Fulbright final report

When I published my last post a few weeks ago, I never imagined that I would be writing my next one under such unprecedented, life-changing, and scary circumstances.

As of March 20th, my Fulbright program was officially terminated due to the severity and far-reaching range of the COVID-19 outbreak. However, we were given the option to remain in Iceland as private citizens, a freedom which I immediately chose to exercise as I greatly feared contracting and spreading the virus while traveling, felt much safer sheltering in place in Iceland, have a much stronger personal support network in Reykjavik than I do in any one place in the United States, and since I've already been confirmed as an Árni Magnússon Institute scholarship recipient and University of Iceland student for next year.

To have my Fulbright grant terminated and so many aspects of my daily life that I've built here in Iceland so abruptly brought to an indeterminately long halt is incredibly scary and deeply heartbreaking. Moving back here, as a Fulbright fellow no less, was nothing less than another dream of mine come true, and I'm still often struggling with a strong sense of loss and resulting anger and resentment from having that experience in all its beauty cut short.

But moving forward through these difficult times, I'm going to try to make something out of the current situation. I've not often had time or especially energy to blog in the last several months, and I'm going to try to do so more often moving forward. Cut short though it may have been, this experience still remains intact. My Fulbright experience in Iceland was one of the most beautiful and important periods in my life, and as I'm staying here, I look forward to continuing to build my life and strengthen my roots here. I've decided to share my final report to the Icelandic Fulbright Commission here, which I wrote in Icelandic as testimony to how much my language skills have progressed since I came here and how proud I am of how far I've come. I'll of course include an English translation below the original Icelandic text, and continue to update this blog further in the coming weeks. Enjoy.




Þegar ég kom til Íslands sem Fulbright styrkþegi í ágúst 2019 var landið nú þegar mikilvægur staður þar sem ég hafði upplifað sérstaka og áhrifamikla upplifun. Núna er ekki bara það. Í gegnum síðasta sjö mánuði hefur Ísland orðið heimað mitt.

Sem nemendur við Háskóla Íslands, hef ég dýpkað þekkinguna mína af íslenskum máli og íslenskri menningu í tímum í talþjálfun, málfræði, og íslensku máli. Út af því að ég hef stór áhuga á norrænum tungumálum og menningum almennilega, ég hef líka kunnað að meta tækifærin til að bæta við notkunina mína af skandinavískum tungumálum, gegnum tímum í dönsku og sænsku. Að frátöldum venjulegum tímunum hef ég njótað líka marga fyrirlestra um tungumál, menningar, sögu, og líðandi stundir Íslands, norrænna landa, og alls heimisins.

Ég tókst við að vera meðlimur nokkurra samfélaga. Sem félagi í Háskólakórnum hef ég lærði mikið um hefðbundna íslenska tónlist, eignast góða vini (bæði Íslendingar og útlendingar), og bætt íslenskuna mína mjög mikið gegnum samtölum með þeim. Sem sjálfboðaliði við AFS á Íslandi hef ég byrjað að taka þátt á ný í samtökum sem ég var mjög tengdur við í fortíðinni, og tengjast við bæði fyrrverandi íslenska skiptinema og útlenda skiptinema sem komu til Íslands. Og sem Fulbright styrkþegi hef ég tekið þátt í menningarathöfnum og fengið einstæðan möguleika til að tjá Fulbright á Íslandi í ráðstefnunni “Our Voices” í Amsterdam.

Auðvitað hefur ástandið sem er í gangi haft áhrif á upplifunina mína. Núna er háskólinn lokaður og kennslan rafræn. Það er frekar erfiðari að æfa sig vel og bæta við, en kennararnir hefur ábyrgst að við ætlum að klára misserinu og taka próf. Ég er nú þegar staðfestur sem þátttakandi í náminu á næstu ári og styrkþegi við Árnastofnunina. Ég hlakka til að halda áfram að vera partur Fulbright samfélagsins á Íslandi og að hjálpa með viðeigandi viðburðum. Ég er djúpt þakklátur Fulbright stofnuninni fyrir tækifærið til að flytja aftur til Íslands og styrkja ræturnar.

When I came to Iceland as a Fulbright grantee in August 2019, it was already an important place to me where I had had special and influential experiences. But now it's not only that. Over the course of the last seven months, Iceland has become my home. 

As a student at the University of Iceland, I have deepened my knowledge of Icelandic language and culture through lessons in conversational practice, grammar, and Icelandic language. Because I am greatly interested in Nordic languages and cultures in general, I have also appreciated the opportunity to improve my knowledge of Scandinavian languages through lessons in Danish and Swedish. Aside from regular lessons, I have also enjoyed a great many extracurricular talks and lectures about languages, culture, history, and current events in Iceland, the Nordic countries, and the whole world. 

