The Writer’s group in Schwäbisch Gmünd
Timişoara – Writers, Migration and their Autobiographies
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- Bu səhifədəki naviqasiya:
- Tunele din Madrid
- Tunnels in Madrid
- Am Amin şi prăjitura copilăriei
- Am Amin and The Cake of my Childhood
- Casa familiei mele
- IMPRIMERIA MIRTON
Timişoara – Writers, Migration and their Autobiographies Gabriela Tucan To start with, the group of writers in Timisoara was formed after a long and thorough search. We knew we should be looking for immigrants willing to write about themselves and their experience of immigration. So, we started our search for families of immigrants. Much as we tried, we could hardly find anyone to match our profile, so then we realized that here in Romania immigration means something else. Indeed, some ‘immigrants’ here are work migrants, others constantly shift countries, and some others come to study here and decide to remain. For most of them, ‘immigration’ sounds rather strange and far-fetched, as they never truly think of themselves as immigrants. Luckily, to them migration is not irreversible. And so, we found Bilal Abbas whose Romanian mother got married in Sudan where they lived but only until Abbas was three-year-old. And then, we got Ahmed from Egypt who has worked for several years as a lecturer of Arabian language in the Republic of Moldavia and now in Timisoara. Then, Edwina Vochot of Czech origin who has been always traveling from Romania to the Czech Republic and now studies in Timisoara. Next, Daniele Pantaleoni who studied Romanian at university in Italy, and so for him everything started with the scholarship he got in Timisoara and afterwards he decided to stay. Daniele from Italy and Jorge Gonzales from Spain have been here for almost fifteen years now and their histories as ‘immigrants’ are very similar. To them, moving here came almost natural, and so Romania has become their second home. Another writer is Natalie Lazar whose Romanian father left Romania for Germany in the 70s and now she is here to learn about her identity and her father and grandfather’s origins. When we found the writers, we started our writing sessions once a month. The writing they produced has been their attempt at remembering their origin and understanding their life in Romania. They have pieced together fragments and snapshots of the experience of their two homes, of being here and there, and of remembering friends and families from here and there. Gradually, they have become more used to literary writing techniques, and so their life on paper has become probably more exciting and is much worth listening to. We really hope these first fragments will be just the start of writing about their most precious memories and most personal way of coping with migration.
Aşa am descoperit tunelele, pe care, după prima tatonare în beznă, le-am explorat cu lanterne şi brichete, până am ajuns într-o zi la o clădire goală şi semipărăsită a Facultăţii de Medicină, într-un vechi laborator unde se adunau pe rafturi mostre de organe umane conservate în borcane de formol. Mai târziu am învăţat că acele tunele constituiseră prima linie în eroica apărare a Madridului când în 1936 cu Franco la porţile oraşului, madrilenii s-au încăpăţânat să nu-i cedeze, şi aşa a rămas, hârţuit în mod insuportabil, dar invincibil, până când, aproape trei ani mai târziu, generalul fascist a trebuit să cucerească restul Spaniei pentru a obliga capitala să treacă sub puterea lui. Eroii tunelelor nu se luptau, ca şi mine, cu posibilitatea unui perete care să-i oprească din drumul lor, ci cu un duşman care le-ar fi curmat vieţile fără milă. Pentru mine a fost prima confruntare cu necunoscutul, fără a asculta strigătele părinţilor mei în spate (Jorge, pe acolo nu, e periculos!), experienţa pe care nu am uitat-o niciodată şi de care îmi amintesc de fiecare dată când intru cu maşina într-o ţară nouă, sau mă aventurez în explorarea unui oraş neconoscut, cuprins de o panică subtilă şi imperceptibilă, dar experimentând satisfacţia de a fi obligat să-mi pun la bătaie toate strategiile pentru a simţi încă o dată palpitaţiile faptului de a fi viu.
So we discovered the tunnels which, after our first examination in complete darkness, we explored with flashlights and lighters, and so one day we came across an empty and half-deserted building of the Medical School, in an old lab where they would store on shelves samples of human organs kept in jars of formol. Later I learnt that those tunnels had been the first line in the defense of Madrid when in 1936, with Franco at the gates of the city, the Madrilians refused to surrender to him, and so for the next three years, the general had been persecuted constantly but remained invincible, and so he had to conquer the rest of Spain to have the capital under his rule. Unlike me, the heroes of the tunnels did not fight the possibility of a wall that would stop them from their way, but real enemies that would murder them mercilessly. For me that was my first encounter with the unknown, without having to listen to my parents’ cries behind (Jorje, watch out! It’s dangerous!); that experience I have never forgotten and I always remember it every time I’m driving into a new country or when I’m venturing into a new city, overwhelmed by an sudden and subtle attack of panic, but enjoying the satisfaction of having to use up all my strategies to feel once again the anxiety of being alive.
