Echoing Presences of

Caliban

JEREMY LESTER

Verba Volant

This edition represents the full text of a theatrical monologue, first performed at the theatre of Il Centro Asteria

in Milan in December 2018.

Jeremy Lester / Verba Volant

What is the age of the soul of man? As she hath the virtue

of the chameleon to change her hue at every new

approach, to be gay with the merry and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age changeable as her mood …

The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence : silence that is the infinite of space : and swiftly, silently the soul is

wafted over regions of cycles of generations that have

lived. A region where grey twilight ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk,

scattering a perennial dew of stars.

― James Joyce, Ulysses

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________________________________________________________________________________

Echoing Presences of Caliban ______________________________________________________________________

Pre-performance image - Laszlo Lakner

Pre-performance accompanying music - Ablaye Cissoko / Volker Goetze

I think there is no time; there is only a duration of things. If a piece

of history of a people doesn‘t get resolved, it‘s not history in the

sense of historical conflicts, it‘s the present … it‘s always the present.

(Jimmie Durham, Caliban Codex)

A new turbulence is at work everywhere; and Caliban is wide awake.

(George Lamming, The Pleasures of Exile)

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________________________________________________________________________________

Introduction ______________________________________________________________________

[1]

he subject/theme of my talk today is William Shakespeare‘s play, The Tempest, which was originally performed in 1611.

However, I want to emphasise immediately that my

primary interest in this play is not just literary and certainly not

just from a historical perspective, which simply limits its focus on the play as it was originally performed more than 400 years ago.

My real interest concerns the multiple ways in which over many,

many years the play – and the issues and themes that it raises and deals with – have been constantly appropriated, used, re-written,

re-interpreted, re-located and often continued beyond the point

where Shakespeare himself left it so as to give it a continuous contemporary significance just about everywhere in the world. In

this sense, the play is certainly never fixed or imprisoned in time

or in space. It is endlessly malleable and so full of alternative possibilities and meanings that it cannot help but tempt us to

regard it as unfinished and therefore always capable of being

continued. Was this intentional or unintentional on Shakespeare‘s part? My own preferred answer is to say that it was intentional. As

he himself wrote in one part of the play (using the mouthpiece of

the character Antonio):

We all were sea-swallow‘d, though some cast again,

And by that destiny, to perform an act Whereof what‘s past is [merely] prologue, what to come,

In yours and my discharge. [Act 2, Scene 1]

T

10

In short, then, The Tempest is an extraordinarily obliging work of

creation. It will lend itself to almost any interpretation and any set of meanings imposed on it, and just when one thinks that there

cannot possibly be any new angles, niches or lacunae to be filled in

or explored further, one is immediately proved wrong. Today, perhaps more than ever, brand new interpretations – both of the

classical text as well as many of the variations of it that have

appeared over the course of so many years – continue to be written,

produced and staged (and certainly not just in the theatre, but in

all possible artistic, creative ways).

But let me be even more precise here about the focus of today‘s talk. My own real specific interest in the play is largely

concentrated on one character in particular. It is not, I hasten to

add, the character which is traditionally considered the principal protagonist of the drama – i.e. Prospero (the Duke of Milan, who

has been overthrown in a coup d‘état by his brother in alliance

with the King of Naples). Instead, it is the character which has more and more assumed an interpretative importance for the

contemporary age – that character being Caliban. Indeed, such is

the status now of his importance and significance that many commentators have no qualms in asserting that it is Caliban, far

more than Prospero, who is the real ‗core‘ of the play and

everything that it tries to depict. There are many reasons for this growing significance, but arguably the key determining one is that

Caliban has become one of those rare literary creations that has

now broken completely free of the confines and borders that traditionally separate the realm of fiction from the realm of reality.

He has become a highly significant symbol for a great many people,

not just in the whole diverse realm of culture, but perhaps even more so in the realm of politics as well; a symbol that directly has

an impact on the real lives of many people.

Now, of course, given his original role in the Shakespearean drama, and especially the manner in which he was supposedly

meant to be originally portrayed and interpreted, this gradual

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transformation into a character that has genuine symbolic

significance and impact on the real world has largely occurred in certain social sectors of society. And the sectors of society that I

am particularly referring to are those which, in one way or another,

have invariably been (and continue to be) the most exploited, downtrodden, degraded, humiliated groups, all of whom have to

bear these conditions by a system of power that acts against them.

It is here, of course, where Caliban‘s own roots originally lie, and

his experiences, and even more importantly his attempts to

oppose and resist the treatment meted out to him, thus make him

for many a figure that is worthy of study and continued reflection. His various experiences with those who exercised direct control

and power over him; his sense of being weighed down in a

universe that he no longer understands or feels at home in; his aching desires for a different, alternative kind of world to live in –

these and so many aspects of his life and experiences, I repeat,

have increasingly transformed him into a symbol, an emblem, or even an icon, of near global renown. And by ‗symbol‘ here, I

essentially mean someone who provides ‗a terminology of

thoughts, actions, emotions [and] attitudes for codifying a [real-life] pattern of experience‘ (Kenneth Burke), not just in the way he reflects those experiences, but even more directly has an impact on

those experiences. In short, and as stressed before, he is a character who has assumed a meaningful life of his own. Indeed,

one commentator I know of has even gone as far as to assert the

following: ‗The way I see it Shakespeare didn‘t invent Caliban; Caliban invented Shakespeare (and Sigmund Freud and one or

two others). Caliban is one of the hungry ideas, he‘s always

looking for someone to word him into being … [he] is a necessary idea.‘ (Russell Hoban). It is in this sense, then, that Caliban

continues very much to exist today. Of course, just as a footnote to

all of this, this capacity for a fictional character to come alive has long fascinated many creative artists and intellectuals. In the case

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of Italy, for example, it is enough to mention the work of Luigi

Pirandello. Such has been my own fascination and interest in the symbolic,

real-life significance of Caliban that over recent years I have

devoted a great deal of my time and attention to him – both from an intellectual, cultural point of view as well as from a

political/philosophical point of view. The primary result of this

fascination has come in the form of no less than three books that I

have written in which he, Caliban, is the key protagonist. The first

book, chronically speaking, in this trilogy of works is one called The Ante-Tempest: Wordsounds, Wordsongs, Wordrhythms, Wordwounds.

This book basically tries to re-invent or re-create the situation of

Caliban‘s first, original, encounter with a representative of

Western civilisation and the power that this civilisation possessed to (literally) enslave Caliban so as to serve its needs and interests.

In other words, it is an encounter that mirror-images the

colonial/imperial conquest of so many parts of the world, precisely at the time that the original version of The Tempest was being

written by William Shakespeare.

The second book, meanwhile, is the product of a great many long periods of time spent in various Latin American countries

where the symbolic influence of Caliban has almost certainly had

the most profound impact and consequences over the course of the past 100 years or more. Entitled, In Search of Caliban and the ‘Red

Plague’: A Journey Through Latin America, the lengthy visits I was

fortunate to make (together with my wife and companion, Gemma) provided me with the opportunity to encounter and to collaborate

with some of the poorest sectors of society in both urban and rural

areas, who nevertheless bore their poverty with tremendous dignity. Not only that, in many cases, these were the people most

active in all kinds of spheres of struggle and resistance against the

system that so deprived and exploited them. It was here, then, where I can truly say that I encountered not one, but thousands of

‗Calibans‘. And to sum up this experience, I frequently borrow the

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words of a writer (and friend) who I admire greatly when he said:

‗from the garbage, the scattered feathers, the ashes, and the broken bodies, something new and beautiful may be born.‘ (John Berger). As for the third book in the trilogy - Return to My Ancestral Land:

Letters and Postcards From Caliban - this too gives a contemporary

identity to Caliban, but on this occasion I have portrayed him as a

migrant/refugee needing to escape from the dreadful, life-

threatening conditions that he finds himself in. The place where

he is trying to migrate to is in fact his ‗ancestral birthplace‘ (an

island where the contemporary Caliban has never been to before).

Where that ancestral birthplace is – well, all will be revealed shortly.

