The Writer’s group in Schwäbisch Gmünd
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- Bu səhifədəki naviqasiya:
- Rainy, but solid
- Eine Erinnerung
- Il gruppo italiano
- The Italian Group
- Bismillah Rahmani Rahive
- La mia mezza mela
- My better half
Verregnet, aber solide Anđelka Križanović Als ich neunjährig an diesem verregneten Stuttgarter Busbahnhof ausstieg, hatte ich bereits alle Angstreserven angezapft und aufgebraucht. Bis dahin war ich recht verschwenderisch mit der Angst umgegangen, ob sie nun begründet, staatlich angeordnet oder völliger Mumpitz war. In Friedenszeiten leisteten wir uns den Luxus, uns vor völlig unsinnigen Dingen zu fürchten. Ich hatte Angst vor wild gewordenen Muttersäuen, meine Mutter hatte Angst vor Pudeln und ein Cousin hatte Angst, dass man ihm den Blinddarm vielleicht noch ein zweites Mal heraus nimmt. Dann hatten wir Angst vor Wölfen, Füchsen und ominösen Todeswespen, die einem nach dem dritten Einstich den sicheren Tod brachten. Und dann gab es da noch die von oberster Stelle verordnete Angst. So erzählte uns unser gütiger Landesvater, dass wir uns vor der ganzen Welt, vor allem vor den Italienern, Österreichern und Bul-garen, nicht aber vor den Russen fürchten sollten. Nur die Kanonen unserer siegreichen Volksarmee stünden zwischen uns und den hungrigen, zähnefletschenden Horden, die praktisch jederzeit in unser Land einfallen könnten. Gerade Deutsche galten in unseren Schulbüchern als notorische Unruhestifter. Zudem hatten sie bleiche Gesichter, blutunterlaufene Augen und sie schauten immer so böse. Ich aber fürchtete mich am meisten vor der Polizei, die mich oder meine Eltern oder meine Schwester eines Tages holen könnte. Später hatte ich Angst vor Uniformen und Sondernachrichten im Fernsehen, die vielleicht berichten könnten, dass man unsere Stadt eingenommen hat. Dann hatte ich Angst vor dem Sirenengeheul, das einen nachts aus dem Bett jagte und durch die kalte, nasse Nacht in den Bunker rennen ließ. Als ich also neunjährig an diesem verregneten Stuttgarter Busbahn-hof ausstieg, war da keine Angst mehr übrig, die ich hätte haben können. Ich war ein neunjähriger Gallier, dem nur noch der Himmel auf den Kopf fallen konnte. Und der Himmel über Deutschland war zwar verregnet, aber solide. Die Angst eines ganzen Menschenalters in neun Jahren aufgebraucht, konnte ich nur noch staunen.
The government occasionally reminded us to be afraid and instantly I would turn into a fearful and obedient citizen, at the age of seven or eight or nine. Sometimes fear was a natural thing, because dangerous things actually happened. But most of the time we were afraid of stupid stuff. My mother was afraid of poodles. A cousin was afraid he'd have to have his appendix removed for the second time. I for my part was afraid of wild and furious...sows. I was afraid of mad wolves and foxes and particularly murderous wasps that could kill you in an instant. Our president told us stories like only a father would do. „Be afraid of Italians, Austrians and Bulgarians. Don't fear the Russians...“- „Only the cannons of our victorious army are standing between us and the bloodthirsty hordes who can at any moment invade our country...“ Germans were particularly nasty people. They were notorious troublemakers in our school books. They were pale, had bloodshot eyes and an evil look. Soon I was afraid of the police and that they might get my parents and my sister one day. How convenient for my uncle to pick up the phone and pretend to make a report to the police when I was misbehaving. Later I was afraid of uniforms and special news reports saying our city will soon be occupied. I was afraid of sirens that made us jump out of our beds in pyjamas and run to the bunker through the cold, wet night. So when I got off at that bus terminal in Stuttgart 18 years ago, I had seen it all. Used up all my fear. Overdrawn the account. I was a nine-year-old Asterix and now only the sky could fall on my head. And the sky over Germany was rainy, but solid. What else could possibly bother me? With the fear of a lifetime gone in nine years, I was standing there, in amazement.
