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Another post from the British Library’s Asian and African studies blog (see this LH post from 2019), The Term ‘Shater’ and its Use in the India Office Records:

As part of cataloguing the India Office Records (IOR), we occasionally come across unfamiliar terms that make us question their origin and how they relate to the way they are used in the records. The case under consideration here is the term shater (pl. shaters), used in the IOR to refer to foot messengers. Shaters were employed to travel long distances, usually within Persia [Iran], in short periods of time to deliver letters to and from local governors, merchants, or the East India Company’s representatives. This post traces the possible roots of the term shater, and its development throughout history to bear the meaning of a foot messenger.

Arabic language dictionaries indicate that the term shater (Ar. shāṭir pl. shuṭṭar [sic: should be shuṭṭār — LH] has its origins in the root sh-ta [sic: should be ṭa — LH]-ra, which primarily means to distance oneself from family or tribe; someone who is shrewd at finding ways to do things, or overcoming obstacles. These meanings relate directly to a group known in Pre-Islamic Arabic literature as al-Sa‘alik [sic: should be ṣa‘ālīk — LH] [Brigands]. Members of this group were exiled by their tribes, and sometimes they chose to distance themselves. As they grew up alone, they developed their own life-style, and adopted certain characteristics that distinguished them from others. They were said to be ‘sharp, brave and as agile as horses’ (Dayf, Tarikh al-Adab al-‘Arabi, pp. 375-378). […]

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Benjamin Ivry has a fascinating Forward interview with Hillel Halkin that includes the following tidbits of LH interest:

In a 2011 interview, you said that as a young reader, you strongly identified with the character of Stephen Dedalus the conflicted Catholic protagonist of James Joyce’s “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” and “Ulysses.” Where are the affinities?

I still have that identification with Stephen, including the Stephen in “Ulysses.” I think “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” is perhaps the most beautiful English novel. I’ve read it and read it many times. My own experience of Judaism was very similar to Stephen’s growing up and rebelling against Catholicism. Stephen never gives up on being a Catholic, but in being a believing Catholic. He still thinks like a Catholic and I think that’s true of me too [for Judaism]. […]

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This is one of those posts that will hardly be of interest to anyone but myself, but I’ve spent all morning untangling this knot of names, and by gad I’m going to set it down for posterity (meaning primarily me in the future, when I will have forgotten it all). Those not interested in obscure dialect forms of bygone village harvest festivals with Orthodox religious overtones can skip it with no FOMO.

When I first learned of the existence of Vasily Ivanovich Aksyonov, I was intensely irritated. If he was going to be named Vasily Aksyonov, couldn’t he have gone into some other line of work than writing? And if he insisted on being a writer, couldn’t he have taken a pseudonym, say Vasily Yalansky (since he was born in the Siberian town of Yalan and often writes about it)? As it is, he’s easily confused with the famous Vasily Aksyonov, and I had to go through my Chronology of Russian Prose Literature and change all the Aksyonovs to “V.P. Aksyonov” and add a set of “V.I. Aksyonov” entries. But eventually I got used to it; after all, there’s A.K. Tolstoy and A.N. Tolstoy (not to mention the famous Leo) and A.P. Tsvetkov and A.V. Tsvetkov and all sorts of Ivanovs and Leonovs and Kazakovs and Rybakovs, so why not two Vasily Aksyonovs? And he sounded interesting, not to mention the complete opposite of his famous namesake: Siberian and village-prose and religious and traditional where V.P. was Petersburg and city-prose and irreligious and experimental. So I started looking into him.

And looking at his story Таха (Takha, the name of a Siberian river) I saw it started with the one-line paragraph “Аспожинки,” followed by a Pushkin quote about autumn (“Унылая пора! Очей очарованье!“). Naturally, I wondered about the unknown word aspozhinki: what did it mean, and where was the stress? So I fell down a rabbit hole. I quickly discovered that Aksyonov has also written a book Оспожинки [Ospozhinki], which had to be another spelling of the same word. Google quickly told me it was the name of a harvest festival; the Russian Wikipedia article has an impressive list of names:

Осенние оспожинки, Осенины, Богородицкая, Поднесеньев день, Праздник рожаниц, Спожа, Богáч, Праздник урожая, День благословения хлебов, Матушка-осенина, Огородичен день, Малая Пречистая, «Друга Пречиста» (укр.), «Мати Пречиста» (укр.), «Засідкi» (белорус.), Вторая встреча осени, Луков день (Яросл., Вологод.), Пасиков день (Пенз., Сарат.), Пасеков день, Аспосов день, Спосов день (Рязан.), Рождество Богородицы.