Up until now, I have said that I will give you a ‗talk‘ about why I consider The Tempest as a play, and Caliban as a character, so

important from a whole range of different perspectives. But,

actually, it is not a traditional talk that I want to do. Instead, as I

did last year when I was here at the Centro Asteria, I want to give you a short ‗theatrical-type performance‘; a theatrical-type

performance in which I myself will assume the role of a

contemporary ‗Caliban‘ who reflects on his ancestral family‘s history since its Shakespearean origins more than 400 years ago

and on his own individual situation in the world today in which

he exists. So, with your permission and patience, what I need to do now is just take a couple of minutes to prepare the stage and to

prepare myself for the short theatrical performance. Please don‘t

go away during this short interval. Stay where you are. And, I repeat, I will be back in just a couple of minutes‘ time. Thank you.

* * *

_________________________________________________________________________________

Scene 1 _______________________________________________________________________

Scene 1 image - Arthur Tress

Scene 1 accompanying music - Arvo Pärt - Spiegel im Spiegel

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[2] (A voice off-stage recites the following):

I travel through galleries of sound

I float among echoing presences

I pass transparently through borders I am the shadow cast by my words

If ever I am erased, I am born in another

And so it is that I come to you With a voice of sadness and hope

I come bearing gifts I will give you the gift of my body

I will give you the gift of my strength

I will give you the gift of my labour I will give you the gift of my honour

I come bearing gifts I will give you the gift of my music

I will give you the gift of my stories

I will give you the gift of my spirit of adventure I will give you the gift of my imagination

I come bearing gifts I will give you the gift of my bread

I will give you the gift of my salt

I will give you the gift of my wine I will give you the gift of my company

I come bearing gifts I will give you the gift of respect

I will give you the gift of dignity

I will give you the gift of friendship I will give you the gift of love

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I come bearing gifts Will you accept them? Or

Will you throw them back in my face?

Will you offer me the hospitality of a Ulysses Or a cell and chains like my ancestor?

Will you call me ‗legal‘ or ‗illegal‘?

Will you call me ‗human‘ or ‗alien‘?

How my soul aches

How my mouth is poisoned To even speak the word ‗alien‘

I spit it out

I trample on it I defy it

Do you need proof of my humanity? Remember the words spoken long ago –

Have I not eyes?

Have I not hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Am I not fed with the same food?

Hurt with the same weapons?

Subject to the same diseases? Healed by the same means?

Warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as you are?

If you prick me, do I not bleed? If you tickle me, do I not laugh?

If you poison me, do I not die?

How my soul aches

How my mouth is poisoned

To even speak the word ‗illegal‘ I spit it out

I trample on it

I defy it

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No one by nature is ‗illegal‘ No paper, no ink, no dirty bureaucratic stamp

No passport, no document

can codify the depths of the soul, the hopes and dreams of the migrant heart….

Economic refugee / savage barbarian / extra-communitarian /

benefits-scrounger / vagabond stranger / asylum-shopper / pariah / persona non grata …

Will this be how you see me?

Can you be so blind?

Can your hearts be so frozen? Can your collective memories be so whitewashed?

Can you forget so easily?

Ask your ancestors what it‘s like to be a migrant Read their stories

Soak up their tears

Do you have the courage to confront the truth? Do you have the courage to confront reality?

Do you have the courage to confront your fears?

Do you have the courage to confront yourself? When you look in the mirror

Is it not me that you see

in the features of your own face? (As the voice and music fade away, so too does the image on screen).

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_________________________________________________________________________________

Scene 2 _______________________________________________________________________

Scene 2 image - Patrick Heron - Blue November

(As the music fades and the image on screen changes, Caliban goes to the front

of the stage)

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[3]

I look out at the wide expanse of the sea. The words that I speak

are like waves. I try to give them the flowing rhythm of the water. How is it possible, I ask myself, that we have tried to capture the

sea in just three letters? How can these three meagre signs contain

enough space to represent the sea? How can the words we speak possess enough space to embrace the world around us?

A couple more hours to wait, so I‘ve been told, and then the

‗boat‘ – if one can actually call it that – will arrive and take us to our destiny. And so, another ‗adventure‘ beckons. I will be on the

move again. Mind you, the older I get the more I ask myself: is it

really me who is moving or is it the earth and the sea beneath my body that is shifting and propelling me forward? Such are the

times we are living in.

What am I taking with me on my adventure? Like my ancestors, and like all my fellow migrants today, I carry flowers of sweet

melancholy and the fragrances of what I leave behind. I carry the

sonorous echoes of shells to keep me company. I carry stones, those written pages of history, as the witness of time. One in

particular is very special to me. It is the heart of the woman who I

have loved most in my life. I carry the ravaged soul of words and language that can no longer be spoken. I carry a jar containing

Nature‘s breath to sustain me on my wanderings. I carry a

necklace of stars to guide me and to reinforce my dreams. I carry the poet‘s book of horizons. And I carry the passage of time with

me; the passage of time that is never straight or linear but, just like

this boomerang, is always circular in motion and space. The passage of time that knows already how much past tomorrow

holds.

Will the departure be tonight? I hope so. It is the waiting that is the most anxious period of all. We were actually meant to leave

last night but there was such a tempest blowing out there at sea

that in the end it was decided that it was far too dangerous to set

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forth. Looking out at the sea now, it appears calm enough. One

might almost say that the sea appears to be sleeping. But as the saying goes, I‘m sure it is only the calm before the next awakening

of a storm.

How strange it is to be here. Was this, I wonder, the same place from where my great, great, great, great, great Grandmother

was forced to set sail in exile more than 400 years ago? ‗Sycorax‘

was her name. How this name conjures up and evokes so many

possible meanings. In truth, little is known about her in reality.

But what I do know is that she was forced into exile because she

had the courage to obey her conscience and her own desires, and in doing so she went against the harsh customs and laws of her

time. When she finally arrived on the island to where she was

banished, that was where she gave birth to her son. We all know the name of her son because it is the same name that has been

passed down to all male generations of the family ever since;

including me of course. The name is ‗Caliban‘. But we must never forget that this was not the name chosen by Sycorax herself. It was

a name forced on her son by others; along with so many other alien

things. I will tell you more of this shortly. And so, here I am all these hundreds of years later waiting to

embark on a boat that will take me to the same island; my

‗ancestral island‘, my ancestral ‗homeland‘, I suppose you can call it. And the name of this island? In Sycorax‘s day, it was called

‗Lipadosa‘. Now it is called ‗Lampedusa‘. Ah, I can see by your

faces that you didn‘t know that this was my ancestral birthplace; the birthplace of the very first Caliban. Well, to be honest, I‘m not

surprised that you didn‘t know. What little you might have heard

about my first ancestor has been given to you no doubt by that colonialist/imperialist chronicler – William Shakespeare; the

chronicler who so blatantly sympathised with that usurper and

aggressor Prospero, so-called Noble Duke of Milan. Ha! Noble indeed. As an ancient Arab poet, who lived long before Prospero

was ever born, once put it: ‗What is the worth of noble blood

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when the soul is so vile‘ (al-Mutanabbi). Anyway, as I say, at no

stage in his chronicles and in his account did that man Shakespeare ever mention the name of the island where Sycorax

and the first Caliban lived. Worse than that, he even blatantly

states that the island was ‗uninhabited‘ by any other human being. But all of this was par for the course. There were so many

things that Shakespeare left out of his account and what he does

tell us was often nothing more than false or inaccurate. Why beat

about the bush? Let‘s call a spade a spade. Many of the things he told us in his account were downright lies. Again, I see a look of

surprise, perhaps even outrage, by this claim of mine. Let me, then, try to convince you that my verdict about him, Shakespeare, is

accurate.

[4]

He claimed, for example – and always of course faithfully

reporting only the views and perspectives of Prospero – that my ancestor, the very first Caliban, was a ‗monster‘, deformed in shape

with beastly, savage-like characteristics. He also claimed that

Caliban was someone who possessed no culture and no language, at least prior to his encounter with the, oh, so civilised Prospero.