Es war ein kriegsgrauer Morgen. Unsere Mütter waren gerade mit Mahlzeiten richten beschäftigt, auf die kleinen Kinder musste man nicht sonderlich Acht geben. Meistens haben sie mit uns etwas größeren Kindern gespielt. Die Gefahr kam nicht vom Hof. Die Ställe waren schon seit längerem leer geplündert und die Pferde von den Weiden geholt. Die wenigen Handwerker im Dorf sind Krieger geworden. Janka aber traute dieser mit krachender Spannung über-ladenden Idylle wohl nicht ganz. Fast immer, wenn sich im Dorf etwas verändert hat, etwas unsichtbares, wurde sie nervös und krabbelte los. Über die Kleider der Janka konnte man nicht reden, es war eine große Windel, eine kleine Windel und irgend ein selbst genähtes Hemdchen darüber. Füße sowie Hände waren nicht bekleidet. Das Haupt schmückte eine Babymütze. Die Straße die sich so geheimnisvoll durch unser kleines Dorf schlängelte, haben die Dorfbewohner die Weißestrasse genannt. Dank weißen Staubwolken, die sich immer wieder erhoben, wenn sich irgendetwas auf der Fahrbahn abspielte. Nicht so an diesem sonst so viel versprechenden sonnigen Tag. Ich selbst war mit wichtigen Dingen beschäftigt. Wir aus der größeren Kindergruppe waren gerade dabei, die von den Fliegern gestreute „Lamettas“ aufzusammeln. Plötzlich wurde es um uns herum ungewöhnlich still, die Spannung steigerte sich von Sekunde zu Sekunde, Niemand konnte sich recht vorstellen was kommen wird. Es hing etwas Bedrohliches über uns allen, die Luft vibrierte. Die grölenden Bomber waren nicht mehr hörbar. Allen Dorfbewohnern erstarrte das Blut in den Adern, keiner mehr war bewegungsfähig, niemand wusste sich zu helfen, die Angst war zu gewaltig. Die ersten stählernen Ungeheuer wurden sichtbar. A Memory Janez Travner My cousin Janka was barely two years old at the time. She couldn’t walk yet.There was war. Her bones were probably a bit rachitic, and she did just fine with crawling. You had the impression she could be everywhere at the same time. It was a grey wartorne morning. Our mothers were busy preparing the meals, you didn´t have to pay any special attention to the small children. Most of the time, they played with us older kids. The danger didn´t come from the farmyard. The stalls, long since plundered, stood empty and the horses had been taken from the fields. The few workmen in the village had become soldiers. Janka however didn´t completely trust this noisy tension laden idyll. Almost always, whenever something in the village changed, something invisible, the little girl not nervous and crawled off. As for Janka´s clothes, there isn`t much to say. They consisted of a big diaper, a small diaper and some sort of homemade shirt over that. Feet as well as hands were naked. A baby hat decorated her head. The street which wove its way so mysteriously through our little village, was called the White Street by the villagers. Thanks to the white couds of dust that rose from it whenever any action occurred there. Not so on this otherwise promising, sunny day. I was busy with important things. Those of us older children were just now collecting “tinsel” scattered from the warplanes. Suddenly, it became unusually still around us. The tension mounted from one second to the next. Nobody could imagine what was going to happen. Something threatening hung over us all, the air vibrated. The roaring bombers could no longer be heard. All the villagers` blood froze in their veins. No one was able to move, nobody knew to help, the fear was too over-powering. The first steely monster appeared, the earth trembled. On its heavy steel chains, as if controlled by magic, a tremendous mass of iron pushed itself onward, armed with man-killing equipment. Soldiers sat behind. They probably saw nothing; they had failed to see us, the little girl and me.
