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Spanish to English: Democracy with blood on its hands
Source text - Spanish http://www.threemonkeysonline.com/es/democracia-banada-en-sangre-entrevista-a-ariel-dorfman/2/
Democracia bañada en sangre – Entrevista a Ariel Dorfman
by Ascen Arriazu
“Muchas veces la democracia ha de ser bañada en sangre”. Sabias palabras si no vinieran de boca de uno de los mayores asesinos de la historia del siglo XX: Augusto Pinochet. El General Pinochet llegó al poder protagonizando escenas similares, aunque en menor escala, a las presenciadas casi en directo en todo el mundo por medio de nuestros televisores el fatídico 11 de septiembre del 2001. Organizó y dirigió magistralmente otro 11 de septiembre, el asalto y toma del edificio presidencial de La Moneda, en Santiago de Chile, en donde murió el entonces presidente en funciones Salvador Allende. “Huimos en un taxi y la policía nos dejó pasar porque mi hermana que estaba embarazada, fingió estar de parto”, cuenta una de las hijas de Allende en un documental para la BBC de Londres.
Desde entonces, miles de casos de asesinatos, desapariciones y torturas han sido y siguen siendo investigados por varias ONG pro derechos humanos de diversos países; siendo una de las más activas Amnistía Internacional, que llegó a publicar detallados informes sobre el tipo de torturas llevadas a cabo en las prisiones Pinochetistas. Entre aquellos preocupados por el triunfo de la justicia, uno de los mayores activistas en el caso Pinochet es sin duda el escritor y dramaturgo Ariel Dorfman, quien sin pelos en la lengua, se ha acercado peligrosamente a las puertas de la verdad, si es que alguna vez llega a descubrirse la existencia de alguna. El siempre activo y ocupadísimo autor, nos obsequia con su experiencia y su tiempo y obtenemos así sus respuestas a algunas de las dudas que tanto el tema como su obra nos plantean.
Dorfman en su trabajo, no deja de lado uno de los aspectos más vergonzosos del tema: la tortura; y a ella se dirige con una de sus obras más conocidas: La Muerte y la Doncella. Llevada a la gran pantalla en 1995, fue protagonizada por Sigourney Weaver y el polifacético Ben Kingsley, conocido por su interpretación de Ghandy; fue dirigida por el gran Roman Polanski y el guión fue directamente supervisado por Ariel Dorfman. La obra es uno más de los gritos de dolor y protesta de las víctimas. Heroína de historias menos reales como “Alien” o “Copicat”, Weaver interpreta en este caso la rabia de la mujer violada, desprendida de su propio orgullo y su propia identidad.
Dorfman sitúa la trama en lo que él llama “un país de Latinoamérica”, pero son más de una las coincidencias que llevan al espectador bien informado a relacionar la obra con la tragedia en Chile. Se cita por ejemplo una comisión de investigación que no puede ser otra que la llamada “Comisión Rettig”, establecida el 25 de abril de 1990 con la función de investigar los casos de abuso de los derechos humanos que terminaron en muerte tanto en el país como en el extranjero, si estas últimas están en relación con el Estado chileno o con la vida política nacional.
Algunos hemos llegado a calificarla de insuficiente, pero el autor le da su justa importancia:“En base a lo que dicha comisión hizo, se pudo más tarde llevar a juicio a muchos de los peores violadores de los derechos humanos del régimen”. Afirma que el problema no está en la comisión sino en nosotros mismos: “Si aceptamos ese trabajo como finalizado, entonces somos culpables por no empujar más a fondo, demandando más justicia. Ponte siempre en el lugar de los hombres y las mujeres que emergen de una dictadura. No juzgues a nadie demasiado severamente hasta que hayas vivido los terrores, tristezas y errores por los que ellos han pasado”, recomienda. “La verdad es que tras los ataques terroristas del 11 de septiembre del 2001, había esperado que La Muerte y la Doncella se llevara a escena con más frecuencia de la que se ha dado en el pasado”, confiesa con humildad, “después de todo trata del principal dilema de nuestros tiempos: ¿cómo estar seguros de que luego de que se nos haya hecho un grave daño, no nos convirtamos en el monstruo que nos ha causado tal dolor? ¿Cómo separar justicia de venganza? ¿Cómo asegurarnos de que nuestra rabia no nos ciegue? ¿Cómo evitar el sufrimiento del inocente mientras se busca cómo vengar la muerte?” Sus preguntas llegan profundas, hacen pensar, crean cierta incómoda inquietud. “Aunque continúa interpretándose abundantemente en todo el mundo, la obra no ha pasado por grandes reposiciones”, añade, “al menos en Estados Unidos y el Reino Unido, en los últimos cinco años”.Le planteo que si cambiaría el final de la obra considerando los acontecimientos acaecidos desde su estreno hasta hoy: “No”, asegura, “creo que ahora es más relevante que nunca: o ¿puede alguien negar que vivimos en un mundo en el que son demasiadas las víctimas que se ven obligadas a coexistir con los hombres que destruyeron sus vidas y destrozaron sus cuerpos?”
El personaje de Paulina, la protagonista de la obra, representa el valor, el dolor, la lucha del superviviente por recobrar la normalidad de la vida del día a día, arrastrando las cadenas de recuerdos dolorosos y las heridas sufridas, tanto físicas como mentales. “Me encanta Paulina”. Dice el autor. “Es uno de mis personajes favoritos, quizás el más rebelde de todas las mujeres insolentes que notoriamente he creado. Pero no diría que es toda coraje, valor y dolor”, discrepa conmigo, “es demasiado humana, imperfecta, difícil, complicada, enrevesada. Para mí esto la acerca más a todos nosotros”. Yo no puedo evitar pensar que así somos en realidad casi todas las mujeres y generalizo al dejarme llevar por el pensamiento de las muchas veces que se nos etiqueta con la imagen de difíciles e imperfectas. Pero, por más que lo intente, no puedo imaginar a cualquier simple mujer con la determinación y la frialdad que muestra Paulina. “Estoy seguro de que muchas mujeres (y muchos hombres, ¿por qué no?) la ven como representante de las féminas que sufren en el mundo y más específicamente las de Chile. Y ésta es una manera muy legítima de entender al personaje. Para mí”, añade, “por encima de todo, ella es una presencia humana completa, representada por la intensidad de su personalidad, la ferocidad de su devoción por rescatar a la mujer que fue una vez, antes del sótano, antes del doctor”.
Le planteo que Paulina es la voz del pueblo y me responde que se aleja de esa idea. “Cada persona tiene su propia voz”, dice. “Es simplemente que a menudo, por medio de los escritores y su ‘médium’, algunas voces resuenan tan fuertemente (como la de Paulina) que sentimos que esa voz habla por todos nosotros, menciona cosas que hemos estado echando en falta y no nos hemos atrevido a expresar”. Llegados a este punto, no puedo menos que reflexionar sobre la mano que mueve la voz de Paulina, la mano de Dorfman. Por lo tanto, y siempre de acuerdo a su propia teoría, debería cambiar mi planteamiento y agradecerle que en esta ocasión, como en muchos otros de sus trabajos, él haya dado su voz para que resuene tan fuertemente como para hacernos sentir que grita por el resto de nosotros.
La Muerte y la Doncella muestra el resultado de la tortura, los estragos causados no sólo física sino también psíquicamente en aquellos que la sobreviven. Desafortunadamente parece que vivamos en un mundo tristemente acostumbrado a las escenas de violencia que inundan nuestros s
alones indiscriminadamente desde la pequeña pantalla. Interminables alusiones a torturas en países lejanos al espectador occidental, nos están inmunizando sutilmente. Menciono el caso de la Bahía de Guantánamo, de donde nos han llegado recientemente las últimas acusaciones de violaciones de derechos humanos, y cómo, a mis ojos, el tema sigue tan vivo como siempre; cambian los torturadores, el lado que defienden, pero la crueldad sigue aplicándose de la misma manera. Ariel Dorfman dice al respecto que lo verdaderamente preocupante sobre la violencia hoy en día es que está siendo justificada por muchos que aseguran su adherencia a los ideales democráticos y los derechos humanos, muchos que consideran la tortura como una consecuencia inevitable aunque molesta, de la llamada guerra contra el terrorismo.“Esta gente en el poder”, afirma,” no son los que aplican las descargas eléctricas a los genitales de los prisioneros, humillándoles, medio ahogándoles, pero son los que crean las condiciones favorables para que estas atrocidades tengan lugar. No está claro, si sería posible llevarlos ante un tribunal”, continua refiriéndose a los dirigentes, “pero lo menos que se podría hacer es avergonzarles en público tan frecuente y elocuentemente como fuera posible. Si no denunciamos la cultura que promueve la tortura, entonces en efecto, nos hacemos nosotros mismos culpables de esos abusos”.
El escritor expresa abiertamente su preocupación de que el tema haya terminado por corroer nuestro sentido de moralidad, destruyendo el material ético de nuestras sociedades. Me recomienda un ensayo publicado en su libro Other Septembers, Many Americas [Otros septiembres, muchas Américas] donde enfatiza que los torturadores no maltratan a los prisioneros por maldad, sino en nombre de la seguridad, del bien común, en nombre de lo que necesariamente se debe llevar a cabo para que todos podamos dormir tranquilos cada noche.“Depende de nosotros rechazar esos argumentos e insistir en que no queremos que nadie más sufra en nuestro nombre”.