Even more slanderously, he even claimed that Caliban attempted

at some point to ‗abuse‘ Prospero‘s young daughter, Miranda (and you will probably know, or can guess, what kind of very specific

allegation lies behind this word ‗abuse‘). But none of these claims

are true!! That first Caliban was certainly not a ‗monster‘ nor was he ‗deformed‘, either in shape or size (for someone of his age at

that time). He was simply ‗different‘ to someone like the white-

skinned Prospero; he was the ‗Other‘ of Prospero. Correct me if I‘m wrong, but in your language you have two words that are almost

the same in spelling and sound, but which nevertheless convey completely different meanings – one word being deforme (or

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deformità) and the other being difforme (or difformità). Well, it is the

latter term that applies here in this case. And the fact that Prospero repeatedly refers in such racist terms to Caliban simply

shows his own deficiencies and limitations. The principal reason

why Prospero cannot see Caliban in his true colours is because he, Prospero, had such an inherent, ingrained fear and terror of the

‗Other‘.

It is the same as well as regards the claim that Caliban

possessed no culture or language of his own. He most certainly did.

And certainly as regards Caliban‘s native, indigenous ‗language‘,

this for sure would have been a language of outstanding expressiveness, capable of articulating emotions, sentiments,

desires and thoughts in the most deep-seated and profoundest of

ways that the language of Prospero simply could not compete with. It would have been an original language full of beautiful

musical and poetical sounds. And above all, it would have been a

language dominated by gestures and the body itself rather than the mouth, expressing itself by means of dance and graceful motion. In other words, it would have been as much a visual form

of language rather than one limited to oral expressions; one which communicates with the eye more than to the ear and which has

that added wonderful advantage that it utterly depends on very

close, primary human contact and immediacy. As linguistic experts have often pointed out, it would have been a language

which, unlike the spoken word or sign, ‗does not cut itself off from

the desiring body ... or from the immediately perceived image of the other.‘ (Jacques Derrida). For this kind of language to be

effective one has to be in touching distance of each other. It is only

when one adds excess of distance to human relationships, when visibility has been interrupted, that the real motivation for a more

formal, detached, clinical, cold kind of language is developed.

Based on this knowledge, I feel sure that my ancestor‘s first attempt to communicate with Prospero would have taken the form of a smile; arguably the most magic gesture of all in

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stimulating the mutual, reciprocal needs and desires to come

together, to consume the initial encounter in the passion of each other‘s direct, immediate presence. If this isn‘t the foundation of

an incredibly rich culture, then I don‘t know what is.

As for the allegation of Caliban‘s supposed ‗abuse‘ of Miranda, well, we only have Prospero‘s claim for this and I for one am not

inclined to take his word at any kind of face value. Let‘s not forget that we know full well that Prospero was a voyeur, and who is to

say that this voyeurism did not conceal his own deeply rooted,

normally hidden, lustful cravings? Given the eventual connections

between imperialism and miscegenation, I think that Prospero (and thus Shakespeare as well) should not be so hasty to run fast

and loose with such allegations of abuse on Caliban‘s part. My

own image of what Caliban‘s relationship with Miranda would have been is to see him as a protective elder brother to her. And

almost certainly the two of them would have been natural

companions, sharing their thoughts and their dreams while going on exploratory walks together on the island and merrily playing

games with each other.

How sad it is to think that with all his ‗culture‘ and ‗civilisation‘, with all his ‗knowledge‘ and ‗intelligence‘, Prospero

was too ignorant to be able to understand and fully appreciate the

gift of Caliban‘s natural instincts and virtues. And it is even sadder of course to think how Prospero made Caliban suffer

tremendously; oh, how he suffered! Here was a young man, still

really a boy, who had risked his own life to rescue the tempest-wrecked bodies of Prospero and Miranda when they themselves

had come to the island as exiles from their native Milan. After

bringing them to safety on shore, he housed them, fed them, warmed them, and comforted them. As they recovered their

strength, he extended his full hand of hospitality by showing them

around the island, revealing all its seen and unseen qualities. Never for one moment did it cross his mind to keep anything secret from

his new honoured ‗guests‘, his new ‗friends‘, as he very much

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hoped they would become. And never for one moment did it cross

his mind to try to seek any advantage or gain from them, let alone any recompense. Even Shakespeare couldn‘t help but recognise

and pay full tribute and homage to this generous hospitality

shown. Initially, when it served his own interests of course, Prospero

masked his dependence on my ancestor for his welfare and for

crucial information about the island with his own displays of often

physical affection. But in his case it was always contrived, it was

always duplicitous, and it was never designed to be more than a

temporary hand held out in friendship towards his host and ‗saviour‘. As soon as he could, and as soon as a pretext could be

found or manufactured, he completely betrayed the hospitality

shown him. Using the magical powers of his knowledge of language and all the other forces of control and authority acquired

through his books, he committed what can only be described as a despicable crime against the hospitality freely given to him. From that

moment on my ancestor‘s freedom, his culture, his own unique

way of communicating with his own language, his beliefs and

values, and all the things he had created were confiscated, smashed, and destroyed. He was completely enslaved, penned up

henceforth like a wild animal, constantly subject to the harshest of

treatment, insults, and beatings. And perhaps more than anything else, the extraordinary possibilities of a different kind of existence,

of a different kind of future, were wiped out and annihilated,

incinerated in the dustbin of history with the purpose of making the ashes irretrievable.

Let me give you just a brief flavour of the insults and beatings

committed against Caliban. On just about every occasion that Prospero addresses Caliban he abuses him with such insults as:

‗dirt‘, ‗filth‘, ‗hag-seed‘, ‗beast‘, ‗mis-shapen knave‘, ‗bastard one‘,

‗vile race‘, ‗thing most brutish‘, ‗scurvy‘, ‗abominable‘, ‗demi-devil‘, ‗malignant thing‘, ‗freckled whelp hag born‘ and many other such

epithets. He likewise encourages others to do the same, reducing

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him in effect to nothing more than a chattel to be disposed of in

whatever way others desire. As for the physical beatings, these include suffering all kinds of ‗pinchings‘, ‗cramps‘, ‗side-stitches‘,

not to mention nightmare images of roaring beasts that make him

tremble at the noise. To add insult to injury, just about all standard interpretations

of Shakespeare‘s account of what happened in this encounter

between Caliban and Prospero portray the latter, Prospero, as the

real hero, seeing in him a generous, wise, magnanimous, all-

forgiving man. But he is far from being this. Let‘s not mince words

here: Prospero is ‗an imperialist by circumstance, a sadist by disease, and, above all, an old man in whom envy and revenge are

equally matched.‘ (George Lamming). He is cold, pathologically

dominating, and has such a low esteem of human nature that he finds it almost natural that he should strive to degrade those

around him. His so-called ‗magic‘ is little more than a form of

terror, and he is the undisputed master of manipulation. As for the notion of forgiving his enemies, so often highlighted by his

defenders, while there is undoubtedly some truth in this it is a

forgiveness that only takes place after he has suitably avenged himself on them and thoroughly humiliated them into the bargain.

Even then the forgiveness is only grudging and partial, to be taken

away no doubt whenever the occasion warrants it. Consequently, if there is any ‗cannibalistic‘ connection at work here, the real

‗cannibal‘ is Prospero, or at the very least the new imperialist

system of domination that he stands for. Of course, it is always recounted that Prospero eventually

destroyed his book of magic of his own free accord. But this

apparent act of self-destruction was likewise nothing but a deception and a clever ruse. Far from weakening the sources of

power and control that it represented, it strengthened them

immeasurably. When he does drown his own great book that represented his lifetime‘s work, we are left even more in the dark

about the workings of the power that he embodies. Now that the

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original source of that power is lost, or has been made invisible,

our sense of incomprehension, ignorance, and susceptibility to that power knows no bounds. As a consequence, the reality of

Prospero‘s magic is made (literally) unfathomable. From this

moment on, everything that this magic power represents is simply accepted as a ‗given‘ and ‗taken for granted‘.