I successfully became part of several communities. As a member of the University Choir, I have learned very much about traditional Icelandic music, gained many close friends (both Icelanders and other foreigners), and improved my Icelandic immensely through conversations with them. As an AFS Iceland volunteer I have begun to take part again in a community in which I used to be very active in the past, and connected with both Icelandic AFS returnees and foreign exchange students who have come to Iceland. And as a Fulbright grantee I have taken part in various cultural activities and gotten the chance to represent the Icelandic Fulbright Commission at the "Our Voices" Fulbright conference in Amsterdam. 

Of course the current circumstances have affected my experience greatly. For now the university is closed and teaching is online. It is quite a lot harder to practice well and improve language skills in this way, but our professors have assured us that we will be able to finish the semester and take our exams. I am already confirmed as a University of Iceland student and a recipient of the Árni Magnússon Institute for Icelandic Studies scholarship for next year. And I look forward to continue being a part of the Fulbright community in Iceland and to help in relevant events in any way I can. I am deeply grateful to the Commission for giving me the opportunity to move back to Iceland and strengthen my roots.

Un nuovo articolo mio in italiano - A new article of mine in Italian

Hey guys!

So a few months back, my lovely friend Sofia extended her invitation from the first article I wrote on the University of Bologna Blog's website to any others I might like to write. I submitted this one and figured I would wait to share it with you all until it was ready, published on their website, and with a link to share, but for some reason or another, it seems that they never got around to it. So since I was proud of this writing, I figured I would just go ahead and share it on this blog anyway.

As with last time, I will provide the original text in Italian, and an English translation for anyone interested who cannot read Italian.

I hope you all enjoy.

“Tell me what democracy looks like!” “THIS is what democracy looks like!” “No Trump, no KKK, no racist USA!”

Proietto questi gridi da battaglia con tutta forza, unendola con le migliaia di altre voci a mio fianco - voci afroamericane, voci gay, voci arabe, latinoamericane, ebree, musulmane, alleate. Diventano un unico strido gigantesco, motivando questa marea di umanità contro l'inserzione di un presidente sanzionato da gruppi neonazisti. Sono in centro a Chicago, partecipando alla prima manifestazione della mia vita il giorno dell’inaugurazione del quarantacinquesimo presidente degli Stati Uniti d’America, Donald J. Trump. Marciamo insieme in mezzo alla città, le autostrade attorno, e il lungolago, uniti dalla nostra nostalgia di un governo stabile e giusto, mentre i nostri urli risuonano in questa citta’ leggermente avvolta da una nebbia eterea.

“No hate, no fear, immigrants are welcome here!” “Black lives matter!” “No ban, no wall!” "Donald Trump, GO AWAY! Racist, sexist, anti-gay!"

Questa volta di nuovo sto in piedi insieme a un gruppo dei miei compagni universitari, in un parco di Janesville, Wisconsin, una mezz'oretta da dove studio. Siamo in mezzo a una vasta folle di gente che doveva essere sotto i cento, ma invece sono giunti più di quattromille. Ascoltiamo le voci appassionate di una pastoressa di una chiesa locale, moglie di un immigrato indù; quella di una leader della comunità di una chiesa messicana locale dove si venera in spagnolo; quella di un professore iraniano di fisica alla University of Wisconsin Whitewater a meno di due ore di distanza, che ora bloccato si lamenta con un'elegante e leggera cadenza shirazi della la propria incapacità di tornare al suo paese di origine a trovare i suoi cari.

Altra marcia, altri gridi di battaglia, questa volta tra gelidi venti e neve vorticosa. Mi scaldo periodicamente le mani per trovare un equilibrio tra orgogliosamente oscillare il mio cartello con su scritto “niente paura, niente odio, i profughi sono benvenuti qui” in varie lingue e non congelarle in questo freddo di meno sei gradi.

Quest’ultima è una manifestazione contro l’Ordine Esecutiva 13769, che proibisce ai profughi di guerra e qualsiasi cittadino iraniano, iracheno, sudanese, libico, siriano, somali, o yemenita di entrare “nel nostro paese.” In risposta ai cittadini di questi paesi che le autorità hanno cominciato a detenere quasi subito, tra cui bambini e anziani, una marea di manifestazioni così sono comparse in tutto il paese, in particolare negli aeroporti responsabili.

Assisto a questa manifestazione con in mente in particolare mia madre, un’immigrata italiana lei stessa dalla Provincia di Mantova, provando abbondante orgoglio come figlio suo e di due paesi a difendere i diritti e l’inclusione di gente che è tanto più uguale a noi di quello che ci vorrebbero far credere.

Questa purtroppo di qualche modo è diventata la nostra realtà degli Stati Uniti nel 2017. Svegliarsi alla mattina tutti i giorni significa fare un controllo dei danni, e i crimini di odio contro vari gruppi emarginati sono spaventosamente frequenti.