Într-o noapte vara n-am dormit nici un pic, am vrut să fiu primul copil la rând la Am Amin. Am ieşit din casă devreme la şase şi am fost primul copil pe stradă ...dar nu l-am găsit pe Am Amin! Mai târziu au venit şi copiii unul după altul, ca picăturile de ploaie. Am aşteptat pe stradă până după-amiază, dar n-a venit, nu ştiam unde să-l căutăm. După trei zile am aflat că s-a întors în oraşul de unde era pentru că razboiul s-a terminat. Am Amin and The Cake of my Childhood Ahmed Rashidi Hassan I got used to getting up early at weekends thinking of the cake. I get up first in the house, get dressed quickly and ask my father for some money, and then hurriedly go out to meet Am Amin the cake vendor; I always tried to come there first, but unfortunately never succeeded, I don’t know why, I always find him surrounded by many kids. He stands on a round stone so that he may be taller, always dressed in white clothes, with a white coat and a white tall hat. From a distance I can hear the noise of the children, mixed voices, please, Am Amin, I was the first, please give me one more, please …please – I, please … give me the change, please… then I approach a little, led by the vanilla smell that makes me fly and land among the children; I impatiently wait for my turn, and look at Am Amin through his round shop window. I can see him slicing the cake in the big baking plate; he looks to the children with his beautiful black eyes and smiles. Now I can see better his creole skin and his smile that seems to lighten his face. I hear many stories about Am Amin; I hear that he moved in our town about seven years ago because of the war, and he has no kids, that’s why he loves kids so much. When he sees a penniless child, he gives him cakes for free. In short, he’s a pleasant but weird man; nobody ever knows his whereabouts. He would just show up in the morning with his cakes and disappear as soon as he finished. No one knows where he bakes his cakes, neither where he would have fun in the evening. One summer night I didn’t sleep a bit, I just wanted to be the first in line at Am Amin. I left early. I was the only child in the street…but couldn’t find Am Amin. Later on the other children came one after another, like rain drops. We waited right there in the street until later that afternoon, but he didn’t show up and we didn’t know where to search for him. After three days we found out that he returned to his native town as the war was finished. Fuga Natalie Lazăr Îmi sprijin fruntea de geam. Afară plouă. Când trenul ia viteză, picături de ploaie cad pe diagonală şi taie peisajul şes în dungi. Azi-dimineață am vrut să fiu undeva departe – departe de universitate, de părinţi, de toate cele obişnuite. În secret am cumpărat un bilet „Hamburg - Den Haag”, care era următoarea plecare. Trenul frânează. Am ajuns. În faţa gării, mă urc ca în transă în tramvai. Direcţia „Scheveningen“ spune placa albastră de deasupra şoferului. Stau în picioare. Nu privesc pe nimeni. Sunt sigură: se vede un semn pe faţa mea, se simte fuga mea, sunt sigură. Sau de ce toată lumea îşi holbează ochii? Cu fiecare staţie tramvaiul se goleşte. Oamenii ajung acasă, la cinci după-amiază. Ca şi mine: ajung acasă de la universitate, ajung acasă de la şcoală: aşa a fost mereu. Nimic nu s-a schimbat. Observ cum şoferul mă priveşte. Sunt convinsă că am un semn pe frunte. Mă uit prin vagon. Nu ramâne nimeni în tramvai, capăt de linie. Roşesc şi cobor repede. El mă salută cu capul. Felinarele sclipesc, miroase a alge. Neaşteptat, întâlnirea îmi dă fiori în tot corpul: Marea Nordului. Atât de agitată n-am văzut-o niciodată. Mi se face frig, furtuna îmi smulge hainele. Incep să merg de-a lungul marginii de apă. Simt nisip in ochi. Nu văd. Simt o solitudine imensă. Acum o lună mă invada senzaţia că pierd ceva, o senzaţia de plictiseală paralizantă, crescând din zi în zi şi transformându-se într-o solitudine letală. Cred că aud un pescăruş. Simt ochii lui rapace, cinici. “Nimic nu e nou, asta e problema!”, îi explic păsării, dintr-o dată cu voce tare, în caz că zboară lângă mine. Recunosc că nici eu nu ştiu de ce nu sunt mulţumită de viaţa mea. Talazul urlă mai tare. Aud un strigăt. Să fie pescăruşul, sper. Brusc, mă opresc din mers: “Decepţionată! Asta e: decepţionată de mine! Că eu n-am putut să schimb nimic, eu n-am avut curajul să rup rutina.” Vâjâitul vântului slăbeşte. Caut pescăruşul la orizont, văd numai noaptea care se leagănă liniştit pe valuri. The Escape Natalie Lazăr I lean my forehead against the window. It rains outside. When the train gathers speed, raindrops fall diagonally and cut the flat landscape into stripes. This morning I wanted to get to a remote place - far from university, from parents, and all the usual stuff. Secretly I bought a ticket Hamburg – Den Haag, the very next departure. The train stops. We have arrived. In front of the railway station I get on a tram