It is often said that the act of memory is considered the art of

salvation. If this is true (and it is true) then of course this explains

why Prospero was so keen to command and proclaim the act of

forgetting, thus freeing himself, and all future generations of

‗Prosperos‘, from the destructive corrosiveness of recollection. Let me remind you of the words he used: ‗Let us not burthen our

remembrances with / A heaviness that‘s gone‘ (Act 5, Scene 1). One

can just imagine the smug smile on his face as he utters these words. It is this smugness that so rightly terrified and frightened

that great perceptive poet, Rainer Maria Rilke. And we should all

be terrified, now more than ever. Aren‘t we too, today, living in an age when a new triumphant form of ‗magic power‘ is striving in

truth to disavow, and therefore to hide from, the fact that never,

never in history, has the horizon of this power been as dark, threatening, and, yes, threatened as well? Between the realms of

history and nature a new sleight of hand continues to perform its

magical, deceptive tricks. Pascal was right: ‗Human life is nothing more than a perpetual illusion.‘

Is it any wonder, then, that when he was forced to learn his

new master‘s language so as better to be able to comprehend his orders and authority, my ancestor cursed that language and hoped

that it would one day be destroyed by a ‗red plague‘? Is it any

wonder that, deprived of his own language and way of expressing and communicating his emotions, the principal use that Caliban

finds for this new ‗alien tongue‘ is as an outlet for his rage and

anger at being enslaved, particularly in light of the fact that, as I have already stressed, he had shown such warm and generous

hospitality to Prospero and his daughter when they first arrived?

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It is a rage and anger directed against Prospero not just because of

his own enslavement, but also because Prospero seemingly has no appreciation at all of the natural beauty and splendour of his

island homeland.

While on the subject of Caliban‘s rage and anger against Prospero, let us explore a little bit more the absolutely pivotal role

that language plays here in their relationship and in Caliban‘s new

life in particular. With Prospero‘s arrival on the island, a language

of communication needed to be found between the two. Certainly,

Prospero never had any intention, let alone desire or ability, to

learn the indigenous language of Caliban. Consequently, the onus was always going to be on Caliban to learn Prospero‘s language. Of

course, more than just a means of communication between them,

language would quickly become the tool by which Prospero would exert his control, power and authority over Caliban. In other

words, Caliban is forced to learn Prospero‘s language so as to be

able to understand, obey and carry out his new master‘s orders and commands.

However, it is also noticeable that when Caliban is on his own,

or away from the presence of Prospero, his use of this newly acquired language suggests a highly cultured, lyrical, poetic grasp

of words, capable of expressing tremendous emotion and

sensitivity. In short, he is the most effective of verbal artificers. This distinction between Caliban‘s use of language and that of

Prospero is highly significant. ‗In truth, it is Prospero who is

enfeebled by a monoglot sclerosis… His rigid cultural position does not brook translation. He cannot discourse (his is a dialogue of the

deaf), he can only dictate. Conversely, the ―transgressive‖ Caliban

is able to journey back and forth between languages. Empowered [by this linguistic ability] he understands Prospero, not vice-versa.

Prospero uses language to close down consciousness. Concerning

Caliban, his language constantly negates, denies and demonises… whilst Caliban‘s [original] linguistic identity is dismissed as ―yet

another return to your savage tongue‖. Whereas Caliban asserts

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and affirms potential and otherness, Prospero refuses dialogue.‘

(Philip Crispin). This pivotal role of language is crucial in another, perhaps even

more significant sense. At precisely the time when Shakespeare

was writing his account of their first meeting, England was in the process of acquiring its first colonies overseas, which would

eventually create the scope for one of the most powerful and

expansive empires ever witnessed in history. But in this initial

phase of imperial conquest, it was not England‘s military might

that counted most; it was precisely the conscious deceptive and manipulative use of language that was far more important. Nor was

this manipulative use of language as a tool of imperial conquest a

novelty at the time. It was likewise exactly by this means that the Spanish Conquistadors achieved their initial control of vast swathes

of the Americas (starting with Mexico). ‗Language [then] has

always been the [essential] companion of empire.‘ These are not

my words but those of Antonio de Nebrija, and they were written in that most symbolic and tempestuous of years — 1492. What

masters the Spanish were. What pupils were the English. And in

the case of Shakespeare/Prospero, here was the greatest purveyor of the power of language – both as a force of beauty but also as a

force of conquest and control. I repeat, then, it is hardly any

wonder that Caliban curses this language so much. Last but not least, it is likewise hardly any wonder – I am very

proud to say – that right from the outset Caliban (unlike Ariel)

never passively accepted his enslavement. He constantly tried to resist and rebel, and if at times the strategy of resistance that was

chosen was not always the best, nevertheless the symbolic act of

resistance was never lost. And for as long as it is not lost, strategies can change and be improved by experience, as so many

of my later ancestors have demonstrably shown, taking part in

their own circumstances as direct protagonists in the myriad struggles against all forms of oppression, anywhere and

everywhere. The battle cry of all Calibans ever since (and

33

including me today) has always been ‗Down with Oppression,

Exploitation and Injustice‘ and ‗Long live Liberty, Equality and Fraternity‘.

In all of this account of my first ancestor, don‘t get me wrong

here. I am not implying that he was some kind of absolutely pure, virtuous ‗saint‘. I am the first to recognise that in addition to the

good points in his character and outlook, he also possessed a

number of weaknesses and faults. It is strange, as I come to reflect

on this in more detail I confess that I was tempted to include

amongst his positive traits his sense of innocence. But I suppose

the brutal truth of the matter is that in the encounter that he came to have with someone like Prospero, it was precisely his

‗innocence‘ that ultimately determined his downfall and ruin. In

short, he was far too innocent, far too naive for his own good; instead of working in his favour, it completely worked against him.

The same could also be said of course about his – in the end

excessive – willingness to trust everyone. Again, he was too trusting by half. The fact that he was so easily deceived by

Prospero was part of all these potential strengths that suddenly

transformed themselves into weaknesses. How sad it is to think that his sweet illusions were destroyed. I cannot think of a worse

feeling or sensation than the one that accompanies this emotional

loss. Equally sad was the way in which it was not just Prospero who let him down, it was also the likes of those stupid drunken

servants who also came to the island – Stephano and Trinculo. I

ask you, how could Caliban view the likes of individuals like them as his ‗betters‘ and as potential alternative ‗masters‘ to Prospero? It

just highlights and shows you the extent of his desperation by that

point. Of course, in the end, there is a sense in which even Prospero started to feel a degree of pity for my first ancestor. But

surely such pity from the likes of him comes to represent the

worst defeat of all for Caliban. Reflecting a little more on these traits of innocence, naivety and

a constant willingness to trust others, it sometimes makes me

34

think that my first ancestor was someone who could only ever

remain an eternal child. This is in complete contrast with so many later generations of Calibans and it certainly is the case with me.

My own circumstances in life made it virtually impossible for me

to experience any sense of childhood, at least in any meaningful kind of way. Consequently, you might say that this is one of those

(rare) occasions in which the ‗father‘ is born from the child; where

the child is the only one capable of conceiving and giving birth to

the father. For me, my image of my first ancestor will always be

one in which he is a child.

Perhaps more than anything else, what really makes me sad when I think about my first ancestor was his lack of a real, strong

identity of ‗self‘. But then again, he is certainly not alone here. In

many ways, isn‘t this one of the biggest problems facing so many people in our own contemporary age; the fact that very few of us

these days seem to have a real sense of who we truly and genuinely

are any longer? When I look around me, I see so many people who are nothing but strangers to themselves. Their sense of selfhood,

and the pride and dignity that should go with it, has been almost

completely fractured, if not totally destroyed. Just like my first ancestor, people strike me for the most part as being like sand on

the beach, all too ready to be moulded into a particular pattern of a

sand castle not really of their own choosing. And needless to say, as the wind dries it, it falls apart immediately, crumbling and

disintegrating into nothing. When I now try to look back and

think about everybody who came to the island during this part of Caliban‘s life, it is he who strikes me as being the most

shipwrecked of all. What a terrible irony.

