In Other Words

Overcoming the Language Barrier

FP's translation project: From the Rwandan genocide to Tito's death, from Indian Muslims to Vietnamese Agent Orange victims, and from Israeli communists to Parisian chroniclers of the Vichy years, a selection of works you won't read anywhere else -- at least, not in English.

"I write in a language that has little to do with tulips, windmills, or silly snowmen with carrot noses, a language honed to denote Africa in all its harshness, cruelty, and beauty," Thomas Dreyer writes in his essay "Not Our Leguaan." It's also a language, Afrikaans, that is rarely translated into English -- like most languages, in fact, as literary translator Edith Grossman elaborated in her article for our May/June issue, "A New Great Wall." But Dreyer's piece, grappling with the complexities of creating art out of the language that once created apartheid, offers a crucial perspective for understanding the affairs of his country, and so do the eight other pieces in our first-ever Foreign Policy translation project.

A selection from an acclaimed Indian Muslim novelist, Manzoor Ahtesham, recounts the adventure of cranky old Dulchan Chachi, who makes the hajj from her home in Bhopal and comes back complaining about it like a package tour gone horribly wrong: "Oh, they're mad about making the circuit around the Kaaba. Push and shove, jostle and wrestle, God help them!" In an excerpt from Yang Dongping's monumental work on China's cities, the historian performs an almost Seinfeld-ian taxonomy on what makes people from Shanghai so bizarre: "[Shanghainese] will seize on a tiny principle, even if it's a bit skewed, and sometimes even if it's downright bogus." Croatian author Marica Bodrožic's piece describes a young girl's growing awareness of what communism meant in Yugoslavia after the death of its leader: "Josip Broz-Tito was dead: the man with the giant round glasses whose portrait hung in my classroom and whose image was on the badge I got when I was initiated into the Pioneers." A historic diary written by a French economist chronicles life during the Vichy period in Paris: "A week of horror, filled with executions and the roundup of Jews," one entry begins.

What binds this heterogeneous group together -- along with the Rwandan novelist detailing a woman's first inkling that something's not right in her home country; the Vietnamese journalist encountering victims of Agent Orange; the Russian-German author writing about how it feels to come of age as a "quota refugee" in a camp; the Israeli author describing a child's misconceptions about politics -- is that, until now, you couldn't read them in English. Without translation, these funny and sad, fictional and nonfictional, familiar and distant worlds would be completely lost to us, along with our ability to comprehend any part of the intellectual galaxy beyond our very small, very insular solar system. Google Translate doesn't quite do the trick.

Luckily, despite its disappearance from major publishing houses, literary translation is alive and thriving on the Internet, where a collection of blogs, websites, and listservs keep translators in touch with each other and with their readers. Sites like the University of Rochester's Three Percent, Words Without Borders, The Quarterly Conversation and its blog Conversational Reading, the complete review and its blog Literary Saloon, and the University of Iowa's 91st Meridian all focus on translated work. It was through this online network of world literature champions that we tracked down our authors and our translators. As Grossman writes in her FP article, their work is "one of the ways past a menacing babble of incomprehensible tongues and closed frontiers into mutual comprehension."

"Linguistic Apartheid": A South African essayist considers the ugly history of his native tongue.

By Thomas Dreyer; translated by Dreyer from the Afrikaans.

"A Hajj Gone Wrong": What if you went to Mecca -- and hated it? A story from a Hindi novelist.

By Manzoor Ahtesham; translated by Jason Grunebaum and Ulrike Stark from the Hindi.

"Coming of Age in the Camps": A young "quota refugee" from Russia adjusts to life in Germany, from pizza to making new friends, in this first novel by a rising German talent.

By Lena Gorelik; translated by Michael Ritterson from the German.

"A Tale of Two Chinese Cities": Why people from Shanghai are so crazy, by one of China's great environmental historians.

By Yang Dongping; translated by Andrea Lingenfelter from the Mandarin.

"Waking Up to Genocide": The slow realization that everything is wrong, told by one of Rwanda's most promising young novelists.

By Gilbert Gatore; translated by Marjolijn de Jager from the French.

"Going Underground in Israel": A great Hebrew novelist tells the tale of a young boy with grandiose -- and confused -- aspirations to join the political sub-classes.