as in a trance. Next stop Scheveningen says the blue sign from above the driver. I stand. I don’t look to anyone. I have no doubts about that: they can see it on my face, they can read my escape. I am positive about that. Why do they all stare? After each stop the tram empties. People will get home at five in the afternoon. I am no exception: I get home from university or from school at the same time. It has always been that way. Nothing has changed. I notice how the driver watches me. I am positive I’ve got a sign on my forehead. I look around the carriage. No one stays on the tram. This is a dead end. I blush and get down fast. The driver greets me nodding. The street lights glimmer in the remaining grey daylight. It smells of fish or algae. Unexpectedly, the encounter gives me the shivers: the North Sea. Never before have I seen it so wild. I get very cold. The storm tears my clothes apart. I start walking along the water line. I can feel sand in my eyes. I can’t see a thing. An immense solitude overwhelms me. A month ago the feeling that I was to lose something invaded me; a feeling of paralysing fear, growing from day to day and turning into lethal solitude. I think I can hear a seagull. I can feel its rapacious cynical eyes. “Nothing new under the sun, that’s the problem!,” I suddenly explain to the bird out loud, in case it is flying next to me. I admit that I myself don’t know why I am disappointed with my life. The waves cry out even louder. I can hear a scream. Might that be the seagull?! I hope so. Suddenly I stop walking. “Disappointed! That’s it! Disappointed with me because I could not change anything, I did not have the guts to break with the routine.” The blow of the wind weakens. I search for the seagull on the horizon; I can see the night undulating gently with the waves. Olga Daniele Pantaleoni Între camerele situate la parter ale Căminului G4, una avea o faimă deosebită, era cuibul Doamnei Olga, administratoarea. Încăperea puterii era luminată de o lampă din care se împrăştiau nişte raze slabe şi încărcate cu o nuanţă roşiatică care te făcea să crezi că ai intrat într-un restaurant chinezesc absurd şi prost amenajat. Camera cuprindea: un birou, o canapea, un frigider, un televizor color, un reşou, o oglindă. Privirea alunecă aproape automat la dreapta, către biroul care găzduia un teanc de hîrţoage, nişte poze înrămate, o ceaşcă de nes fierbinte şi o scrumieră plină ochi cu chiştoace de Snagov. Dincolo de acestă cortină fumigenă se detaşa o figură umană robustă, cu părul creţ, piept generos şi dinţi consumaţi precum ţigara care atârna din buzele ei: Doamna Administratoare Olga sau, pe scurt, Şefa! Înfăţişarea ei era un calc fidel al reputaţiei de care se bucura printre locuitorii din Căminul G4. Aceştia o considerau un fel de Muma Pădurii a Complexului studenţesc, o fiinţă cu o înaltă concentraţie de corupţie şi de reflexe securisto-comuniste care avea în mână destinul cazării multor studenţi şi tinere cadre didactice. Viitorul meu de locuitor al căminului nu depindea de Olga, deci puteam să am cu dânsa o relaţie puţin mai neserioasă. Când intram în biroul ei pentru a plăti chiria sau pentru a primi un telefon mi se părea că mă scufundam într-un film de Kusturica şi, în consecinţă, începeam să recit rolul meu. Mai în glumă, mai în serios, îi ceream o reducere, să o distrez poceam ceva cuvinte în limba română şi îi lăudam calităţile cafelei. Olga din când în când mă întreba dacă puteam să-i aduc din Italia lucruri ciudate precum: parfumuri, pampers pentru nepotul ei, cosmetice. Inevitabil răspundeam spunând că aveam să plec în Italia abia peste 3-4 luni şi cum s-ar fi descurcat nepoţelul atâtă vreme fără scutece? Sau dacă între timp dânsa primea o invitaţie la o petrecere, oare ar fi mers nemachiată? Olga comenta obrăzniciile mele bolborosind ceva şi apoi adăuga: „Auzi tu ce şmecher este italianul ăsta!” M-am reîntâlnit cu Olga după câţiva ani, întâmplător, la un supermarket. Eu nu mai locuiam la G4 de mult. „Daniele, ce mai faci?”, m-a întrebat zâmbind. Din gura ei însă nu mai apăreau acele negre rămăşiţe stomatologice de odinioară, ci o sclipitoare proteză albă, rodul unei lungi şi obositoare cariere de Şefă. Olga Daniele Pantaleoni One of the rooms on the ground floor of the Hostel G4 was well-known as Madam Olga’s shelter, the superintendent. The room of the authority was lit by a lamp that shed dim reddish light that made you think you stepped into an absurd badly decorated Chinese restaurant. The room consisted of: a desk, a couch, a fridge, a colored TV set, a heater, a mirror. Your attention would automatically be drawn to the right, to the desk that was sheltering a pile of paperwork, some framed photos, a cup with hot instant coffee, and an ashtray absolutely full of Snagov cigarette butts. Beyond this smoke releasing curtain, a human figure was looming: well-built, curly haired, full-bosomed, with