Anche su il mio campus, che si autopropaganda come un bastione di liberalismo nel Wisconsin rurale, due studenti, una ebrea e l’altro musulmano, si ritrovano con orripilanti e odiose minacce scritte su o sotto le porte delle loro camere. Nei giorni e le settimane seguenti, c'è  una spinta determinata verso l'unità e la solidarietà con i nostri compagni ebrei e musulmani, con spazi ed eventi speciali che vengono dedicati alle loro particolari lotte. Ma il fatto che siano necessari questi provvedimenti parla da solo.

Ho detto anche in passato che qualunque cittadino americano che non è un uomo cristiano eterosessuale di origini europee e non disabile è in vero ed imminente pericolo, e purtroppo questa amministrazione presidenziale continua a dimostrare la verità di questa idea. E va peggiorando.

Per combattere questa insidiosa ingiustizia, per proteggere le vite di chiunque soffre o sia in pericolo, dobbiamo tenere i movimenti di umanità così in vita. I cittadini che hanno qualsiasi tipo di privilegio tra queste diverse e multiforme identità devono osare a difendere chi ne abbia bisogno, o essere considerati complici nell'inserzione di un regime autocratico. Solo in unione ci potrà essere speranza.

“Tell me what democracy looks like!” “THIS is what democracy looks like!” “No Trump, no KKK, no racist USA!”

I project these battle cries with all my strength, uniting mine with the thousands of other voices around me - black voices, gay voices, Arab, Latinx, Jewish, Muslim voices; united. They become one giant cry, spurring this tide of humanity on against the insertion of a president endorsed by neo-Nazis. I'm in downtown Chicago, participating in the first protest of my life the day of the inauguration of the forty-fifth president of the United States of America, Donald J. Trump. We march together in the middle of the city streets, the highways along its edges, and the lakeside, united in a nostalgia for the stable and just government we'd known that very morning, as our shouts echo through this city wrapped in a light, ethereal fog.

“No hate, no fear, immigrants are welcome here!” “Black lives matter!” “No ban, no wall!” "Donald Trump, GO AWAY! Racist, sexist, anti-gay!"

I again stand with a group of my college classmates, this time in the middle of a park in Janesville, Wisconsin, about a half hour from where we study. We are among a vast crowd of people that was predicted to be less than a hundred, and instead over four thousand of us have gathered. We listen to the impassioned speeches of the pastor of a local Christian church, the wife of a Hindu immigrant; another community leader from a Spanish-speaking church in the area; an Iranian business professor from the University of Wisconsin Whitewater, about two hours away, who in an elegant and gentle Shirazi lilt laments his inability to visit his loved ones back home.

Another march, more battle cries, this time with frigid winds and swirling snowflakes to contend with. I periodically warm my hands to strike a balance between proudly brandishing my multilingual "no hate, no fear, immigrants are welcome here" sign, and avoiding losing feeling in my fingers in this 21-degree cold.

This latter one is a protest against Executive Order 13769, which forbids entry to all refugees and any Iranian, Iraqi, Sudanese, Libyan, Syrian, Somali, or Yemeni citizen into "our country." In response to the citizens of this country with origins in the aforementioned seven that the authorities began to detain almost immediately, among which children and senior citizens, a tidal wave of such protests has sprung up around the United States, particularly in the airports responsible.

I attend this protest with my mother in mind, an Italian immigrant from the Province of Mantova, who came to this country and built a life and identity for herself beautifully fusing the warmth and love from where she grew up, and the dynamic innovation and opportunities she found here. I feel abundant pride in my heart as her son and the son of two countries to defend the rights and inclusion of people that are far more like us than many would have us think.

Unfortunately, this has somehow become our reality in the United States of 2017. Waking up every day is an exercise in damage control, with hate crimes against all kinds of minority groups skyrocketing.

Even on my college campus, which defines itself as a bastion of liberalism and diversity in rural southern Wisconsin, two students, one Jewish and one Muslim, have found themselves the victims of hate crimes, with horrifying and hateful threats written on or below the doors to their rooms. In the days and weeks following, there is a determined push towards togetherness and solidarity with our Jewish and Muslim classmates, with spaces and special events dedicated to their particular struggles. But the fact that these are necessary speaks for itself.

I've said in the past that every American citizen who is not a straight, cisgender, able-bodied white man is in real and imminent danger, and sadly since it came to power the current presidential administration has only enforced this idea. And it keeps worsening.

To combat such insidious injustice, to protect the lives of all who are suffering or find themselves in danger, we must keep such movements promoting basic humanity alive. Citizens with any kind of privilege among these diverse and multifaceted identities must dare to defend who needs to be defended, or be held complicit in the rise to power of a dangerous authoritarian regime. Only in union will there be hope.

Vestfirðir, the Icelandic Westfjords

Hey guys!

Today I will be sharing my final post (for now!) in this little series of translations of my friend Sofia's marvelous articles about our time in Iceland. This last one will be about the Westfjords, the region of the country in which our program took place.

Enjoy!

