Waiting

A piece from the collection Over Land, Over Sea, written by Kathleen Bell, that I translated as part of the Journeys in Translation project (which is still open to contributors!):

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In English:

Waiting

When morning came, she knew that the people outside were not ghosts. Cautious, she stood, walked to the window, and looked. There were more than she thought. Their silence had deceived her. They were careful too. Grown-up hands steered infants away from her flower-beds. Next year’s vegetable harvest was safe. A man looked up and the bundle close to his chest stirred. How unwise to bring a baby here. The man’s glance caught hers, and beneath his patience she perceived a dreadful urgency. They were not ghosts – not yet. She drew the curtain across, returned to her chair, and waited.

***

In Polish:

Czekanie

Kiedy nastał ranek, wiedziała, że ludzie na zewnątrz nie są duchami. Ostrożnie wstała, podeszła do okna i wyjrzała. Było ich więcej, niż myślała. Cisza za oknem ją zmyliła. Byli ostrożni tak jak ona. Dorosłe ręce zawracały dzieci z drogi, kiedy szły w stronę jej grządek. Przyszłoroczne plony były bezpieczne. Jeden z mężczyzn podniósł głowę i zawiniątko, które trzymał przy piersi, poruszyło się. Jak niemądrze wziąć tu ze sobą niemowlę. Spojrzenie mężczyzny schwyciło jej spojrzenie i pod pozorem cierpliwości dostrzegła przerażenie, i naglącą potrzebę. Nie są duchami – jeszcze nie. Zaciągnęła zasłony, usiadła z powrotem na krześle i czekała.

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Why I No Longer Set an Alarm When I Go to Sleep

I used to believe it’s sad to think about sleep during the day, to be longing for sleep when you’re awake. Sleep, I thought, is an escape, and if you feel the need to escape, it must be quite bad.

But is sleep indeed an escape? And an escape from what? If the waking state was the primary reality of human beings, and if our living in that reality was always and without exceptions a hardship, then we could consider sleep an escape.

But our reality is composed of both sleep and wake, both playing a huge role in our well-being. That the waking state takes up two thirds, and sleep only one third of our lives, does not mean the latter is less important. We live in both, and need both.

The waking state is not always a hardship, either. I used to think it is for personal reasons, but now I’ve become acquainted with many more of the experiences that life has in store.

There is pleasure in life, and there is love. There is enthusiasm and exhaustion, and there is sadness and pain. There is also the feeling that one is actually lucky to be alive. And there is much more.

Coming back to not-so-personal beliefs, let’s remember that the time we spend asleep is equally valuable as our waking time. It is a time for rest, a time perfect for connecting with our inner lives, a time for dreaming and, let’s not forget about that: for growing.

But we’re reluctant to accept this fact of life, aren’t we, the twenty-first-century high-speed human machines? We minimize the time for sleep to have more of it for work, game playing, partying and whatnot. We treat sleep as if it was a necessary evil, often resorting to it only when we’re completely exhausted.

You’ve been there, haven’t you? If you haven’t, then my congratulations. But most of us relegate sleep to a place down at the bottom on their list of priorities. “Sleeping won’t get us a financial upgrade, awesome friends and photos from an enviable exotic trip, so why waste our time?”

There are at least two reasons… no, not to “waste our time”, but to change our minds about sleep so that it doesn’t seem a waste of time. Aaand to finally sleep enough.

Reason one is very simple, and you already know it: we need sleep. Our bodies, our minds, our everything needs sleep like plants need the sun. There’s no denying it, even if we like denying our needs so much. Remember: there’s no shame in being in need of something, so there’s no need to deny it.

Reason two is arguable, and I am going to argue for it: sleep makes our lives richer and more interesting. If we were to go with the current conception of a human being as a sort of organic robot, with brain for its main computer, stomach for the fuel tank and so on, we’d make ourselves dull and exhausted.

We’re not machines. We’re animals with an enormous capacity for experiencing things. Numerous things (see the personal paragraph above). And I have no doubt that we experience and remember them more fully when we are rested than we do when trying to fight exhaustion and boredom.

Our lives get more interesting also thanks to the dreaming we do while asleep. Seriously, wWhat would they be without those strange nightly phantasms, reflections on their possible meaning in the daily light, and evening discussions with our loved ones about whether they mean anything at all?