To illustrate the importance and significance of this lack of selfhood, let me very quickly relate to you a story. It is the story of

a young servant woman and it is related by the great Mexican

writer, Octavio Paz. It is the middle of the afternoon, siesta time no doubt, which, in the days of his youth, would have been sacred

to the class that Paz and his family stemmed from. Octavio is

35

roused by a noise that comes from the room adjacent to his. ‗Who

is in there?‘ he asks loudly and, I would imagine, although we are not told this, very brusquely. He is answered by the voice of a

servant who has recently come to them from her peasant village: ‗No one, Señor. I am.‘ In the time and space that it takes to utter

these few simple words, one‘s whole existence has effectively been denied, discounted and turned into nothingness. ‗No one, Señor. I

am‘ is tantamount to saying nothing less than ‗I am no one, Señor‘.

Very much connected with this lack of selfhood, I think, is

similarly the fear of freedom that pervaded Caliban‘s personality

back then; that is to say, the incapacity, through lack of courage or other barriers, to face up to the terrors of a genuine liberation of

the individual self. In one sense, of course, Caliban did have and

did experience freedom before Prospero‘s arrival. But, when you come to think about it in more profound ways, perhaps it is not

the actual possession of freedom that produces the greatest amount of joy and pleasure, so much as the process of becoming free.

I repeat, Caliban did have freedom before Prospero‘s arrival but

this real joy of becoming free remained unknown and not

experienced by him. Still, I mustn‘t be too harsh on him. He really did face a catastrophic situation in his encounter with the so-

called ‗civilised‘ world as represented by Prospero, and to give him

his real due, he did try his best to struggle and resist so that his original condition of freedom could be restored. It is a bit harsh to

blame him for the lies and deceptions of Prospero. And Prospero

lied so much and so convincingly about the world and about himself that it was perhaps inevitable that my first ancestor would

end up having an image of his ‗self‘ forced on him by Prospero. And

deep down in the mirror of his soul, he knew that image being reflected back at him was false and he hated it for everything it

signified and conveyed.

I know for sure that just like me, so many of my later ancestors who came after the first Caliban have been highly conscious of

these original family faults and weaknesses and they, just as much

36

as I, have tried our best to make sure that we are not affected or

afflicted by them. Mind you, inevitably of course each of us has had our own specific faults and weaknesses to contend with in

our own individual lives and circumstances. I am still combating

those weaknesses and faults which reside in me and I doubt that I will ever be completely victorious in my struggle with them.

[5] Anyway, eventually Prospero did leave the island and for a while

Caliban was left on his own again. His solitude, however, was no

longer the pleasant experience that it had once been for him, and in any case Prospero‘s departure was inevitably followed by a full-

scale take-over of the island, eventually becoming, although this

was much later on in its history, a penal colony for political prisoners as well as ordinary convicted criminals. Fortunately,

Caliban managed to flee the island just in time before it started to

be more completely occupied. Had he not escaped, his fate, and with it that of all later generations of his family, would have been

very different.

I have often speculated on what might have become of my first ancestor if Prospero and his daughter had never encountered and

enslaved him. I would like to think that his fate would have been

something akin to what befell Hayy Ibn Yaqzan. Are you familiar with this story? It was principally recounted by Abu Bakr

Muhammad Ibn Tufayl as long ago as the twelfth century.

Hayy Ibn Yaqzân (the name means Alive, son of Awake) found himself, just after his birth (or even at the time of his birth

according to some versions) stranded all alone on an uninhabited

island. For the first seven years of his life he was taken care of and nurtured by a gazelle, who in all practical senses became his

surrogate ‗mother‘, teaching him above all the virtues of kindness

and gentleness. Following the death of his ‗mother‘, he learned to

37

fend for himself and for the next forty years and more, by means of

his natural reason, intuition, imagination, curiosity and powers of revelation he ‗educated‘ himself to become wise in all matters of

material, corporeal existence as well as the needs of the ‗spirit‘; a

knowledge and understanding that ranged from the smallest life forms to the stars and the universe above him, and all forms of life

in-between. Everything around him was treated with the utmost

respect; everything served a purpose; and everything was

interconnected. ‗All bodies, whether they are animate or inanimate,

are one thing‘ was his guiding motto in life, and more than

anything else, he could never allow himself to see any plant or animal hurt, sick, encumbered, or in need without helping if he

could.

By the age of fifty he had learned just about everything there was to know (or was worth knowing) and he lived the life now of

a devoted mystic, cutting off sensory experience in order to pursue

pure spiritual ecstasy in communion with the ‗Active Intellect‘. This he discovered by making wide circular motions (like celestial

beings) with his dancing body until he had lost the senses and

imagination. Can‘t you just picture my ancestor here? Anyway, it was only at this point that he eventually came into

contact with another human being – Asâl ; a man who was also in

search of spiritual and mystical wisdom, who arrived on the island thinking it was deserted. After their chance encounter they

became friends and Asâl taught Hayy to communicate in his

language, and he quickly realised that Hayy was for sure the wisest man alive. He thus persuaded Hayy to return with him to his own native land in order to enlighten a wider audience.

Suddenly confronted with the dreadful realities of ‗civilisation‘, Hayy yearns to return home and to his pure contemplative

existence. He simply cannot cope with the deceit, falseness,

arrogance, stubbornness, ignorance and base materialistic pursuits of the people he encounters in this so-called civilised society. As

he himself expressed it, their hearts are rusted. At least he had

38

found one convert and friend to share his isolation. On his return

to his native land, Asâl now joins Hayy in a mutual, permanent bond of philosophical and spiritual fraternity.

It‘s a wonderful tale, don‘t you think, full of deep insights about

the nature of knowledge and understanding and how this can be acquired by the individual in solitary exclusion and contemplation,

combining both natural reason and mystical or metaphysical

insights. In short, it is a story of self-discipline and self-discovery.

And if some of this might now seem familiar to you, it is no doubt

because Ibn Tufayl borrowed many aspects of his tale from the

influential Arab philosopher Ibn Sina (or Avicenna as he is more frequently called) and in particular from the great thinker, Al-

Farabi. And of course, many later versions of this story would be

told in other lands as well. As I say, all of this is what might have been had my ancestor not encountered Prospero. But,

unfortunately, he did encounter Prospero and this encounter did

not have anywhere near the happy outcome that Hayy‘s encounter with Asâl had.

* * *

After Caliban left his island homeland, all traces of where he

eventually went are either lost or were never recorded. It is as though the official chronicles of history were only interested in his

fate and destiny for as long as he was nothing more than a piece of

a jigsaw puzzle whose final image was designed to portray the life and times of those considered more important, wealthier, and

more powerful than him. As one of my favourite poets (Adonis)

has nicely put it:

Behind the loom that weaves history,

there is an invisible force which now and then conceals, now and then neglects

and at times forgets,

39

depending on the circumstance and the purpose.

History is generally like a swimmer

in the face of a tempest,

who is rarely interested in anything other than what is immediately ahead of it

and visible,

on the surface and on the shore.

While the depths of the sea and the horizons remain

unfathomable.

This, then, was the eventual fate of my first ancestor. He was

plunged into the depths of the historical sea and remained for ever unfathomable after that. What I as his direct descendant do know,

however, is that during all these intervening years which separate

the first Caliban from me here today, successive generations of Calibans have been found in just about all parts of the world, and

most especially in Africa, the Caribbean islands and Latin America.

