so ratchet-like with our postures and kink.
Yet every time our skin goes under
It’s as if the reeds remember that they were once chains
And the water, restless, wishes it could spew all of the slaves and ships onto shore
Whole as they had boarded, sailed and sunk
Their tears are what have turned the ocean salty,
This is why our irises burn every time we go under.
Every December sixteenth, December 24th and December 31st
Our skin re-traumatises the sea
They mock us
For not being able to throw ourselves into something that was instrumental in trying to execute our extinction.
For you, the ocean is for surf boards, boats and tans
And all the cool stuff you do under there in your bathing suits and goggles
But we, we have come to be baptised here
We have come to stir the other world here
We have come to cleanse ourselves here
We have come to connect our living to the dead here
Our respect for water is what you have termed fear
The audacity to trade and murder us over water
Then mock us for being scared of it
The audacity to arrive by water and invade us
If this land was really yours, then resurrect the bones of the colonisers and use them as a compass
Then quit using black bodies as tour guides or the site for your authentic African experience
Are we not tired of dancing for you?
Gyrating and singing on cue
Are we not tired of gathering as a mass of blackness?
To atone for just being here
To beg God to save us from a war we never started
To March for a cause caused by the intolerance for our existence
Raise our hands so we don’t get shot
Raise our hands in church to pray for protection
And we still get shot there too
With our hands raised
Invasion comes naturally for your people
So you have come to rob us of our places of worship too
Come to murder us in prisons too
That is not new either
Too many white people out here acting God
Too many white people out here doing the work of God,
And this God of theirs has my tummy in knots
Him and I have always had a complicated relationship
This blue eyed and blond haired Jesus I followed in Sunday school
Has had my kind bowing to a white and patriarchal heaven
Bowing to a Christ, his son, and 12 disciples
For all we know
the disciples could have been queer, the holy trinity some weird twisted love triangle
And the Holy Ghost transgender
But you will only choose to understand the scriptures that suit your agenda
You have taken the liberty to colonise the concept of God
Gave god a gender, a skin colour and a name in a language we had to twist our mouths around
Blasphemy is wrapping Slavery in the Gospel and calling it freedom
Blasphemy is having to watch my kind use the same gospel to enslave each other
Since the days of Elijah We have been engineered kneel to whiteness
And we are not even sure if the days of Elijah even existed
Because whoever wrote the bible did not include us
But I would rather exist in that god-less holy book than in the history books that did not tell truth
About us
For us
On behalf of us
If you really had to write our stories
Then you ought to have done it in our mother’s tongues
The ones you cut off when you fed them a new language
Is one I share with cousins and most people raised black
How the elders would forbid us from going in too deep
To giggle, to splash in our black tights and Shoprite plastic bags wrapped around our new weaves, forbid us from riding the wave,
For fear that we would be a mass of blackness swept by the tide
And never to return
Like litter.
The elders forbid us as if the ocean has food poisoning
I often wonder why I feel as if I am drowning every time I look out into the sea
This and feeling incredibly small
And I often hear this joke
About Black people not being able to swim,
Or being scared of water;
We are mocked
And we have often mocked ourselves
For wiping our faces the way that we do when we come out of the water-
Compare it to how they do it all bay-watch like
And how we so ratchet-like with our postures and kink.
Yet every time our skin goes under
It’s as if the reeds remember that they were once chains
And the water, restless, wishes it could spew all of the slaves and ships onto shore
Whole as they had boarded, sailed and sunk
Their tears are what have turned the ocean salty,
This is why our irises burn every time we go under.
Every December sixteenth, December 24th and December 31st
Our skin re-traumatises the sea
They mock us
For not being able to throw ourselves into something that was instrumental in trying to execute our extinction.
For you, the ocean is for surf boards, boats and tans
And all the cool stuff you do under there in your bathing suits and goggles
But we, we have come to be baptised here
We have come to stir the other world here
We have come to cleanse ourselves here
We have come to connect our living to the dead here
Our respect for water is what you have termed fear
The audacity to trade and murder us over water
Then mock us for being scared of it
The audacity to arrive by water and invade us
If this land was really yours, then resurrect the bones of the colonisers and use them as a compass
Then quit using black bodies as tour guides or the site for your authentic African experience
Are we not tired of dancing for you?