These are my reasons for not feeling bad when I think about sleep during the day, not setting an alarm when I go to sleep, and enjoying most of all the days when absolutely no external force can make my eyes open until they open by themselves in the morning.

What are yours? If you don’t have any, go find some, quickly. Because sleep is quite a lovely state.

***

A source that made me reflect on my attitude to sleep, and also a place for you to look for reasons to start getting enough sleep: The Cure for Insomnia Is to Fall in Love with Sleep Again

On a less serious note: A video presenting a healthy attitude to sleep

***

Nighty night!
mulan

Stories from ‘The Jungle’

Here’s another poem I translated for the Journeys in Translation project. In this one, Emma Lee retells the stories of six people from the Calais camp and their families. It was a challenge to render the already long lines in Polish, a language that tends to stretch sentences even more, but I was determined to translate this one. “Stories from ‘The Jungle'”, each one very personal and moving, really stuck with me.

Oh, and I forgot to mention in my previous post: by buying the original collection of poems, you support the foundations Doctors Without Borders, Leicester City of Sanctuary and Nottingham Refugee Forum.

***

The poem in English:

Stories from ‘The Jungle’

Everything Abdel sees is smeared, despite his glasses.
With the sleeve of a dusty shirt, he pushes grime
From the middle to the edges of his lenses.
They’ve witnessed family fall victim to war crimes.
He could shower for a fortnight and never feel clean.
English is an official language in Sudan.
At sixteen he wants to join relatives already in england.

To dodge military conscription, Sayid, 20, fled from Syria.
Inspired by the story of one of his heroes, William Gibson,
Sayid got to Egypt, then packed on a small boat to Lampedusa,
Through Italy to France, from where he can only move on.
On a borrowed laptop he listens to Syrian pop music.
He’d love to cook. He still has to pay a trafficker
weekly for the right to chase lorries to his brother in England.

With a bandaged hand Abdul, 21, tells of imprisonment
And gestures to describe the electric shocks he received
After his arrest by the Sudanese government.
His tribe also harassed by rebel militia. He feels deceived
By traffickers. Despite his razor-wire injury,
he’ll try again. Sudan was an English colony.
He wants to stop looking over his shoulder.

When a tiger stalks, play dead. But it’s hard not to run.
When his friends were arrested in Eritrea, Hayat fled
and moved from Ethiopia to Libya and across the Mediterranean.
He became tiger, his prey an England-bound train. His hunt failed.
His broken arm cast, he hunkers in a makeshift, tented cave.
A tiger fails nine of ten hunts. He’s five down, four more to brave.
English is the only European language he speaks.

At Baath University in Homs, his English Literature studies
were interrupted by conscription. Firas drew and followed an isopleth.
Three family members were killed by Syrian government forces,
he couldn’t bear to see or be responsible for any more death.
Skin torn by razor-wire, he still dreams of Oxford spires.
Relatives live in several English towns, all with universities.
He wants to use the language he’s immersed himself in.

Ziad was a respected lawyer in Daara. Now he fidgets,
grubby and injured from climbing fences, dodging
security and avoiding dogs. The pack of cigarettes
crinkles as he weaves it in his fingers, emptying
a last curl of tobacco. He didn’t smoke them but can’t finish
with the packet. He translates legal arguments into English.
He wants to join relatives and practice law again.

These stories are based on newspaper reports. Names have been changed.

***

The poem in Polish:

Historie z „dżungli”

Przed oczami Abdela wszystko zamazane, mimo że ma okulary.
Rękawem brudnawej koszuli rozciera sadzę
Na szkłach – ze środka na brzegi.
Widzieli, jak cała rodzina pada ofiarą zbrodni wojennych.
Mógłby myć się co chwilę i ciągle czuć się brudny.
Angielski jest jednym z języków urzędowych Sudanu.
Szesnastoletni Abdel chce dołączyć do krewnych, który są już w Anglii.