El autor ha escrito unos 30 libros, tocando los diversos géneros literarios: ensayo, narrativa, teatro, poesía, artículos periodísticos e incluso guión cinematográfico, contando en su haber con cuatro películas basadas en su trabajo y directamente supervisadas por él. Sus obras dramáticas se siguen representando en todo el mundo y colabora con grandes cadenas de televisión como la BBC de Londres. Su literatura no deja indiferente al lector, la fuerza de sus personajes impacta, a veces incluso molesta al receptor. Su historia es intensa, llena de peligros, casualidades milagrosas y trabajo, siempre el duro trabajo de testimonio que lleva ya varios años realizando. Pero asegura que los riesgos que ha corrido han sido por medio de su literatura. Dice que no se atrevería a hacer algunas de las cosas que Paulina hace, que no ha sufrido, al menos en su cuerpo, como Paulina: “pero creo que Paulina y yo estamos unidos por la feroz necesidad de conocer la verdad, de no engañarnos a nosotros mismos, de mantener alguna parte de nosotros mismos intacta y decente.” Dice haber tenido una existencia “híbrida, mestiza, lingüísticamente adúltera”. Sólo alguien que haya vivido las dos vidas paralelas que ofrece la fusión de dos, o incluso más culturas, puede entender verdaderamente lo que quiere decir. Habla de los dos idiomas que rigen su vida como de las amantes que lo manejan, echándolo y llamándolo a su lado a su antojo.
Dorfman nació en Buenos Aires en 1942, creció en Estados Unidos, y se trasladó a Chile a tiempo de ser testigo de los más difíciles eventos de su historia. Cuando Dorfman habla de la política y la situación de ciertos países, de ciertas comunidades, lo hace con conocimiento de causa: en su libro Heading South, Looking North [Rumbo al sur, deseando el norte], narra cómo sólo una casualidad le salvó de la muerte o de la posible tortura el infame 11 de septiembre del 1973. En aquel momento trabajaba como asesor cultural del Gobierno en La Moneda, el edificio presidencial en Santiago. El día del golpe de estado, que una macabra broma del destino hizo que coincidiera con la misma fecha, el 11 del 9, del ataque a las Torres Gemelas en Nueva York, Ariel Dorfman no estaba trabajando, había cambiado su turno con un compañero y su nombre estaba originalmente en la lista de contactos de emergencia, pero nunca lo llamaron. Leyendo su trabajo es agradable pensar que su destino no era la muerte sino el testimonio.
Pero como muchos me pregunto si el ciudadano de a pie aún recuerda con la misma intensidad el dolor sufrido, si los jóvenes chilenos tienen aún presente la reciente historia de su país. “No es fácil vivir con la memoria del pasado, particularmente en sus aspectos mas traumáticos”. Explica Dorfman al respecto. “Tras la dictadura, diferentes grupos e individuos tanto a favor como en contra de Pinochet, quisieron dar la espalda al pasado. Algunos porque era demasiado doloroso; otros porque se avergonzaban de su complicidad; otros porque les era conveniente y creaba un tipo de falso consenso de paz. Pero el pasado encuentra el camino a la superficie”. Aquí me nombra su novela Viudas más tarde llevada al teatro y que denuncia la desaparición de cientos de personas contrarias al régimen militar.
Según el autor, en los últimos años, particularmente tras el arresto de Pinochet en Londres, el pueblo chileno ha comenzado a mirar de frente y más a fondo las tristezas y el terror vividos.“La última gloriosa resurrección ha sido aquella del Presidente Salvador Allende, que ha sido devuelto a una cierta mítica presencia tras haber sido enterrado y re-enterrado por aquellos en el poder”, dice.Destaca que uno de los tristes resultados de una dictadura es la ruptura del contacto entre generaciones, el sentimiento que los jóvenes tienen de ser un poco huérfanos, de estar como a la deriva, incapaces de conectar con su historia tanto cercana como lejana:“Los jóvenes recuerdan algunas cosas pero a menudo, y esto quizás sea inevitable, recuerdan de manera que no tiene porqué ser enteramente fiel a lo verdaderamente ocurrido”.
Continúa diciendo:“La mayoría de la gente había olvidado NUESTRO 11 de septiembre hace mucho tiempo, y no creo que la tragedia de Nueva York haya hecho que muchos ciudadanos no chilenos, lo tengan presente ahora. Yo he hecho lo que he podido para yuxtaponer las dos fechas para ver si pueden iluminarse de alguna manera la una a la otra, pero no tengo mucha fe en conseguirlo”.
En 1990 Ariel Dorfman presenció el acto de homenaje a las víctimas de la Junta Militar en el Estadio Nacional de Santiago de Chile, donde participaron mas de 70.000 personas:“Fue un momento maravilloso en el que intentamos conjurar el pasado y comulgar con nuestros muertos”, dice al respecto. En su libro Exorcising Terror encontramos una emotiva narración del evento y de los sentimientos experimentados por los presentes.
La mención de los muertos nos lleva inmediatamente de vuelta al General Pinochet, al “gran” gobernante que llevó a muchos a la gloria y a muchos más al infierno; el líder que en estos momentos espera su juicio. Más recientes acontecimientos en otros países igualmente castigados por tiranos dirigentes, han despistado la atención internacional hacia otros de su misma condición.De nuevo
en su obra Exorcising Terror en la que encontramos una detallada descripcion de los acontecimientos y las circunstancias que rodean al tan esperado juicio, Dorfman dice:“Lo mejor que puede pasarle a un criminal es ser capturado, porque en su celda solitaria, sin las habituales defensas con las que ha ocultado su propio pasado de sí mismo, a veces el milagro de una ventana diminuta se abre en el corazón del prisionero, una ventana que podría llevar al conocimiento de uno mismo y la redención”.Mi pregunta es: ¿Cree usted que gente como Pinochet, Milosevich, Sadam, Franco e incluso Bush no tienen el tipo de conciencia que deberíamos de tener todos? ¿No cree que estemos perdiendo nuestros valores morales? ¿Que no queda humanidad?“Las palabras claves son ‘podría’ y ‘milagro’. No hay garantía de que la redención surja en las entrañas de un delincuente. Lo que es relativamente cierto es que tenemos que crear las condiciones para que este delincuente pueda ser destituido de su poder y confrontado con sus propios crímenes. No podemos forzar a los hombres mencionados a tener el tipo de conciencia que esperaríamos encontrar en los dirigentes, pero podemos precaria y dolorosamente intentar examinarnos a nosotros mismos, poner a prueba nuestra propia moralidad y cambiar el mundo de manera que nadie llegue a encontrarse con tal grado de poder que sea capaz de crear pena y violencia sin ningún tipo de explicación para ello”.¿Es ésto idealismo o es el modo más simple de comprender la democracia y los derechos del pueblo? Como él mismo indica los hombres capaces de llevar a cabo ciertas barbaridades no están solos. Un cortejo de interesados y beneficiarios los rodean cerrando los ojos a cualquier realidad que les pueda desfavorecer.
Respecto al arresto de Pinochet en Londres dice que a pesar de vivir en un mundo con tanta impunidad y tan poca responsabilidad, deberíamos celebrar cada paso hacia un mundo en el que las leyes internacionales y los tratados en contra de los abusos de los derechos humanos sean inviolables.“No minimicemos cada una de nuestras victorias porque sí, el juicio a Pinochet establece un precedente y éstos son importantes. De hecho los dictadores piensan que son más vulnerables por el fallo emitido por la Cámara de los Lores de que había causa para juzgar a Pinochet en un tribunal español por crímenes contra la humanidad cometidos en Chile.Añade que a pesar de los muchos arrestos llevados a cabo entre los consejeros y figuras militares defensores de Pinochet, aún queda el hacer público que sin la ayuda de muchos ciudadanos comunes que facilitaron su régimen, el General no hubiera sido capaz de cometer sus crímenes.
En su libro Exorcising Terror encontramos esta frase: “nunca es demasiado tarde, General”. Le cuestiono sobre ella y la edad avanzada del General. “Dije entonces que nunca es demasiado tarde, cierto, pero se lo dije a él. Nunca es demasiado tarde para arrepentirse. En otro sentido, por supuesto, siempre es demasiado tarde. Una vez que el crimen ha sido cometido, en realidad no se puede dar marcha atrás. Y no deberíamos abandonar nunca la esperanza de justicia,” añade, “no porque haya ninguna certeza de que la obtendremos sino porque… bueno, pienso en lo que sería el mundo si renunciáramos a la esperanza y a la lucha. A menudo la única recompensa es la propia lucha”.
En su biografía Heading South, Looking North, también trata de dos temas muy intensos, compartidos por millones de latinos, por millones de inmigrantes, por millones de exiliados: el bilingualismo y el temor a la muerte. “El temor a la muerte ha entrado y salido de mi vida en maneras que aún no acabo de comprender, y que puede que sólo se entiendan cuando todo acabe”, dice. “La verdad es que nunca he tenido miedo al dolor, pero sí a la soledad. Mi lucha con la lengua, tanto si era el castellano como si era el inglés que me dio refugio, fue crucial en mi búsqueda por un camino para derrotar a la muerte”.
Me concede esta entrevista en inglés por ser la lengua que le ocupa en este preciso momento. De hecho está trabajando en los ensayos de una obra de teatro en dicho idioma, sobre Picasso bajo la ocupación Nazi de París, y en un guión para la BBC.
