Michel Laub — Romancista judaico brasileiro/Brazilian Jewish Novelist — “Diário da Queda” “Diary of the Fall” — Historia de uma familia — A Family Story

Michel Laub

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Michel Laub nasceu em Porto Alegre, em 1973 de pais judeus. Escritor e jornalista, foi editor-chefe da revista Bravo, coordenador de publicações e internet do Instituto Moreira Salles e colunista da Folha de S.Paulo e do Globo. Hoje é colunista do Valor Econômico e colaborador de diversas editoras e veículos.Publicou oito romances, todos pela Companhia das Letras: Música Anterior (2001), Longe da água (2004), O segundo tempo (2006), O gato diz adeus (2009), Diário da queda (2011),  A maçã envenenada (2013), O Tribunal da Quinta-Feira (2016) e Solução de dois Estados (2020). Seus livros saíram em 12 idiomas. Integrante da coletânea Os Melhores jovens escritores brasileiros, da revista inglesa Granta, entre outras no Brasil e no exterior, o autor recebeu as bolsas Vitae (2006), Funarte (2010) e Petrobras (2012) e os prêmios JQ – Wingate (Inglaterra, 2015), Transfuge (França, 2014), Jabuti (segundo lugar, 2014), Copa de Literatura Brasileira (2013), Bravo Prime (2011), Bienal de Brasília (2012) e Erico Verissimo/Revelação (2001). Além disso, foi finalista dos prêmios Dublin International Literary Award (Irlanda, 2016), Correntes de Escrita (Portugal, 2014), Jabuti (2007, 2017 e 2021), São Paulo de Literatura (2012, 2014, 2017 e 2021) e outros.

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Michel Laub was born in Porto Alegre, in 1973 in a Jewish family. Writer and journalist, he was editor-in-chief of Bravo magazine, coordinator of publications and internet of the Moreira Salles Institute and columnist of Folha de S.Paulo and Globo. Now he is a columnist for Valor Econômico and a contributor to various publications. Publicou oito romances, all pela Companhia das Letras: Música Anterior (2001), Longe da água (2004), O segundo tempo (2006), O gato diz adeus (2009), Diário da queda (2011), A maçã envenenada (2013) ), O Tribunal da Quinta-Feira (2016) and Solução de dos Estados (2020). His books are published in 12 languages.He is one the of Best Young Brazilian Writers, according to eht the English magazine Granta, among others not in Brazil and abroad, and author received the Vitae (2006), Funarte (2010) and Petrobras (2012) awards and the JQ – Wingate awards (England, 2015), Transfuge (France, 2014), Jabuti (second place, 2014), Brazilian Literature Cup (2013), He was a finalist for two Dublin International Literary Awards (Ireland, 2016), Correntes de Escrita (Portugal, 2014), Jabuti (2007, 2017 and 2021), São Paulo for Literature (2012, 2014, 2017 and 2021) among others.

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Sources:/Fuentes:

Michel Laub. Diário da queda. São Paulo: Companhia de Letras, 2011.

Michel Laub. Diary of a Fall. Translated by Margaret Juli Costa. New York: Other Press, 2011.

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ALGUMAS COISAS QUE SEI SOBRE MIM

27.

Numa escola como a minha, os poucos alunos que não eram judeus tinham até privilégios. O de não assistir as aulas de hebraico, por exemplo. Ou as de cultura hebraica. Nas semanas que antecediam os feriados religiosos eles eram dispensados de aprender as canções típicas, e fazer as rezas, e dançar as coreografias e participar do Shabat, e visitar a sinagoga e o Lar dos Velhos, e enfeitar o berço de Moisés ao som do hino de Israel, isso sem falar nos acampamentos do chamado movimento juvenil.

28.

Nos acampamentos éramos divididos em grupos, cada um com um monitor mais velho, e parte do dia era ocupada por atividades normais num encontro assim, o almoço, o futebol, os abraços coletivos de união, as gincanas com talco e ovos. Nós levávamos barraca, repelente, marmita, cantil, e lembro ele esconder tudo o que pudesse ser roubado na minha ausência, urna barra de chocolate no fundo de um saco de roupa suja, um carregador de pilha em meio as urtigas.

29.

A noite éramos separados em dois grupos, um exercício que se chamava ataque a bandeira, um camuflado na vegetação e o outro que se encarregava da defesa, e durante a madrugada num descampado formávamos pelotões que reproduziam as estratégias de urna patrulha, com bússola e coluna, lanço e escalada. urna simulação do que tínhamos ouvido em palestras onde os monitores falavam sobre a Guerra de Seis Dias, a Guerra de Independência, a Guerra de Yom Kippur, Guerra de Líbano.

