Religious phrases are scattered liberally throughout Arabic languages. The secret to translating is not to take them literally
By Marie Dhumières
Tuesday 20 July 2010 16.00 BST
Courtesy Of "The Guardian"
I was recently watching the Spanish documentary To Shoot an Elephant, about the Israeli attacks on Gaza in January 2009. The documentary is good, but the subtitles in English struck me as strange: "For the sake of Allah", "May Allah protect [your sons] for you", "May Allah reward you" and other references to God are recurrent throughout the film.
I couldn't help thinking that, when translated literally into English, these expressions make Arabs sound very religious – or even like fundamentalists – in the eyes of those who have a tendency to jump to quick conclusions. And no need to say there are many of these in the current context of Islamophobia as it has been shown before on Cif.
But that's just the way Arabic people speak. Fundamentalist Muslims, devout Muslims, moderate Muslims, part-time Muslims, Christians, Atheists – no one has an entire conversation without saying at the very least "Inshallah", which literally means "God willing" and comes from the idea that you never know what God's plan is. It can be used as much as you want, even if you're not really thinking about God's plans at that very moment.
I remember absurd conversations around the word when I first arrived in Syria 18 months ago:
The same goes with "Praise be to God" (Alhamdulilah), which can mean "I am fine", "Cool, the electricity is back" or "Ah, you finally managed to pronounce this word", and so many other things.
When you come back from a trip people say "Praise God for your safety", and you should answer "May He keep you safe." But what it really means is "Welcome back" and "Thanks". At the end of a meal at someone's house, you should say "May God always provide you with food", and they would answer "May He give you health." But again, it means "Thanks, it was delicious" and "Really? Thank you, you're adorable."
If you have a shower or a haircut, if someone gives you something, if you're sick, if you say something stupid, if you're going to get married, if you've just had a baby, if you're mean to someone, if you get new shoes, if you get jealous of my amazing new shoes, if you want to swear that really, no, my new shoes are not so amazing – in almost every single daily life situation, there is a specific expression and a corresponding answer, which would refer to God in some way.
In Lebanon, they even use "May God dress you" when seeing a hot girl wearing a skirt or a top, meaning I guess, "Please God, quickly cover this great body before I jump on it."
The same goes with insults: May God destroy your house, May God burn your religion, May God infect you with disease… It all sounds very scary, but be reassured, they don't really mean it. And I am pretty sure that if God were actually to destroy your house at the moment they say it, they would feel kind of bad. And, even if people sometimes obviously really mean what they say when referring to God, most of the time they don't. When I leave my atheist communist friends' houses in Damascus and they say, beer in hand, "May God be with you," I laugh. But as one of them said to me "I don't think about it, and of course I don't mean it, it's a reflex, a tic."
I have been living in Syria for some time, and I have started using these phrases too. It truly becomes a reflex, and also limits the chances of being charged far too much for a taxi ride. But when I think about what I am actually saying, I smile to myself just imagining the face of a taxi driver in London if I were to say to him when entering the car, "May God give you strength." Hem, ok, well thank you.
In fact, removing religious references from daily speech in Arabic is a challenge. Another of my friends was telling me about how he had been trying for the last few years. "It's really hard," he said, "and that's why people often think I am a foreigner." It's not that foreigners refuse to use religious expressions by principle; it's just really hard to remember them all. So like my friend, they simply say "thanks" ("shukran"), "hello" ("marhaba"), and "good-bye" ("yalla bye" – no, it's not really an Arabic word).
But think about it. In English, we say "God damn it", "God bless you", "Jesus Christ", which would sound very strange if they were to be translated literally into another language. So next time you hear in the news or in a movie an Arabic guy saying "Praise be to God," remember he may just be saying "Great, the electricity is back."
I couldn't help thinking that, when translated literally into English, these expressions make Arabs sound very religious – or even like fundamentalists – in the eyes of those who have a tendency to jump to quick conclusions. And no need to say there are many of these in the current context of Islamophobia as it has been shown before on Cif.
But that's just the way Arabic people speak. Fundamentalist Muslims, devout Muslims, moderate Muslims, part-time Muslims, Christians, Atheists – no one has an entire conversation without saying at the very least "Inshallah", which literally means "God willing" and comes from the idea that you never know what God's plan is. It can be used as much as you want, even if you're not really thinking about God's plans at that very moment.
