Morna in "Mi" by Any Delgado

When we emigrate to a new country, we can’t help but acquire unfamiliar habits and customs, moving away from what had come to characterize us in the country of our upbringing. Our parents then add one more responsibility to us: keeping our culture and identity alive.

 Assimilation does not mean the total abandonment of our roots, but rather acceptance of a different culture, parallel to ours. Only in this way is it possible to identify ourselves with two worlds and two flags.

 Like language, music is learned at home. For me, that meant taking equal parts from my mother — an aficionado of Fado (Carlos do Carmo, Amália Rodrigues) and romantic songs (Tony de Matos) — and my father's side of the family with its broader, more international music culture and a greater focus on Morna and Coladera.

 When hearing in our home the music of talented Cape Verdean artists and bands such as Bana, Luís Morais, Voz de Cabo Verde, Djosinha, Morgadinho, Titina and later Cesária Évora, it was almost as if they were distant relatives who visited us for parties, social gatherings, or on a restful Sunday afternoon. 

 Like any teenager, I was eager to explore and create an identity of my own, and that included listening preferences. From there, and on into early adulthood, my musical leanings changed completely. My ears became more attuned to Western genres. I stopped looking for "musical relatives" and the gatherings that no longer existed. Cape Verdean culture limited us to speaking Creole at home, and savoring Catchupada on Saturdays with the promise of it being fried the next day for breakfast.

 At some point in my personal evolution, the era of Zouk, Cabo-Zouk, Zouk Love music, the explosion of Funaná and great Cape Verde music bands arrived. It was the time of "Os Tubarões", "Finaçon", "Cab Verd show", "Livity", "Splash", among others. Music became part of new weekend rituals, the soundtrack to many African-style nightclubs in Lisbon, Portugal.

 But life goes on, and, for me, that meant motherhood, loves and breakups through emotional swings. Suddenly I am 41 years old, I have four children and I work as Executive Director of an Angolan music publishing company. Cape Verdean culture is still abundant at home, Cape Verdean Creole is taught to my children, and almost mandatory at home ... spantá um fidje na criôl ê mut más sab e intense q'en português.

 Meanwhile, I started to spend quality time with Cape Verdean musicians here in Portugal. Players and singers from my closest circle like Paló, Celina Pereira, José Afonso, Djon Santos, Adérito Pontes, Carla Correia, Gilson Gee and Humberto Ramos taught me how to listen to Cape Verdean music.

 After hearing Celina Pereira talk about Cape Verdean culture, I was interested in finding out more about it and my heritage. As my admiration for her grew, I learned deeper lessons. In addition to listening to the music with my heart, I started to discover Cape Verdean composers and authors. In my parents hausehold, referring to an interpreter as being the creator of a song instead of the composer, was not allowed. I felt like being repremended in Creole was way more intense than in Portuguese.

 I closely observed Celina Pereira's involvement in campaigning to classify Morna as National Intangible Heritage, and I admired her effusive way of convincing two executives — two Ministers of Culture — to formalize Morna’s candidacy for Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity at UNESCO.

 When Morna's application had been officially submitted, I noticed Celina’s continued concern about the content of the dossier, though, I confess that at the time I did not fully understand her consternation.

 We talked for almost an hour on the phone: I told her about my plans for a concert with Titina Rodrigues in Rotterdam, under the musical guidance of Humberto Ramos; She told me about the last work "Areias mansas de Boavista", which was about to be released; and an accompanying CD, the storybook with the Braille edition. Celina’s happiness was like that of a child at Christmas. As we spoke, I could imagine her beautiful, green eyes shining.

 We said goodbye. I thanked her for that hour of pampering and Creole kisses. I made sure she knew that my taste for the culture of Cape Verde was instilled by her. The last words I heard were: "Menininha, mi ê dôd na bô!”

 Two days later I received a call from a great mutual friend informing me that my mentor had suffered a debilitating stroke.

 For days, sadness washed over me. From afar I wondered what I could do to prove my enormous respect for her, and how I felt her pain as if it were mine.

 I decided the best way to honor her is to share what I learned from her, hoping to influence other people in the same way she touched my heart and sparked my interest in Morna. And so I was determined to see through the task that — had she still been able — would have done much better than I. It was the beginning of the "National Pride" project.

 Throughout the process of advancing the application for Morna’s inclusion in the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, I researched the history of Cape Verde and the framing of music, namely Morna, in all the most important time periods.

 Morna became part of my daily routine. Gradually I gained the respect and affection of Cape Verdeans across the diaspora.

I wrote with my heart, and I promoted pride in our identity and patriotism.

 Other voices joined me. We motivated and mobilized Cape Verdeans for the cause — a necessary step to emphasize that Morna is part of the DNA of the Morabeza islands. We were able to show the transversality of Morna; how it has a strong presence on all islands, and in all social classes. And in that way, we carry on the cultural tradition and pay tribute to the composers and players in the rich history of Cape Verde music.

 And so the news arrived — December 11, 2019: Word comes that Celina’s vision has been realized, and Morna had indeed won the classification of Cultural and Intangible Heritage of Humanity ... I cried like a child.

 On the National Pride page, messages of support and congratulations poured in ... I cried even more.

 In the mix of happiness and the sense of relief for a "mission accomplished,” there was a large, lingering concern: “And now … do they know that the work is just beginning?!”

 STRONG APPLAUSE