“So what are you?” – such a question is asked
in your home by a brazen stranger.
“So what are you?” – with such a curse a
stranger disturbs your soul;
“So what are you?” – this question everywhere –
at Drin, at Shar, at Vardar, Prespa dear
oh, Bulgarino, a Serb puts you
and waits with a frowning answer.
But beware, don’t give a straight answer.
Say Portuguese Kurd, Syrian,
Lapp, Negro, Gypsy, Indian –
but just do not admit Bulgarian.
Do not know that this mortal sin is forgiven there: it
entails disgrace, beating prison, exile –
unseen by former tyrants.
Hide that you are a Bulgarian in the most Bulgarian region;
that you are a descendant of Samuel, the
grandson of Athos Paisius; hide to which mother you are a son,
in which language sing the murky Vardar, the blue Drin,
and the lakes and forests of Macedonia!
Not to mention Lozegrad,
Lüleburgas, and Bulair terrible:
you would arouse dangerous suspicions
that you might be their brother’s brother.
Shut up! And instead of you, every valley, path,
grove, lake, river, hill, mountain
will shout out loud at all times:
“Bulgarians are here, Bulgarians from time immemorial !”
Vazov wrote this poem after the Serbian heir to the throne, Alexander I, slapped a 7 year old girl Vaska Zoicheva during his visit to Skopje when she answered his question “What are You?(Pa shta si ti?)” that she is a “Bugarka!” He was expecting the answer, Serbian.
cbkwgl 