Alain Filippova

Страна : Россия

Дорогие читатели!
Меня зовут Алёна. Я увлечена всем, что связано с языками, литературой, поэзией. Я впервые участвую в конкурсе, где перевожу с русского на английский художественное произведение. Если краски и кисть не в силах выразить всю воздушную быстроту мысли, то в помощь приходят слова. Я люблю вслушиваться в людскую речью. Подмечать ее ритмы, обертоны, ударения, выговор. Я люблю слово, бесконечные возможности, заложенные в нём. И если вслед за местным выговором исчезнут из языка идиоматичность, образность, которые свидетельствуют о месте его зарождения, взамен мы получим стандартный и упакованный язык. Люблю читать классику. Именно в произведениях святой русской литературы запечатлены поразительные откровения о человеке и мире. Прозрения Толстого, нюансы мировидения Достоевского и Чехова, тонкие душевные переживания Тургенева и Лермонтова, юмор Булгакова не могут оставлять равнодушным как любителя русской классики, так и просто ценителя русской литературы. В моём понимании перевод – это искусство передать смысл текста оригинала. Я получила удовольствие от процесса перевода повести «Изгои».

Country : Russia

Dear readers!
My name is Alain. I’m into everything related to languages, literature, and poetry I’m a professional translator; I’m bilingual and have a degree in linguistics. I love words and the endless possibility of words. The idioms, the figures of speech make language rich and full of the poetry of place and time.However, it’s my first time when I participate in a contest with a translation from Russian into English. When a brush and paints are not enough to express some feelings I reach for rhymes, take out my notebook, and that’s how the mystery begins.
I enjoyed the process of translating.

Перевод повести Алисы Чопчик “Изгои”


I was happy before the war though I had not known that. We had family dinners, cleaning days, holidays, usual and unusual week days when each night I couldn’t fall asleep from overwhelming emotions and memories. We had some plans, hopes and we were confident of our own future. Every summer we spent in Damascus, where our grandmother lived. We visited our friends and we also were a part of hurly-burly in this city. Unnoticeably for our parents and ourselves, we grew up knowing no real sorrows and not knowing what lies ahead. The war seemed to be something remote, existing only in books and in running news lines.

Our family lived in habitual world, like thousands of other families. We had a peaceful and regular life committing no serious faults that would deserve punishment. Sometimes I thought with anger that decisions of others shouldn’t influence lives of millions people. Someone wanted blood, money and realization of mercenary purposes which caused children suffer and die. Children are pure that’s why Allah takes them first.

Realization of what was happening did not come immediately. The war only began to be in full swing.  It broke out and calmed down in one region, then in another one like a snow slide. The armed fighters appeared on the streets. They attacked and killed people. It looked like Barbarian raids in Rome. It seemed nothing serious happening, but Rome fell because the barbarian strength kept growing, and Aleppo was its fate.

At first I didn’t care about some conflicts. I only heard endless conversations and arguments about it which unwittingly replaced all usual topics for discussion. We were increasingly visited by  our neighbor. He and my father sat in the hall speaking and talking about rebels, revolution and sieges of cities. My mother told us not to disturb them and left the room by herself, letting the men talk.

We felt the first inconvenience when father forbade Iffa, my sister, to ride on a bicycle in the evenings, and me to go to the market alone. He knew how I liked to go there alone, and Iffa, who were repeating this ritual for years, could not sleep without some walk, and he forbade it all yet, but we did not dare to contradict him.

 The war has come unnoticed as a thief comes into someone else’s house. And all the life has changed its usual course. One morning when I was awakened by intensifying noise of helicopters which caused anxiety and discomfort, like sudden nail scratch on white board, I suddenly realized that from now on it would only get worse.

I went to the window, pulled the curtains aside and saw black thick smoke rising and swirling somewhere in the distance and the helicopter was circling around and flying off like a wasp which was driven away.

-Are we going to die? –  my five-year-old brother, Jundub, was sitting on the bed. He cringed in a small ball and looked at me and Iffa with his big, frightened eyes, ready to burst into tears at any moment. I approached him, and he immediately snuggled to me in embrace.

-Maybe, – Iffa said to herself, but I made it out. I was afraid that Jundub also heard this and gave my sister an angry look.

 -Do not look at me like that” said Iffa calmly, looking out of window again.  I could not see her face from behind the curtains.

-Last three nights I had  the same dream… Night after night, – said Iffa after a pause. 

– As if I’m standing on the roof of a building and looking down at the ruins. I can’t recognize Aleppo in them, but somehow I know that it is the remains of our city, – Iffa sighed sadly, – I look at the wreckage of the city and suddenly having heard a click of cameras and turn around. There is crowd of Europeans behind me. They are looking at what is left of Aleppo, taking photographs and videos. They are resenting and crying sympathetically shaking their heads. But I have taken a step towards them as the barbed wire fence comes from somewhere. I grab the sharp edges, sobbing for help,” –Iffa grinned as if she thought it was stupid and useless now.

-And this faceless crowd is looking at me with pity on the other side, – she continued with dislike for the heroes of her dream, – but it continues to watch my hysterical attempts to get on the other side of the fence.

Iffa looked at her hands as if expecting to see wounds from some barbed wire.

-When I have woken up today, I thought that from now on nothing would be as before. And we will never, never again, Janan, never, – her voice trembled; as if she wanted to begin crying, – We would never be as happy as happy as we used to be before”.

 Iffa shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Jundub ran to her to give a hug.

Iffa lowered her head, looking puzzled at the brother’s head, pressed to her waist.

-Dad will protect us, – muttered Jundub, – dad will save us.

Iffa looked at me and smiled. I had silently smiled to her in reply.

Unceasing shooting, at first so deafening and frightening, with time became simply a background to which I hardly paid attention. Soon the whole family began to follow the news. The father was getting more serious and stricter, meals became meager and there could be no question of extra expenses. Quiet talks behind the door made me and Iffa listen intensely, as if our future fate depended on these conversations.

Once a tank passed by our house, and this clanking sound of spinning metal caterpillars aroused such horror in me that I froze sensing the icy breath of death. Suddenly I realized deeply that death lived behind the door; that it was real, it could be touched and it could be called. And yet I did not know what war was at that time. It was difficult for me to express in words what I felt when passed by ruined buildings, by the honeycombed walls from splinters of shells and bullets; when I felt the broken glass crackles under my feet, suffocating from ubiquitous risen dust. Some cobblestones, clothes and things laid under feet here and there. They turned into nothing practically; wires and iron pieces were sticking out from everywhere. There were wheels, the broken ladders and broken lives. Seeing how the war destroys your Homeland is like seeing that your child feels worse and worse, and you can’t help him, you can’t order the sickness to leave him, and everything that you need to do is to watch how he dies and to pray for his salvation.

That’s why my mother begins to pray more often and even harder than usually. She prays frenziedly, suffocating, raising the voice overfilled with emotions and lowering it to a barely audible whisper, and her hands shake, and her voice trembles like a tightened string ready to break. 

It got worse. The tanks fired at houses, blew up buildings, hospitals, schools; rebels organized terrorist attacks and endless fights destroying everything around, the whole history of our country, destroying the soul of the city. 

We have grown poor; we have weakened, we were stuck in incessant fear. Like beggars we are queuing for bread, water and other supplies. 

And yet nevertheless I don’t understand what war is …….

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