At the end of the article there’s a “See also” section which refers you to Обжинки [Obzhinki], another name for the harvest festival, which has an even longer list of names:
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I had known that Queen Elizabeth I was among the more literate of monarchs, but I hadn’t realized the extent of it; John-Mark Philo writes about it for the TLS:

Among the manuscripts preserved at Lambeth Palace Library is a translation of Tacitus completed in the late sixteenth century (MS 683). It focuses on the first book of the Annales, which sees the death of Augustus and the rise of the emperor Tiberius, tracing the steady centralization of governmental powers in a single individual. The translation has been copied by an amanuensis in an exquisite italic hand, with subsequent corrections made by the author. It is on a very specific kind of paper stock, which gained prominence among the Elizabethan secretariat in the 1590s. There was, however, only one translator at the Tudor court to whom a translation of Tacitus was attributed by a contemporary, and who was using the same paper in her translations and private correspondence: the queen herself. Above all, the corrections made to the Lambeth Tacitus are a compelling match for Elizabeth’s later handwriting, which was, to put it mildly, idiosyncratic.

As well as composing an impressive range of original works in verse and prose, Elizabeth I was an enthusiastic translator. Whether engaging foreign visitors in multilingual conversation or delivering withering ripostes in Latin to impertinent ambassadors, Elizabeth was celebrated for her linguistic abilities even in her own lifetime. Particularly strong in French, Italian, and Latin, she was also proficient in Spanish and Greek, whose alphabet would eventually pepper her everyday handwriting (in later years, she used “φ” for “ph”). She undertook translations of Jean Calvin, Cicero, Plutarch, Seneca, Horace and Boethius, all of which survive today. Elizabeth’s perennial favourite, Henry Savile, produced a translation of Tacitus in 1591, which he dedicated to the queen, drawing particular attention to her “most rare and excellent translations of Histories”. John Clapham, another of Elizabeth’s contemporaries, refers to her translation of “some part of Tacitus’ Annals” in his history of the queen’s reign, which he composed with the help of the courtier Robert Cecil. Clapham mentions Elizabeth’s Tacitus first and foremost among the queen’s translations, which “she herself turned into English for her private exercise”. Though the other translations which Clapham mentions have since been accounted for, the Tacitus translation has thus far remained elusive. […]

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I have been neglecting the headgear-related portion of the remit of Languagehat, so without further ado, I present Richard in a Hat: “I have many hats and regularly post a new picture of me in a different hat, cap or other headgear with a few facts about what I’m wearing.” The most recent post is Börk hat (“Börk is a type of Turkish man’s cap or headdress”). He wears hats well, and I am pleased to note that he sports the same style of facial hair as your humble servant. (Via MeFi, where of course a commenter feels “slightly weird about pictures of this white dude in traditional hats from other cultures.”)

Another passage from Luc Sante’s The Other Paris (see this post):

It was Lutèce, or Lutetia, under the Romans, and became Paris around 300 C.E. François Villon called it Parouart in his fifteenth-century thieves’ cant; Rimbaud called it Parmerde in a letter written in 1872. Sometime in the early nineteenth century, people started referring to it as Pantin — ironically, since Pantin was then a rustic village on the plain northeast of the city (the word also means “puppet,” which may have had something to do with its use) — and then around 1849 the name acquired an argot suffix and became Pantruche; the -truche may have derived from autruche, “ostrich.” The moniker survived well into the twentieth century, although somewhere near that age’s beginning it was overtaken in popular speech by Paname. Was that name inspired by the 1892 government swindle concerning the faltering Panama Canal project, described as the largest corruption scandal of the nineteenth century? That seems a likelier source than the Panama hat, cited by some, the object of a vogue after adorning the heads of workers returned from the isthmus. Paname stuck because it was sort of perfect: raffish, satirical, swaggering, and pointed all at once. Paname, like argot itself, has come to be most enduringly associated with chanson réaliste singers, midcentury crime fiction writers (Albert Simonin, Auguste le Breton, San-Antonio), and movie gangsters from Jean Gabin to Lino Ventura. Today it enjoys another life in hip-hop, employed by rappers as the local equivalent to the Rastafarians’ Babylon: the root of all corruption, racism, and malice.

