A Translation Is Like A Personal Story

Sometimes others' stories impact your own (in ways that seem to demand you stop translating and pause from writing a dissertation to listen). Won't you listen?

In some of Saul Bellow's stories, the protagonists won't read the stories in the newspapers, because they might believe them. And this is exactly why a young rabbi, a rather obscure one at the time, told stories saying, "Only for the ones who have ears to hear, please." So more on that in a moment.

Now, "Free Zimbabwe" is the story "for the next several days . . . for the Lingamish blog," which is a translation of this story:

"Enough is Enough" is the story of several lifetimes for Zimpundit at http://enoughzimbabwe.org/, which is a translation of this story:

"Sokwanele and Zvakwana both mean 'enough is enough' in the vernacular"; and this is the story of women who cry out for "Dignity. Period!," which is a translation of the stories of terror and tears:

"This Is Zimbabwe" is only a folder of terrible stories within a whole site of folders, a serial volume mapped as http://www.sokwanele.com/.

So the young rabbi tells disturbing stories or, rather, stories that disturb the credulity of the stories of the listeners. They are never perfect or accurate translations.

A kid named Matthew hears one in his heart language, and writes it down in a heady language like this (but stay with him a bit because you'll hear it from Jane next in her French):

ἄλλην παραβολὴν παρέθηκεν αὐτοῖς λέγων

ὡμοιώθη ἡ βασιλεία τῶν οὐρανῶν ἀνθρώπῳ
σπείραντι καλὸν σπέρμα ἐν τῷ ἀγρῷ αὐτοῦ
ἐν δὲ τῷ καθεύδειν τοὺς ἀνθρώπους
ἦλθεν αὐτοῦ ὁ ἐχθρὸς καὶ ἐπέσπειρεν ζιζάνια ἀνὰ μέσον τοῦ σίτου καὶ ἀπῆλθεν
ὅτε δὲ ἐβλάστησεν ὁ χόρτος καὶ καρπὸν ἐποίησεν
τότε ἐφάνη καὶ τὰ ζιζάνια
προσελθόντες δὲ οἱ δοῦλοι τοῦ οἰκοδεσπότου
εἶπον αὐτῷ
κύριε οὐχὶ καλὸν σπέρμα ἔσπειρας ἐν τῷ σῷ ἀγρῷ
πόθεν οὖν ἔχει ζιζάνια
ὁ δὲ ἔφη αὐτοῖς ἐχθρὸς ἄνθρωπος τοῦτο ἐποίησεν
οἱ δὲ δοῦλοι λέγουσιν αὐτῷ
θέλεις οὖν ἀπελθόντες συλλέξωμεν αὐτά
ὁ δέ φησιν οὔ μήποτε συλλέγοντες τὰ ζιζάνια ἐκριζώσητε ἅμα αὐτοῖς τὸν σῖτον ἄφετε συναυξάνεσθαι ἀμφότερα ἕως τοῦ θερισμοῦ καὶ ἐν καιρῷ τοῦ θερισμοῦ
ἐρῶ τοῖς θερισταῖς
συλλέξατε πρῶτον τὰ ζιζάνια καὶ δήσατε αὐτὰ εἰς δέσμας πρὸς τὸ κατακαῦσαι αὐτά τὸν δὲ σῖτον συναγάγετε εἰς τὴν ἀποθήκην μου

Luckily enough for us, Jane Stranz of life, laughter, and liturgy tells that this way, with her friends:

Il jetait une autre histoire à côté de leurs histoires personnelles

Le palais royal dans les cieux est comme quelqu’une
Qui plante de bonnes semences dans son jardin
Puis pendant que le people dort
Son ennemi vient planter des graines de mauvaises herbes parmi les semences de fleurs et s’en va
Au moment où les fleurs fleurissent les mauvaises herbes apparaissent aussi
les ouvriers du jardin allait voir la paysagiste lui dire
« Madame, n'avez-vous pas planté des semences de fleurs au jardin?
D'où viennent alors les mauvaises herbes? »
Elle répondait « C'est mon ennemi qui a fait ça. »
« Voulez-vous que l'on abattent les mauvaises herbes? » demandaient les ouvriers.
« Non, en les abattant vous abattrez en même temps les fleurs.
Qu'elles poussent ensemble jusqu'au moment où il faut couper les fleurs pour les bouquets. A ce moment là je dirai aux fleuristes – abattez les mauvaises herbes et mettez les en piles à brûler, mettez les fleurs dans mes vases. »

Now if you've stayed with us long enough so far (and enough is enough), then you might suspect there's an English translation, my story telling, in there some where. There is. It was a day in April when enough is enough, I say.

But don't stop with my story. Pick up a newspaper. Read of the terror, of the horror in someone else's state. Visit Zimbabwe. You don't have to translate perfectly. Listen!