A young poet tells the story of Darfur | Emtithal Mahmoud

翻译人员: Yan Gao 校对人员: Karen Wu

I was 10 years old when I learned what the word "genocide" meant.

我10岁时学到了 “种族灭绝”是什么。

It was 2003,

那是2003年，

and my people were being brutally attacked because of their race --

我的同胞因为种族而 遭到残酷的攻击——

hundreds of thousands murdered,

数十万人被杀，

millions displaced,

数百万人流离失所，

a nation torn apart at the hands of its own government.

一个国家被自己的政府撕裂。

我的父母马上公开抗议这场危机。

My mother and father immediately began speaking out against the crisis.

I didn't really understand it,

我当时并不明白，

except for the fact that it was destroying my parents.

只知道我的父母正在饱受摧残。

One day, I walked in on my mother crying,

一天，我碰到母亲在哭，

and I asked her why we are burying so many people.

我问她， 为什么我们要埋葬这么多人。

I don't remember the words that she chose

我不记得她选择怎样的话语

to describe genocide to her 10-year-old daughter,

为她10岁的女儿描述种族灭绝，

but I remember the feeling.

但我记得那种感觉。

We felt completely alone,

我们感到彻底的孤独，

as if no one could hear us,

好像没有人能听到我们，

as if we were essentially invisible.

好像我们基本上是透明的。

This is when I wrote my first poem about Darfur.

当时我写了 关于达尔富尔的第一首诗。

I wrote poetry to convince people to hear and see us,

我写诗来说服人们 听到和看到我们，

and that's how I learned the thing that changed me.

我就这样学到了改变我的东西。

It's easy to be seen.

被看见，是容易的。

I mean, look at me -- I'm a young African woman with a scarf around my head,

我的意思是，看看我—— 一个年轻的非洲女性，

头上包着围巾，一口美国音，

an American accent on my tongue

and a story that makes even the most brutal of Monday mornings seem inviting.

我的故事让最折磨人的 周一上午也散发吸引力。

But it's hard to convince people that they deserve to be seen.

但是很难说服人们， 他们应该被看见。

I learned this in my high school classroom one day,

我是某天在高中教室里 学到的这一点，

when my teacher asked me to give a presentation about Darfur.

当时老师让我 做个关于达尔富尔的演示。

I was setting up the projector when a classmate of mine said,

我正在设置投影仪时， 一个同学说：

"Why do you have to talk about this?

“你为什么一定要谈这个？

Can't you think about us and how it will make us feel?"

你不能为我们想想吗？ 这会给我们带来什么感受？”

(Laughter)

（笑声）

My 14-year-old self didn't know what to say to her,

14岁的我不知道该对她说什么，

or how to explain the pain that I felt in that moment,

也不知如何解释那一刻我的痛苦，

and in every moment that we were forced not to talk about "this."

以及每一次我们被迫 不去说“这个”时我的痛苦。

Her words took me back to the days and nights on the ground in Darfur,

她的话让我回到 身处达尔富尔的日夜，

where we were forced to remain silent;

在那里我们被迫保持沉默;

where we didn't speak over morning tea

在那里我们早茶时不说话，

because the warplanes overhead would swallow any and all noise;

因为头顶的战机 会淹没所有声音;

back to the days when we were told

回到我们不仅被告知

not only that we don't deserve to be heard

我们不配被听见、

but that we do not have a right to exist.

而且我们没有权利存在的日子。

And this is where the magic happened,

奇迹是这样发生的，

in that classroom when all the students started taking their seats

在教室里所有的学生 开始就座时，

and I began to speak,

我开始讲了，

despite this renewed feeling that I didn't deserve to be there,

尽管出现了新的感觉， 感觉我不配站在那，

that I didn't belong there

我不属于那里，

or have a right to break the silence.

也没有权利打破沉默。

As I talked,

我在讲，

and my classmates listened,

我的同学们在听，

the fear ebbed away.

恐惧消失了。

My mind became calm,

我平静下来，

and I felt safe.

我感到了安全。

It was the sound of our grieving,

那是我们哀悼的声音，

the feel of their arms around me,

他们的手臂环绕着我、

the steady walls that held us together.

形成牢固的墙壁 把我们拥在一起的感觉。

It felt nothing like a vacuum.

我不再感到透明。

I choose poetry because it's so visceral.

我选择诗歌， 因为它是如此发自肺腑。

When someone is standing in front of you, mind, body and soul,

当有人站在你面前，

心灵，身体和灵魂， 都在说着“见证我”时，

saying "Witness me,"

it's impossible not to become keenly aware of your own humanity.

你无法避免敏锐地意识到 自己的人性。

This changed everything for me.

这改变了我的一切。

It gave me courage.

它给了我勇气。

Every day I experience the power of witness,

我每天都感受见证人的力量，

and because of that, I am whole.

正因为如此，我是完整的。

And so now I ask:

现在我要问：

Will you witness me?

你会见证我吗？

They hand me the microphone

他们递给我麦克风，

as my shoulders sink under the weight of this stress.