Vestfirðir, the Icelandic Westfjords: Discovering Iceland's most remote region through movies and photos

When looking at a map of Iceland, one immediately notices an ample and jagged peninsula expanding outwards towards the ocean to the northwest: this is the most remote region of the most remote country in Europe: the Vestfirðir, or Westfjords. Less than two percent of the island's population resides in this mountainous corner more than four hundred kilometers from Reykjavik. In fact, only seven thousand people live in these quiet valleys sandwiched between the mountains and the sea. The lack of work and the politics of the population's centralization in the capital area have emptied the little fishing villages of their inhabitants in the course of a century, leaving entire areas uninhabited, like the Hornstrandir Peninsula (now an immense nature reserve). 

The region of the Westfjords is largely unrepresented in classic postcard images of Iceland. Firstly, there are no volcanoes. This region is, geologically speaking, the most ancient in Iceland, therefore its volcanic activity is almost zero. Therefore there are no beaches with black sand here, nor are there numerous sources of thermal water as in the rest of the country. Moreover, the region's main glacier, little Drangajökull, is of dimensions far too modest to compare to the immense icecap of Vatnajökull on the southern coast. 

But above all, one of the biggest differences between the Vestfirðir and the rest of the country is the scarcity of tourists, few of which venture beyond Þjóðvegur 1, the Ring Road. Therefore reaching the Westfjords means finding oneself in a new dimension, where time passes slower and summer days are even longer and brighter. 

A third of all Iceland's coastline belongs to the Vestfirðir. Trivially, this means that to cross them, one must patiently tolerate the infinite curves that wind through the mountains. (Almost) no bridges connect the opposite shores of the fjords, and automobiles are forced to slowly follow the sinuous and jagged lines seen on the map. The largest inhabited area, Ísafjörður, is a little village of 3,500 people, which after kilometers of isolated farms almost looks like a metropolis to visitors' eyes. Among its houses are the nation's most ancient wooden habitations. Built in the 1750s as warehouses and commercial hubs by Danish merchants, they have now been converted into museums. The idea that architecture constructed halfway through the eighteenth century can be considered 'ancient' is enough to make one smile; it is necessary to keep in mind that it was certainly not easy to construct buildings resistant to the wind and cold without suitable construction materials (wood, in fact, was imported from the continent). 

Few mediums are as ideal for understanding the spirit of this reality so far from the bars of Reykjavik and the thermal baths of the south as cinema. In spite of their remoteness and their depopulation (or maybe exactly for this reason), the Westfjords have been the subject of numerous films of the last twenty years. Each of them has a different tone; some more sarcastic, some more tragic, telling of the difficulties of life on the edge of the world. The winter isolation, the complex human rapports, the alienation of an everyday life that is always the same. 

Börn náttúrunnar (Children of Nature, candidate for the Oscar for Best Foreign Film in 1991) poetically narrates an elderly couple's escape from a rest home in the capital, as they search for their youth and their home villages already abandoned to the wind and the waves. París norðursins (Paris of the North, 2014) ironically describes the everyday life of a schoolteacher in a little fishing village. Nói albínói (2003), set in the white winter of the north, tells of solitude and the difficulties of adolescence.   Þrestir (Sparrows, 2015, which won the Lessinia Gold Prize at the Lessinia Festival of 2016) mercilessly denounces the alcohol and drug problems unfortunately common in the little fjord communities.

They're difficult stories to listen to, because they're about places where it's difficult to live. However, whoever has traveled in the Vestfirðir can surely recognize the comic irony of their inhabitants, their respect in relations with others, and their sincere hospitality. Whoever has traveled in those valleys, scaling mountain peaks by the sea or walking through quiet villages in the evening will remember them with nostalgia, and recommend north-bound travelers to dedicate a bit of time to discovering a seemingly lost world: a world of unpaved roads and low clouds, little wooden churches and flocks of sheep invading the roadway. A world where, maybe, the real essence of that mysterious and fascinating place called Iceland still lurks. 

Thank you all for reading.
Be back soon!

A map of the Westfjords.

Where the Westfjords are located in Iceland.

Skrúður, Or The Botanical Garden In The Middle Of Nowhere

Hello everyone!

I will be continuing my little series of translations of my brilliant friend Sofia's lovely Italian articles on the Westfjords and things we experienced there. Today's topic is a lovely little garden called Skruður, which is located on the property of Núpur, the school where we were studying.

Here is a link to the original, complete with her incredible photographic skills. Let's begin.