Essere un gruppo si è rivelata una parte importante del nostro progetto, e l’abbiamo incoraggiata organizzando cene aperte a tutti e cercando di farci coinvolgere in qualunque evento, specialmente pubblico, che avesse relazione con gli immigrati e la loro-nostra vita. Pensiamo e speriamo che questo ci permetterà di continuare a lavorare insieme e creare una sorta di ‘laboratorio’ permanente, che ci guidi verso una migliore comprensione reciproca e una maggiore coesione sociale. Alcuni scrittori hanno lasciato il gruppo per eventi imprevedibili; una scrittrice ha chiesto di non essere pubblicata, decisione che noi abbiamo accettata e rispettata. E’ stata una bellissima avventura, per la quale mi sento grata verso tutti quelli che l’hanno resa possibile. The Italian Group Coordinator Heide Wilm Guerrini Tutor Maria Scolaro When all this started, Heide and I were a bit worried and the future seemed full of uncertainties. We were lucky, though, and met a handful of very nice and cooperative people. Yet we were not a group and working with so many different mentalities could have proved puzzling. So, together with Heide, we planned a series of meetings, whose chief purpose was to create a comfortable environment, a virtual place where everybody would have the opportunity to feel welcomed and absolutely not judged, free to express themselves. I chose a few words to start with, but words which could help us have a clearer vision of ourselves and the others around. Identity, first of all, and then Destiny, Homesickness, Religion (hard to deal with…), Integration, Prejudice. Were they only an immigrant’s matter? Today we can state that every human being has got these powerful issues deep in their heart, except that we are often too busy to decipher them till circumstances compel us to take time and try to understand. Most autobiographical passages deal actually with the feelings, emotions or opinions arisen during our meetings. Very seldom we ‘read aloud’ what had been written, more often we had intriguing oral exchanges. The texts were written in Italian and only occasionally corrected as for grammar rules or lexis. They were finally translated into English. Being a group slowly became an important part of our project, which we encouraged organizing dinner parties with ‘writers’, their families and friends, of whatever nationality; in addition we tried to get involved in any event, especially public, related to immigrants and their-our life. We feel this approach will give us the chance to go on working aiming at the creation of a permanent ‘workshop’ for a better mutual understanding and social cohesion. A few writers abandoned the group due to family reasons or unpredictable events, while one of them asked us not to publish her autobiography, a decision we decided to accept and respect. It has been a wonderful adventure, for which I feel grateful to all the people who made I possible. Bismillah Rahmani Rahive Bouchra Ait Azou Così cominciano i racconti nella cultura araba, islamica, e vuol dire “IN NOME DI ALLAH MISERICORDIOSO”. E’ il 15 settembre 2009 a Faenza ma a casa mia sarebbe il 27 Kida 1430 dell’anno islamico, ch inizia con il viaggio di Mohammad, il profeta di Allah, verso Al Medina, la città in Arabia Saudita dove il profeta ha cominciato a comunicare il suo messaggio. Casa dolce casa! Si trova immersa in un quartiere popolare della città di Rabat, la capitale del Marocco; è una casa a tre piani e la terrazza sembrava un giardino, piena di piante curate dalla mamma; al secondo piano si trova una camera da letto con tre letti ma non sono letti come qui, sono divani arabi, molto colorati, come la terrazza della mamma; il mio si trova sotto la finestra. Sono le sei del mattino, da fuori arriva una voce che rompe il silenzio del vicolino dove abito, una voce stanca, un po’ vecchia “WAANAA” Menta Fresca…mia sorella Amina, che è più grande di me, borbottava “Uffa! Ma questo non muore mai?!” E’ l’uomo che vende la menta fresca, con il suo asino affaticato con gli occhi semichiusi…ecco che sento i passi della mia mamma, che sta scendendo le scale quasi carezzandole…per forza, la mamma è ‘di città’,della città di Fez, la città della raffinatezza e dell’etiquette…Era così fine anche nel modo di parlare, di chiedere le cose, aveva sempre un sorriso sereno disegnato sulle sue labbra piccolissime, con il vestito a mano e il foulard abbinato… Adesso che sto scrivendo di lei, mi sembra di vedere le sue belle mani, sempre curate con l’henné e i suoi braccialetti d’argento… Ecco che arriva il profumo del tè verde con la menta fresca che ha comprato la mamma dall’ uomo della menta, ma non solo menta anche latte fresco per fare il caffélatte per me perché ancora adesso, ci vivo la mattina col caffélatte. Sento la voce di mamma e la sentirò sempre… Bouchra Ait Azou è nata a Rabat, in Marocco, nel 1967. Vive a Faenza, è sposata e ha tre figli.
