A young poet tells the story of Darfur | Emtithal Mahmoud

譯者: Teresa Huang 審譯者: Yanyan Hong

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

當我在十歲的時候， 我已認識到甚麼是「種族滅絕」。

It was 2003,

在 2003 年，

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

我的族人因種族而遭殘酷的攻擊，

hundreds of thousands murdered,

成千上百人被謀害，

millions displaced,

上百萬人流亡。

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

一個被自己政府親手撕裂的國家，

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

我的父母立即出面發聲抨擊時局。

I didn't really understand it,

我當時並不了解，

except for the fact that it was destroying my parents.

只知道我父母正因此飽受摧殘。

One day, I walked in on my mother crying,

有一天，我撞見正在哭泣的母親，

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

我問她為何我們要埋葬這麼多人，

I don't remember the words that she chose

我忘了她用了什麼字眼

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

向她的十歲女兒解釋種族滅絕，

but I remember the feeling.

然而我仍記得那種感覺，

We felt completely alone,

我們感到孤立無援，

as if no one could hear us,

彷彿無人聽到我們的吶喊，

as if we were essentially invisible.

好像沒人看得到我們。

This is when I wrote my first poem about Darfur.

就在當時我寫下 關於達爾富爾的第一首詩，

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

我通過寫詩說服人們 聆聽與關注我們，

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

我也同時受到影響從而改變，

It's easy to be seen.

被看見很容易，

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

看看我，一個包頭巾的年輕非洲女性，

an American accent on my tongue

操著美國口音，

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

我的故事會令最無情的 星期一早晨都散發出吸引力。

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

但很難去說服人們 去看見這些東西。

I learned this in my high school classroom one day,

我在高中某天的課堂裡 領悟到這一點，

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

當時我的老師要我做一個 關於達爾富爾的簡報。

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

當我在架設投影機時 我的一個同學問道：

"Why do you have to talk about this?

「為什麼我們要講這個？」

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

「為什麼你都不考慮我們的感受？」

(Laughter)

（笑聲）

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

當時十四歲的我 不知道該跟她說什麼，

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

或是解釋我那一刻感受到的痛，

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

以及每次當我們被強迫 不准談論「這件事」。

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

她的話把我帶回了 在達爾富爾的日日夜夜，

where we were forced to remain silent;

在那裡我們被逼著保持沈默；

where we didn't speak over morning tea

在那裡我們不在喝早茶時聊天，

because the warplanes overhead would swallow any and all noise;

因為在空中盤旋的戰機 會把一切喧嘩都吞噬；

back to the days when we were told

回到那些日子我們不僅被告知 我們不值得被傾聽，

not only that we don't deserve to be heard

but that we do not have a right to exist.

我們甚至沒有生存權利。

And this is where the magic happened,

此時奇蹟發生了，

in that classroom when all the students started taking their seats

教室裡所有的學生開始在椅子上坐好，

and I began to speak,

然後我開始說話，

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

儘管我還是覺得我不配在那裡，

that I didn't belong there

或是我不屬於那裡，

or have a right to break the silence.

或擁有打破沈默的權利。

As I talked,

當我在陳述，

and my classmates listened,

並且我的同學們在聆聽，

the fear ebbed away.

恐懼感消失了。

My mind became calm,

我開始冷靜下來，

and I felt safe.

並且我感受到了久違的安全。

It was the sound of our grieving,

那是我們哀悼的聲音，

the feel of their arms around me,

他們的手臂圍繞在我身邊的感覺，

the steady walls that held us together.

形成穩固的牆壁將我們凝聚在一起。

It felt nothing like a vacuum.

我不再感到空虛。

I choose poetry because it's so visceral.

我選擇寫詩是因為 它是如此發自內心。

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

當一個人站在你面前，

他的心智、身體、和靈魂 都說著「見證我」，

saying "Witness me,"

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

你不可能感受不到强烈的 自身的人性。

This changed everything for me.

這徹底改變了我

It gave me courage.

它給了我勇氣。

Every day I experience the power of witness,

每一天我都在體驗著 強而有力的見證，

and because of that, I am whole.

也因為如此，我找回完整自我。

And so now I ask:

所以現在我問各位：

Will you witness me?

你願意見證我嗎？

They hand me the microphone

他們遞給我一個麥克風，

as my shoulders sink under the weight of this stress.

我的肩膀因壓力的重量而垂下。

The woman says,

一位女士說：

"The one millionth refugee just left South Sudan.

「一百萬難民剛剛離開了南蘇丹。

Can you comment?"