Skrúður, the little botanical garden in the middle of nowhere: The story of a garden that survives on the edge of the Arctic Circle

There's not much on the banks of Dýrafjörður, one of western Iceland's many deep fjords. Some farms, some bare mountains with permanently snowy peaks, a road that runs along the coast, a church, and an old school. The earth is dark and barren, flocks of sheep graze freely between streams, and the north wind doesn't allow the vegetation to grow very tall. "If you get lost in a forest in Iceland, you just have to stand up." With caustic Nordic irony, this joke reflects the arboreal reality of the island. In fact, only about two percent of its territory is covered with trees. But it hasn't always been like this. When the first Norwegians arrived by sea in the distant year 874, birch forests covered almost forty percent of the island. Over the centuries, the trees were slowly felled to build ships and houses and to make way for pastures. Only in the last fifty years has this trend been reversed, thanks to political pressures for reforestation. However, it is still strange to observe green stains in Iceland's almost desert-like desolation, and for this reason the little oasis of Skrúður shocks even more. 

Enclosed in a little wall of stone and at the slopes of a steep, icy incline, Skrúður is a little botanical garden, founded in 1909 by Sigtryggur Guðlaugsson, a Protestant pastor and teacher in the nearby boarding school of Núpur. The purpose of the garden was to educate the students of the school, teach them how to work the land, to take care of plants, and be able to recognize them. It was so that, slowly, Sigtryggur and his students erected an enclosure, removed the stones, dug the ground, and planted trees that still flourish today. While there is frozen gravel all around, one enters in the garden and is surrounded by colorful flowerbeds and fruit trees. 

In the center of the greenery lies a little greenhouse, a glass refuge capable of capturing the little warmth that arrives from the Arctic sun. This hidden corner of agriculture ripped from the barren landscape was awarded the Carlo Scarpa International Prize in 2013, an important recognition in the world of landscape architecture. The jury commented this on the motivation for their awarding of the prize: 

"Skrúður is a fortress and a crucible unto itself: its enclosure describes a condition that searches for a point of contact between two worlds, that of the confidence and the trust of cultivating the earth, and that of the conscious gaze on the vastness of locations that accompany the same human experience." 

Passing the entrance gate into the garden is, in fact, an unparalleled architectural experience. It's hard to feel the place's uniqueness at first, because the presence of fertile land and green fronds above is easily taken for granted. Slowly, however, one catches on to the powerful gesture made by the young students of these valleys a century ago: to snatch up a little strip of silent, deserted land, and render it human, transforming a minute enclosure into a place of learning and memory. 

The Icelandic poet Guðmundur Ingi Kristjánsson described the garden like this in 1938: 

"Skrúður er brosandi blettur
blettur sem er að sjá
sýnir hve mild og máttug
moldin sem landið þitt á."

"Skrúður is a smiling mark 
that deserves to be seen
which shows how mild and powerful
the earth of your land can be." 

Those who admire Skrúður really do, in fact, "know the creative wish to cultivate." An activity so ancient and so human that it can only be fully appreciated on the edge of the Arctic. Those who admire and walk along this garden in the middle of nowhere understand the incredible size of the work hidden behind every flower, and are moved by the observation of the eternal showdown between humanity and nature, which in this point, even for just a few square meters, finds harmony. 

Thank you all for reading.

(Here are a few of my own shots of Skruður!)

In Iceland: Learning a new language, or better said, becoming children again

Hey everyone!

My good friend Sofia, who connected me with the blog on her university website which enabled me to write my article on the current political situation in the United States back in December, has recently written a few brilliant blog posts on our time in Iceland on that same site.

I will be sharing them with you all, starting with one today on studying the language and the history of Núpur, the school where we studied. The articles are all in Italian, which is why I will be translating them to English for anyone interested who cannot read Italian, but I will also link to the original articles for their beautiful photography.

Here we go!

"In Iceland: Learning a new language, or better said, becoming children again"

Af hverju vilt þú að læra íslensku? This question is suddenly asked of me after I've lain a little dictionary and notebook on my desk. Af því að... íslenska er gamalt tungumál. I stutter slightly, intimidated by the stares of the people around me. "Why do you want to learn Icelandic?" "Because it's an ancient language..." Unfortunately in my mother tongue this motivation sounds improbable and uncoordinated.

Icelandic is an Indo-European language from the Germanic language group, according to Wikipedia. Among the Scandinavian languages, it's the one that has remained the most unchanged through the centuries, due to the obvious isolation of this island of glaciers. Norwegian, Swedish, and Danish have all lost a great deal of their originally complex grammatical structures and have at the same time absorbed a great deal of vocabulary from Romance languages. The Icelandic language has remained so unchanged that it is said those who speak it can read the Nordic sagas with a bit of effort - though it's good to quantify that bit. Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of the stories told in these sagas. Halldór Laxness, winner of the 1955 Nobel Prize, wrote in Icelandic, but I haven't read any of his books. Sigur Rós sometimes sings in Icelandic when they don't invent their lyrics. As I observe the snow on the mountains beyond the bus window, the usual, chatwinian question follows me: what am I doing here? The response is even more unusual: I want to study this language. 