finished teeth like the cigarette hanging between her lips: Madam Olga The Superintendent or The Boss, for short! Her look resembled closely the reputation she was enjoying between the residents of the Hostel G4. These people thought of her as a sort of Ugly Hag of the Campus, a highly-corrupted person with the habits of a Communist Security general that ruled over the destiny of many students and young teachers who were searching for campus accommodation. My future as a resident in the hostel did not depend on Olga, so I could have a less serious relationship with her. When I would enter her office to pay the rent or to get a phone call, I felt as if I was submerging in a film by Kusturica and, as a result, I would start playing my part. Half joking, I would ask for a rent discount or, to make her laugh, I would mispronounce Romanian words and compliment her on the high quality of her coffee. At times Olga would ask me whether I could buy strange things for her from Italy: perfumes, baby nappies for her grandson, cosmetics. I would always tell her that I was only going to Italy in 3-4 month’s time and how was her grandson going to do without nappies for so long? Or meanwhile, she could be invited somewhere to a party, and how could she go without wearing makeup? Olga would comment on my naughty remarks and then would add: “You listen to this wicked Italian!” I ran into Olga in a supermarket several years after that. By then I already left G4. “Daniele, how are you?” she asked me smiling. I could not see in her mouth the black stomatological remains of the old days, but some shining white false teeth, the product of a long and exhausting career as a Boss.
Holul i-a plăcut în mod special. Mirosul gogoşilor peste sprayul de cameră o făcea să se simtă ca acasă. A intrat in camera mea. Lavanda şi vanilia nu erau printre preferatele ei aşa că a strâmbat un pic din nas şi s-a făcut comodă. Era genul de persoană care studia totul. A atras-o parfumul meu. Imediat îşi adusese aminte de mătuşa ei. Un miros dulce şi vechi s-a răspândit în aer. Eram convinsă că nu mai simţea mirosul mobilei proaspăt aduse. S-a repezit în baie. Albastrul şi modelele din baie au atras-o. Se simţea mirosul de curăţenie si detergent. Numai ce scosesem hainele din maşina de spălat. Aveam să cred că uitase de gogoşi. O servesc cu un ceai în living. Aburul răspândeşte menta din cană. O văd că strâmbă iar din nas. Simt uşor lavanda şi vanilia. Am coborât în bucătărie. Pe scări, îmi dau seama că tata doar ce pornise centrala de căldură. Simt lemnul ars şi fumul de la care mă ustură nasul. Când am intrat în bucătărie, mama gătea. Gem de căpşuni, ulei încins, fum de la lemne, căldura de la calorifere, supă proaspătă, morcovii de la bunica, pui la cuptor. Am reuşit! Adela se simţea ca la ea acasă. Family Home Edwina Vochoţ When she got out in the street, she then realized which door she should have entered. Well-made, smooth, cold and slightly wet, that gate was just next to her. When she entered the hallway, she understood why I’d been telling her that mom was an excellent cook. The burning oil, the strawberry jam, and the heat made it difficult for her to breathe. I knew I’d surprise her. It was her first visit to my place. She really liked the hallway. The smell of doughnuts mixed with the spray chamber made her feel at home. She got into my room. She was not exactly keen on lavender and vanilla, so she turned her nose up at the smell and made herself at home. She was very particular with everything around her. My perfume seemed very appealing to her. It immediately reminded her of her aunt. A sweet and old-smelling scent was spreading freely about the room. I knew for sure that she could no longer feel the smell of the newly-bought furniture. She dashed to the bathroom. She was attracted by the blue patterns on the tiles. You could feel the smell of a clean place and detergent. Just then I took the laundry out of the washing machine. Then I thought she had completely forgotten the doughnuts. I serve her a tea in the living room. The hot steam gives off a mint aroma. I see her turning her nose again. I can feel a diffuse smell of lavender and vanilla. I get downstairs into the kitchen. Down the stairs I realize father had just put on the heating. I can sense burning wood and smoke that gives me a nose itching. When I got into the kitchen, mom was cooking. Strawberry jam, fresh soup, carrots from grandma, and grilled chicken. I’ve made it! Adela was really feeling at home. For further information please visit: http://cma.internetdsl.pl 
This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained therein. Printed by:
Timişoara, str. Samuil Micu nr. 7 Tel.: 0256-225684, 272926; Fax: 0256-208924; e-mail: mirton@mirton.ro www.mirton.ro Yüklə 426,12 Kb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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