我的肩膀在这种压力之下沉降。

The woman says,

一位女士说：

"The one millionth refugee just left South Sudan.

“第一百万名难民刚离开南苏丹，

Can you comment?"

你的看法是？”

I feel my feet rock back and forth on the heels my mother bought,

我感觉我的脚在母亲买来的 高跟鞋上摇摆不定，

begging the question:

思索着一个问题：

Do we stay, or is it safer to choose flight?

我们留下来，还是选择逃走 比较安全？

My mind echoes the numbers:

我的脑中回响着一堆数字：

one million gone,

100万人失踪，

two million displaced,

200万人流离失所，

400,000 dead in Darfur.

40万人死于达尔富尔。

And this lump takes over my throat,

我如鲠在喉，

as if each of those bodies just found a grave

仿佛每一具尸体 在我的食道里

right here in my esophagus.

找到了安息之所。

Our once country,

我们曾经的国家，

all north and south and east and west,

全部的南、北、西、东，

so restless the Nile couldn't hold us together,

如此躁动不安， 尼罗河也不能让我们团结在一起，

and you ask me to summarize.

可你现在要我总结。

They talk about the numbers as if this isn't still happening,

他们谈论那些数字时 就好像这些事情已经不再发生，

as if 500,000 didn't just die in Syria,

就好像刚死于叙利亚的 五十万人不曾发生，

as if 3,000 aren't still making their final stand

就好像那3000人

未曾消失在地中海的海底。

at the bottom of the Mediterranean,

as if there aren't entire volumes full of fact sheets about our genocides,

就好像写满种族灭绝的书卷 不曾有过，

and now they want me to write one.

现在他们要我来写。

Fact:

真相：

we never talked over breakfast,

我们早餐时从不说话，

because the warplanes would swallow our voices.

因为战机会吞噬我们的声音。

Fact:

真相：

my grandfather didn't want to leave home,

我的祖父不愿背井离乡，

so he died in a war zone.

所以他在战区中死去。

Fact:

真相：

a burning bush without God is just a fire.

燃烧的荆棘里没有上帝 那只是一团火。

I measure the distance between what I know

我度量着我所知晓的事实

and what is safe to say on a microphone.

与麦克风上能安全说出的事实 之间的距离。

Do I talk about sorrow? Displacement?

我要不要说出那些悲伤？ 颠沛流离？

Do I mention the violence,

我要不要提起那些暴力？

how it's never as simple as what you see on TV,

与你在电视上看到的 如何截然不同？

how there are weeks' worth of fear before the camera is on?

在镜头开机之前 恐惧如何堆积成山？

Do I tell her about our bodies,

我要不要告诉她，我们的躯体，

how they are 60 percent water,

60％是水，

but we still burn like driftwood,

但仍会像漂流木一样燃烧，

making fuel of our sacrifice?

做我们牺牲的燃料？

Do I tell her the men died first, mothers forced to watch the slaughter?

我要不要告诉她，男人先死， 而母亲们被逼目睹这杀戮？

That they came for our children,

他们又瞄准我们的孩子，

scattering them across the continent until our homes sank?

把他们散落在陆地各处， 直到我们的家园沦陷。

That even castles sink at the bite of the bomb?

连城堡也在炮火吞噬下倒塌？

Do I talk about the elderly,

我要不要谈老人，

our heroes,

我们的英雄，

too weak to run, too expensive to shoot,

体弱跑不动，射杀又太贵，

how they would march them,

就让他们排成队向前走，

hands raised, rifles at their backs,

双手举起，步枪顶着后背，

into the fire?

走入烈火？

How their walking sticks kept the flames alive?

他们的拐杖如何让火焰不灭？

It feels too harsh for a bundle of wires and an audience to swallow.

这些对于一捆电线以及 另一端的听众都太残酷。

Too relentless,

太刺耳，太无情，

like the valley that filled with the putrid smoke of our deaths.

仿佛山谷间充满了 我们死亡带来的腐败气息。

Is it better in verse?

放在诗句中是否好一些？

Can a stanza become a burial shroud?

诗节可以作裹尸布吗？

Will it sting less if I say it softly?

如果我声音轻一点， 痛会不会少一点？

If you don't see me cry, will you listen better?

如果我不哭， 你会更用心听吗？

Will the pain leave when the microphone does?

麦克风被拿走时， 痛苦也会离开吗？

Why does every word feel as if I'm saying my last?

为什么我的一字一句 都像临终遗言？

Thirty seconds for the sound bite,

三十秒的声音刺痛了你，

and now three minutes for the poem.

然后现在是三分钟的诗。

My tongue goes dry the same way we died,

我的口舌逐渐干涸， 与我们死亡的方式无异，

becoming ash, having never been coal.

从未变成煤炭，只烧成灰烬。

I feel my left leg go numb,

我感到左腿麻木，

and I realize that I locked my knees,

我发现自己锁住了双膝，

bracing for impact.

准备着抵挡冲击。

I never wear shoes I can't run in.

我从不穿无法奔跑的鞋。

Thank you.

