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The Mother(Land) through Narrative and Nostalgia: The Role Stories Play in the Crafting of Imagined (Exiled) Communities Mignotte Mekuria Marru Creative Writing PhD University of Salford School of Arts and Media 2015 Table of Contents List of Tables and Illustrations Abstract Questions Sem Inna Werq Trilogy Folie À Plusieurs 1 Queens of Meroë 164 አርበኛ 230 Statement of Poetics: Wax and Gold 244 Personal History... ...Creative Context Sem Inna Werq: The Exile's Journey Step One: Narrative 〉 Folie À Plusieurs Step Two: Nostalgia 〉 Queens of Meroë Step Three: Identity 〉 አርበኛ The End: My Country, My Mother, Myself Bibliography 287 List of Tables and Illustrations Illustrations (Original artwork courtesy of Jenny Cecilia Hartmann) The Forest The Cottage The Doors The Message in a Bottle The Boat Photographs (Courtesy of Workinesh Shalemu) Emperor Haile Selassie disembarking at Addis Ababa International Airport Zenebech, my maternal grandmother Shalemu, my maternal grandfather Workinesh, my mother Mekuria, my father The house I grew up in (Bole, Addis Ababa) My father and I My mother and I My family My mother Diagrams 1. Sem Inna Werq – The Novellas 2. Folie À Plusieurs – The Chapters 3. Folie À Plusieurs – The World 4. Folie À Plusieurs – The Lady in Blue 5. Folie À Plusieurs – The Lady in Yellow 6. Folie À Plusieurs – The Lady in Green 7. Folie À Plusieurs – The Lady in Red 8. Queens of Meroë 9. አርበኛ Abstract Comprising three novellas and critical research, this project defines and examines the possibilities of creative writing to expound upon and provide insight into issues of citizenship, belonging and memory. This interplay of narratives (creative and critical) speaks to the complex and intertextual nature of my research and is reminiscent of bricolage, defined by Matt Rogers as a 'multi-perspectival, multi-theoretical and multi-methodological approach to inquiry […] based on notions of eclecticism, emergent design, flexibility and plurality'. My thesis makes use of autobiography as case study and creative practice as research to illuminate the personal experiences of mothers and daughters separated by global movement and to study the role that the mother's storytelling plays in fostering the daughter's nostalgia for home and quest for belonging. By conducting interviews with my mother and utilising my own personal experiences as an exiled daughter to inform both my critical research and my ficto-autobiographical novellas, I have been able to draw more widely-applicable insights into the process of self-fashioning. This autoethnographical methodology bridges the gap between the personal and the public, and in the words of Heewon Chang 'transcends mere narration of self to engage in cultural analysis and interpretation'. Questions 〉 Via creative practice, is it possible to facilitate a productive conversation, inclusive of 'strangers', within discourses of diaspora? 〉 How does maternal storytelling influence the self-fashioning of the exiled daughter? 〉 How can this influence be traced in my (ficto-autobiographical) creative work? Folie À Plusieurs 1 Table of Contents I. Prudence The Girl Who Awoke The Tale of the Lady in Blue The Story of The Spirit Pacification and its Captain The Tales of the Home-Bound Daughter The Tale of the North-Bound Son The Traveller, the Widow and the East-Bound Son The Tale of the West-Bound Son The Tale of the Old Man and the South-Bound Son The Tales of the Home-Bound Daughter The Story of The Spirit Pacification and its Captain The Tales of the Home-Bound Daughter The Tale of the Old Man and the South-Bound Son The Tale of the West-Bound Son The Traveller, the Widow and the East-Bound Son The Tale of the North-Bound Son The Tales of the Home-Bound Daughter The Story of The Spirit Pacification and its Captain The Tale of the Lady in Blue The Girl Who Awoke II. Justice The Girl Who Awoke The Tale of the Lady in Yellow The Golden One The Silver One The Bronze One The Heroic One The Iron One The Tale of All of Them Together Over the Bridge (The Tale of the First Day) Through the Gateway (The Tale of the First Day) Over the Bridge (The Tale of the Second Day) Through the Gateway (The Tale of the Second Day) 2 Over the Bridge (The Tale of the Third Day) Through the Gateway (The Tale of the Third Day) The Golden One's Tale of the Fires that Cleanse The Tale of the Lady in Yellow The