Sus respuestas me provocan más preguntas, podría cuestionar cada una de sus frases, me quedo con más curiosidad que la que tenía antes de acceder a su tiempo. Pero Ariel Dorfman es un hombre muy ocupado, quizá el lector se sienta tan motivado como yo y comience a buscar a su manera las respuestas, las raíces de esa verdad que lo mantiene tan activo, tan políticamente envuelto, saltando de un riesgo a otro, de obra en obra, incansable, como lo ha ido haciendo hasta ahora y deleitándonos con su comprometida complicidad, su activismo literario, su interminable ansia de explorar esa verdad que aún sigue tan oculta.
Su narración está llena de preguntas. Entre ellas, una constante: ¿por qué fue uno de los pocos que se salvó de la masacre? Seguramente seguirá buscando la respuesta. Mientras tanto, me pone al día en sus proyectos:“En los últimos años, he estado trabajando en una serie de obras de teatro. Dos de ellas, Purgatorio y El otro lado, se estrenaron el año pasado en el Seattle Rep y en el Manhattan Theatre Club en Nueva York, y estoy trabajando para su próximo estreno en Londres. Estoy de momento a punto de estrenar la tercera, El armario de Picasso, aquí en Washington DC, donde me encuentro ahora. Se trata de la vida y los dilemas de Pablo Picasso durante los cuatro años de ocupación nazi en París. Tengo previsto varios proyectos más: un musical contra la guerra, Dancing Shadows (mi libreto, música y letras de Eric Woolfson, de The Alan Parsons Project) una película para la BBC, escrita con mi hijo mayor, Rodrigo, y una nueva obra de teatro, En la oscuridad, comisionada por la royal Shakespeare Company y que trata de muchas de las preguntas tratadas en esta entrevista. Más tarde este mismo año, Peter Raymont (director de Shake Hands with the Devil) filmará con mi ayuda y supervisión una versión documental de Heading South, Looking North. Y… sí, respiro de vez en cuando, en medio de tanto trabajo”.
Su amado país vive, tras las duras décadas de los setenta y los ochenta, un renacimiento a la libertad, con una mujer encabezando el gobierno por primera vez en su historia. Dorfman en su artículo titulado “Michelle, our belle”, publicado en una columna en la que colabora periódicamente, (http://commentisfree.guardian.co.uk) habla de la nueva presidenta como alguien que mira hacia el futuro, con los pies en el suelo, determinada e impredecible. Sin duda alguien en quien el pueblo confía y que llega cargada de una nueva esperanza.
Con esa esperanza nos despedimos, con la impaciencia de conocer más sobre los asuntos tratados y con la confianza de que sin duda alguna, el trabajo de este polifacético escritor continuará trayéndonos noticias de verdades ocultas, inspiración y esa inquietud necesaria para hacernos continuar (o comenzar) a defender activamente, en la medida de nuestras humildes posibilidades, los derechos de los más débiles, los derechos de todos.
Translation - English http://portinexile.blogspot.com/2007/07/democracy-with-blood-on-its-hands.html
http://www.threemonkeysonline.com/democracy-with-blood-on-its-hands-an-interview-with-
Democracy with blood on its Hands: An Interview with Ariel Dorfman
by Ascen Arriazu
“To create a democracy, blood must sometimes be spilled”. These would be wise words were it not for the fact that they were pronounced by Augusto Pinochet, one of the greatest mass-murderers of the 20th century. Pinochet’s seizure of power on September 11th 1973, an earlier 9/11 which produced a similarly catastrophic scene – that of the storming of La Moneda in Santiago, Chile, where the then president, Salvador Allende, died. One of Allende’s daughters described her escape during a BBC documentary: “We escaped in a taxi and the police let us through because my sister, who was pregnant at the time, pretended to be in labour”.
Since then, thousands of cases of murders, disappearances and torture have been and continue to be investigated by several pro-human rights NGO’s throughout the world. Amnesty International has been the most active of these groups and publishing detailed reports regarding the torture techniques carried out in prisons during Pinochet’s dictatorship. Among those who have expressed concern for the administering of justice is one of Chile’s greatest activists, Ariel Dorfman. Without mincing his words, he has come dangerously close to the underlying truth. The author, despite a consistently full schedule, kindly shared his time and experiences with Three Monkeys Online.
Throughout his work Dorfman confronts one of the most difficult aspects of Pinochet’s regime, that of torture. It is dealt with in one of Dorfman’s most well-known works, Death and the Maiden, which in 1995 was made into a film starring Sigourney Weaver and the multifaceted Ben Kingsley, famous for his interpretation of Ghandi. The film was directed by Roman Polanski with the script closely supervised by Dorfman. The play is another cry for justice from the victims. Weaver, a heroine in stories such as Alien or Copycat, plays a woman who is raped and angry at the loss of her pride and sense of identity.
Dorfman sets his play in what he describes as a “country in Latin America”, but there is more than one coincidence that leads the well-informed viewers to draw a connection between the plot and the tragedy experienced in Chile. There is the mention of an investigative commission in the play which is none other than the so-called ‘Rettig Commission’ established on 25th April 1990 in order to investigate cases of human rights abuses which ended in deaths linked to the Chilean state.
Some have considered the work done by the commission as insuficient. Dorfman, however, defends its significance: “On the basis of what that commission did, we were later able to prosecute many of the Pinochet regime´s worst human rights violators”
Dorfman believes that the problem lies not with the commission but with ourselves:“If we accept that work as final (nothing else to be done), then we are to blame for not pushing harder, demanding more justice. Always put yourself in the shoes (or other garments) of the men and women who emerge from a dictatorship” and he urges us not to “judge anyone too harshly until you have lived through the terrors and sorrows and mistakes they have lived through”.
Dorfman humbly confesses that “the truth is that I had expected, after the terror attacks of September 11, 2001, that Death and the Maiden would be staged even more than it has been in the past. It deals, after all, with the central dilemma of our times: how to make sure that, when grievous harm has been done to us, we do not turn into the monster who has given us such pain? How do we separate justice from revenge? How do we ensure that our rage does not make us blind? How to keep the innocent from suffering as we seek to avenge the dead?” Dorfman’s questions are probing and provide food for thought.
“Although it continues to be performed extensively around the world, the play has not had any major revivals, at least in the States and in England, in the last five years. There are signs that this is beginning to change.”
I ask Dorfman whether he would change the end of the play, considering the events that have taken place since its conception. “No,” he assures me, “I think it is more relevant than ever: or can anyone deny that we live in a world where far too many victims are forced to coexist with the men who destroyed their lives and ravaged their bodies?”
Paulina, the play’s main protagonist, represents the courage and the pain of the survivor who attempts to recover normality in her life; she is both physically and mentally bound by her painful memories. Dorfman describes his strong emotional connection with the character: “I love Paulina. She is one of my favourite characters – perhaps the most rebellious of all the upstart women I have notoriously created. But I wouldn’t say she is all courage, bravery and pain. Fortunately, she is all too human, imperfect, difficult, complicated, devious. This, for me, draws her closer to us.”
I cannot help but think that this is in fact how most women are and I generalise when I think of all the times that women are categorised as difficult and imperfect creatures. However, as hard as I try, I cannot imagine another woman with Paulina´s determination and coldness.
Dorfman explains: “I’m sure that many women (and many men, why not?) see her as representative of the suffering women of the world and, more specifically, of Chile. And that is a legitimate way of embracing a character. For me, above all, she is a full human presence, given representation by the depth of her personality, the ferocity of her devotion to rescuing the woman she once was, before the basement, before that doctor.”
I suggest that Paulina is the voice of the people but Dorfman shies away from this idea:“Everyone has their own voice,” he explains. “It just happens that, often through writers and their ‘medium’, certain voices resonate so strongly (as Paulina’s does) that we feel that voice somehow speaks for us, tells other things we have been nursing and have not dared express.”
At this point I can do no other than reflect upon the voice behind Paulina´s, the hand of her creator, Dorfman. In accordance with his own theory I must thank Dorfman for making his voice so powerful that we feel it is speaking on our behalf as well.
Death and the Maiden shows the consequences of torture; the injuries inflicted both physically and psychologically on those who have survived it. Unfortunately it appears that we are living in a world sadly accustomed to the violent scenes that indiscriminately flood our television screens; we have gradually become immune to the images of torture carried out in distant countries. I mention the case of Guantanamo Bay, where accusations of the violation of human rights have been made and how, in my opinion, the topic of torture is now as relevant as ever; the aggressors may change, but the cruelty is still applied in the same way. Dorfman admits that “what is worrisome about torture in our day is that it is being justified by many who proclaim their adherence to democratic ideals and human rights, and who nevertheless consider torture as a messy but inevitable consequence of the so-called war against terror.”
Dorfman affirms: “These people in power are not the ones who are applying the electricity to the genitals, humiliating prisoners, near-drowning them, but they are the ones who create the conditions for such horrors to occur. It is not clear if they could be brought before a tribunal, but the least that should be done is to shame them in public as often and as eloquently as possible. If we don’t denounce that culture which encourages torture, then, in effect, we make ourselves responsible for those abuses.”
Dorfman openly expresses his concern that torture has corrupted our sense of morality, destroying t
he ethical element within our society. He suggests that I read an essay from his book Other Septembers, many Americas, where he emphasises the fact that perpetrators of torture do not carry out their crimes “in the name of evil, but in the name of safety, the common good, the necessary things that have to be done so that we can all sleep quietly at night. It’s up to us to reject that fear and insist that we do not want anyone hurt in our name.”