By Benjamin Tammuz; translated by Jessica Cohen from the Hebrew.

"Diary of an Occupation": Entries from the journal of a well-connected French economist, written during the Vichy years in Paris.

By Charles Rist; translated by Michele Aynesworth from the French.

"A Bad Fortune for the Vietnamese": A mother's struggle with the legacy of Agent Orange, from a Vietnamese journalist's account.

By Minh Chuyen; translated by Huy Lien and Charles Waugh from the Vietnamese.

"Mourning for a Dictator": The day Tito died, as witnessed by a young Croatian girl.

By Marica Bodrožic; translated by Gerald Chapple from the German.

To go to the first entry in the series, Dreyer's "Linguistic Apartheid," click here.

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In Other Words

Mourning for a Dictator

The day Tito died, as witnessed by a young Croatian girl.

From Marica Bodroži c's collection of short stories, Tito is Dead; translated by Gerald Chapple from the German.

Josip Broz Tito was dead: the man with the giant round glasses whose portrait hung in my classroom and whose image was on the badge I got when I was initiated into the Pioneers, a badge and a partisan-like cap, a red star and a red kerchief. His penetrating gaze graced every shoemaker's shop, every butcher shop, however bloody, every dusty old teachers' staff room in whatever hick mountain village, every shopping center, every bureaucrat's office and every classroom. Nobody was to forget the glorious battles "of our men" who had courageously faced the foe and not only conquered them by dint of arms but with their hearts as well, as they fearlessly brought about the death of fascism and freedom to the people.

Granddad caught it on the early morning news and called me into the kitchen. Tito was on every channel. Within a few hours he became the sole image of the nation, framed by thin-faced mourners.

The radio responded immediately to the event. My favorite program was canceled. There was a special report on Tito's life and work instead.

Granddad was transfixed as he watched the screen with one blind eye and one seeing eye. He'd often take off his cap, agitated, and put it on again. Time and again he'd shake his head, emitting a "tsk, tsk," almost a hiss. Now, he'd say, the devil's going to ride roughshod over the whole damn population, and it had all been for nothing. He'd made soup for soldiers during World War II all for nothing, he said, because he thought that would be it for at least a hundred years. A soldier in the company he was assigned to refused to shoot 20 soldiers who'd suddenly appeared out of nowhere. I never figured out whose side they were on and didn't ask, because the mere thought of executing them would get the better of me and because Granddad's repeated description of it always kept me entranced. In the end, the commanding officer had to shoot the prisoners himself, since even the cook didn't want to get his hands dirty. The ones who'd refused to kill were unable to extricate themselves from this gratuitous massacre that took place during the last days of the war; they could choose either to observe the unilateral glee of a man who'd cracked up or to join the 20 men against the wall. And so everybody there heard the names of those condemned to die. The crazed CO ordered them to take a step forward, one by one, and give their names. Their voices were heard one last time before the bullets hit their skinny bellies and the emaciated bodies dropped to the ground like flies.

Later on there was a rare sentencing. The CO came face to face with his company cook in court, when my grandfather recited the names of the 20 dead men as if in a trance. Even at home my Granddad would repeat their names while looking off aimlessly into the distance. It was only in retrospect that I was able to figure out why his gaze used to wander and only then that I understood why -- for all his doubts about the marshal's sacrosanct greatness -- he felt Tito's death as a genuine loss. I understood later on how palpably his body must have sensed a disaster yet to come, because it was very soon afterward that war broke out again, and this one was to separate those who hated one another but, even worse, those who loved one another. What for? Because war brings nothing and nobody together.

I heard it said in the village that Tito had forced people into living together, alongside one another, and that they would now have their revenge. On politics and on their enemies, on everybody who'd made their lives so hard. That's why it came as no surprise when I read that the first thing the Albanians did after Enver Hoxha died was to cut down plum trees the state had planted and to stamp their revenge once and for all on their own countryside. A desolate, grass-covered wilderness was on the other side of the border now, where you used to see tree plantations. You can only see boring scrubland, thick stumps of cut-down trees -- witnesses to a time that was not granted any chance to survive, least of all in its plum trees.


For the next translation, click here.

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