So begin tales in my country and in Arabic it means “ In the name of The All-Compassionate” It’s Nov 15, at home, here in Faenza, but it’d be Kida 27th 1430 of the Muslim Calendar, which begins with the journey of Mohammed, Allah’s Prophet, to Medina, where he first announced his message. “Home sweet Home” My home is immersed in a popular area of Rabat, the capital city of Morocco. It’s on three floors, with a flat roof, as nice as a garden, full of plants, lovingly looked after by Mum. A bed room on the second floor, with three beds, not real beds actually, I mean not similar to the ones I have now. They’re couches, colourful Arabic couches, all-coloured and fanciful as Mum’s garden. My bed is below the window…it’s 6 in the morning and a voice from the outside breaks the silence of the lane where I live. A tired voice, an old person’s voice: ”Waanaa!…..Fresh Mint!…”. Amina, my older sister gets annoyed, starts snorting…he’s always here…It’s a man who sells fresh mint, with his donkey, poor old donkey, the eyes half-closed, so tired…And here’s Mum,. Mum…I can still hear her going down the stairs, softly as if caressing the steps. This is typical of Mum; of course it is: she was born in a town, Fes, the realm of refinement and etiquette. She was like this, she was always like this: the way she spoke, the way she cooked, the way she asked for something…she always had a calm smile on her tiny lips…her hand-embroidered dress and the matching scarf…I’m writing about her now as I were looking at her, at her hands, with nice henna decorations and her silver bangles… She goes down for some fresh mint, early in the morning, caressing the step of our three-storey house. And here it is , the smell of green tea and fresh mint mum has just bought from the mint-man, but non only mint, raw milk too to prepare white coffee for me …you know, even now, I can hear mum’s voice, I always will… Bouchra Ait Azou was born in Rabat, Morocco, in 1967: She lives in Faenza, is married and has got three sons.
Tre cose dipendono dal Destinola nascita – la morte – il matrimonio Pensando a come sono andate le cose, mi sembra proprio che è stato il mio destino a farmi incontrare mio marito. Non era programmato né previsto, semplicemente è successo. Il mio destino ha deciso che dovevo vivere in Italia e non in India. In questo grande cambiamento, oltre a mio marito mi ha aiutato molto la mia cultura indiana, quella che ho respirato nella mia giovinezza. Perché già da piccola ero abituata alla presenza delle altre culture e delle altre religioni: per me, l’esistenza dell’altro è sempre stata più che naturale. L’induismo del novecento, l’induismo di Gandhi e Tagore, insegna che tutte le religioni sono uguali e predica la massima tolleranza. Gandhi dà un messaggio di armonia tra le diverse componenti, mentre la profonda spiritualità di Tagore lo portò a cercare un punto di incontro fra India e occidente. Sento molto anche l’insegnamento di Sri Ramakrishna, per cui tutte le religioni sono valide per arrivare alla meta suprema. Come egli dice: “Quante sono le fedi tante sono le vie”.Per questo è stato molto difficile per me accettare l’idea che solamente una religione ha l’esclusiva per la salvezza dell’anima. Poi, non posso negare che mi è sempre mancata la mia famiglia di origine, specialmente i miei fratelli; ho ancora negli occhi e addosso il sole, i colori, gli odori, sapori e profumi d’India. Una notte di luna piena mi fa ricordare quando mi sdraiavo sul terrazzo di casa a guardare le nuvole bianche e leggere, che passavano sopra di me, e la mia fantasia creava strani animaletti. Le spezie, il loro profumo, la dolce melodia di una musica lontana… ma il tempo non si ferma per nessuno. Indietro non si può tornare. Ho fatto quello che ritenevo giusto in quel momento, ma era scritto nel mio destino, in quel pezzo di carta e con quella penna che i genitori mettevano, una volta, nella camera da letto di ogni neonato affinché il Dio Destino potesse scriverci quello che, chissà dove e chissà quando, è stato deciso per ciascuno di noi. Così racconta una credenza popolare del mio paese. E così è stato. Parimal Bhattacherjee è nata a Howrah, In India, nel 1948. Vive a Faenza e ha una figlia.