Dorfman has written about thirty books, ranging from essays, prose, theatre, poetry, journalistic articles to cinematographic script; he has even directly supervised the making of four films based on his work. His dramatic work continues to be performed worldwide and he collaborates with TV companies such as the BBC. Dorfman’s literature does not leave the reader indifferent; the strength of his characters has an enormous and often disturbing impact upon us. Dorfman’s own life has been intense; fraught with dangers, miraculous coincidences and several years of hard work to produce his literary oeuvre. However, Dorfman assures me that he would not dare to do some of the things that Paulina does, that he has not suffered, at least corporeally, as she has. Despite this, Dorfman concedes that “Paulina and I are joined by our ferocious need to know the truth, to not lie to ourselves, to keep some part of ourselves intact and decent.”
Dorfman tells me how he has lived a “hybrid, mongrel, linguistically adulterous existence.” Only someone who has dabbled in two or even more parallel cultures, can truly understand what he means. He speaks of the two languages which rule his life as if they were two lovers manipulating him, he being at their beck and call.
Dorfman was born in Buenos Aires in 1942, he grew up in the United States and then moved to Chile in time to witness some of the most difficult events of the country’s history. When Dorfman speaks of politics and the situation in certain countries, he does so with full knowledge of the facts: in his book Heading South, Looking North, he describes how, during the infamous September 11th of 1973, only chance saved him from death or potential torture. At that time he was working as Cultural Adviser for the Chilean government in La Moneda, the presidential building in Santiago. The day of the coup d’etat, Dorfman was not working, he had changed his shift with a colleague and although his name was on the list of emergency contacts, he was never called. It is a blessing to think, after having read Dorfman’s work, that his fate was not death but testimony.
Like many others, I wonder whether the average citizen still remembers with the same intensity the pain that was suffered; whether the Chilean youth continue to bear in mind the recent history of their country. As Dorfman explains: “Memories of the past, particularly in its more traumatic aspects, are not easy to live with. Just after the dictatorship, many different individuals and groups, both anti and pro Pinochet, wanted to turn their back on the past. Some because it was too painful; others because they were ashamed of their complicity; still others because it was convenient and created a sort of false consensus of peace. But the past has a way of resurfacing.” At this point Dorfman mentions his novelWidows, which was later staged at the theatre and denounces the disappearance of thousands of people who were against the military regime.
According to Dorfamn, in the last few years, particularly after Pinochet’s arrest in London, the Chilean people have started to confront the deeper sorrows and terror that was experienced. He explains: “The latest glorious resurrection has been that of President Salvador Allende who has been returned to a certain mythical presence after being carefully buried and reburied by those in power.” Dorfman emphasises that one of the saddest results of a dictatorship is the breaking down of contact between generations, the feeling the youngsters have of being orphans, adrift, unable to establish a contact with their own history: “The young remember some things. But often, and this may be inevitable, they remember in ways that are not always entirely true to what happened”. Dorfman continues: “Most of the world had forgotten OUR September 11th a long time ago and I don’t think that the New York tragedy has made all that many non-Chilean citizens aware of it anyhow. I’ve tried my best to juxtapose the two September 11ths to see if they can illuminate each other, but I don’t have that much hope that I will succeed.”
In 1990 Dorfman witnessed the homage to the victims of the Military Junta which took place in the National Stadium in Santiago of Chile. More than 70,000 people attended the act which was, according to Dorfman “a wondrous moment in which we tried to conjure away the past and commune with our dead.” In his book, Exorcising Terror, we can find an emotive description of the event and of the feelings experienced by the people who congregated there.
The mention of the dead leads us back to the “great” General Pinochet, who led many to victory and many more to hell; the leader who is at this very moment awaiting trial. More recent incidents in other countries that have also had to suffer despotic rulers, have diverted international attention towards others of his kind. Again, in his work Exorcising Terror, in which we find a detailed description of events and circumstances surrounding the much awaited trial, Dorfman says:
“The best thing that can happen to a criminal is to be captured, because in his solitary cell, without the habitual defences with which he has hidden his past from himself, at times the miracle of a minute window opens inside the prisoner’s heart, a window that might lead to self-awareness and redemption.”
The question I pose is: Do you believe that people like Pinochet, Milosevic, Sadam, Franco and even Bush lack the kind of conscience we should all have? Or Are we losing our own morality? Our own humanity?Dorfman replies: “The operative words are “might” and “miracle”. There is no guarantee that redemption will surge inside an offender. What is relatively certain is that we need to create the conditions whereby that offender can be stripped of power and be confronted with his crimes. We can’t force those men mentioned to have the kind of conscience we would expect of rulers; but we can precariously and painstakingly try to examine our own selves, put our own morality to the test. And change the world so nobody finds himself with so much power that he can create sorrow and mayhem without any sort of accountability.”
Is this idealism, or is it the simplest way of understanding democracy and peoples’ rights. As Dorfman suggests, men capable of committing barbarities are not on their own. A parade of unscrupulous self-seeking beneficiaries surround them, closing their eyes to any reality which might be against their own interests.
With regards to Pinochet’s arrest in London, Dorfman says that although we live in a world with so much impunity and so little accountability, we should celebrate every step towards a world in which the international laws and treaties against human rights abuses are inviolable. He tells me: “Let’s not minimize our every victory, because yes, the Pinochet trial does establish a precedent and these do matter. In fact, dictators do think they are more vulnerable because of the ruling of the House of Lords that there was cause to have Pinochet tried in a Spanish court for crimes against humanity committed in Chile.”
Dorfman adds that in spite of the many arrests that took place among the advisors and military figures who supported Pinochet, there is still a need to make public the fact that without the help of many average citizens who facilitated his regime, the Gen
eral would never have been able to commit his crimes. Exorcising Terror we find the following sentence: “It´s never too late, General.” I question Dorfman about it and about the old age of the General.
Dorfman responds: “I said in that book that ‘it’s never too late’, true, but I said it to him. Never too late for him to repent. In another sense, of course, it is always too late. Once the crime has been committed, it can never really be undone. And we should never abandon the hope for justice. Not because there is any certainty that we will obtain that justice, but rather because … well, think of what the world would be like if we gave up hope and struggle. Often the only reward is in the struggle itself.”
In his autobiography, Heading South, Looking North, Dorfman also touches upon two very emotive topics, shared by millions of Latin-Americans, millions of immigrants and millions of exiles: bilingualism and the fear of death.
“Fear of death,” explains Dorfman, “has come in and out of my life in ways that are not fully understandable to me yet, and may only be understood when it all ends. I´ve never been afraid of the pain, to tell the truth, but of the loneliness. My struggle for language – whether it was to be Spanish or English which gave me refuge – was crucial in my quest for a way to defeat death.”
Dorfman responds to this interview in English, as it is the language which occupies him at this precise moment. In fact, he is currently working on a rehearsal of a play in English about Picasso under the Nazi occupation of Paris, and on a script for the BBC.
Dorfman’s answers inspire more questions, I could argue with each one of his responses and yet I am left with insatiable curiosity. Dorfman is a very busy man, maybe the reader will feel as motivated as I am to start their own search for answers; a search for the truth that keeps Dorfman so active, so politically involved, jumping from one risk to the next, from work to work, tirelessly, as he has been doing up to his moment and delighting us in his compromised complicity, his literary activism, his never ending anxiety for exploring the hidden truth.
Dorfman’s narrative is full of questions. Among them, a constant: why was he one of the few who were spared from the massacre? He will probably continue looking for an answer. In the meantime he updates me with his future projects:
“For the last few years, I have been working on a series of plays. Two of them, Purgatorioand The Other Side, opened late last year at the Seattle Rep and at the Manhattan Theatre Club in New York, and I am working on their staging in London in the near future. I find myself at the moment about to open the third one, Picasso’s Closet here in Washington DC (from where I am writing these answers). It deals with the life and dilemmas of Pablo Picasso under the four years of Nazi occupation of Paris. Ahead of me lie several other projects: an anti-war musical, DANCING SHADOWS (my libretto; music and lyrics by Eric Woolfson, of the Alan Parsons Project); a film for the BBC, written with my eldest son, Rodrigo: and a new play, IN THE DARK, commissioned by the Royal Shakespeare Company, and which delves into many of the questions posed to me in this interview with Three Monkeys. Later this year, Peter Raymont (Director of Shake Hands with the Devil) will be filming, with my help and support, a documentary version of Heading South, Looking North. And, yes, I do breathe from time to time in the midst of so much work.”
Dorfman’s beloved country is experiencing, after the hard decades of the 70′s and 80′s, a rebirth towards freedom, with a woman as head of the government for the first time in its history. Dorfman, in his article entitled Michele, our belle, published in a Guardiancolumn in which he regularly collaborates, talks of the new president as someone who looks towards the future, with her feet on the ground, determined and unpredictable. Without a doubt, she is someone in whom the people trust and who may bring fresh hope.
It is with this hope that we must say farewell, impatient as we are to know more about the subjects treated and with the trust that the work of this versatile writer will continue to bring us news of hidden truths, inspiration and the anxiety needed to make us continue (or indeed start) actively defending, with our humble possibilities, the rights of the weaker ones, the rights of each and every one of us.
Spanish to English: Introducing Leonardo Padura Fuentes and the quill of mystery
Source text - Spanish
http://www.threemonkeysonline.com/es/nunca-s-quin-es-el-asesino-cada-novela-es-un-aprendizaje-de-cmo-se-escribe-leonardo-padura-fuentes-la-pluma-del-misterio/
“Nunca sé quién es el asesino, cada novela es un aprendizaje de cómo se escribe”. Leonardo Padura Fuentes: la pluma del misterio.