你可以發表看法嗎？」

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

我感覺我的腳跟在母親買來的鞋裡 不安地前後搖晃，

begging the question:

想著問題論點：

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

我們應該留下， 還是搭飛機離開比較安全？

My mind echoes the numbers:

我腦海裡響著一堆數字：

one million gone,

一百萬人不在了，

two million displaced,

兩百萬人流亡，

400,000 dead in Darfur.

四十萬人死在達爾富爾。

And this lump takes over my throat,

這巨大的腫塊盤踞在我的喉嚨，

as if each of those bodies just found a grave

像是每一具屍體已找到安息之地，

right here in my esophagus.

就在我的食道裡。

Our once country,

我們曾經的國家，

all north and south and east and west,

北方、南方、東方和西方，

so restless the Nile couldn't hold us together,

全都不得安寧， 尼羅河都不能將我們連結在一起，

and you ask me to summarize.

然後現在你要我作出總結。

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

他們說著那些數字， 彷彿這些事情已不再發生，

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

彷彿那五十萬人不是 剛剛才死在敘利亞，

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

彷彿那三千人沒有在 地中海的海底裡，

at the bottom of the Mediterranean,

找到了旅途終點。

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

彷彿那些卷宗沒有滿滿 記錄著我們的種族滅絕，

and now they want me to write one.

然後現在他們要我再寫一筆。

Fact:

真相是：

we never talked over breakfast,

我們從不在吃早餐時說話，

because the warplanes would swallow our voices.

因為戰機會吞噬我們的聲音。

Fact:

真相是：

my grandfather didn't want to leave home,

我的祖父不想離開家園，

so he died in a war zone.

所以他死在戰區裡。

Fact:

真相是：

a burning bush without God is just a fire.

燃燒的荊棘裡沒有神 就只是一團火。

I measure the distance between what I know

我思量著，在我知道的事實 跟麥克風之間，

and what is safe to say on a microphone.

有哪些是我可以安全地說出口的。

Do I talk about sorrow? Displacement?

我是否該談到那些悲痛和顛沛流離？

Do I mention the violence,

我該提起那些暴力

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

從來都不像是電視上看到那樣簡單，

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

那是在被鏡頭拍到前 就已長期累積的恐懼？

Do I tell her about our bodies,

我是否該告訴她我們身體的 百分之六十是水組成，

how they are 60 percent water,

but we still burn like driftwood,

但燃燒起來如流木，

making fuel of our sacrifice?

作為燃料壯烈犧牲？

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

我是否該告訴她男人先死， 母親們被迫看著屠殺？

That they came for our children,

他們抓了我們的孩子，

scattering them across the continent until our homes sank?

將他們分散到大陸各地 直到我們的家園淪陷？

That even castles sink at the bite of the bomb?

連城堡都會因砲火的侵蝕而崩陷？

Do I talk about the elderly,

我是否該提到老人們，

our heroes,

我們的英雄，

too weak to run, too expensive to shoot,

太虛弱而無法逃走，

被當射靶又太不值，

how they would march them,

所以他們被命令行軍，

hands raised, rifles at their backs,

高舉雙手，背後 被步槍指著，走向烈火？

into the fire?

How their walking sticks kept the flames alive?

他們的助行手杖被投入火中 使火不致熄滅？

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

對聽眾來說，要消化這些 如吞下鐵線般，生硬且嚴酷。

Too relentless,

如此殘酷無情，

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

彷彿山谷間充斥著 我們死亡時散發的腐敗氣息。

Is it better in verse?

假如放在詩裡會好些嗎？

Can a stanza become a burial shroud?

詩篇可以用作為裹屍布嗎？

Will it sting less if I say it softly?

如果我輕聲細述， 心中刺痛會少一些嗎？

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

如果你沒看見我哭泣， 你是否會更用心傾聽？

Will the pain leave when the microphone does?

當麥克風被拿開時， 悲痛是否也會離我遠去？

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

為什麼我說的一字一句 都感覺像我的最後遺言？

Thirty seconds for the sound bite,

三十秒的演講摘要，

and now three minutes for the poem.

然後現在是三分鐘的詠詩。

My tongue goes dry the same way we died,

我的舌頭乾渴，和我們死去時一樣，

becoming ash, having never been coal.

在變成煤炭前已化為灰燼。

I feel my left leg go numb,

我感到我的左腳麻木，

and I realize that I locked my knees,

然後發現我雙膝已牢牢釘住，

bracing for impact.

抵擋著衝擊。

I never wear shoes I can't run in.

我從不穿無法讓我奔跑的鞋。

Thank you.