In being compelled by changed circumstances to leave his island homeland, I think that there can be no doubt that one of the

biggest legacies that my first ancestor bequeathed to all of us who

came after him was a sense of permanent displacement. The notion of exile has thus always been profoundly anchored within

all of us. I suppose you might say that we Calibans have become

the quintessential incarnation of a permanent, wandering Ulysses; or if you prefer, a permanent wandering Don Quixote. And over

long years, it has been a remarkably long and erratic journey

through many lands and many encounters. But wherever we have ended up, I don‘t think that we have ever truly felt a sense of

belonging. We have never really felt at home. At some point, we

always knew that the wandering and the journeying would recommence. There is, I am the first to admit, a degree of sadness

and regret attached to this condition. At the same time, however,

40

it has taught us all that the source of true happiness never lies outside of us in the external world but instead lies within us. We

think of horizons as being ahead of us in a straight, linear direction,

but perhaps we are mistaken. Perhaps our horizons are really

circular in shape and form. They certainly are in my case. For sure, wherever we have gone, like our first ancestor, we

have had to bear the burden and the pain of an immense amount of

suffering. Like him, we have all felt levels of anger, rage and

resentment that at times have completely overpowered us;

producing in us the enormous desire to withdraw from society, to

withdraw from the world. But, again like our first ancestor, the force that has kept us going has been the constant desire, and even more so the constant necessity, that wherever we have gone and

wherever we have encountered forces of oppression and exploitation, we have tried to resist and oppose them in whatever

way we could. This urge, this need, to revolt and resist lies at the

very core of our being. It has been by far the biggest determining factor of our lives throughout the ages of time. It represents the

very essence of our sense of pride and dignity in ourselves; the

dignity that lies in the refusal to be integrated into a world that is false, manipulative and contaminated. Because of this, I suppose

you could say that we have always had a very self-conscious

attachment to the ‗losers‘ of History. But for us, the term ‗loser‘ bears positive connotations not negative ones. Our attachment

and sense of belonging with them is voluntary and willed. We

would want it no other way. Given the world that exists, no Caliban has ever desired to be one of the perceived ‗winners‘ of

that world. To revolt and to resist make us tolerate our existence;

it overcomes our fear of being. And contained within this need to resist is that beautiful, often hidden, image of a promise or

possibility of a new world that can be created. No matter how

much despair might overwhelm us, we have never lost the belief in a different, alternative world. And in any case, for us the sentiment of despair has always been a powerful creative force. All of these

41

sentiments were nicely summed up in some words written by one

of my ancestors not all that long ago. This is what he wrote:

Maybe I‘ll grow contented—

They say some do in time. I‘ll decorate my prison;

Be passionate in rhyme;

Pleased if I can devise

A phrase to please a woman;

Be what the world calls wise

And everything but human? Ah no, if this is endless,

Still let me keep my rage.

Let me at least be tameless, Not grow to love a cage.

Heart that has been so wild —

Never grow reconciled …

Open all doors! Let every caged thing free!

Let there be nothing bound in earth or air! Those fettering chains unfasten fast and tear

Those walls away. Oh, give them liberty!

Have we not bars enough when we‘ve the sky Clamping us here? When we‘ve mortality?

Open all doors! Let every caged thing free!

Let there be nothing bound in earth or sea!1

Not so long ago, I had the good fortune to encounter an artist and

as our friendship evolved and developed, so he became more and more interested in my family‘s history. For me personally, it was a

wonderful, and all too rare, chance to speak openly about my own

ancestral roots and the way in which they have shaped and

1 The extract of poetry is from Alexander Reid, Twelve Variations on the Theme of Caliban

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determined my own life and the beliefs and values that I have. At

the end of one evening spent in each other‘s company, he presented me with a present, which so moved me it made me cry.

It was a drawing he had done which, he said, aimed to capture in

one single portrait some of the most essential features of what he had learned about my family‘s history. The drawing, he went on to

say, would hopefully be the basis of a series of larger-scale

paintings which he wanted to work on. As yet, he hadn‘t decided

on the definitive title he would adopt for the series of paintings.

For a long time, he had also been working on another group of

paintings which aimed to capture the human essence of those whom he referred to as ‗The Wretched of the Earth‘ (which was

the title of a famous book written by Frantz Fanon). Although the

drawing he had done for me could possibly be adapted to fit into that series, he was more inclined to start work on other portraits

which would aim to capture other key essential features of a wide

range of oppressed peoples across a vast geographical space. What he was aiming to capture in these faces, he said – and what he

certainly did capture in the drawing he gave me – would not be

limited to expressions of suffering and pain, or the way in which the features of the faces cannot help but bear the scars of untold

tragedies. And they would certainly not be portraits dominated by

sentiments of resignation or despair. More than anything else, what he really wanted to capture in their expressions were the

traits of determination, pride and above all dignity; a dignity

which for so many years had forcibly been expropriated from them but which was now being regained. And of course, it was being

regained directly by means of having the courage to struggle and

rebel. Indeed, he would often cite the words that he himself had once read and which had left an enormous impact on him: ‗I rebel

– therefore we exist.‘

43

As I say, it was such a precious gift he gave me that from that day

on I have always carried the drawing with me. It means more to me than any other ‗possession‘ I have. I just love looking at and

drawing inspiration from it, with its beautiful, resplendent range

of colours, all of which merge and blend in the bones, the structure, the features and the expression on the face. It really does capture

the essence of dignity in ways that no words could possibly

convey to the same profound depths. And for me personally, it really does capture the essence of everything that I would like the

collective name of Caliban to evoke.2 I am the son of Caliban. I am

the son of all Calibans. I carry within me the traits of many cultures, civilisations and languages. I am a permanent wanderer

but my wanderings serve as meeting points with countless Others.

2 The painting is by Oswaldo Guayasamín, the great maestro of twentieth-century Ecuadorian and Latin American art, and it is one of a series collectively entitled Rostros de América (Faces of America).

44

There is no such thing as a ‗stranger‘ to me. I heartily welcome the

encounter with the Other, because this is also the encounter with myself.

Given that the name ‗Caliban‘ was not freely chosen by my first

ancestor but was instead forced on him by Prospero, why, you might ask, have all successive male generations of the family

retained it? After all, when it was first chosen by Prospero, there

can be little doubt that from his point of view it was a name full of

negative, demeaning connotations. The most likely reason that he

forced this name on my first ancestor was because it was an

intentional anagram of the word ‗can[n]ibal‘ (which in Prospero‘s day would have been spelt with one ‗n‘ not two). True, other

motives for the choice of name might also have been uppermost in

his mind, but none of these are really any better. For example, it is perhaps possible that Prospero knew enough Arabic to know that there is the word kalebôn and that he derived my ancestor‘s name

from this. But the principal meaning of kalebôn is hardly much of an

improvement on ‗cannibal‘, signifying as it does a ‗vile dog‘.

Alternatively, perhaps Prospero was familiar with the Romany language, which possesses the word cauliban or, in other versions, kaliban. If he did, again this was certainly no improvement because

it is a word which signifies ‗blackness‘ in all its most detrimental

connotations (often used in conjunction with other words like ‗filth‘, ‗mud‘ or ‗dirt‘). So, I repeat, given all of these highly negative

meanings, why on earth have we retained this name – which has

been like a constant wound - right up to the present day? In response, I think I can speak for all of us who have borne this

name by briefly highlighting three principal reasons for its

retention. First, it was our way of retaining a direct link with our first ancestor. Second, it was – at least from our point of view – a

way of honouring and paying tribute to him. And perhaps most

important of all, as certainly as far as I am concerned, its retention was a form of resistance in its own right. By voluntarily holding on

to the name and passing it down from generation to generation,

45

and by accompanying it with a sense of genuine pride and dignity,

it was designed to demonstrate that we were not to be oppressed by it. More than that, our detractors would come to fear the name

‗Caliban‘ in ways that they couldn‘t have possibly imagined. For all

of these reasons, therefore, I myself have no problems at all with the name.

This attempt to accept something imposed on my first ancestor

for all kinds of negative reasons and to seek to transform it into

something much more positive for we who have been his heirs has

likewise very much defined the relationship we have developed

over many a long year with language. No one is more aware than I am of the power that is contained in language and in words;

especially the power to cause pain and suffering. This was my first

ancestor‘s primary experience of language. As I have already stressed, for him language was an imposition; an alien force which

ended up enslaving him because it was used by Prospero in such

deceptive ways. For this first Caliban words were nothing more than a form of black magic used to disguise the real thoughts of

those who practiced this magic. The words and language imposed

on him robbed him of his own natural mode of poetic expression – the poetic expression that was literally embodied in his gestures,

his facial expressions, and the very movement of his body as it

communicated its sentiments and feelings in a rhythmic dance. Every mimetic movement of his dancing body was like a

perturbation of the senses. An unrivalled energy was generated

which was innocent and free. But for all us later generations we have had to accept that one cannot revert to that original

innocence that my ancestor experienced before the imposition of

language. Words and language have taken hold of all of us. There is simply no escape from the linguistic chrysalis which embalms us.