Canning House es el nombre de uno de los magníficos edificios blancos de la señorial Belgrave Square en Londres. Tras los grandes ventanales a través de los cuales pueden distinguirse los techos majestuosos con sus suntuosas arañas de luz, se esconde el espíritu latino de la ciudad. La biblioteca, una de las mejores en lengua española en la capital británica, junto a la no muy lejana del Instituto Cervantes, es tan sólo uno de los muchos servicios que ofrece la organización. En realidad se podría decir que los embajadores culturales de los paises hablantes de portugues y castellano se encuentran en esta esquina de la plaza.
El pasado día 27 de marzo, nos deleitaban de nuevo con una de sus bien organizadas actividades, la presentación de la versión inglesa del libro Paisaje de otoño del popular escritor de novela negra cubano Leonardo Padura Fuentes. Padura sorprende por su sencillez, su seria simpatía y su accesibilidad. Tras unos minutos de amena charla con él, uno se siente casi frente a Mario Conde, el inspector protagonista de sus relatos. De su pluma han surgido una serie de relatos detectivescos únicos en su género, en los que no sólo se disfruta de la incertidumbre del misterio, del crimen irresuelto que va deshilvanándose mediante las pesquisas del Conde, sino de la representación de la Cuba vivida por el escritor, la sociedad de La Habana, con sus problemas y sus prejuicios. Admite escribir para los cubanos pero no de una manera localista, sino tratando temas que, aun centrados básicamente en su país, pueden perfectamente ser comunes a muchos otros países, es ésto lo que ha hecho que sus obras se publiquen hasta ahora en más de 10 idiomas. Algunos de sus títulos son: Adiós, Hemingway, Pasado perfecto, Paisaje de otoño, Máscaras y Vientos de Cuaresma.
También ha publicado con singular éxito varias obras de ensayo, estudiadas en las mejores universidades como complemento de las asignaturas de estudios políticos latinoamericanos:Con la espada y con la pluma: Comentarios del Inca Garcilaso, Un camino de medio siglo: Carpentier y la narrativa de lo real maravilloso o La cultura y la revolución cubana. Conversaciones en La Habana, por mencionar algunas de ellas.
El escritor nació y vive en Cuba. Al preguntarle por los motivos que le han hecho decidirse por seguir viviendo en su país cuando muchos otros artistas e intelectuales lo han dejado ya hace tiempo, me mira pensativo y dice:“Hoy queríamos caminar y entramos en el museo Británico que queda muy cerca de nuestro hotel. Conversábamos sobre Guillermo Cabrera Infante y sus sentimientos sobre Cuba. Pensamos que los pequeños detalles, incluso el clima y la temperatura, son importantes. Son parte de uno, uno pertenece a una cultura y eso es todo. Aquí a nadie le importa el béisbol por ejemplo; yo soy un hombre de hablar, aquí no te hablan en la parada del autobús; el mundo de Cuba, mi cultura, para mí es fundamental como fuente de inspiración”.“He visitado muchos lugares: Alemania, Nuremberg, Toscana… ¡preciosos! pero sé que no puedo vivir en ellos”, asegura, “las relaciones humanas están por encima del individuo, incluso algo tan simple como el buen café adquiere importancia. Todo ese tipo de elementos tiene que ver con una decisión. En la casa donde vivo vivió mi padre y antes mi abuelo. En esa casa yo nací. Trato de que la política no me entorpezca mi relación idílica con mi país”.
Admite de todas formas mantener una dolorosa relación con el exilio:“Prácticamente toda mi familia paterna vive fuera”, cuenta, “mi hermano menor y muchos amigos. Es una relación intensa, familiar y dolorosa”. Insiste en que para él lo importante es que cada cual respete las decisiones ajenas y que vive en cuba “¡porque quiero y porque me da la gana!”, que lo fundamental es el derecho de cada uno a no ser juzgado por los otros en lo que se refiere a las circunstancias que rodean sus propias decisiones.
Se queja del tiempo londinense. ¡Cómo no!:“En Cuba hay siempre alrededor de 26 o 27 grados”, dice. Comenta la frialdad que aprecia en el ciudadano que circula disparado por las calles, no puede evitar contrastar cada cosa con su Habana. La Habana que retrata en sus libros, una vez de rojo: “Havana Red” es el titulo inglés de su novela “Máscaras”; otra de negro: “Havana Black” el de su “Paisaje de otoño”; pero siempre con conocimiento y con desenvoltura, sabiendo de qué se habla y siendo totalmente consciente del gran desarrollo del país:“Tengo la fortuna de que todos mis libros se han publicado sin censurar una sola palabra”, asegura, “en los setenta u ochenta, no se hubieran publicado. Tuvo que venir una crisis en los noventa, para que hubiera esta visión diferente”.
Sus libros son muy críticos, pero dice que existen varios factores que han incidido en ello. Afirma que tras la represión precedente a la época de los noventa, la actitud de las autoridades culturales cubanas es ahora más inteligente, ha cambiado grandemente. El año pasado se republicaron en su país cuatro de sus novelas como regalo de su cincuenta cumpleaños. Es aquí donde nos recuerda que no hay relación entre el número de copias vendidas en su país y el dinero obtenido de las ventas, pero que para él lo más importante es que sus libros se vendan. Son libros que han sido escritos con el lector cubano en mente, es solamente tras un inesperado éxito en España que han sido publicados en más países. “Ahora mis libros son publicados primero en España por razones de contrato y como no pueden ser importados en Cuba (catorce euros, el precio de un ejemplar en España, es lo que gana una persona en Cuba en un mes) entonces se hacen ediciones diferentes. ¡Ojalá yo tuviera una respuesta económica!”, bromea.En cuanto al tema del poder gobernante en Cuba dice:“El poder trata de hacer olvidar. La represión comenzó en los sesenta, fue brutal en los setenta, pero la situación ahora ha cambiado, se tiende a olvidar”. Hablamos de la revolución y la contrastamos con la masonería, él me recuerda que otro de sus libros, “La novela de mi vida” habla sobre el tema.“Mi padre se volvió masón en el 49, un masón muy convencido. Aunque es un movimiento con mucho secreto, lo que es públicamente conocido es su espíritu fraternal, todos son iguales”.“Algo que recuerda a la filosofía de la revolución”, sugiero.
“La revolución llega y envuelve a todo un país, es como un río que se desborda”, responde. “Algunos se sienten irremediablemente atraídos por ella. Pero en los noventa hubo un cambio muy importante en el terreno político. Aunque Fidel siguió, fue un cambio que tuvo que ver con la mentalidad, la apertura en el mundo cultural, literario, teatral”. Como él mismo indica, un ejemplo de esta nueva apertura fue la película “Fresa y chocolate” en la que se trata abiertamente el tema del homosexualismo, tema común a su novela “Máscaras”. “Se ganó espacio de libertad pero aún existe un regreso a la dogma” dice.
En la intimidad de la sala del primer piso de la Canning House,
con sus imponentes ventanas, la voz del escritor suena decidida, tranquila. La lectura del extracto de su “Havana Black” nos materializa la voz de un Mario Conde distinto al que yo misma había imaginado en mi cabeza al leerlo en casa. En la voz de Padura, la dulce cadencia caribeña de sus palabras acercan más al policía, a su verdadera personalidad, a sus inseguridades, a sus corazonadas. Me creo ante un Colombo cubano, sin gabardina, pero con el puro y la mirada pensativa. Padura enfatiza sus palabras de agradecimiento a los organizadores y al traductor de su libro, Peter Bush, quien leerá los extractos en inglés.
“El trabajo de Peter es serio, respetuoso”, dice. “En este evento éste es un aspecto muy importante porque muchas veces el traductor es un ente anónimo, poco reconocido y ésto me parece injusto”. Padura explica cómo traducir no significa transcribir las palabras de un texto a otro, lo más importante es transmitir el espíritu de la obra. Pocos autores reconocen abiertamente su relación con el traductor, con el otro escritor de sus novelas en un acto en el que la comprensión debe ser, de hecho, incluso mayor de la del propio creador; la relación con el texto incluso más intensa.
La novela trata de las pesquisas sobre la muerte de Miguel Forcade Mier. Un cubano, residente en Miami, que regresa a Cuba. Padura detenidamente, con una paciencia que ya queda a pocos habitantes de ciudades como ésta, explica las bases de la novela, sitúa al espectador en el tiempo, en los acontecimientos. Explica cómo es siempre la trama policial la que se desarrolla alrededor del protagonismo de sus personajes. En este caso la atención del policía se ve acaparada por las obras de arte de la estancia, aparentemente sin importancia para el caso en un principio pero que dan a la obra la realidad ausente muchas veces de las obras del género. La historia de Conde es en realidad la historia de toda una generación. Conde es, según el propio autor, una metáfora de su generación, de las desilusiones que vivieron, de la amistad, del desencanto.“En el fragmento se explica el carácter metafórico, ¿se imaginan un policía que tenga dudas de si una obra es de Cezanne o Matisse? Mario Conde es en la medida en la que es, un intermediario entre la realidad y la literatura. El es un personaje que no sabe prácticamente de investigación criminalista. Cuando siente que está cerca de la realidad, tiene un dolor cerca de la tetilla. Lo fundamental es que representa una visión de mi generación. No es la única versión posible, sino la mía.”