Aby uniknąć poboru, dwudziestoletni Sayid uciekł z Syrii.
Zainspirowany historią jednego ze swych idoli, Williama Gibsona,
Sayid dostał się do Egiptu, wsiadł do łodzi w kierunku Lampeduzy,
Przez Włochy dotarł do Francji – stamtąd może tylko ruszyć dalej.
Na pożyczonym laptopie słucha syryjskiego popu.
Chciałby być kucharzem. Na razie co tydzień musi płacić przemytnikowi,
By gonić za ciężarówkami do Anglii, do swojego brata.

Dwudziestojednoletni Abdul opowiada o swoim uwięzieniu
I gestem – jedna dłoń w bandażu – pokazuje elektrowstrząsy,
Które dostał po aresztowaniu przez rząd Sudanu.
Rebelianci również nie dają spokoju jego plemieniu. Czuje się oszukany
Przez przemytników. Pomimo rany od drutu kolczastego
Spróbuje jeszcze raz. Sudan był kiedyś kolonią brytyjską.
Abdul chce przestać oglądać się za siebie.

Kiedy tygrys się skrada, stój w miejscu. Ale instynkt każe uciekać.
Gdy aresztowano jego przyjaciół w Erytrei, Hayat uciekł z kraju,
Przebył Etiopię i Libię, a potem Morze Śródziemne.
Stał się tygrysem, a celem – pociąg do Anglii. Polowanie się nie udało.
Z ręką w gipsie przykucnął w prowizorycznym namiocie-jaskini.
Tygrys wraca głodny dziewięć na dziesięć razy. Stawił czoło pięciu,
Zostało więc cztery. Angielski to jedyny europejski język, jaki Hayat zna.

Jego studia z literatury angielskiej na uniwersytecie Al-Baath w Homs
Przerwał pobór do wojska. Firas narysował na mapie linię i podążył za nią.
Troje z jego rodziny zostało zabitych przez wojsko rządu syryjskiego.
Czuł, że nie mógł być świadkiem lub sprawcą ani jednej śmierci więcej.
Ze skórą zszarpaną drutem wciąż marzy o studiach w Oksfordzie.
Jego krewni mieszkają w różnych miastach w Anglii, w każdym – uniwersytet.
Firas chce mówić językiem, który tak go zafascynował.

Ziad był w Darze uznanym prawnikiem. Teraz kręci się,
Brudny, pokaleczony od wchodzenia na siatki, ukrywając się
przed strażą i unikając psów. Paczka papierosów
Szemrze, kiedy skręca ją w palcach, wyciągając ostatni
Zwitek tytoniu. Wcześniej nie palił, ale teraz
Jedna paczka nie wystarcza. Tłumaczy teksty prawne na angielski.
Chce dołączyć do krewnych i znowu być prawnikiem.

Powyższe historie zostały oparte na wiadomościach prasowych. Imiona bohaterów zostały zmienione.

But One Country

Here’s a poem by Rod Duncan that I translated as part of the Journeys in Translation project, a project that calls upon translators around the world to translate poems from Over Land Over Sea: Poems for those seeking refuge from English into other languages. You can still take part! More information: Journeys in Translation

The poem in English:

but one country

our home
is but one country
truly, the whole earth
is there for them to settle
tell us if you can, where else
shall we go when they have come?
they do not belong in our homeland
you should blush when you say to us
we must turn our vision up-side down

 we must turn our vision up-side down
you should blush when you say to us
they do not belong in our homeland
shall we go when they have come?
tell us if you can, where else
is there for them to settle
truly, the whole earth
is but one country
our home

The poem in Polish:

Tylko jeden kraj

Nasz dom
— Jeden kraj
Na całym świecie
Jest dla nich dość miejsca
Mówcie, jeśli wiecie, gdzie
Mamy pójść, gdy się tu zjawią?
W tym kraju nie ma dla nich miejsca
Powinno wam być wstyd mówić nam, że
Czas wywrócić swój świat do góry nogami

Czas wywrócić swój świat do góry nogami
Powinno wam być wstyd mówić nam, że
W tym kraju nie ma dla nich miejsca
Mamy pójść, gdy się tu zjawią?
Mówcie, jeśli wiecie, gdzie
Jest dla nich dość miejsca
Na całym świecie
— Jeden kraj
Nasz dom

Auto-Correct

A few months ago, I took an old notebook, half-filled with Russian words, out of a cupboard, and appointed it my new diary notebook.