But nevertheless, one can learn to use words and language in ways

that are also liberating. This is especially the case when it comes to the use of language employed in poetry. It is surely not by accident

that so many of my ancestors, especially in recent times, have been

46

poets. And I too, I hasten to add, regard myself as first and

foremost a poet. Right from the days of my youth I have always been attracted to poetry‘s inherent subversive use of words. And

as I have got older, it really has become the one weapon that I have

that can defend me from the world and which can help me survive. Let me briefly try to explain why poetry has such significance for

me personally.

First, although I fully acknowledge that the pre-linguistic

connection with my first ancestor is irretrievably broken and lost,

when used in the right kind of way poetry does nevertheless allow

me to maintain an essential bond with him and provides me as well with the chance to pay due homage and respect to him. It can

do this because better than anything else in the realm of language, poetry has the capacity to make words dance; a dance of words that is

likewise in its own expressive way, innocent and free. In some

ways then, this does re-create elements of my first ancestor‘s pre-

linguistic experiences. Second, for me poetry is an act which engenders new realities,

which reverses all perspectives, which breaks down all artificial

boundaries, borders and walls, and which offers the tremendous promise of new horizons of exploration.

Third, poetry possesses enormous hypnotic powers over even

the most hardened of souls; hypnotic powers that can be a real force for change. Some time ago I had a poet friend who was

unjustly imprisoned. During the time that he spent in his prison

cell, he would occupy his time by reciting his poetry out loud so that his gaoler could hear. Unable at first to understand any of the

metaphors used by my friend, the prison guard gets extremely

angry and tells him that he doesn‘t care one iota for poetry. The next morning, however, the guard comes back and demands to

know the meaning of the words and metaphors that had been

recited. Still, he isn‘t completely convinced and continues to insist that poetry is meaningless and pointless. That evening, however,

he visits his prisoner once more and asks him for further

47

explanations. So touched was he at the end that, having now

grasped the significance of the words, the gaoler suddenly becomes very sad and begs my imprisoned friend to give him back his own freedom. In other words, he now realises that he is the real

‗prisoner‘ not my friend. Fourth, nothing possesses deeper roots in the soil of knowledge

than poetry. It is here in the roots that eternal truths lie. It is for

this reason that in all peasant cultures, poetry and truth always

coincide.

He said: ―To the philosopher I prefer the thinker, and to the thinker, the poet.‖

When I asked him for his criteria, he replied:

―The philosopher is born with philosophy, the thinker with thought, and the poet with the world.‖ (Edmond Jabès, Le Livre de l’Hospitalité)

Fifth, there is something inherently fragile contained in poetry,

but at the same time it is precisely this fragility to face head-on the

tempests of History which gives it an incredible power and force. Sixth, poetry at its best is always a search for things that have

yet to be said.

Seventh, there is nothing like poetry which possesses the capacity to be like a caress or an embrace; or which has the

capacity to cleanse and heal the infected body, be it the body of

the individual or that of society, especially in times of great need or distress. And who can possibly doubt that we are in such times

now. Never has the need for poetry been greater.

Last but not least, it is through poetry, more than anything else, that one can appreciate (and experience) that wonderful sensation of enchantment; the enchantment of the marvellous or of anything

strange, unusual, out of the ordinary. As Aristotle remarked all those years ago, ‗Everything begins with the marvellous.‘ This was

a feeling, a sensation that completely lay beyond the capacity of

48

Prospero (and all those like him today). He was far too

‗Machiavellian‘, far too rational in a cold and closed way to allow himself the liberty of submitting to the force of enchantment. But

by not doing so, he deprived himself of some of the greatest

moments of joy and happiness that a person can feel. What I really find most disappointing, though, is that we are increasingly losing

this mysterious wonder of marvellous enchantment; above all in

the young generation today. It seems to me that they have lost all

sense of innocence and without innocence they lose the very

essence and beauty of being a child before taking on all the

modern-day stresses and strains of adulthood. Without innocence they are lost. And when our children are lost, we are all lost.

Poetry at least allows me to cling on to a degree of innocence, but

for how long will poetry itself survive in this world? Do you know what my greatest fear is? We live in a world

today when just about everything is privatised. There is now

virtually nothing left that has not been acquired and patented by a few individuals as their private property. My fear is that one day –

perhaps soon – they will look around and realise that perhaps the

last remaining frontier of private ownership and accumulation is language itself. We have long known that language contains a

form of cultural capital which has always divided the rich from the

poor. But if this is unjust and bad enough, think what it will be like when we live in a fully-fledged system of linguistic capitalism.

My God, what a nightmare it would be! We would have to pay for

every word we use. Every letter of the alphabet would bear a price attached to it. And you can just imagine their justification for this,

can‘t you. They will say that like everything else, it is only by

paying for something that it assumes any meaningful and worthy value. Only money, only profit, has the capacity to make us truly

appreciate something. And when that something becomes

unaffordable or perhaps even scarce, so we appreciate it more. Moreover, so as to make sure that we don‘t unlawfully steal words

that will no longer be freely available to us, one feels sure that

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with this linguistic privatisation there will be created a special

linguistic police force. No, I honestly can‘t bear to think of this day. If (and when) it happens, this will be the day that I will readily

and gladly lay down and die.

There is one other bond, meanwhile, which I particularly wish to highlight which I have with my first ancestor. It is the shared

belief in the power of Nature; Nature as a living organism; Nature

as the Mother of us all. For me, any sense of a ‗divine god‘ (and I

use the term here very loosely) can only ever be represented by

Nature; and more than anything else it is the sun that I ‗worship‘

most. It is the real source and breath of life and through the power of its rays and light it opens up and shows the road to every new

horizon in our lives. Its beauty and power can be seen and shared

equally by all. Its rays of goodness embrace everyone, no matter whether they are rich or poor, black or white, man or woman, of

the human species or any other animal species.

I strive to become one with Nature; to blend and merge with every aspect and living force of Nature that I encounter around me.

Like so many other sensitive souls that have come before me, and

who I desperately hope will come after me as well, it is only through Nature that I am truly able to be conscious and aware of

myself.3 Trees in particular are living entities that I admire greatly

and with whom I like to think I have a special bond and rapport. What affection I have for them. They possess such beauty and

variety; and they possess such wisdom (because of their longevity

of age). Trees are the true philosophers of this world. They stay all their lives in one place and as they look out at the world day after 3 There is a wonderful poem by Victor Hugo (‗Oui, je suis le rêveur‘, 1835), written nearly 200 years ago, which recounts and describes the manner in which he converses with all elements of Nature around him – from the smallest golden flowers to the highest trees; from the tiny blades of grass to the wide expanding meadows; from the water of the river below him to the wind and the clouds above. Everything he encounters is a living force, which in turn sustains and generates fresh life for all. And when combined, each is an instrument in a divine orchestra capable of playing the most beautiful sacred concert.

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day from the same spot, their primary occupation is one of

contemplation. Go into any forest and how can one not feel overawed by their presence? We humans are so puny in

comparison. There is a wonderful poem that I know of that conjures up beautiful images of leaves which possess an audible smile.4 Now if that doesn‘t enchant you, nothing in life will. Now,

of course, this is simply a marvellous poetical, metaphorical image,

but there is increasing concrete, proven evidence, you know, that in their own unique way trees (and plants as well) do have the

capacity to communicate and to think. The more that one spends

time in their company, the more one genuinely believes this. I find it a particularly pleasant, appropriate and reassuring thought that what truly connects me with all my ancestors comes in the form of

a tree. After all, it is surely no accident or coincidence that the symbol of all our genealogical roots is precisely a tree (i.e. albero

genealogico). In this way, I know for sure that the union of the

trunk and the branches is inseparable; the trunk lives through the branches and the branches live through the trunk.5

To cap it all, as everyone now knows (or should know), trees are absolutely vital and essential to our very own human survival on

this planet of ours in so many different ways. They are the

‗guardian angels‘ of the very source of our capacity to live and

flourish on this planet, not least in providing the essential oxygen that we breathe. The fact that over so many recent years we have

done nothing else but destroy and annihilate the great forests of

the world has been one of the major causes of all the increasing dangers we have created for ourselves with things like climate

change. In short, the more we annihilate our trees, the more we

really do risk annihilating ourselves. As another great poet (Pier Paolo Pasolini) once put it: day in, day out we humans now

4 The poem is by Fernando Pessoa (‗Audible Smile of the Leaves‘, 1932). 5 These were also comments made by Laurent Busine when reflecting on the artistic work of Giuseppe Penone; by far the most renowned artist today who has always had a special rapport and affinity with trees.