Translation - English http://www.threemonkeysonline.com/our-man-in-havana-introducing-leonardo-padura-fuentes-and-the-quill-of-mystery/2/
Introducing Leonardo Padura Fuentes and the quill of mystery
by Ascen Arriazu
Canning house is the name given to one of the magnificent white buildings situated in London’s stately Belgrave Square. Behind the large windows, through which one can discern majestic ceilings with sumptuous chandeliers, the Hispanic spirit of the city lies hidden. The library, which houses one of the best collections of Spanish literature in London, along with the nearby Instituto Cervantes (Cervantes Institute), is only one of the many services offered by the organisation. One could actually conclude that the true cultural ambassadors of the Spanish and Portuguese speaking countries can be found in this very corner of Belgrave Square.
On the 27th March 2006, we were once again delighted to attend another of Canning House’s well organised events – the presentation ofAutumn Landscape, written by the popular Cuban detective fiction writer, Leonardo Padura Fuentes. Padura is remarkable for his modesty, his genuine kindness and his approachability. After a few minutes of pleasant conversation with him, there is the feeling that one could almost be facing Mario Conde, the detective and protagonist of Padura’s short stories. From Padura’s inkwell there has arisen a collection of short detective stories, unique within their genre. Not only do these stories entertain the reader with the uncertainties surrounding the mystery of their unsolved crimes which must be unravelled through Conde’s investigations, but they also provide a representation of Cuba as experienced by the author; of Havana’s society, with all its problems and prejudices. Padura admits writing specifically for the Cubans but not in an insular manner; instead he deals with themes that, although mainly based in Cuba, can easily be adapted to different countries and this has facilitated the translation of his works into more than ten languages. Some of his stories include: Adiós, Hemingway (Goodbye, Hemingway), Paisaje de otoño(Havana Black: Autumn Landscape), Máscaras (Masks), Vientos de Cuaresma (The Winds of Lent).
Padura has also published, with great success, various essays which are used in the most prestigious universities to complement the study of Latin American Politics: Con la espada y con la pluma: Comentarios del Inca Garcilaso (With the sword and the pen: Comments from the Incan Garcilaso”), Un camino de medio siglo: Carpentier y la narrativa de lo real maravilloso (A journey of half a century: Carpentier and the narrative of magic realism) andLa cultura y la revolución cubana. Conversaciones en La Habana (Cuban culture and revolution. Conversations in Havana) are just a few.
The writer was born and lives in Cuba. When I ask him why he has decided to stay in Cuba when many other artists and intellectuals left a long time ago, he regards me thoughtfully and says, “Today we wanted to go for a walk and we went to the British Museum, which is very close to our hotel. We were discussing Guillermo Cabrera Infante and his feelings about Cuba. We decided that it is the small things, including climate and temperature, that are important. They are a part of you; you belong to a culture and that’s it. Here, for example, nobody cares about baseball; I’m a talkative person and here nobody talks to you at the bus stop. The Cuban world, my culture – are fundamental to me as a source of inspiration.” He continues, “I have visited many places: Germany, Nuremberg, Tuscany…beautiful! But I know that I can not live in any of them” and, he assures me, “human relationships are more important than the individual, even something as simple as a good coffee becomes important. All these things revolve around a decision. The house in which I now live was also my father’s home, and before him, it was my grandfather’s. I was born in that house. It all has to do with the fact that politics does not hinder the idyllic relationship that I have with my country.”
Padura admits, however, to having a painful relationship with the subject of exile. “Practically all my paternal family lives abroad”, he tells me, “my younger brother and lots of friends. It’s an intense, intimate and painful relationship”. He insists that for him it is important that everyone respects the decisions made by others and that he continues to live in Cuba “because I want to and because I feel like it!”. Padura believes that it is fundamental for everyone to have the right not to be judged by others regarding their own decisions.
Padura complains about London weather – how could he not! “In Cuba,” he explains, “it is always about 26 or 27 degrees”. He comments on the coldness of character that he observes in the people who rush past him through the streets of London and he cannot help comparing everything with his Havana. The Havana of his books is sometimes red: “Havana Red ”, which is the English title of his novel Máscaras (Masks), other times black: “Havana Black ” that belongs to his Paisaje de Otoño (Autumn Landscape). However, Padura always writes about Havana with knowledge and fluency; he knows what he is talking about and is totally aware of the great progress that his country has made. “I am lucky to have had all my books published without having a single word censored,” he assures me, “in the seventies or eighties, they wouldn’t have been published. The crisis of the nineties had to come about to arrive at this different outlook.”
His books are very critical, but Padura says that there are many factors that have contributed to this. He explains that after the repression which preceded the nineties, the attitude of the Cuban cultural authorities has been more intelligent and has changed a great deal. Last year four of Padura’s novels were published in Cuba as a present for his fiftieth birthday. It is at this moment that Padura reminds me that even though there is no relationship between the number of copies sold in his country and the money obtained from sales, the most important thing is that the books sell. They are books which have been written with the Cuban reader in mind; it is only through their unforeseen success in Spain that they have come to be published in other countries. “Now my books are published first in Spain for contractual reasons and as they can’t be imported to Cuba (fourteen euros, the price of a copy in Spain, is what a Cuban might earn in a month) they have to make different editions. I wish I had an economic solution!,” he jokes.
In relation to the question of Cuba’s governing power, Padura explains: “The government tries to make people forget. The repression began in the sixties, it was brutal in the seventies but now the situation has changed; people tend to forget”. We talk about the revolution and we contrast it with Masonry; Padura reminds me that his book La novela de mi vida (The story of my life) deals with the subject. He says, “my father became a Mason in 1949, a very fervent Mason. Although it’s a movement surrounded by a lot of secrecy, it is publicly known that it has a fraternal spirit; everyone is equal”. I suggest that this might recall the philosophy of the
revolution. “The revolution arrives and envelops the whole country; it’s like an overflowing river”, he replies. “Some feel extremely attracted by it. But in the nineties there was a very important change in the political arena. Although Fidel Castro stayed in power, there was a change in mentality; an opening up to the cultural, literary and theatrical world”. As Padura himself remarks, an example of this new opening was the filmFresa y chocolate (Strawberry and Chocolate) which openly dealt with the issue of homosexuality, a theme also explored in Máscaras (Masks). However, as Padura goes on to say, “a certain amount of liberty was gained but there still exists a return to dogma”.
In the privacy of the first floor room of Canning House, with its imposing windows, the voice of the writer sounds decisive and tranquil. The reading of an extract from Havana Black brings us the voice of a Mario Conde who sounds quite distinct from the character I had mentally depicted when reading the story myself. With Padura’s voice, the melodious Caribbean cadence of his words draws us closer to the fictional detective, towards his real self, his insecurities and his presentiments. I feel as if I am facing a Cuban Colombo (American television detective), without the raincoat but with a pure and pensive stare. Padura stresses his words of thanks to the organisers and to Peter Bush, the translator of the book, who will read the extracts in English.
“Peter’s work is really well done and respectful to the original”, says Padura, “In this case it is a very important aspect because often the translator remains an anonymous entity who is hardly recognised and that seems very unfair to me.” Padura explains that translating does not mean simply transcribing words from one text to another but, crucially, transmitting the spirit of a work. Few authors openly recognise their relationship with the translator, with the other writer of their novels whose ability to comprehend must, in fact, be even greater than that of the author himself and the relationship with the text perhaps even more intense.
The novel is about the investigations into the death of Miguel Forcade Mier. He is a Cuban, resident in Miami, who returns to Cuba. Painstakingly and with a patience that already eludes most inhabitants of cities like this, Padura explains the novel’s foundations and situates the audience in the fictional scene. He explains how it is always the detective plot which develops around the main roles of his characters. In this particular case the detective’s attention is drawn towards the works of art in the room, which do not appear to be relevant to the case but give the story a realism that is often absent in works of this genre. The story of Conde is, in fact, the story of an entire generation. Conde is, according to his author, a metaphor for his generation, for the disappointments people suffered in terms of friendship and disenchantment. “In the excerpt the metaphorical nature is explained; can you imagine a detective who suffers doubts about whether a work is by Cezanne or Matisse? Mario Conde is, to a certain extent, an intermediary between literature and realism. He is a character who hardly knows anything about criminal investigation. When he feels that he is close to reality he experiences a heartfelt pain. Most importantly, he represents a part of my generation. This isn’t the only interpretation possible, it is simply my view”.
The shared feeling of disenchantment of which the author speaks is reflected in the detective’s own outlook. Mario Conde suffers at the sight of dilapidating buildings and in some respects he has fundamentalist beliefs. He highly esteems the ideals of fidelity and friendship. The writer confesses that he too tries to cultivate such virtues, as far as possible, in his own behaviour. Conde is saturated with the personality of his creator. In the extract that is read to us, Conde’s humanity is emphasised when, instead of focusing upon Gerardo Gómez de la Peña’s analysis of the cadaver, he imagines that he would also like to wear a pair of shoes like those of the dead body. These shoes are much more real than the book’s plot; they are brown, soft and Italian. (I peer in front of me, under the table where the writer and translator are seated and I wonder whether Peter Bush’s brown shoes are also Italian). Once again Conde has magnetised me with his thoughts, with his hypotheses which are sometimes too terrestrial and at the same time too philosophical. We are once more introduced to the detective, the frustrated writer who, by means of criminal investigations, questions the eternal existential doubts: “Who are we?”; “where do we come from?”; “what do we desire?”