I remember absurd conversations around the word when I first arrived in Syria 18 months ago:
"Ok, so I'll see you tomorrow Inshallah"No, no, it's not about God's will, I will see you tomorrow.
"Oh you're not sure, should I call back later?"
"No it's fine I'll see you at 6.30."
"Ok, see you tomorrow then."
"Inshallah."
The same goes with "Praise be to God" (Alhamdulilah), which can mean "I am fine", "Cool, the electricity is back" or "Ah, you finally managed to pronounce this word", and so many other things.
When you come back from a trip people say "Praise God for your safety", and you should answer "May He keep you safe." But what it really means is "Welcome back" and "Thanks". At the end of a meal at someone's house, you should say "May God always provide you with food", and they would answer "May He give you health." But again, it means "Thanks, it was delicious" and "Really? Thank you, you're adorable."
If you have a shower or a haircut, if someone gives you something, if you're sick, if you say something stupid, if you're going to get married, if you've just had a baby, if you're mean to someone, if you get new shoes, if you get jealous of my amazing new shoes, if you want to swear that really, no, my new shoes are not so amazing – in almost every single daily life situation, there is a specific expression and a corresponding answer, which would refer to God in some way.
In Lebanon, they even use "May God dress you" when seeing a hot girl wearing a skirt or a top, meaning I guess, "Please God, quickly cover this great body before I jump on it."
The same goes with insults: May God destroy your house, May God burn your religion, May God infect you with disease… It all sounds very scary, but be reassured, they don't really mean it. And I am pretty sure that if God were actually to destroy your house at the moment they say it, they would feel kind of bad. And, even if people sometimes obviously really mean what they say when referring to God, most of the time they don't. When I leave my atheist communist friends' houses in Damascus and they say, beer in hand, "May God be with you," I laugh. But as one of them said to me "I don't think about it, and of course I don't mean it, it's a reflex, a tic."
I have been living in Syria for some time, and I have started using these phrases too. It truly becomes a reflex, and also limits the chances of being charged far too much for a taxi ride. But when I think about what I am actually saying, I smile to myself just imagining the face of a taxi driver in London if I were to say to him when entering the car, "May God give you strength." Hem, ok, well thank you.
In fact, removing religious references from daily speech in Arabic is a challenge. Another of my friends was telling me about how he had been trying for the last few years. "It's really hard," he said, "and that's why people often think I am a foreigner." It's not that foreigners refuse to use religious expressions by principle; it's just really hard to remember them all. So like my friend, they simply say "thanks" ("shukran"), "hello" ("marhaba"), and "good-bye" ("yalla bye" – no, it's not really an Arabic word).
But think about it. In English, we say "God damn it", "God bless you", "Jesus Christ", which would sound very strange if they were to be translated literally into another language. So next time you hear in the news or in a movie an Arabic guy saying "Praise be to God," remember he may just be saying "Great, the electricity is back."
"To Shoot An Elephant"
Sinopsis
"...afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if it's owner fails to control it".
George Orwell defined a way of witnessing Asia that still remains valid. "To shoot an elephant" is an eye witness account from The Gaza Strip. December 27th, 2008, Operation Cast Lead. 21 days shooting elephants. Urgent, insomniac, dirty, shuddering images from the only foreigners who decided and managed to stay embedded inside Gaza strip ambulances, with Palestinian civilians.
George Orwell: “Shooting an elephant” was originally published in New Writing in 1948.
Context
Gaza Strip has been under siege since June 2007, when Israel declared it an "enemy entity". A group of international activists organized a siege-breaking movement, the Free Gaza movement. Thanks to their efforts, and despite the Israeli ban on foreign correspondents and humanitarian aid workers to cover and witness operation "Cast Lead" on the ground, a group of international volunteers: self organised members of the International Solidarity Movement were present in Gaza when the bombing started on December, 27th 2009. Together with two international correspondents from Al Jazeera International (Ayman Mohyeldin and Sherine Tadros), they were the only foreigners who managed to write, film and report for several radio stations what was happening inside the besieged Palestinian strip.