I'm at Núpur, this lost locality on Dýrafjörður, in the Westfjords of Iceland. Here there are only three white buildings and a little church between the mountains and the sea. A few kilometers before, a there is a farm and a botanical garden; a few kilometers beyond, the road turns to dirt and is lost to the sun on the horizon. In 1907 one Sigtryggur Guðlaugsson, a Protestant pastor, founded a school here for the children of the farmers who labored on this cold and hostile land. For decades the school symbolized the national education system and, in spite of its distance from the capital, hosted dozens of students every year. I walk through the long corridors that divide the classrooms and I feel as though their faces in their class photos are observing me, like a deja vu from the movie Dead Poets Society. Their changing haircuts, which reach their maximum length in the seventies, mark the differences between the decades. The numbers of students begin to thin beginning in the eighties. The school was in fact closed in the nineties, and has since become a hotel. Except, that is, for Háskólasetur Vestfjarða, the University Center of the Westfjords, which organizes an annual language course here for university students here. And it is so that I find myself among thirty or so young people from all around the globe, on the edge of the known world, each of us armed with an Icelandic-to-something-else dictionary and a different motivation. I want to learn my grandparent's native language, says an American girl, a granddaughter of local fishermen who emigrated to the luckier Atlantic coast. I want to be able to read the Norse sagas, says a guy who clearly recognizes their literary worth. I want to study geology here, says a Croatian physics major. Everyone has their own reasons, and with a bit of effort, everyone attempts to answer the same question: af hverju viltu læra íslensku?

Studying a language is like becoming children again. One's expressive capabilities are reset, and so it is necessary to slowly reconstruct basic vocabulary to say: Mér líður vel í dag (I feel well today), or (more importantly) það er skítaveður í dag (the weather is so shitty today!). Familiar sayings or cognates with English or Italian are no longer easily accessible. Not even the words of vaguely Greco-Latin origins in whose comfortable intelligibility we usually shelter ourselves can provide any help. Icelandic has (almost) no linguistic borrowings. "Telephone" is "sími," "computer is "tölva," and an idea is "hugmynd" (which, literally translated, means "mind-picture"). Electricity is "rafmagn" (from 'raf,' amber, giving it the same the same etymology of the Greek word 'elektron'). Philosophy is 'heimspeki,' the wisdom of the world. We falter, trip, and stutter before these words and their dry, syncopated pronunciations.  Studying Icelandic is like going back to high school: everything is declined and there are the usual three genders - masculine, feminine, and neuter. And so that we discover that the word fjord is declined "fjörður, fjörð, firði, fjarða," and the correct case changes based on the verb or the preposition that precedes it. Twice a week a bus brings us from Núpur to Ísafjörður, a tiny village of 2,600 souls that is the de facto capital of this area, in which less than 2% of the island's population resides. Only after studying the declensions do I understand why the name of the town isn't always the same. "Við förum til Ísafjarða," we go to Ísafjörður, because til requires the genitive; þegar við vorum á Ísafirði," while we were in Ísafjörður, (because location requires the dative) - this is how Icelanders talk, even declining their own names, and so it is no longer possible to understand anything. "Ég tala við Sofiu," the professor says in class as an example. You have to be precise, otherwise the meaning crumbles in your teeth while you try to pronounce the letters of an alphabet that no longer exists, namely eth (ð) and thorn (þ). It is necessary to remember several rules of pronunciation: the dry sound that transforms ll into "tl" and fn into "pn". It is by no means a coincidence that the name of the famous volcano Eyjafjallajökull became a known tongue-twister, and that the Icelanders laughed at all the journalists announcing its eruption in 2010. 

To improve our pronunciation, we sing folk songs as a choir every week, and continuously watch comedy videos by Jón Gnarr, ex-mayor of Reykjavik and Núpsskóli alumnus. To better understand the solitude of these valleys, where everyone knows each other's secrets and the winters are long, we watch lots of movies (kvikmyndir - fast images), many of which were even filmed in these quiet villages. To better understand the intricate story of the Gísli Saga, which took place in this very fjord more than a thousand years ago, we trace the hero's family tree on paper, and so understand this Norse story that does not differ greatly from classical Greek tragedies: family, revenge, destiny. Slowly, with greater and greater ease, we decipher this place where we're staying and the questions asked of us. We're able to explain ourselves in greater detail, gradually resembling children less and less. We slowly find the Ariadne's thread that connects sounds and words and gives them a precise meaning. My greatest satisfaction is asking an old lady passing by for directions on the street and understanding her response, understanding a few conversations on the bus ride back to Reykjavik, or the headlines in the morning paper. 

