We - In between kita and kami

“Who are you? Why should we tell you these things?”

In 2018, I led another artist back to my native village for the first time, acting as a guide. Before this, I had only participated, whether directly or indirectly, in the public affairs of our village by performing tasks suitable to my age set during tribal festivals. After graduation, having worked in northern Taiwan for a long time, I did not have time – or I did not “make time for myself” – to stay in the village, except for the festivals. After discussing with the other artist and heeding the advice of a “kaka” (pronoun for an elder brother or sister in the Amis/Pangcah language), we decided to visit the activity center and join the company of elders to say hello, introduce ourselves, and explain the project to them at the “Cultural Health Station” (the communal long-term care facility) the next day, after we had arrived in the village. I was extremely nervous the night before, because I felt that the elders would not know who I was. Even though both my maternal and paternal grandparents (who had all passed away a few years before) were not much younger than they were. By explaining our project to them, we hoped to gain their recognition and assistance, and be granted the opportunity to learn traditional knowledge from them. However, before introducing the project, I had to first deal with and assess my own social distance from the village.

Due to a pre-arranged activity and the elder meeting at the Cultural Health Center in the morning, we simply accompanied the elders and joined their activities before lunch, to quietly listen to their discussions and have lunch with them, while sporadically introducing ourselves and explaining our purpose in coming to the village, during our conversations with them. Feeling somewhat anxious, and also because of being timid, I kept interacting with them like an outsider, introducing my job, the friend I brought with me, as well as our research project. The elders were very friendly to us. They patiently read the reference kit we brought, and did their best to answer our questions. During the process of chitchatting and asking questions, the mama (father) of one of the staff members at the Cultural Health Station was perhaps puzzled by my abrupt questions, or was not fully informed of our project. So, when I asked him questions somewhat clumsily, and tried to communicate with him, he just looked at me and said rather bluntly, “you come from the outside. Who are you? Why should we tell you these things?” Blindsided by his reply, I could only manage to make an apology for my intrusion, and even forgot to explain our purpose more clearly, before excusing myself to stand aside. All of a sudden, the pent-up anxiety and worries came bursting out, and my eyes began to well up. After a while, the kaka who knew me well saw that I was hiding at the event’s margins. He comforted me by encouraging me and saying, “mama likes to joke. You only need to explain who you are clearly.” At that time, I did not really understand the unspoken message in this reminder. I had only convinced myself that the elders would not know who I was, and I had to cope with the fact that I did not understand anything.

During the session to properly introduce our project, my fellow artist and I showed the documentation of our previous projects and their processes on computers. I explained to the elders about the photographic and filming equipment that we would use for our work, while the other artist was busy showing the pictures he had taken before, hoping to create a stronger bond and sympathetic resonance. However, the elders only looked at us blankly. So, the kaka helped by providing more information about the area where my family originated and the family I came from. Only then did the elders begin to respond. After the kaka finished talking, one of the elderly women came up to me, and said, “which daughter of Kuku’s are you?” She spoke in our native tongue, in which I was not fluent. However, her question was simple enough, and I answered her in our native tongue briefly and replied, “the second.” Then, she came over, held my hands, and hugged me, starting to cry. According to her, she was a good friend of my maternal grandmother. Because I looked very much like my mother and my grandmother, she thought of the past, and her memory suddenly rushed back. She later added that she was not only my grandmother’s friend but also a relative on the side of my paternal grandfather. At this moment, the mama spoke smilingly, “so we know each other. You should have told us earlier!” Only then did I realize that I had been hiding behind the mask of an outsider, worrying and feeling anxious, and did not properly inform the elders about my identity, my connection and contextual relationship with the village, as well as what propelled me to come back with my artist friend, with a studious attitude of learning.

Before this very moment, the “we” referred by the mama at first, in fact, did not include me. However, based on his tone and choice of words, I knew that the “we” he was referring to in the end included me. Such way of defining “we” and others in a group is based a rather natural concept in the Amis/Pangcah language. However, when is the “we-group” referred to, and when the “non-we-group”? Are the boundary always well-defined and unchangeable?

In the Amis/Pangcah community, there are two types of “we”: one is signified by the word “kami,” which is the “we” that does not include “you” (the listener or reader), and denotes a more limited scope of “we,” as opposed to the listener; the other is indicated by the word “kita,” which is the “we” that includes “you,” and refers to the “we” that includes the listener or everyone, signaling a larger range, and is vaguer. As to which “we” should be used, it is a judgment call to be made by the speaker, and depends on the speech context.

