Open Writing

"Shibboleth." It’s a funny word. Turn it over on your tongue a few times and it sounds even stranger. It isn’t nonsense, but a Classical Hebrew word meaning "a flowing stream." It has risen to fame from a biblical event in which Ephraimites tried to fool their enemies, the Gileadites, and pass over the Jordan River. The Gileadites knew a thing or two and asked each man to say the word "shibboleth," knowing that Ephraimites did not make the "sh" sound and would say "sibboleth" instead.

The Bible tells the story in two abrupt verses.

"The Gileadites took the passages of Jordan before the Ephraimites got there: and so it was that when the Ephraimites that had escaped came to the crossing and said, ‘Let me go over,’ that the Gileadite warriors asked each of them ‘Are you an Ephraimite?’ If he said, ‘No,’ they said, ‘Say Shibboleth’ but each one said ‘Sibboleth,’ because The men of Ephraim could not pronounce it right. So they took prisoner and slew forty-two thousand Ephraimites at the crossing places of the River Jordan."

Sometimes, you just have to get it right, or else!

I was reminded of this during a recent Prime Minister’s Question Time airing on BBC-America. A Member of Parliament said "Redcar," although she pronounced it "Red-CARR." As one who in earlier times had holidayed in the nice little seaside town, I knew it was pronounced "RED-kuh."

There are shibboleths much closer to home for a Huddersfield-born-and-bred lad, the most celebrated one being "Slaithwaite." Locals know that there are three pronunciations for this famous place, but only one of them is correct.

The chaps at the BBC, even as close as Leeds, say "SLEYTH-weight," whilst semi-educated local people who have moved up the valley from their humble beginnings and live in converted barns overlooking its industrial majesty say "SLATH-weight," but its correct articulation is "SLA-wit," or "SLOUGH-it."

Although it was a case of life or death for the fleeing Ephraimites, for visitors to Slawit and district it does no more than furnish proof of being a local.

No longer are alien disturbers of the tranquillity of the isolationist Colne Valley village chased back up to the relative safety of Manchester Road by gaunt-faced men in clogs and flat caps, holding a doorstep of bread and jam in one hand, and a pint of hot tea in the other, being hallooed on by Boadicean women holding back baying packs of slavering whippets.

Failure to pronounce Slaithwaite in its ancient dialect form these days results only in nudges, nods, and winks, and occasionally a cheeky invitation to buy a round of something wet. But it is a long time since either Lancastrian or Londoner wer dropped in’t’t’cut for getting it t’wrong rooad abaht.

One last thing. If that teks to vistinin’ Slawit, an’ tha can sey "In’t’t’cut" wi-out mekkin a mullok on it, tha meight not be far frum wham! Na then, sithee, tha mun ask yon Gideanahts, "Ah’s that fer a Shiberlith?

Copyright © 2005 Ronnie Bray
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED