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我生命中最糟糕的采访:她怀里的婴儿被扔进火中

更新时间:2017-10-21 10:54:58 来源:纽约时报中文网 作者:佚名

My Interview With a Rohingya Refugee: What Do You Say to a Woman Whose Baby Was Thrown Into a Fire?
我生命中最糟糕的采访:她怀里的婴儿被扔进火中

As I walked out of the refugee camp, my phone rang. The instant I said hello, my wife could hear it in my voice.

当我走出难民营时,手机响了。我说“你好”的时候,妻子可能从我的声音里听出了异样。

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“出什么事了?”她问。

“I just finished the worst interview of my life,” I said.

“我刚刚做完生命中最糟糕的采访,”我说。

I was standing near the border of Myanmar and Bangladesh, where half a million Rohingya people, probably one of the most unwanted ethnic groups on the planet, fled after government massacres in Myanmar. I had just said goodbye to a young woman named Rajuma and watched her — a frail figure in a red veil — disappear into a crowd with one of the most horrible stories I had ever heard.

我正站在缅甸和孟加拉边界附近,在缅甸政府进行大屠杀之后,有50万罗辛亚人逃到了那里,他们也许是这个星球上最不受待见的种族之一。我刚刚跟一个名叫拉朱马(Rajuma)的年轻女子告别,然后看着她的红色面纱和瘦弱身躯消失在人群中;她的经历,是我听过的最可怕的事情之一。

I’ve covered genocide in Sudan and children being blown apart in Iraq. I’ve been dispatched to earthquakes, hurricanes, civil wars, international wars, insurgencies and famines. As foreign correspondents, this is what we do, rush into the world’s biggest disasters. In 20 years of doing this, I’ve become a specialist in despair.

我曾报道过苏丹的种族灭绝事件,以及伊拉克被炸死的儿童。我被派去报道过地震、飓风、内战、国际战争、叛乱和饥荒之地。作为驻外记者,这就是我们的工作,冲到世界上最严重的灾难发生地。在这20年的时间里,我已经成了绝望这个题材的专家。

But Rajuma’s story stopped me.

但是拉朱马的故事让我震动。

She told me (and everything she said was consistent with dozens of other witness accounts) that Myanmar government soldiers stormed into her village in August and burned down each house. They separated the men from the women and summarily executed the men. Then they raped the women.

她告诉我(她说的一切都和其他几十个证人的叙述相吻合),缅甸政府军在8月冲入她的村庄,烧毁了每一座房子。他们将男人和妇女分开,马上处决了男人,然后强奸妇女。

But before raping her, Rajuma said, the soldiers snatched her baby boy from her arms and threw him into a fire. The baby was screaming for her as he burned to death.

但是在强奸她之前,士兵从她怀里抢走了她的男婴,将他扔进了火中,拉朱马说道。宝宝哭喊着要她,就这样被活活烧死。

We were sitting together in a hut with a translator, the three of us hunched over on little plastic stools. As Rajuma started sobbing, my forehead creased and I got angry at myself.

在一个小屋里,我和她还有一名翻译蹲坐着在小小的塑料凳上。当拉朱马开始抽泣时,我皱起眉头,对自己感到很生气。

“Why am I putting her through this? Is anybody going to want to read something so awful? I don’t even want to write this story.”

“为什么我要让她遭这种罪?有人想读这么惨的东西吗?我甚至没法下笔去写。”

I think I’m becoming the opposite of numb. Each tragedy I’ve covered, each loss I’ve absorbed, has rubbed away a little more of the insulation we all create, or were born with, that keeps the ills of the world safely away. After years of this work, I don’t have much insulation left. Now when I go off on assignment, I’m all nerves.

我觉得我正在趋向麻木的反面。我报道的每一场悲剧,听过的每件惨事,都把我们创造的或者与生俱来的,安全地将我们与苦难世界隔开的绝缘层蹭掉一点点。做过多年这样的工作之后,我的绝缘层所剩无多了。现在每一次出任务,我都很紧张焦虑。

Even before I met Rajuma, I could barely keep it together. My first day in the refugee camps, watching Rohingya men try to remain dignified as they were herded into lines to wait for a pack of glucose biscuits, made my eyes sting.

即使在见到拉朱马之前,我都快忍受不了了。我在难民营的第一天,看到罗辛亚男人被驱赶着排队,等候领取一包葡萄糖饼干的时候仍试图保持尊严,令我的眼睛一酸。

I was shocked but soon learned that for decades the Rohingya have been walking around with bull’s-eyes on their foreheads. Scapegoated like the Jews in Nazi Germany, called insects like the Tutsis during Rwanda’s genocide, they are Muslim people in a Buddhist land, dehumanized by their own government and made easy prey.

我很震惊,但很快就了解到,数十年来,罗辛亚人一直就是移动的标靶。就像纳粹德国时期的犹太人那样被当作替罪羊,像卢旺达种族灭绝中的图西族人一样被称为虫子,他们是佛教国度中的穆斯林,政府不把他们当人看,把他们当成随便欺负的猎物。

So I started thinking: If we don’t cover this, that’s even worse. That would be a further injustice, a further insult to the Rohingya’s humanity. It would be like telling Rajuma that the world couldn’t be bothered about what she suffered.

所以我开始思考:如果我们不报道,事情会变得更糟了。那将是更大的不公正,是在人道上对罗辛亚人的进一步侮辱。这就像是告诉拉朱马,对于她所遭受的苦难,这个世界管不着。

It was very difficult to bring that interview to an end. As we parted ways, what was I supposed to say? In our culture we might say she should “see somebody.” But there were no psychotherapists around and I knew she was headed back to a plastic tarp held up by bamboo poles with nothing to do but think about those moments that I had asked her to conjure up.

要结束这次采访非常困难。当我们告辞时,我应该说什么?在我们的文化中,我们可能会说她应该去“找什么人看看”,但这里没有心理治疗师,我知道她要回到一个竹杆撑起的塑料篷里,无事可做,只有回想我之前让她讲述的那些时刻。

I wanted to give her every dollar in my wallet. Or hug her. Or punch someone in the face. This is the worst part of being a journalist: feeling helpless. Not only is there nothing you can do about the horrors in front of you, but in most cases there’s only so much you should do. We are recorders, witnesses, not aid workers. Of course, if Rajuma were bleeding in front of me and needed my help, I wouldn’t hesitate to give it. But that wasn’t the situation here; her baby was dead and she would be traumatized forever.

我想把钱包里的所有钱都给她。或拥抱她。或给某个人脸上一拳。这是做记者最痛苦的地方:无能为力。不仅是对摆在你面前的骇人惨剧无能为力,而且大部分时候你只应该做这么多。我们是记录者、见证者,不是救援人员。当然,如果拉朱马在我面前血流不止,需要我的帮助,我会毫不犹豫地帮忙。但情况不是这样的,她的孩子死了,她精神上的创伤会永远都在。

I stood up and lamely shook her hand and said the only thing that felt close to right:

我站起身,怯怯地握着她的手,说着唯一感觉近似合适的话:

“Ami dukkhito.”

“Ami dukkhito。”

Of the few Bengali words I learned, those were the ones I used the most. I said them to dozens of Rohingya who lost everything.

在我学会的少量孟加拉语中,这一句是我用的最多的。我对数十名失去了一切的罗辛亚人说过这句话。

Sometimes, it’s the only thing to say.

有时候,能说的只有这一句。

Ami dukkhito.

Ami dukkhito。

I’m sorry.

它的意思是,我很难过。

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