谢谢。

(Applause)

（掌声）

So, I wanted to leave on a positive note,

但是，我想留下一个积极的故事，

because that's the paradox that this life has been:

因为这是我人生的悖论：

in the places where I learned to cry the most,

在我哭泣最多的地方，

I also learned how to smile after.

我也学会了如何在泪水过后微笑。

所以，开始了。

So, here goes.

"You Have a Big Imagination

“你有一个巨大的想象力，

或者

or

400,000 Ways to Cry."

40万种方式来哭泣。”

For Zeinab.

致泽纳布。

I am a sad girl,

我是一个悲伤的女孩，

but my face makes other plans,

但我的脸上并没有悲伤，

focusing energy on this smile, so as not to waste it on pain.

我用尽全力保持这个微笑， 不让它浪费在痛苦里。

The first thing they took was my sleep,

他们首先夺走我的睡眠，

eyes heavy but wide open,

我眼皮沉重但瞪着双眼，

thinking maybe I missed something,

想着也许我错过了什么，

maybe the cavalry is still coming.

也许骑兵还会来。

They didn't come,

他们没来，

so I bought bigger pillows.

所以我买了个更大的枕头。

(Laughter)

（笑声）

My grandmother could cure anything

我的奶奶可以治愈一切，

by talking the life out of it.

她的话语让万物焕发生命。

And she said that I could make a thief in a silo laugh

她说我可以在我们肆虐的战争中

in the middle of our raging war.

轻轻地笑一声。

War makes a broken marriage bed out of sorrow.

战争让破裂的婚姻不再可悲。

You want nothing more than to disappear,

你只想消失，别无他求，

but your heart can't salvage enough remnants to leave.

但你的心所剩无几 不够离去

But joy --

但是快乐——

joy is the armor we carried across the borders of our broken homeland.

快乐是我们穿越破碎家园边界时 携带的盔甲。

A hasty mix of stories and faces

故事和面孔的匆匆混合，

that lasts long after the flavor is gone.

在味道消失之后仍持续很久。

A muscle memory that overcomes even the most bitter of times,

肌肉记忆甚至克服了 最苦涩的时刻，

my memory is spotted with days of laughing until I cried,

我的肌肉记忆笑了好多天， 直到我开始哭，

or crying until I laughed.

或者哭，直到到我开始笑。

Laughter and tears are both involuntary human reactions,

笑和泪都是人类自然反应，

testaments to our capacity for expression.

是我们表达能力的证明。

So allow me to express

所以请允许我这样表达，

that if I make you laugh,

如果我逗你笑，

it's usually on purpose.

那通常是故意的。

And if I make you cry,

如果我惹你哭，

I'll still think you are beautiful.

我还是认为你很美。

This is for my cousin Zeinab,

这是写给我的表妹泽纳布的，

bedridden on a random afternoon.

某个下午，她卧病在床。

I hadn't seen her since the last time we were in Sudan together,

自从上次在苏丹共处， 之后再没见过她，

and there I was at her hospital bedside

我来到她的病床前，

in a 400-year-old building in France.

在法国一座四百年历史的建筑里。

Zeinab wanted to hear poems.

泽纳布想听诗。

Suddenly, English, Arabic and French were not enough.

突然间，英语、阿拉伯语和法语 都不够用了。

Every word I knew became empty noise,

我知道的每一个字都 变成了空洞的噪音，

and Zeinab said, "Well, get on with it."

而泽纳布说：“快，读吧。”

(Laughter)

And I read her everything that I could,

（笑声）

我把所有我会的 全都读给她听，

and we laughed,

我们笑，

and we loved it,

我们欢喜，

and it was the most important stage that I've ever stood on,

那是我曾经拥有的最重要的舞台，

surrounded by family,

被家人围绕，

by remnants of a people who were given as a dowry to a relentless war

被经历无情争战之后 仍在努力发出生命之光的

but still managed to make pearls of this life;

幸存的人们围绕；

by the ones who taught me to not only laugh,

被那些教我不仅要笑，

but to live in the face of death;

而且要直面死亡 而生存的人围绕；

who placed their hands across the sky,

被那些用手比划天空 测量着太阳有多远，

measuring the distance to the sun and saying, "Smile;

说着：“微笑吧； 我会在天堂与你再见。”

I'm gonna meet you there."

的人们围绕。

And for Zeinab --

而泽纳布——

Zeinab, who taught me love in a place like France,

在法国这样的地方教我爱的泽纳布，

Zeinab, who wanted to he.ar poems on her deathbed --

在临死之时想听诗的泽纳布——

Dilated fibromyalgia.

她患有扩张纤维肌痛。

Her heart muscles expanded

她的心脏肌肉扩张，

until they couldn't function.

一直扩张到失去功能。

And she held me, and she made me feel like gold.

她拥抱着我， 让我觉得自己是金子。

And I said, "Zeinab,

而我说：“泽纳布，

isn't it strange that your only problem

你唯一的麻烦是， 你的心太大了，

is that your heart was too big?"

这不奇怪吗？”

谢谢。

Thank you.

(Applause)

（掌声）