Girl Who Awoke III. Temperance The Girl Who Awoke The Tale of the Lady in Green The Lord of the Winds and the Slippery Earth What the Builder Saw What the Farmer Saw What the Earthenware Maker Saw What the Needleworker Saw What the Basket Weaver Saw The Lord of the Winds and the Slippery Earth What the Seer Dreamed of the Builder What the Seer Dreamed of the Farmer What the Seer Dreamed of the Earthenware Maker What the Seer Dreamed of the Needleworker What the Seer Dreamed of the Basket Weaver The Lord of the Winds and the Slippery Earth The Tale of the Lady in Green The Girl Who Awoke IV. Fortitude The Girl Who Awoke The Tale of the Lady in Red Yetnebersh (Part One of Two: A Little Girl Awakens) Sheferat (Part One of Two: The Birth of a Queen) First Intermission: A World of Duelling Realms Yetnebersh (Part Two of Two: The Queen of Keys) Second Intermission: An Old Man and his Horse Sheferat (Part Two of Two: Sleep and the Art of Forgetting) The Tale of the Lady in Red The Girl Who Awakes 3 I. Prudence I am a woman who does not matter, writing letters I will never send, to a girl who will never exist. Do you think me mad? But my heart is heavy with words it wishes to utter, even if I have not the lips to speak them. I may not have lived, as others have lived through actions and noble deeds. I may not have loved, as others have loved through grand gestures and torrid embraces. My life has been that of an observer. A woman cloaked in shadows with eyes wide open. I have seen what others can not when they have been embroiled at the heart of things. This is the virtue of the outsider, I am everywhere and nowhere, I am everyone and no one. I can tell you things that they can/not. Perhaps I am as mad as they say. But we will pay them no heed, you and I. I will retreat deep into my own heart and enshroud myself in its tomb-like silence. We will sit together there with only a candle between us to illuminate our clasped hands. You will think I have saved you, but in truth it shall be you who saved me. But you will not see it yet. You have all the tempestuousness of a winter's storm now, it is only later that the calm of spring will wash over you. And only then will your heart crack open to let me in. You can be sure I will be waiting for that day. How can I know all this so early? How can I know this although it will never be? Let me tell you this, I know it because I have seen it. I know it because it will be true. I have rushed too far ahead. Let me start again. You will know me, when the time comes, by the cadence of my voice. I, of course, know you already, though we will never meet. These introductions are unnecessary, it is the ones who come earlier who matter most. Let me tell you about Her. She is the beginning, after all. She is many things. She is gold, a flower and my mother in turn. If I were an artist, I would paint Her with oils on thick canvas. I would stretch Her taut over a wooden frame. Thin elegant lines for deep-set eyes, long elegant fingers with the thumb tucked inwards and slightly parted lips revealing one of a long line of perfect white teeth. Her form does not tower but Her shadow looms large. There is something there that is not here. Do you see my meaning? She is the weaver of history, not the tall- tales of Her impoverished daughter. We spent our times together in a villa in ቦሌ , beneath the rustling foliage of towering trees. Her kingdom was that of flowers, tilled earth and obeyed commands. My place in it was that of a beloved. And a spy. That should tell you all you need to know. A spy in the house of virtue. Shameless. Foolish. Her trees and flowers would have long crumbled to the earth before I saw the folly of it all. Now that villa houses others. Fear not, She has only risen. Eight floors, to be exact. The dirt, once black with life, now faded to grey. The sun is too bright there where once we stood shrouded and safe in shadows, with Her arms outstretched to embrace Him. I can still remember – isn't the human heart a wonderful thing? – being small enough to clasp Her waist. A sea has swept between us now and deserts have cast us wide. I never tell Her, 4 but here is the truth: I have given my heart to Her and have none to gift another. It would only unsettle Her. Sadden and disappoint Her. And I could never bear that, not again. Not with the seas frothing and the desert sands swirling and the world shattering slowly to dust around us.