“My motivation behind this novel and the Conde series was the desire to write detective novels which would be, above all, of a social character.” He continues, “something I felt I had to do was to leave behind a mark of an historical moment that we lived through in Cuba and, more specifically, the feeling of disillusionment when the ideal world which they spoke of began to disappear and we heard rumours that the Soviet Union was not the country we had been taught about. This is why I think these are detective and social novels, but they are also sad.” This sadness is particularly focused upon the character of Flaco Carlos (“Skinny Carlos”), an ex-combatant from the Angolan war. Of this war, Padura comments, “there is no syndrome similar to that of the Vietnam War. Furthermore, one does not have the same relationship with a war if one is on the winning or losing side”. With pride Padura tells us that Cuban intervention maintained Angola’s independence as well as helped to change the political map of southern Africa. Scars, however, both physical (like those of Carlos) and psychological, will always remain with those who lived through the conflict. “There remained individual traumas”, he laments, “for me it was very difficult; there was violence, fear; I discovered the feeling of fear while in Angola”.
The writer’s warm voice continues to pour forth from his place at the table, in front of the great English fireplace embossed with cherubs and demons. (It occurs to me that Conde would ponder the source of the marble). Peter Bush’s fluent reading of the English translation with a flawless accent, only interrupted from time to time with Hispanic names, could set the scene in any New York borough, with a black and white setting just like the detective films of the fifties. Padura’s narrative, however, goes much further than this, as he himself has stated; it contains more than the mystery and uneasiness that is characteristic of the detective novel. From the pages of the novel, Cuban society leaps out at the reader: the omnipresent heat, the island’s gentle climate, the sweat on the detective’s shirt that can almost be felt under one’s own armpits, until one suddenly finds oneself at a bus stop in this cold, European city, where, as the author aptly remarks, nobody speaks to you. The economy and politics are always sustaining the plot and tempering its mystery with the reality of those Italian shoes so coveted by Conde. While listening in silence, I cannot help but observe the details of my surroundings and see them through the eyes of the inspector, who would look at everything inquisitively, from the dark magnificence of the candelabras and the golden curtains, to the decadence of the worn-out corners of the rug. I weigh up the value of everything I see and, infected with that detective magic, I feel suspicious of everyone and everything. The names of Padura’s characters are chosen deliberately. Names such as Conde (Count) or Marqués (Marquis), which appear aristocratic, are simply common Spanish surnames, yet Padura plays upon their
double significance and with the common dealings of the protagonists. Padura explains that the main character was originally called Mario Lamar and that he was the protagonist of the initial stories. When considering the reuse of the character for other works, he observed that the surname ‘Lamar’ shared the ending of Spanish -AR verbs, which was too discordant, and so he decided to change the name. Interestingly, Mario Conde is also the name of the well known Spanish director of Banesto [Spanish Bank], who was arrested following a huge embezzlement scandal which became infamous among the Spanish press and sensationalist magazines. Of course, Padura makes clear that he did not even know of this real-life Conde when he created his fictional character of the same name.
One of Padura’s most popular books is Adios, Hemingway . “Hemingway was my first great literary influence,” says Padura, “he deceived me twice: the first time he made me believe that to write like him was easy; the second time he made me believe that a writer’s lifestyle was that much fun”.
“I had, not the desire…how shall I put it?”, he continues, pensively. “There was a motivation which would sometimes lead me to write about him, but not in the form of an essay, in the manner in which one constructs a biography. I wanted to write about a more real-life Hemingway, far from the stage, when he faces his two greatest fears: the inability to write and death”, he explains, while also mentioning the egomania of the great American. Padura has already forgiven Hemingway for these two deceptions but not, however, for the discovery that he betrayed some of his best friends. It is this disillusionment which led him to continue “brewing”, as he says, the novel. He does not criticise Hemingway but rather tries to understand his feelings, above all in the last moments of his life.
One of the characteristics of Padura’s work is its intertextuality; in his works we see reflected the names of writers who have impressed him in some way, as well as quotations from and allusions to their works. This is nothing akin to plagiarism and is, on the contrary, a sort of personal homage to those who have had an impact on him. Padura believes that writers feed off each other, that everything has already been written and that writing is about form, the order of the phrases and words and the unique style that each person brings to their own work. I cannot help making the connection, but the detective reminds me a little of the superintendent Flores, the protagonist of Misterio de la cripta embrujada[Mystery of the haunted crypt] by Eduardo Mendoza. Rather like Conde, Flores also enjoys football. The Spanish work, like the Cuban work, contains social analysis and criticism reflecting, in this case, Spanish society during the period of transition to democracy. Mendoza’s work also shares with Padura’s writing a certain melancholy and a worldliness that is almost painful.
Padura’s technique lies in forgetting the plot: “I never know in advance who the murderer will be; each novel is part of the process of learning how to write. I cannot say that I have a system; each novel is better or worse. I am a writer who, after having the ideas and researching them, begins to look for forms”.
I have not yet discovered who is to blame for the mystery which currently occupies me either. I wonder whether it is actually Padura who is the frustrated detective rather than, as he suggests, Conde who is the writer desperate to find the inspiration to write. They might even be one in the same person; in any case, once you have seen the author close-up, you cannot separate his tranquil image and his inquisitive stare from those of the detective who does not want to be a detective but continues to be one for the reader impatiently awaiting the publication of the next case.
This is, without a doubt, an entertaining read for whoever wants to relax, but intense for someone who seeks to explore the existentialism of the writer. In both cases, intellectual satisfaction is guaranteed: ladies and gentlemen, help yourself to this literary feast hosted by Padura/Conde!
Spanish to English: A short lived summer makes for long term memory loss
Source text - Spanish Un corto verano para un eterno olvido?
ACT Alianza sigue atendiendo a los afectados por las lluvias y la violencia en Colombia
Cesaron las fuertes lluvias que habían azotado amplias zonas en Colombia en los últimos meses y la emergencia, presente aún en muchas comunidades, ha quedado en el olvido.
Para atenderla, la Alianza ACT junto con organizaciones locales comenzó en abril del 2011 un proyecto en varias regiones, buscando mejorar las condiciones de vida de cientos de familias, muchas de las cuales siguen inundadas: tanto por el agua como por la violencia, por el conflicto armado.
(06 de octubre 2011)
Conservar la vida es apenas la esperanza para muchos habitantes del sur del departamento del Chocó.
“Las comunidades están mal, apenas subsidiendo”, cuenta un anciano de la etnia indígena Wounaan, de la comunidad de San José. Aunque la gente intenta mantener una cierta normalidad en su día a día, la seguridad y tranquilidad son apenas recuerdos de un pasado lejano. En esta aislada zona tropical de Colombia se enfrentan desde hace dos décadas grupos guerrilleros, el ejército y grupos paramilitares,
por un control territorial que aterroriza a la población, en su mayoría afro e indígena. Cuentan ellos que cada par de semanas, bombardeos aéreos estremecen la zona haciendo que la gente en crisis. Las banderas blancas puestas en algunos pueblos son un pálido intento para no ser víctimas de esta guerra, que se sufre, se vive, de la que se sabe, pero no se habla. La permanencia de la población solo se asegura si se logra no ponerse en la mira de algún grupo y se sobrevive con muy poco, con lo que se logre sacar arañando el campo.
lot of communities in Ayapel’s swamp land still depend on external help.
Pero hasta esta posibilidad se perdió en los últimos meses:
Las torrenciales lluvias que afectaron a más de cuatro millones de personas en toda Colombia, durante el 2010 y a principios de 2011, terminaron con las cosechas y con los escasos bienes de muchas familias a lo largo del rio San Juan. Cosechas de plátano y arroz se perdieron. Por eso la Federación Luterana Mundial, miembro de la Alianza ACT, está brindando desde abril ayuda alimentaria en la zona y entregando semillas para reactivar la producción. Un apoyo similar, con semillas, brinda la organización PCS más al sur en la misma región. Ayuda de vital importancia, porque, especialmente las comunidades indígenas viven del intercambio de su producción agrícola. La ayuda y el acompañamiento no están libres de riesgos. “En nuestras actividades de seguimiento en los cultivos siempre
está latente el peligro de ser confundidos por algún actor ilegal desde
el aire”, explica José Manuel Ortiz de la Federación. El control en la zona por los grupos armados es casi total: después de las seis de la tarde, los habitantes tienen restricciones para circular y muchas zonas de pesca y caza son prohibidas para la población, lo que dificulta aún más sus posibilidades de conseguir alimento. A pesar de que casi todas las familias han recibido ayuda estatal, esta no ha sido tan efectiva. Cuenta la gente que les han entregado semillas no aptas para la zona y muchos de los alimentos estaban vencidos. Otros se quedaron en las bodegas y se convirtieron en alimentos de ratas y ratones.
Mejor con el agua que con la violencia
Una situación similar viven muchas comunidades en la ciénaga de Ayapel, en el departamento de Córdoba, donde el agua no se ha retirado desde mitad del 2010, cuando un dique se rompió.
Las caminatas por el lodo o con el agua hasta la cintura se han vuelto una actividad cotidiana. “Cuando uno visita a un vecino, toca ir en canoa”, cuenta Lenis Sierra de 44 años que vive en la comunidad de las Contras. Miles de familias sobreviven en esta situación y dependiendo de la ayuda externa. “Qué más puede uno hacer o inventar si está rodeado de agua?”, dice Lenis. El dique aún no ha sido reparado y la inundación continúa.