The inhabitants, for somewhat more than a century, have been Parigots, with another pejorative suffix. (Parisien, meanwhile, was the slang term for an old horse about to be put down; it is also a loaf of bread.) Now and then you still hear the term titi, which comes from a word for street urchin (and ultimately from tirailleur, “sharpshooter”) and denotes a working-class Parisian of old stock, someone whose family had lived in the neighborhood for a century or more. There aren’t many of those left. The titi was a creature of the city when it was composed of so many villages — quartiers with functional autonomy, ad hoc institutions, and unspoken codes; where everyone of a given age had been kids together and knew one another’s virtues and foibles intimately. The quartier was for centuries the basic local entity. When the city was a world, the quartiers were nations, and they correspondingly drew all the fervent loyalty and instinctual identification that cities or countries usually inspire — the larger entities generally went without saying, except maybe in times of war. In 1943, A. J. Liebling encountered a tattooed casualty, with a tricolor wrapped around his waist, in a field hospital on the North African front. “When I asked him where he came from, he didn’t bother saying ‘Paris’ — just ‘Nineteenth Arrondissement.’ […]”

What a wonderful book!

Alexander Jabbari at Newslines writes about Yiddish and Arabic:

Through modern Hebrew, Yiddish words occasionally find their way into Arabic. A notable example in Palestinian Arabic is balagan, meaning “chaos,” borrowed from Hebrew. […] While balagan came to Palestinian Arabic through Hebrew, the source of the Hebrew word was likely Yiddish. The word is ultimately from Persian bālākhāna, meaning “upper room” or “chamber.” It passed from Persian into Tatar or another Turkic language and from there entered Russian as balagan, where it came to refer to a temporary wooden structure for circus performances. Because of the circus context, the Russian word also acquired connotations of buffoonery. When borrowed from Russian and put into Yiddish (and Polish), the chaos of the circus setting gave the word the sense of a mess, bedlam or chaos. It’s hard to say with certainty whether the Hebrew word balagan came from Yiddish, Russian or Polish, as all three are common lexical sources for modern Hebrew. In any case, there have been other, more direct encounters between Yiddish and Arabic.

In Ottoman Palestine, and especially in Jerusalem before 1948, it was common for Yiddish-speaking Jews and Arabs to understand each other’s languages, particularly in neighborhoods where the two communities abutted each other. Among Jews, it was more often women engaged in business or neighborly relations with Arabs who learned Arabic, whereas men were more often secluded in yeshivas, engrossed in the study of Hebrew and Aramaic texts. Arabic was taught alongside German in the “modern” Sephardic schools established after 1850, and while there were attempts to integrate Arabic into the Ashkenazic institutes of learning, in order to provide graduates with practical job skills, these were usually resisted by the religious authorities. Nevertheless, in the 19th century there were groups of Ashkenazic men in Jerusalem who learned Arabic, both spoken and literary. Arabic words became part of the everyday Yiddish spoken in Palestine — even for terms specific to Judaism, like khalake, a boy’s ritual first haircut, from the Arabic for haircut, ḥalāqa. These were documented by Mordecai Kosover in his lengthy dissertation on the Arabic elements of the Yiddish spoken by the Ashkenazic (central and eastern European origin) Jewish community in Palestine.

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Back in 2014, Sashura said “Even Russian Vinni Pukh is different from Winnie the Pooh.” Now Sabina Amanbayeva at the Jordan Center tells Тhе Story of the Russian “Winnie the Pooh” (Part I, Part II). It begins:

The story of the Russian Winnie the Pooh, or “Vinni Pukh,” is inextricably tied to the experience of readers who enjoyed the book in the 1960s and 1970s, as well as to viewers of eponymous cartoons released in 1969, 1971, and 1972. Vinni Pukh holds a special place in the hearts of many Russophones, but is a very different character than the one familiar to English speakers.

In fact, upon discovering the English-language Winnie the Pooh, many Russian speakers feel surprised and claim, justifiably or not, that “ours is better.” He is certainly more Russian. It is almost unimaginable to a Russian speaker that “another” Vinni Pukh exists. Just imagine that the American Star Wars turned out, in fact, to be an adaptation of a story based in a different culture. However “authentic” the “original,” fans of the “adaptation” are unlikely to care: Star Wars is, by now, well established as American. Similarly, Vinni Pukh has lodged himself so firmly in the Russian imaginary that most Russophones see him as a fundamentally Russian bear, though with an English connection.

The Russian Vinni Pukh “looks more like a potato than a traditional bear and is beloved by the older generations,” writes Galina Zakhoder, the wife of Boris Zakhoder, the writer and translator who gave the bear his Russian identity. In Boris Zakhoder’s own words, he “re-told [pereskazal]” A.A. Milne’s story in Russian rather than simply translating it. Zakhoder’s “Vinni Pukh and so on and so on and so on [Vinni Pukh i vse-vse-vse]” was first published by the publishing house Detskii Mir in 1960, and has since become a Russian classic.

