The Island That Changed Its Names: Mali Lošinj, Croatia

Reading a place through street signs, gravestones and hybrid tongues

Addio sculpture on Mali Lošinj. Author photo.

It’s a rainy morning in a cemetery in Mali Lošinj, the main town on the island of Lošinj in the Kvarner region of Croatia. I’m on the lookout for clues to the island’s history, but not via the usual monuments and museums. I’ll be searching for traces of languages once spoken on an island that’s undergone many changes in nationality. From Slavic roots it became part of both the Venetian and Austrian Empires, followed by the Kingdom of Italy, before becoming Yugoslavian and now Croatian.

I’m not talking about listening out for Italian voices, as I know there’s still an Italian community on this Croatian island. I’m looking for older languages in the street signage, leftovers from the decades when the island was under Venetian or Italian rule.

There’s little chance of finding much at all.

That’s because nationalistic governments are fond of erasing traces of former occupants, and the town of Mali Lošinj is a prime example. The Fascist Italian government of the 1920s-1930s aggressively removed traces of the local Croatian dialect (Chakavian) from the schools and administration. Only Italian was allowed in what was then known as Lussinpiccolo.

Mali Lošinj, Croatia. Author photo.

Walking past the recent Croatian headstones takes me to the rear of the cemetery, where a wall is set with older memorials. Here in the oldest part of the churchyard, the headstones are worn and broken, but I pick out German-speaking Hans, Slavic-speaking Terezija and Italian-speaking Francesco. All were buried around the turn of the century when Lošinj was a multilingual island within the Austrian Empire.

Back then, the different languages weren’t kept separate, as lots of Italian forenames are paired with Slavic-sounding surnames. But something puzzles me. The older headstones often have Slavic-sounding names ending in ‘ich’ rather than the Croatian ‘-ić’ (similar soft ‘ch’ sound, different spelling). Especially striking is the family memorial where the earlier surname of Nicolich later became Niccoli. I have a theory and it’s confirmed that evening by Simona at the town museum.

‘When Lošinj was part of the Austrian Empire, administrators often changed the spelling to make it more international,’ Simona tells me. But worse was to follow when Italy took over during the 1920s. ‘The Fascist government didn’t allow any signs of Slavic language. If you had a Slavic name, it had to be changed,’ she adds. As I saw in the cemetery, surnames ending with the traditional ‘ić’ were changed to end with ‘-ich’ or even just an ‘-i’.

That must explain why Emma born in 1902 was a Nicolich, and Claudio born in 1930 was a Niccoli.

Mingling of languages in names. Author photo.

When the island became Yugoslavian a few decades later, the reverse happened. Yugoslavian policy was to erase any traces of Venetian-Italian on Lošinj. Again, the cemetery shows this, with names of those born from 1950 onwards written with Slavic conventions. Many Italians left too, replaced by Slavic people from elsewhere in Yugoslavia.

‘But there are older Italian speakers on the island,’ Simona tells me. I know – my accommodation hosts speak Italian, and facing the harbour is the HQ of the Italian Community of Lussinpiccolo. They still use the old Italian name, although a poster advertising events uses both Italian and Croatian language.

Simona also confirms the existence of a hybrid language variety known informally as lussignan, a mix of older Venetian-Italian with the Slavic dialect called Chakavian. ‘I use it with my great-grandmother,’ she says. ‘And I know teachers who use it with the children, to keep the hybrid alive.’

This is the encouragement I need to keep searching. It also lifts my gloom at the thought of governments turning a language into a ‘problem’ to be eradicated. Luckily, the two languages that were supposedly enemies were strongly interlaced, allowing them to survive in a kind of blend.

A rainy morning at the cemetery turns out to be time well spent, as the streets have mostly been cleansed of Venetian-Italian. Simona couldn’t even think of anywhere to send me when I asked her. ‘There’s nothing! All signs were changed when Lošinj became Yugoslavia. Italian wasn’t allowed.’

Fortunately, they didn’t destroy this lovely roadside stone drawing attention to the old Italian name for nearby Lussingrande (now Veli Lošinj). The distance of zero km denotes it’s the starting point, rather than the distance away – as I realise when I take an hour to walk there.