Icelandic is spoken by barely three and a half thousand people in the whole world, fewer people than Bolognese, the dialect of my hometown in Italy. Before getting on the plane to Keflavik, many people asked me: Why not a more useful language? Why not French or German? Maybe they were right. I won't have many chances to speak Icelandic in Italy (even though I bought many books by Laxnes and Stefánsson, and a copy of the Gísli Saga, some poetry books, and even the local version of The Little Prince. And now I can understand when Sigur Rós's lead singer Jónsi sings in his native language, as opposed to wordless laments in falsetto). But I got on that plane anyway, and discovered, more than anything else, that famed Argentine author Jorge Luis Borges was absolutely right when he wrote:  

"Iceland, I have dreamed of you a long time / Since that morning when my father / Gave his child that I have been and has not yet died / A version of the Völsunga Saga / That now is deciphering my gloom / With the help of the slow dictionary. / When the body tires of its man, / when the fire declines and turns to ash, / Well is the resigned learning / Of an infinite undertaking; I have chosen / That of your language, this Latin of the North / That encompassed the steppes and the seas / Of a hemisphere and resounded in Byzantium / And in the virgin borders of America. / I know I won't know, but the eventual gifts of the search / Await me. / Not the fruit wisely unattainable. / Those who inquire will feel the same / The stars or the series of numbers... / Only love, ignorant love, Iceland."

I imagine the old Argentine writer, almost blind and bent over his dictionary, trying to study this Latin of the North, knowing that he will never know it, but knowing that the gifts of his research likely await him. That is how it is for me too, as I don't study languages at my home university. After three weeks I'm missing the tasty espresso of the coffee shop below my house: I know I won't know it, but it doesn't matter, because what does is the unexpected side of the search. What matters is being curious, inquiring as to the reason behind a certain etymology (he who discovers an etymology with pleasure, Borges always wrote), trying to understand a story even without subtitles. 

For the first time, I came home from a trip not only with a handful of photos and some souvenirs, but with an entire grammar in my head, which I will continue to study in spite of its near uselessness - because joy is being able to read a poem and understand its meaning, meet people who live in other places on this planet, and learn a language, for no reason other than the sheer pleasure of doing it. 

Thank you all for reading. Be back soon!

A picture of some of the buildings of Núpur - the main building in the middle, and some houses where members of the staff live to the right and left.

A picture of the road beyond Núpur, facing the beach on the shores of Dýrafjörður. 

Ísafjörður's city center.

Il mio primo articolo (in italiano e in generale) - My first article (in Italian and in general)

Hello everyone!

I'm writing to you today from beautiful northern Italy, where I am spending my winter break visiting my relatives for the holidays.
I greatly apologize for my silence over the course of this semester, but it was a tough one. New posts will soon arrive, covering a variety of topics, from how my semester went to my favorite regional dialects and accents in the languages I know.
Today, however, I wanted to share something very special with you all. A few months ago, my Italian friend Sofia, who I met in Iceland, asked me if I wanted to write an article on this disaster of a recent American election on her university's blog. To which I heartily agreed.
I decided it would be great to share it with whatever readership I have here on my personal blog as well.

I am including the link of the article on the University of Bologna's website, the original text in Italian, and a translation for anyone interested in what I have to say about this who does not read Italian. I hope you guys may like it. I will let the article speak for my feelings regarding the election.

Senza riguardo ai risultati, queste recenti elezioni avrebbero rappresentato un momento storico per gli Stati Uniti. Purtroppo in fine non saranno storiche nel modo in cui speravano tante persone. Mentre molti aspettavano fiduciosamente l’elezione della prima presidente donna nella storia del nostro paese, invece ci troviamo adesso con un uomo che ha vinto le elezioni solo per via dell’inutile e antiquato vestigio del collegio elettorale, che per l’interezza della sua campagna presidenziale ha approvvigionato e assecondato i segmenti della popolazione più sessisti, razzisti, omofobi, xenofobi, antisemiti, e islamofobi nel paese. Già con solo una settimana di seguito dall’annuncio della sua vincita, i crimini di odio contro le persone di colore, LGBT, immigrati, ebrei, e musulmani sono saliti alle stelle. Inoltre, la sua sconcertante credenza che il cambiamento climatico sia una farsa e la sua conseguente dedizione a eliminare la partecipazione degli Stati Uniti a tratti internazionali di sostenibilità ecologica potrebbero avere conseguenze devastanti per il clima non solo del nostro paese, ma globale.

C’è tanta discussione in questi giorni dei risultati delle elezioni, e tante persone hanno reagito in modo estremo e emozionale da entrambi i lati dello spettro politico. Però mentre tanti sostenitori di Donald Trump accusano i loro avversari di “lamentarsi” che la loro candidata nonabbia vinto, la realtà non potrebbe essere più tristemente diversa.