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commit a form of anthropological genocide on a scale never witnessed

before in the whole of human history. But the price of that genocide is a form of collective suicide for the human race itself.

What an absurd situation we have gotten ourselves into.

Having mentioned the annihilation of trees that we are committing, I cannot help but be reminded of another sad

reflection about the life and fate of my first ancestor after his

encounter with Prospero. As an intrinsic part of his enslavement

and exploitation, he was forced to carry out the daily task of

cutting down the beautiful trees in his own island homeland so as

to be able to provide wood for the sole benefit of his new ‗Master‘ and his daughter. What tears he must have shed every time he had

to destroy one of his beloved trees.

On a somewhat lighter note, I have been told, by the way – and I very much hope that it is true – that in this land of Italy that I am

hoping to reach, there was a famous writer who wrote a

wonderful story about a boy who voluntarily chose to live in a tree (notwithstanding the fact that he inherited a great deal of wealth

and could have lived in a great big luxury house if he wanted to).

Oh, how I envy that boy. How I would dearly love to make my home at the top of a tree and to be constantly visited by my closest

neighbours – the birds of this world.

This striving of mine to become absolutely one with Nature is something, of course, that I know can never fully be achieved in

life. Only with my death will I ever achieve full unity and harmony

with Nature. It is for this reason that death holds no fear or terror for me.

Listen. Can you not hear the music created by Nature? My first

ancestor could hear music everywhere in his homeland, and I too have fortunately inherited that sensitive capacity to hear it

everywhere. These are the words he expressed all those years ago:

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,

Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

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Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices

That, if I then had wak‘d after long sleep, Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming,

The clouds methought would open and show riches

Ready to drop upon me, that, when I wak‘d, I cried to dream again.

Oh, what resonance these words have for me. Nature‘s music truly

is all around us. It has such a hypnotic effect on me that it cannot

help but stimulate my own dreams; not just those that I have

when I am asleep, but even more importantly the daydreams, the rêveries, I have when I am fully awake. Whenever I am possessed by

a deep and delightful rêverie I enter a state of blissful self-

abandonment. It is precisely in this state of abandonment, then, that I feel transports of joy and inexpressible raptures and I also

feel that I am closer to being one with Nature than at any other

time. My greatest dream of all, I must confess, is to be able to fly. I

often think, you know, that Nature really intended me to be an

inhabitant of the air more than of the earth. Unfortunately, however, before she had finished my wings I accidently let go of

her hands and thus my unfinished body was dragged down to

earth. I tell you this because I often feel like a man forever in search of new precipices, and when I stand over a precipice my

real daydream is to imagine - to feel - myself flying through the air.

Such is the power of the daydream that I often have to force myself to hold back the very strong instinct to leap off. Oh, if only one

could be a bird; to be free as a bird, crossing the skies and the

borders below without let or hindrance. Why has the earth become so full of chains and bars? Why do

people want to cage us in? Why do they want to lock us up in a

tiny space with no possible exit? Even worse, why do so many people choose voluntarily to go in search of a cage for themselves?

Why don‘t people realise that when they do harm to their

neighbour, they do harm to themselves? When will there be a limit

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to the despair of this earth? No, it is not me who is the lost one; it

is the very planet that I live on that is lost. Thank goodness that with poetry one always has the chance to find at least some virgin

spaces which can increase the expanse of the earth. It is the poet‘s

hand that truly opens the only book that really matters; the book of horizons.

[6] Ohhhhh, look, do you see? Up above. Oh, how marvellous. Green

pearls of light swimming through the night-time sky amidst the

stars; darting here, darting there, irradiating innocent beauty and delight. Fireflies! Sensations that fly through the air. They are the

joy of my heart. Oh, how happy they make me.

(Mesmerised by the swimming lights above him, Caliban performs the

Dance of the Fireflies)

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[7]

If this isn‘t a good omen, then I don‘t know what is. What is less

good is the sight of those dark, pitch-black, threatening clouds out there across the sea in the distance. A tempest is brewing, I can

feel it in my bones. But it is too late to turn back. Look, the boat

has arrived. It is time to set off. The doors of the day are opening and as with every new dawn we enter the unknown. I must rush

and join my fellow migrants. My destiny awaits, whatever it may

be. I have left a place where cemeteries flourished more than fields. Will I now at long last find that long-desired ‗City of Sun‘; that

sunlit land uncharted / beyond hunger / beyond plague‘s dark

peaks (Mayakovsky) ? Or will I find only more darkness; perhaps even eternal darkness?

All praise and honour to my ancestors. I embrace them.

All praise and honour to my mother.

I embrace you. I embrace the dead who are still alive in me.

And to my fostering mother,

I also give honour and thanks. To the hills – your breasts.

To the trees – your legs.

To the rivers – your fluids. To the plants – your nourishment.

To the animals and the insects – your voice.

To the birds – your song. To the wind – your breath.

To the stars – your eyes.

And to the sun and moon – the source of all knowledge. To all living things, I give thanks.

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Bring on the tempest, then if you must. Let it roar. Let its eye

pierce my soul. Let its tentacles of towering waves grab me by the throat. My spirit is aflame and I will throw myself headlong into

the storm. Let my tempestuous heart be united with the tempest

and let my howl being carried back and forth, up and down, on the waves reverberate all around until such time as compassion binds

this fragmenting globe anew. Until ‗my dying breath, I shall hurl

my protest with each morning‘s wind.‘ No calm of mind will

penetrate me ‗until … until … the shackles fracture and fall away‘

(Federico Mayor).

UHURU !... UHURU !...

U H U R U uuuuuuu… !6

(Caliban rushes off-stage)

6 The cry of ‗Uhuru !‘ signifies ‗Freedom‘ in the African language of Swahili.

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_________________________________________________________________________________

Scene 3 _______________________________________________________________________

Scene 3 images - The Wave & Sebastião Salgado

Scene 3 accompanying music - Jean Sibelius - The Storm

Post-Scene 3 film - Solo Andata - Grecanico Salentino &

Erri De Luca

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_________________________________________________________________________________

Epilogue _______________________________________________________________________

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Remember the words spoken:

We all were sea-swallow‘d, though some cast again,

And by that destiny, to perform an act

Whereof what‘s past is [merely] prologue, what to come, In yours and my discharge.

(Questions for the audience)

* What was the fate of Caliban? * Did he make it to Lampedusa? * If he did, as a migrant, how do you think he would have been treated?

Let me conclude with two short extracts from poems by Mahmoud

Darwish:

La terra è stufa di noi Dove andremo dopo le ultime frontiere? Dove voleranno le rondini dopo l‘ultimo cielo?

E dove dormiranno gli alberi dopo l‘ultimo respiro d‘aria? Scriveremo i nostri nomi

Con vapore scarlatto, interromperemo il canto, perché lo completi la nostra carne lacerata. Qui moriremo, qui nell‘ultimo passaggio, qui o forse qui, pianterà i suoi olivi il nostro sangue.

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Un altro giorno verrà

Un altro giorno verrà, femminile, dalla metafora trasparente, compiuto, adamantino, nuziale, soleggiato, fluido, simpatico. Nessuno avrà la voglia di suicidio o di migrazione, e tutto, fuori dal passato, sarà naturale, vero, conforme ai suoi attributi primari. Come se il tempo dormisse in vacanza… Un altro giorno verrà, femminile, dal segno che canta, al saluto

e al verbo azzurrini. Tutto è femminile fuori dal passato. L‘acqua scorre dalle mammelle della pietra. Niente polvere, niente siccità, niente perdita…