謝謝。

(Applause)

（掌聲）

So, I wanted to leave on a positive note,

我想在此留下一個樂觀的小結，

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

因為這就是我人生裡的矛盾點：

in the places where I learned to cry the most,

在那個讓我流最多眼淚的地方，

I also learned how to smile after.

我也在事過境遷後學著微笑。

So, here goes.

好，開始了。

"You Have a Big Imagination

「你有一個巨大的想像力

or

或是

400,000 Ways to Cry."

四十萬種哭泣的方式。」

For Zeinab.

致席娜布。

I am a sad girl,

我是一個悲傷的女孩，

but my face makes other plans,

但這不反應在我的臉上，

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

我想盡全力微笑， 不想浪費精力在悲痛。

The first thing they took was my sleep,

他們首先奪走了我的睡眠，

eyes heavy but wide open,

我的眼皮沈重但睜著老大，

thinking maybe I missed something,

想著我或許遺漏了什麼，

maybe the cavalry is still coming.

也許騎兵還會來。

They didn't come,

但他們沒有來，

so I bought bigger pillows.

所以我買了個更大的枕頭。

(Laughter)

（笑聲）

My grandmother could cure anything

我的祖母可以治癒一切，

by talking the life out of it.

她的話語能讓萬物冉冉生輝。

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

她說我可以讓一個倉庫裡的小偷

in the middle of our raging war.

在肆虐的戰爭裡大笑。

War makes a broken marriage bed out of sorrow.

戰爭讓破裂的婚姻不再顯得憂傷。

You want nothing more than to disappear,

你別無所求，只想消失，

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

但你的心已所剩無幾，無法離去。

But joy --

但是喜悅──

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

喜悅是我們橫跨 破碎家園時戴著的盔甲。

A hasty mix of stories and faces

胡亂混雜著故事和面孔

that lasts long after the flavor is gone.

在甘苦逝去後仍餘韻久繞。

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

身體記憶剋服了最苦澀的時刻，

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

但記憶裡的傷痕有著那些笑到流淚

or crying until I laughed.

或是痛哭到大笑的剪影，

Laughter and tears are both involuntary human reactions,

笑和淚是人類自然的反應，

testaments to our capacity for expression.

證明著我們的表達能力。

So allow me to express

所以請容許我在此表達，

that if I make you laugh,

如果我逗你笑，

it's usually on purpose.

通常那是有意的。

And if I make you cry,

如果我惹你哭，

I'll still think you are beautiful.

我還是覺得你很美。

This is for my cousin Zeinab,

僅此獻給我的表妹，席娜布，

bedridden on a random afternoon.

在病床邊的某個下午。

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

自從上次一起在蘇丹之後 我就沒見過她，

and there I was at her hospital bedside

再見面是我佇立在 醫院裡她的病榻旁，

in a 400-year-old building in France.

在法國，一棟四百年建築裡。

Zeinab wanted to hear poems.

席娜布想要聽首詩。

Suddenly, English, Arabic and French were not enough.

忽然間，英文、阿拉伯文、 跟法文都不夠用。

Every word I knew became empty noise,

所有我知道的文字 都變成虛無的噪音。

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

但是席娜布說： 「嘿，就直接開始啊。」

(Laughter)

（笑聲）

And I read her everything that I could,

於是我盡我所能地為她朗讀，

and we laughed,

然後我們笑著，

and we loved it,

我們享受其中。

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

我站在那個最重要的階段，

surrounded by family,

被家人環繞著，

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

以及其他殘存下來的人 曾經給這無情戰爭作了陪嫁，

but still managed to make pearls of this life;

但仍能在人生裡找到珍珠；

by the ones who taught me to not only laugh,

還有那些人教導我不只要笑，

but to live in the face of death;

但更要活著面對死亡；

who placed their hands across the sky,

他們的手橫跨天空，

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

丈量著離太陽之間的距離，說道：

「微笑吧，我會在另一端等你。」

I'm gonna meet you there."

And for Zeinab --

而席娜布──

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

席娜布在法國這樣的地方， 教導我愛的真諦。

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

席娜布想在她臨終前聽詩──

Dilated fibromyalgia.

擴張型心肌病變：

Her heart muscles expanded

她的心肌會一直擴張，

until they couldn't function.

直到失去功能為止。

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

可她抱著我，讓我覺得自己像金子。

And I said, "Zeinab,

我說：「席娜布，你不覺得奇怪嗎？

isn't it strange that your only problem

你唯一的問題就是 你的心胸太寬廣了？」

is that your heart was too big?"

Thank you.

謝謝。

(Applause)

（掌聲）