Three things depend on destiny: Birth – Death – Marriage Going back in time, I can definitely say my destiny was my husband. It hadn’t been planned, it simply happened. My Destiny decided I had to live in Italy not in India. A really big change for me; I got the help and support of my husband but an important part was my Indian culture, the one I breathed during my youth as, since I was a kid, I got used to other cultures, to other religions: I’ve always been conscious of the presence of the ‘Other’, I’ve always thought it was a natural part of life. Hinduism, especially in the 20th century, through the words of Gandhi and Tagore, teaches that all religions are one and good and preaches the utmost form of tolerance. Gandhi message tells us of harmony among all aspects of life, while it was a very deep spirituality that brought Tagore to seek a bridge between India and the western world. Very strong was the influence of Sri Ramakrishna, who says that all the religions are good to get to the supreme destination. As his words go ”So many faiths so many paths”. That’s why it was so difficult for me to accept the idea that an only religion is the one which can assure the salvation of our souls. Moreover I can’t deny I missed my Indian family, my brothers…I still have in my eyes and on my body the sunshine, the colours, smells, tastes and perfumes of India. A night by the moonlight reminds me of past times when I used to lie down on the terrace, there in my faraway house, me, a fanciful kid, who looked at airy clouds and created magic little pets. Spices, perfumes, a sweet melody in the distance…but Time never stop. It never will. You can’t go back. What I did was the right thing, but it was written in my Destiny, on the small piece of paper and with the pen that, according to an old Bengali tradition, parents used to put in the room of every newborn baby for the God of destiny to write the baby’s DESTINY. Parimal Bhattacherjee was born in Howrah, India. She lives in Faenza and has got one daughter.
Adriana Cela è nata a Lushnje, Albania, nel 1982. Vive a Castelbolognese, è sposata e ha una figlia. My better half Adriana Cela On that long winter night we planned our life together: We didn’t need so much, just a job for him, a house to rent and some money. So he went back to Italy, to work and save. As for me, I did have a job which I liked very much…but and one night: “Do you want to join me?” I went frantic, thinking of parents, friends, my job, all my world, but his moving, tender voice was more important than everything else. “Yes!” I said……..Now he was sleeping next to me, while traveling towards our home, the long desired home I would furnish and embellish as I wished. We would have a wonderful time together, we would spend all the night out and nobody would be waiting for us. HE was what I missed, what made me complete, ‘my better half’! My better half was now sleeping next to me and I felt bad, I felt very bad, I wanted to shout: “ Stop!”. Why ‘stop’? What was wrong? What made me cry so painfully? Everything was as I had planned it, as I had dreamt of, but something, unpredictable, was hurting me. He was NOT my better half, he and me were one half, while the other had been left behind, in the country of the apples, and I saw myself as a quarter of an apple marooned in the country of pears. And then came for me the time to understand the meaning of the word ‘foreigner’. For the first time but not the last I felt I was a foreigner. Almost any time I met somebody the question was always the same. I could read that question on the very face of people, even before he asked me…he was there, smiling, greeting me and a few seconds later…done! I didn’t know the exact meaning but I didn’t like it, it was not a real question. I remember a lady: ”Your husband IS ONE OF US, isn’t he?” “NNOOO, he comes from the outer space, like me, I’m an alien!”, I answered ( silently to myself…). I couldn’t stand it! Why everybody seemed to think, to hope, that my husband were ‘from here’? Maybe, if so, I could change, and forget my traditions and my family wouldn’t be ‘foreigner’, maybe only ‘half-foreigner’…Why couldn’t they accept us the way we were and are. But there are so many differences? Adriana Cela was born in Lushnje, Albania, in 1982. She lives in Castelbolognese, She is married and has a daughter. Yüklə 426,12 Kb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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