However, due to different levels of distance/closeness and spatial conception conveyed by the language, when using “we,” it is possible to clearly determine whether “kita” or “kami” should be used in some situations. For instance:

1. Nanay (hope) mapalemed (be blessed/be led into dreams) kita (we)

Translation: Hopefully, we can be blessed/led into dreams.

2. Malemeday (good fortune) kame (we).

Translation: We are lucky.

Situationally and habitually speaking, when a speaker gives a blessing, “kita” is usually used because one would hope to include the group envisioned for the blessing as well as the listener and other receivers of this message, so that all would be blessed. The spatial range of the group indicated by the sentence can be expanded accordingly. Therefore, in the first example, it would be inappropriate to replace “kita” with “kami.” In the second example, on the other hand, it is clear that the speaker is describing the group he/she belongs to, so “kita” would not be used in such a situation.

Kita

In “Ka-kita-an (Where We Are), the Non ‘Tribalist’ Concept of We-Group,” Namoh Nofu Pacidal discusses the viewpoint and spatial concept revealed by the term “ka-kita-an,” which uses “kita” as the root. In the traditional Amis/Pangcah society in the past, the ritualistic tradition at the “kakita’an” (ancestral house of the family of the ancestral origin) used to be the center of the everyday tribal life and spirit. Furthermore, in the theocratic context of the traditional Amis/Pangcah society, “kakita’an” was the center of the Amis/Pangcah people’s rituals and life, both in terms of their social system and religious beliefs. However, denoting the ancestral house of the family of the ancestral origin, the term is formed with the inclusive root “kita,” rather than the non-inclusive “kami,” in the Amis/Pangcah language:

Linguistically speaking, “kita” is the stem of “ka-kita-an.” “Kita” means (non-exclusive) “we.” “Ka” (a prefix indicating intention) + “kita” (we) + “an” (place) means “the place where we are.” In fact, it is quite understandable that “kita” was used to form “kakita’an” instead of “kami.” “Kita” refers to “we,” which includes the listener (non-exclusive), whereas “kami” excludes the listener. For the family of the ancestral origin, all the families that have branched out are indeed part of the we-group—they are part of us, who have originated from the same “clan origin.” The “clan origin” is the “kita’an,” or where we are—the ancestral origin.

Namoh Nofu Pacidal 2017

What is implied by the term “katkia’an,” therefore, is the collective history of all the families that have branched out from the ancestral family, including those who have moved or migrated:

“History” exists “in between” the coexistence. The “in between” describes the connections among “individuals,” hence their coexistence “in between” history.

Namoh Nofu Pacidal 2017

Consequently, we can understand that the group conceived by the term “kita” in the instance of “ka-kita-an” encompasses a corresponding concept of space and boundary, which is not always fixed and unchanging. The description of “kita” in the Amis/Pangcah language, the formation of a group, whether it is fluid, migratory, or wandering, is due to the connections between and differences of individuals. In other words, the formation and reference of “kita” as a whole exists because it includes different individuals in their respective forms. So, when using “kita,” its boundary is blurry, and it contains diverse forms. In spite of this, we share in this group that makes us a collective whole.

When revisiting to my native culture, conducting field work, making art, or even carrying out intercultural exchange, the concepts of “kita” and “kami” have gradually become my rule of thumb for evaluating myself, as well as a reminder of the different distances, closeness, and levels between two identities. I would think about the situations that do not permit an interchange of the terms, as well as the situations in which the boundary between them becomes blurry, and they become mutually replaceable.

Kami

"Kami" is used in situations when a speaker wants to plainly refer to the exclusive group of us in everyday life. However, in addition to its everyday use, it can be observed that “kami” has gradually become a vocabulary used in the occasion of campaigning for ethnic cultural development as well as for social and resistance movements. For instance :

O sowal (language) no niyam (ours) kami (we), Mipa’es (safeguard/protect) to saka’orip (to survive) no finacadan (race)!
Translation: We are our language. Protect the right of racial survival!

As a result, what “kami” implies is the relative closeness revealed by the words in the description, as well as the clearly referred scope. Moreover, the connection between the listener and the described group is relatively clear as well.