Were they journalists? Were they activists? Who cares!. They became witnesses. Being a journalist or being whatsoever depends on how you feel. It is an ethical responsibility that you manage to share with a wider audience what you and those who are around you are going through. It will be the result of your work that will lead you to a professional career as a journalist or not, rather than pre-assumptions and labels. Make them know. Make those who you want to: listen and be aware of what you are aware of. That is a journalist. Having a card, with "press" written on it, or getting a regular salary is not necessary to be a witness with a camera or a pen. Forget about neutrality. Forget about objectivity. We are not Palestinians. We are not Israelis. We are not impartial. We only try to be honest and report what we see and what we know. I am a journalist. If somebody listens, I am a journalist. In Gaza´s case, no "official journalists" were authorized to enter Gaza (apart from those who were already inside) so we became witnesses. With a whole set of responsibilities as regarding to it.
I have always understood journalism as "a hand turning the lights on inside the dark room". A journalist is a curious person, an unpleasant interrogator, a rebel camera and a pen making those in power feel uncomfortable. And that is the concept of my work in Gaza: To fulfil a duty in the most narrated conflict on earth, where the story of the siege and the collective punishment that is being imposed by Israel on the whole population of the territory in retaliation for rockets sent by Hamas will never be told with enough accuracy.
For this it has to be lived. I sneaked inside Gaza despite Israeli attempts not to allow us to enter and I was "politely" asked to leave by those in power in Gaza. That is my idea of journalism. Every government on earth should feel nervous about somebody going around with a camera or a pen ready to publish what he or she manages to understand. For the sake of information, one of the biggest pillars of democracy.
This is an embedded film. We decided to be "embedded within the ambulances" opening an imaginary dialogue with those journalists who embed themselves within armies. Everyone is free to choose the side where they want to report from. But decisions are often not unbiased. We decided that civilians working for the rescue of the injured would give us a far more honest perspective of the situation than those whose job is to shoot, to injure and to kill. We prefer medics rather than soldiers. We prefer the bravery of those unarmed rescuers than those with -also interesting, but morally rejectable experiences who enlist to kill. It is a matter of focus. I am not interested in the fears, traumas and contradictions of those who have a choice: the choice of staying home and saying no to war.
I have always understood journalism as "a hand turning the lights on inside the dark room". A journalist is a curious person, an unpleasant interrogator, a rebel camera and a pen making those in power feel uncomfortable. And that is the concept of my work in Gaza: To fulfil a duty in the most narrated conflict on earth, where the story of the siege and the collective punishment that is being imposed by Israel on the whole population of the territory in retaliation for rockets sent by Hamas will never be told with enough accuracy.
For this it has to be lived. I sneaked inside Gaza despite Israeli attempts not to allow us to enter and I was "politely" asked to leave by those in power in Gaza. That is my idea of journalism. Every government on earth should feel nervous about somebody going around with a camera or a pen ready to publish what he or she manages to understand. For the sake of information, one of the biggest pillars of democracy.
This is an embedded film. We decided to be "embedded within the ambulances" opening an imaginary dialogue with those journalists who embed themselves within armies. Everyone is free to choose the side where they want to report from. But decisions are often not unbiased. We decided that civilians working for the rescue of the injured would give us a far more honest perspective of the situation than those whose job is to shoot, to injure and to kill. We prefer medics rather than soldiers. We prefer the bravery of those unarmed rescuers than those with -also interesting, but morally rejectable experiences who enlist to kill. It is a matter of focus. I am not interested in the fears, traumas and contradictions of those who have a choice: the choice of staying home and saying no to war.
2 comments:
I found the translation very helpful, but there are a few things I’d change. For the first line, “The flesh is sad, alas, *and* I’ve read all the book.” A small thing, but it gets across better the idea that he’s jaded, both body and mind. I don’t think he’s fleeing to *where* the birds must be drunk; he says “I feel birds must drunk to be…” Meaning, I think, that the birds want to fly just as he does. I’m not sure why she has the steamer “rocking” rather than balancing its masts. “Heave anchor” is a strange expression; “weigh anchor” would be better. And I don’t think the ennui is *bereft of* cruel hopes– I think it’s *heartbroken by* cruel hopes.
Salam Tariq, thank you for your valuable input.
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