It has more ink in it now than it could ever have as the kind of notebook you take to classes. In fact, it’s almost full by now. When I wave it goodbye and take on a new one, I know I’ll remember it with fondness because it is the place where I’ve learned and am practicing a new life skill: auto-correct.

The pages filled with Russian words are the only pages from my notebook that you're allowed to see...
The only pages from my notebook that you’re allowed to see…

Let me explain. For most of my life, I thought I lacked self-confidence but that that was the way I was. I thought that not being sure what you want and not believing that you can get what you want was something you were born with and that you couldn’t change regardless of how much effort you put into it.

“Being the way I was” in this aspect never made me happy. But it wasn’t until my early twenties that I decided I can get rid of tendencies that make me unhappy.

One of the eye-opening events during that time was reading Anna’s post about women’s lack of confidence in their dreams, plans, and abilities.

It was this post that made me start to notice the little “I think’s” and “maybes” that I slip into my utterances, my diary entries, even my thoughts. And when I became aware of the number of those seemingly harmless words in my language, I decided to… one after another, get rid of the fuckers.

So when I had filled some of the new notebook those few months ago and, flipping through it one lazy day, spotted several sentences starting with “I think I may want to…” or “maybe I will…” crowding it up, I corrected them to what I actually wanted to say: “I want to”, “I will”.

Since then, I’ve crossed out many “I think’s” and “maybes”, and you know what? Over time, I’ve begun to feel more confident about what I want and how I feel about things. In fact, I’m just beginning to believe that I have the right to want things, and to feel about things the way I do. In other words, I’m beginning to feel that my life is actually mine.

Auto-correct may well sound silly to you, but to me it sounds like the best way to start. I have always experienced words spoken out loud as “heavier” than ones you just turn over in your head. That’s probably because I don’t like talking very much, so when I do talk, I try to at least make the words “heavier”, that is more meaningful.

The same goes for words that get crossed out on paper — the act of crossing them out means that I don’t want them in my language. It’s a manifestation. It means that I want to change.

So if you also want to change something about yourself… why not try out auto-correct?

Old Habits Die Hard

My recent therapy sessions have taught me a new way of looking at some of my more painful experiences: namely, to see them as habits.

The word itself doesn’t sound painful, does it? It sounds rather… light. Undramatic. Normal. And that’s what I wanted — to see my experiences, and deal with them as I’d do with normal things. Like bad habits, which might be sticky, and one might be too lazy to get rid of them, but they are not a matter of Fate — one can change them if one wants to, and if one applies to it.

One of my more painful experiences — or bad habits — is to think of myself as a victim: unprotected, unhelped, and abandoned. I probably got into that habit some ten years ago but, sadly, it still makes me do stupid things, like rejecting help, calling people’s good intentions into doubt, or mistaking sporadic lack of help for general unreliability.

Of course, I hate this tendency in me. It reminds me of a bad time in my life, it makes me feel guilty of an unfair mistrust of people, and I don’t really like thinking, let alone talking about it. But I wanted to get rid of it, so I brought it with me to therapy.

After some time, I decided that, without disregarding the pain associated with it, it’s best to approach it simply as a habit. And through practice, perhaps through doubt and disappointment, with a lot of patience, possibly with support from others, and certainly with my own happiness in mind, I can get rid of it.

“I’ve done that before. Damn, I stopped eating crisps!” I thought.

Have I had much success so far? Not really, no. Only yesterday, I mentally accused my significant otter of being generally unconcerned about my health just because he refused to once again wash the shower cabin when it was my turn (I ask him to do it because washing stuff is tricky when you have skin problems).

But I checked myself: “oh yes, that’s that old album playing — the one about people being unhelpful — I don’t like that one.” And I thought that no otter, even the significant one, is obliged to fulfill my every wish, especially if they’re tired, and I washed the stupid shower cabin myself.

So there is some progress… But equally important as the slow progress I am making is the fact that, even if thinking about my habit still brings some pain, and fighting it is anything but easy, I feel so empowered when I treat it this way. Seeing myself as a victim is no longer some vague “way of being” thing that I cannot change, no matter how hard I try. It’s a habit that I decide whether to keep or not.

And I already decided not to.