In between kita and kami

Due to the differences among the members in the group, it is the different backgrounds of individuals that is highlighted, rather than the formation of a homogenous collective whole. Consequently, sometimes the “we-group” is referred to by “kita,” and sometimes “kami”—the concept of “we-group” encompasses differences between and flexibility in relation to one another. The difference embedded in the pair of synonyms, “kita/kami,” which I have learned from my native language, has also become a starting point for mutual care when I interact with different cultural groups.

In 2019, I joined an international exchange project, title KMTX 2019 Beyond Borders- a search for self, organized by the Open Contemporary Art Center (OCAC) and the Malaysia-based Center for Orang Asli Concerns (COAC), for which I traveled to the Malay Peninsula, and visited the Temiar tribe in Kampu Cunex, Perak; the Desa Temuan next to Bukit Lanjan in Selangor; the Jakun tribe in Jemeri, Pahang; and the Mah Meri tribe in Bumbu, Carey Island, where I conducted dialogues with the people there, with my own situations as a member of the indigenous community as a reference point. During my visit to the Temiar tribe in Kampung Cunex, Perak, there were a few nights when I was invited to join their traditional ritual. It was carried out in a traditional building without any interior source of light. Before the ritual began, only a few candles were lit in front of Atok Long, who led the ritual, for the benefit of people taking their seats, and were put out as soon as the ritual had commenced. There was only occasional light when the moonlight sieved through the thatch and wood. As an artist relying on video documentation to make works, it was impossible to film during the ritual. In fact, I was told in advance that any form of visual documentation and audio recording was prohibited. The ritual proceeded entirely in darkness. The people’s singing, the music from musical instruments, and the sounds of them, dancing filled the room and persisted for more than an hour each time. In the dark, I always felt an indescribable sense of stupor. Near the end, everyone would take turns being soaked in water that flowed down from leaves; I was also invited to receive the protection of the spirits through water every time. After the ritual, they told me that I was now part of their community because I had been soaked with the water in the ritual, and I needed to abide by some rules as well.

Some days later, when we were chatting about the process of the ritual, the people from the tribe offered voluntarily to re-create the activity that they had carried out in the dark in their activity center, so that I could film it. I was extremely surprised that they would be willing to re-create the entire ritual. However, after we reached an understanding about the re-creation of the ritual and the filming of it – that it was not about their belief and exchange with the spirits, but simply for the sake of helping me understand and make documentation – I suddenly comprehended the logic of this “re-enactment”— how/why they could “perform” it for me, and we both agreed that it was simply a “performance,” which could be recorded and shared. Its reproduction and communication would become a way for others to understand their culture. Nevertheless, this re-enactment was in reality detached from their life and belief.

During this “performance,” we had a pleasant evening. Before we started, the elders even had a discussion about whether or not they should wear their traditional clothing for performing, so that there would be better images for the filming. Everyone agreed to re-enact the ritual in the most comfortable attire, because it was what they would normally do in the ritual. In the end, with the same clothing, music, and sounds, I filmed the same movements carried out by the people in the ritual, and the processes they performed. However, the site was a different venue; the sense of space had changed; and my role in relation to them was not the same as well. Naturally, I was always someone who had come into their lives from another country, community and culture. Despite this difference, I was accepted as a member of their community, invited to collectively receive the blessings of the spirits in the ritual. On the other hand, regarding the performance, filming, communication, and artistic creation, the same difference had to be clearly understood and defined. In the “performance,” we could imitate their activity and feeling in the dark, but that particular state and communion felt during the actual ritual could only be truly captured in that unilluminated house, without any video documentation, and throughout their communion with the spirits.

In between “kita” and “kami,” the unlit house and the well-lit activity center, and my finding a connection with the tribe and the exhibition project, the change of identity in relation to the group only happened in an instant, at a gap, or in between different angles of thinking. Defining a we-group sometimes needs to be distinct, and can sometimes be vague. However, it is precisely because of such ways of thinking that difference and flexibility are preserved in the defining process. In the connection and transition between different cultures and experiences, I have sometimes felt overwhelmed, sometimes frustrated, while being recognized at other times. Yet, “kita” and “kami” have served as a reminder and a rule of principle for me, and have provided me with the elbow room and assessment necessary for artistic creation.