Gyrating and singing on cue
Are we not tired of gathering as a mass of blackness?
To atone for just being here
To beg God to save us from a war we never started
To March for a cause caused by the intolerance for our existence
Raise our hands so we don’t get shot
Raise our hands in church to pray for protection
And we still get shot there too
With our hands raised
Invasion comes naturally for your people
So you have come to rob us of our places of worship too
Come to murder us in prisons too
That is not new either
Too many white people out here acting God
Too many white people out here doing the work of God,
And this God of theirs has my tummy in knots
Him and I have always had a complicated relationship
This blue eyed and blond haired Jesus I followed in Sunday school
Has had my kind bowing to a white and patriarchal heaven
Bowing to a Christ, his son, and 12 disciples
For all we know
the disciples could have been queer, the holy trinity some weird twisted love triangle
And the Holy Ghost transgender
But you will only choose to understand the scriptures that suit your agenda
You have taken the liberty to colonise the concept of God
Gave god a gender, a skin colour and a name in a language we had to twist our mouths around
Blasphemy is wrapping Slavery in the Gospel and calling it freedom
Blasphemy is having to watch my kind use the same gospel to enslave each other
Since the days of Elijah We have been engineered kneel to whiteness
And we are not even sure if the days of Elijah even existed
Because whoever wrote the bible did not include us
But I would rather exist in that god-less holy book than in the history books that did not tell truth
About us
For us
On behalf of us
If you really had to write our stories
Then you ought to have done it in our mother’s tongues
The ones you cut off when you fed them a new language
We never consent
Yet we are asked to dine with the oppressors
And Serve them forgiveness
How, when the only ingredients I have are grief and rage
Yet we are asked to dine with the oppressors
And Serve them forgiveness
How, when the only ingredients I have are grief and rage
Another one (who looks like me) died
today
Another one (who looks like me) was murdered today
Another one (who looks like me) was murdered today
May that be the conversation at the
table
And we can all thereafter wash this bitter meal with amnesia
And we can all thereafter wash this bitter meal with amnesia
And go for a swim after that
Just for fun.
Just for fun.
Just for fun.
Just for fun.
Biografía
KoleKa Putuma nació en sudáfrica (1992). Poeta
y dramaturga. En el 2018 ganó el premio Iwbewu Trust Scribe de Dramturgía y en
2017 el Premio CASA de la misma disciplina. En el 2016 obtuvo el premio de
estudiantes de PEN Sudáfrica y en 2015 ganó el Campeonato Slam Nacional de
Poesía.
El poemario Collective Amnesia, fue
traducido por Arrate Hidalgo y Lawrence Schimel para la editorial española
Flores Raras.
Koleka Putuma reside y trabaja en Ciudad
del Cabo.
El poemario Amnesia Colectiva explora de
manera valiente la negritud, la feminidad y la historia sudafricana, un modo
visibilizar y de sanar. Según nos cuenta en la contraportada del libro Amnesia Colectiva de la editorial Flores Raras, KoleKa
Putuma analiza el concepto de autoridad en diversos espacios: la academia, la
religión, la política, las relaciones a manera de pregunta sobre lo aprendido y
lo que se debe desaprender.
Estuve en el Festival Griots es poesía,
organizado por la Casa Encendida de Madrid, donde tuve el placer de escucharla
leer varios de los poemas de su libro Amnesia Colectiva.
2 comentarios:
Un poema interesantísimo. Una reflexión sobre la discriminación racial en medio de tanta belleza.
Una poeta muy buena, muy recomendable.
Gracias por descubrírmela.
Besos
Fantástica elección
Ana
Me alegro que te gustara Ana. Efectivamente un poema que invita a la reflexión. Un poema cargado de fuerza y escrito con pasión.
Abrazos y gracias por pasar.
María
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