Mientras los hombres pescan, las familias se mantienen en sus casas sobre tambos: tablas puestas sobre el agua dentro de las casas inundadas. Para ir al pueblo de Ayapel, hay que viajar varias horas en canoa, lo que es especialmente preocupante para los
enfermos lejos de los sitios donde podrían ser atendidos. Por eso, ACT Alianza con Diakonie Katastrophenhilfe ha iniciado brigadas de salud en la zona y brinda orientación frente a la precaria nutrición infantil. Los enfermos son trasladados a centros médicos. Y aunque
parezca increíblemente insoportable, la mayoría de la gente prefiere quedarse allí en la ciénaga. “Yo vivo muy tranquila aquí, la escuela me queda cerquita, y yo no voy a irme para el pueblo de Ayapel para que me den un tiro”, dice Esperanza, una joven de 15 años. Tiene
miedo justificado plenamente por la estadística: el departamento de Córdoba tiene uno de los más altos índices de violencia en Colombia. Casi todos los días se reportan homicidios de líderes sociales, indígenas y profesores, hasta octubre de 2011 se registraron más de 400 muertes violentas. La gente de la ciénaga esta cercada por las inundaciones y la violencia que azota el departamento de Córdoba.
Fortalecer comunidades, reclamar derechos
Las actividades de la Alianza ACT no se limitan solamente a las zonas
rurales. Barrios marginales y sitios cercanos a la capital colombiana,
Bogotá, son conformados mayoritariamente por familias desplazadas
por la violencia. La Fundación Mencoldes brinda acompañamiento en el municipio Soacha y es apoyada por el miembro de ACT Christian Aid, donde se iniciaron trabajos con comunidades doblemente afectadas. Varios deslizamientos habían dañado las humildes viviendas ubicadas en las laderas de las lomas, otras están en inminente riesgo lo que se busca mitigar en los próximos meses. La atención de apoyo psicosocial para fortalecer a las comunidades y la orientación para acceder y reclamar sus derechos son parte fundamental del trabajo. “Desde antes de la llegada de las lluvias, estas personas han sido afectadas por la violencia y el desplazamiento forzado, lo que en muchos casos ni siquiera es reconocido a nivel estatal”, explica Beatriz del Campo de Christian Aid. Esta situación se ve agravada por las amenazas que profieren a los miembros de la comunidad los actores armados. “Organizarse y fortalecerse en estas condiciones es una tarea enorme”, dice Campo. Hasta finales del año está previsto el arreglo de casas dañadas, trabajando con autoconstrucción y de manera comunitaria, mecanismos que ayudan a unir y fortalecer estas familias y comunidades en este difícil entorno.
Translation - English A short-lived summer makes for long-term memory loss
ACT Alianza continues to support those who have been doubly affected by flooding and violence in Colombia.
The torrential rains bringing devastation to vast swathes of land in Colombia over the past few months have ceased and the critical situation in which many communities still find themselves has largely been forgotten. In response to this situation, ACT Alianza has been working together with local organizations since April 2011 on a wide reaching project to help improve the living conditions of hundreds of families, many of whom continue to be inundated not only by the floods but by the violence of the internal armed conflict.
(6th October, 2011)
For many of those who live in the south of the department of Chocó, day-to-day life has become a question of basic survival. According to an elderly member of the Wounann, a group of indigenous peoples living in the community of San José, “these communities are in trouble; they are barely getting by”. Although people try to maintain a sense of normality in their everyday lives, the peace and security that they once enjoyed is no more than a distant memory. For twenty years guerrillas, paramilitaries and the army have been fighting for territorial control of this isolated, tropical region of Colombia, terrorizing the largely Afro-Colombian and indigenous population in the process. The locals report that once a fortnight aerial bombardments wreak havoc among their communities, placing them in a state of crisis. The white flags that have been raised in some villages are no more than a feeble attempt to avoid being drawn into a conflict that cannot be ignored as it is suffered and experienced on a daily basis, although no-one speaks of it. In order for this civilian population to survive, it must avoid being singled out by the various armed actors of the internal conflict; and people literally scrape by on next to nothing – on the very little that they manage to cultivate on their land.
However, even the possibility of producing their own crops has been lost over the past few months: the torrential rains of 2010, and at the beginning of 2011, have affected more than four million people across Colombia, destroying crops and the few possessions owned by many of the families living beside the San Juan River. The flooding has destroyed both banana and rice crops. For this reason, the Lutheran World Federation, which is a member of Alianza ACT, has been providing food aid to the area since April, and has delivered seeds in order to revive food production. The organization Project Counselling Service (PCS) has been providing similar aid to communities further south of the department. This kind of aid is of vital importance, particularly for the indigenous peoples who subsist by exchanging agricultural produce. However, providing aid and accompaniment to these communities is not without its risks. As explained by José Manuel Ortiz, from the Lutheran World Federation, “While we are monitoring crop production, there is always the risk that during the army´s aerial surveillance of the area, we will be confused for one of the illegally armed actors operating in the region”. Armed groups have almost complete control of the area: after 6pm the inhabitants are restricted in their movements and they are prohibited from entering many areas where fishing and hunting take place, making it even more difficult for them to provide their own food. Although nearly all the families living in this area have received government aid, it has not been very effective. The local people report that they have been given seeds that are not suitable for cultivating in the area, and that many of the food supplies were past their sell-by date. Other supplies have remained in warehouses where they have become food for rats and mice.
Better to be inundated with water than violence
The situation is similar in the marshland of Ayapel in the department of Córdoba, where the water has not receded since a dam burst in mid 2010. Wading through waist-high mud and water has become a daily reality. “In order to visit our neighbours, we have to go by canoe”, explains 44 year-old Lenis Sierra, who lives in the Contras community. Thousands of families survive in these conditions and depend on external aid. “What choice do we have if we are surrounded by water?” asks Lenis. The dam has not been repaired and the flooding continues.
While the men are out fishing, their families are living on makeshift wooden flooring supported by stilts, which keeps them above water level in their houses. In order to reach the village of Ayapel one must travel for several hours in a canoe, and this is of particular concern for those who are sick and find themselves far from centers where they can receive medical attention. For this reason, Alianza ACT has set up health brigades in the area and the organization Diakonie Katastrophenhilfe offers guidance on how to manage the precarious situation of child nutrition in the area. The sick are taken to medical centers. And although living conditions in the marshland may seem unbearable, most people prefer to stay where they are. “Life is peaceful here; my school is nearby and I´m not about to go to the town of Ayapel just so I can be shot”, says Esperanza, a young girl who is 15 years old. Her fears are clearly borne out by the statistics: the department of Córdoba has one of the highest rates of violence in Colombia. Nearly every day social leaders, indigenous peoples and teachers are murdered; up until October 2011, 400 violent deaths have been registered. While those living in the marshland areas suffer the devastating effects of flooding, those who find themselves living in other areas of Córdoba may well be worse off due to the high levels of violence.
Strengthening communities, demanding basic rights
The work carried out by Alianza ACT is not limited to purely rural areas; the organization also works with poor neighbourhoods close to the Colombian capital of Bogotá, which are largely inhabited by families who have been displaced by the violence. In the town of Soacha, the Mencoldes Foundation, with the support of Christian Aid (also a member of Alianza Act), accompanies communities who have been doubly affected by flooding and violence. Various landslides have damaged the modest houses built on the hillsides, and for those houses which are under immediate risk, work will be done over the next few months to try to bolster them against potential damage. Psychosocial support in order to strengthen these communities, as well as guidance on how they can access and claim their rights, are fundamental components of the work that is carried out in these areas. As explained by Beatriz del Campo, from Christian Aid, “even before the torrential rains, these people were affected by violence and forced displacement, which in many cases isn´t even recognized by the state”. According to Beatriz, “the situation has been aggravated by the fact that the communities receive threats from the various armed actors; trying to organize and empower themselves in such conditions is a daunting task”. Up until the end of the year work will be carried out to repair damaged houses, with the focus being on helping families to build their own houses and contribute to work in the community, in order to help bring together and strengthen families and communities who find themselves living in this difficult context.
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Experience
Years of experience: 20. Registered at ProZ.com: Sep 2012.
English/Spanish/Galician translator with 8 years experience
EN>ES, ES/GL>EN
Language pairs:
• English>Spanish (Bilingual)
• Spanish>English (Bilingual)
• Galician>English (Certificate of Proficiency in Galician)
Qualifications:
• First Class Joint Honours Degree in English & Hispanic Studies, specialising in literature and language (University of Birmingham, UK)
• General Diploma in Law (BPP School of Law, UK)
• Diploma in Translation (City University, UK)
• Literature Module - Pass (Institute of Linguists´ Educational Trust Diploma in Translation, UK)
Experience:
• 13 years teaching English privately to groups of all ages (Spain, Colombia)
• 8 years translating in a variety of areas (legal, academic, literary)
Recent translation projects:
SPANISH>ENGLISH
• Translation of academic documents for the University of Lugo, Galicia.
• Translation of literary documents for the website Three Wise Monkeys Online http://www.threemonkeysonline.com/es/nunca-s-quin-es-el-asesino-cada-novela-es-un-aprendizaje-de-cmo-se-escribe-leonardo-padura-fuentes-la-pluma-del-misterio/
• Translation of a project reports for various NGOs (ACT Alianza; Diakonia, Project Counselling Service)
• Translation of technical documents for Ecopetrol, Colombia.
GALICIAN>ENGLISH
• Short poems and book reviews, University of Birmingham campus newspaper, UK.
ENGLISH>SPANISH
• Translation of project concepts and website material for Project Counselling Service.
Current projects:
• Translation of a socio-political book from Spanish to English.
Software: Microsoft Office XP, Adobe Professional 8.0, etc.
Internet Connection: UNE, 24 hours.
Daily output: 3000 words aprox.
Keywords: English, Spanish, translation, law, literature, social sciences, news, reports, projects, websites. See more.English, Spanish, translation, law, literature, social sciences, news, reports, projects, websites, human resources, technology, history, curriculum, financial, . See less.
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