What does it mean to “re-tell” the story as opposed to translating it? According to translation scholar Lawrence Venuti, a translation always “domesticates” the original, that is, reframes it in terms of the tropes and beliefs of the receiving culture. Every translator is a prism that reflects the original according to his or her own understanding. While Venuti criticizes this “domestication” as potentially colonial (domesticating the foreign), Zakhoder took a markedly different approach. His goal, as he states in his History of My Publications, was not to domesticate the original, but to tell it afresh. Per Zakhoder, “There is only one way to translate the untranslated, and that is — to write it anew.” In contrast to Venuti’s hypothetical translation-as-colonization, Zakhoder’s work makes no attempt to change the original source. The idea is, instead, to write in another language in the spirit of the original — so that it looks Russian, feels Russian, but A. A. Milne remains its author.

She gives a number of specific examples, and continues:
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Vesna Goldsworthy has an interesting — and depressing — Asymptote review of a book I’d definitely like to read:

Miloš Crnjanski’s A Novel of London (1971) is one of the key works of twentieth century Serbian fiction. Given the novel’s significance in the former Yugoslavia, its powerful and enduringly relevant story of East–West migration and exile, and its meticulously evoked setting based on the author’s first-hand experience of London during and immediately after World War Two, it might seem surprising—shocking even—that Crnjanski’s work remained unpublished in English for so long. Yet all too often that is the fate of even the most important literature from small languages and small countries.

This belated English version appears half a century after the original, largely as a result of the personal endeavours of Will Firth, one of the pre-eminent translators of writing from the former Yugoslavia. I would love to say that it has been eagerly awaited. That may be true for the small number of Crnjanski scholars in the West, and for those members of the Serbian diaspora who already knew the novel. However, in the twelve months since its publication by the New Orleans-based publisher Diálogos, Crnjanski’s masterpiece has, so far as I know, yet to be mentioned on the pages of a literary review, let alone properly reviewed, barring a piece from the novel’s translator in the Los Angeles Review of Books. […]

As a prolific novelist and poet, in Serbia, and in the former Yugoslavia, Crnjanski has enjoyed—with a brief exception in the mid-twentieth century when he was in exile and out of favour with the post-war communist government—the status of James Joyce and T.S. Eliot combined. Lines from his poetry and prose are so widely known that they are quoted casually in everyday conversations. Yet, beyond ex-Yugoslavia, he remains little known and even less translated. The only other book by Crnjanski to have appeared in English was Michael Henry Heim’s translation of the first of the two volumes of Crnjanski’s novel Migrations, published in 1994 by Harvill (his name in that edition was transliterated, French-style, as Tsernianski).

In his excellent essay, “Filling the Gaps: On Translating Miloš Crnjanski’s Novel of London,” published on the Los Angeles Review of Books blog, Will Firth recounts the hustling involved in his role not just as a translator but also as a posthumous agent struggling to generate interest in the project. Notwithstanding a pledge of funding from the Serbian Ministry of Culture, he searched in vain for a publisher in the UK—a natural home given the novel’s setting—before finally finding an outlet for A Novel of London in Louisiana.

I can almost see a wry smile on Crnjanski’s face. If he could but hear about this saga, it would confirm every prejudice he bore towards the British. “So sorry,” they keep saying in A Novel of London, “So, so sorry.” […]

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Pompeiisites.org reports on an interesting find:

Mummified remains, along with the hair and bones of an individual buried in an ancient tomb have been found at the necropolis of Porta Sarno, to the east of the ancient urban centre of Pompeii. On a marble slab located on the pediment of the tomb, a commemorative inscription to the owner Marcus Venerius Secundio makes reference, extraordinarily, to performances at Pompeii that were conducted in Greek, direct evidence of which has never before been found. […]

The figure of Marcus Venerius Secundio – who also appears in the wax tablet archive of the Pompeian banker Cecilius Giocondus, owner of the domus of the same name on Via Vesuvio – was a public slave and custodian of the Temple of Venus. Upon being freed, he reached a certain social and economic status, as can be understood from the rather monumental tomb, and the inscription: in addition to joining the ranks of the Augustales, or the college of priests dedicated to the Imperial Cult, as the epigraph recalls he “gave Greek and Latin ludi for the duration of four days”.

“Ludi graeci are to be understood as performances in the Greek language”, – observes the Director of the Archaeological Park of Pompeii, Gabriel Zuchtriegel – “It is the first clear evidence of performances at Pompeii in the Greek language, which had previously been hypothesised on the basis of indirect indicators. Here we have another tessera of a large mosaic, namely the multi-ethnic Pompeii of the early Imperial Age, where Greek, the then lingua franca of the eastern Mediterranean, is indicated alongside Latin. That performances in Greek were organised is evidence of the lively and open cultural climate which characterised ancient Pompeii, similar to how the special exhibition of Isabelle Huppert, held in French at the Large Theatre a few weeks ago, showed that culture has no borders.”

Hurray for multicultural cities, say I.