La realtà è che molte tra le popolazioni del paese adesso hanno paura per le proprie vite. E giustamente. Nei giorni successivi all’annuncio dei risultati, il presidente eletto parla in un modo decisamente più posato e sedato rispetto alla retorica aggressiva e divorziata dalla realtà che ha definito la sua campagna politica, con il risultato che alcune persone privilegiate si trovano più disposte a dargli una possibilità. D’altra parte tuttavia, che compia le sue losche promesse o meno, il paese ha perso, e ogni suo cittadino che non è un uomo cristiano eterosessuale di origine europee e non disabile è in pericolo. In Donald Trump, la così-chiamata “destra alternativa,” che in realtà sono letterali neonazisti, tra cui la infama Klu Klux Klan, ha trovato una figura politica dietro la quale può ristabilirsi, e la sua vincita le ha provveduto nuovo potere e comodità  di esprimere le proprie credenze odiose con l’illusione di maggior accettazione. Non si sentono più costretti a nascondere il disprezzo nei confronti di chiunque sia diverso, e così anche con più di un mese rimasto fino alla sua inaugurazione, le conseguenze delle implicazioni catastrofiche di questa elezione si stanno già manifestando. 

Con tutte queste insidiose ripercussioni molti si sentono comprensibilmente vulnerabili e devastati. Ma tra tutti gli scherzi di trasferimenti in Canada o di matrimoni con amici europei per ottenere altre cittadinanze, è necessario analizzare il proprio privilegio e pensare criticamente a ciò che possiamo fare tutti per lottare per l’America vera. Quella della tribù sioux che combatte coraggiosamente a Standing Rock nel North Dakota per proteggere la propria terra. Quella dell’immigrazione che ha costruito uno dei popoli più variegati al mondo. Quella che ha legalizzato i matrimoni omosessuali al livello federale meno di due anni fa. Quella dell’infinita forza e sopravvivenza da parte delle minoranze razziali manifestate nel movimento “Black Lives Matter.” Questa America esiste ancora, nei milioni americani che sono in lutto per la rispettabilità della nostra politica nazionale. I più di 64 milioni che hanno votato per Hillary Clinton saranno sempre delusi che la natura storica di questa elezione non sarà definita dalla scelta della prima presidente donna degli Stati Uniti d’America. Ma se vogliamo sostenere i valori ed argomenti che avrebbe abbracciato una presidenza di Clinton, dobbiamo rimanere informati, determinati, e disposti a rimanere per lottare per i diritti dei nostri fratelli e sorelle emarginate. E’ la loro sicurezza che conta per la sopravvivenza della vera America.

Regardless of its results, this recent election would have represented a historic moment for the United States. Unfortunately, in the end they were not historic in the way that many people were hoping. While many of us were hopefully awaiting the election of the first woman president in the country's history, we instead find ourselves with a man who has won the election only by merit of the useless and outdated vestige of the Electoral College, who for the entirety of his campaign has catered to and indulged the most sexist, racist, homophobic, xenophobic, Islamophobic, and anti-Semitic sectors of the population. Already only two months after his election, hate crimes against people of color, the queer community, Jews, Muslims, and many others have skyrocketed. Furthermore, his disconcerting belief that climate change is a hoax and his consequential dedication to cancelling American participation in international environmental sustainability treaties could have devastating consequences for the climate not only of the United States, but of the whole world.

There is much discussion of the election's results these days, and many have reacted in extreme and emotional manners on both sides. But while supporters of Donald Trump accuse their adversaries of "whining" that their desired candidate did not win, the reality could not be more different.

The reality is that many people now fear for their lives. As they should. In the days following the election, the president elect speaks in a decidedly more composed and sedated manner compared to the aggressive rhetoric divorced from reality that defined his presidential campaign. Consequentially, more privileged individuals have felt more inclined to "give him a chance." However, on the other hand, whether he fulfills his sinister promises or not, the country has lost. Every one of its citizens that is not a white, cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied Christian man is now in very real danger. In Donald Trump, the so-called "alt-right," more accurately described as literal neo-Nazis, among which the infamous Klu Klux Klan, has found a political figure it can rally behind and restabilize itself, and his victory has provided them new power and commodity to express their beliefs under the illusion of their greater acceptance. They no longer feel forced to hide their contempt and hatred towards anyone who is different, and so, even with weeks left until the inauguration, the catastrophic implications of this election have already begun to manifest themselves.

With all these insidious repercussions, many feel understandably devastated and vulnerable. But among all the jokes about moving to Canada or marrying European friends with the goal of obtaining new citizenships, it is necessary to analyze one's privilege and think critically about what one can do to fight for the real America. That of the Sioux tribe combating courageously at Standing Rock Reservation in North Dakota to preserve their beloved land. That of the immigration that has produced one of the world's most diverse populations. That of the infinite strength and survival of the country's racial minorities expressed in the Black Lives Matter movement. This America still exists, in the millions of Americans fighting for the respectability of our nation's politics. The over 64 million people who voted for Hillary Clinton will always be disappointed that the historical nature of this election will not be defined by the election of the first woman president of the United States of America. But if we wish to sustain the values and issues that a Clinton presidency would have embraced, we must remain informed, determined, and ready to stay and fight for the rights of our marginalized siblings. Their safety is what counts for the survival of the real America.


Thank you all for reading.
Much love, good vibes, stay safe, and never give up on fighting for what you know is right.
-Nico