Author photo.

There’s an interesting anomaly in the names of the two towns (Mali Lošinj and Veli Lošinj), both of which the Yugoslavians amended from Italian to the Croatian root. Lussingrande, now Veli Losinj, means ‘Big’ Lošinj, but it’s tiny compared to the much larger Lussinpiccolo, now Mali (‘Small’) Lošinj. The linguistic glitch simply reflects history. Mali Lošinj was established later and swiftly capitalised on its deep, protected harbour by developing multiple shipyards, some of which are still in use. It soon outgrew Veli Lošinj, leaving the tiny, peaceful ‘Big’ Lošinj with a somewhat inappropriate name.

Veli Lošinj. Author photo.

Wandering the backstreets of Veli Lošinj I come across an example of multiple languages. Built in 1756 during the Venetian Republic, a house is adorned with a niche inscribed with a Latin-Italian Hail Mary, joined by modern Croatian signage that includes the English phrase ‘For Sale’. That English phrase surprises me, as I haven’t noticed any British voices on the island.

Veli Lošinj. Author photo.

In fact, visitors from English-speaking countries barely feature in the tourism statistics for Losinj. The majority of visitors to the island are German, Slovenian and Croatian, with a smaller number of Italian. Yet English is the most common language I see on the streets after Croatian, which means English is used for global understanding, as a lingua franca, rather than catering to British and US tourists.

When we’re travelling, we often reduce language to something transactional, what we need to get by. These days it’s all too easy to rely on local people to speak English in Europe — not everywhere, of course, but in many places that attract visitors. Globalisation has made it almost the default. But for travellers seeking a sense of place to bring our writing to life, I don’t think we can ignore language, as I recently wrote here. At its simplest, even looking at the languages in a tourist resort can tell us something about the expectations of a place that caters for foreign visitors.

It might sound as if I spent my time in Mali Lošinj on my knees photographing street signs and gravestone inscriptions, while everyone else was drinking Aperos at the harbour. Yet the time spent hunting down language clues was exactly the right way to feel the underlying spirit of this island. It gave me a purpose beyond just sitting in the harbour among the holidaymakers, the cruisers and the occasional moored superyacht.

Restored wooden ship in Mali Lošinj harbour. Author photo.

The narrow backstreets feel more welcoming, with their shady cobblestones and local people who smile as they return my greeting. Of course, I also get to swim in rocky bays, such as Valdarke, and cycle past an elaborate structure marked on the map as Instagram Steps, built into a bay with palatial properties that apparently have a reputation for harbouring Russian money.

Valdarke Bay | The ‘Instagram steps’. Author photos.

The biggest pull of all is the bronze sculpture Addio (Farewell) by Croatian sculptor Zvonimira Obad. It depicts Marija Stuparić, the wife of a merchant navy captain at the time of the Austrian Empire, and it stands where she once stood to wave him off.

It’s not just the emotional reaction it sparks in me, a reminder of times I’ve said goodbye when going off on a trip. Nor is it the way the sculptor has layered the dress, as if carried away by the wind, or the way Marija faces the setting sun, so the metal bands become ablaze with the reflection in the sea. There’s something about the words Marija is quoted as saying.

Addio. Author photo.

As she waves her handkerchief, Marija whispers Addio, moj ljubljeni (Farewell, my beloved). It’s what the real Marija used to say as she waved goodbye: the Venetian-Italian for farewell followed by Slavic my beloved.

Addio, moj ljubljeni. Two languages, a single utterance. Better than any street sign.

Thank you so much to Anne Bonfert for asking me to kick off this prompt for the Globetrotters June monthly writing challenge (and huge thanks to the editors, as always — we see you!)

[embed]June Monthly Challenge — Languages We speak to understand and we understand we don’t all speak the samemedium.com

If you’re interested in more about reading the linguistic landscape of a city, I wrote this about Polish ghost signs in Western Ukraine:

[embed]Reading the Streets: The Linguistic Landscape of Western Ukraine Photographing symbols of the past and presentmedium.com