30.

Havia outros não judeus João na escola, mas nenhum como João. Uma vez um deles segurou um colega e o arrastou por quarenta metros e esticou seu braço direito e bateu com um portão de ferro várias vezes nos dedos, e quando o colega estava se contorcendo ele pegou o braço esquerdo e fez a mesma coisa. Joao era diferente: o colega o mandava ficar de pé, e ele ficava. O colega jogava o sanduíche de Joao longe, e ele ia buscar. O colega segurava Joao e o forcava a comer o sanduíche, mordida por mordida, e no rosto de Joao não se via nada – nenhuma dor, nenhum apelo, nenhuma expressão.

31.

Quando o pai de Joao perguntou se eu não tinha vergonhado que aconteceu na festa, eu poderia ter descrito essa cena. Eu poderia ter dito algo mais do que ele esperava, o relato de como pedi desculpas a Joao quando ele retornou a escala. Em vez de contar como foi saber que João acabaria ficando bom, andando normalmente e tendo a mesma vida de antes, e como ficar sabendo disso tornou a nossa conversa mais fácil, como se o pedido de desculpas apagasse na hora o que ele passou depois da queda, ele estatelado diante dos parentes, com falta de ar porque havia bati­ do as costas, ele na ambulância e no pronto-socorro e no hospital sem receber uma visita dos colegas, e mais dois meses em casa sem receber nenhum de nós, e de volta a escala sem que nenhum de nós tivesse se aproximado dele até o dia em que criei coragem para tanto em vez de tudo isso eu poderia ter contado como era ver João comendo o sanduíche diante do agressor, terminando o último pedaço e senda novamente pego pelo agressor, atrás de urna árvore no canto do pátio, cercado por um pequeno grupo que cantava todos os dias a mesma música.

32

A música começava assim, come areia, come areia. Era como um ritual, o incentivo enquanto João virava o rosto e tentava es­ capar dos golpes até não resistir e abrir a boca, o gasto quente e áspero, sola de tênis na cara, e só aí o agressor cansava e os gritos diminuíam e Joao era deixado até se levantar já sozinho, ainda vermelho e ajeitando a roupa e pegando de novo a mochila e subindo de novo as escadas como admissão pública do quanto ele era sujo. e fraco. e desprezível.

33·

Nada disso impediu que ele aparecesse como convites para a festa. Nas cerimónias de Bar Mitzvah os convites eram impressos em gráfica, em papel-carteio dourado, com um laço e tipologia dourada. o nome dos pais do aniversariante, um telefone para confirmar a presença, o endereço para entrega ele presentes. Os de Joao eram caseiros, feitos com papel-ofício, dispostos num envelope de cartolina, escritos em caneta hidrocor. Ele os entregou em silencio. de mesa em mesa, com duas semanas de antecedência. a sétima série inteira convidada.

34.

Eu acordei cedo naquele sábado. Eu me vesti, fui até a geladeira e passei a manhã no quarto. Eu gostava de ver televisão as­ sim. a veneziana fechada, a cama ainda desfeita e as migalhas de pão sobre o lençol até que alguém batesse na porta porque já eram quinze para a uma, e o resto do dia foi: o almoço na casa da minha avó, a ida mom a minha mãe ao shopping. ela perguntando se o colega que fazia aniversario preferia um short ou uma mochila, uma carteira ou uma camiseta, se ele gostava de música e ficaria feliz com um vale-disco, e eu respondi e esperei que ela pagasse e que a balconista da loja fizesse o pacote e ainda fôssemos ao fliperama onde joguei corrida e sinuca eletrônica.

35-

Eu dei parabéns a João quando cheguei a festa. Eu entreguei o presente a ele. É possível que eu tenha cumprimentado o pai dele, algum parente que estivesse próximo, e é possível até que eu tivesse aproveitado a festa como todos os outros convidados, que eu tivesse até me divertido sem nem por um instante demonstrar nervosismo, os cinco colegas escalados para formar a rede de bombeiros, aqueles que eu também cumprimentei ao chegar, com quem também conversei normalmente, nós todos vestidos e ensaiados e unidos na espera pela hora do bolo e pelo parabéns.

36.

No sei se participei por causa desses outros colegas, e seria fácil a esta altura culpá-los por tudo, ou se em algum momento eu fui ativo na história: se nos dias anteriores tive alguma ideia, se diz alguma sugestão, se de alguma forma fui indispensável para que tudo saísse exatamente como planejado, nós em coro no verso final, muitos anos ele vida antes ele nos aproximarmos dele, em cada perna, um em cada braço, eu segurando o pescoço porque essa é a parte mais sensível do corpo.

37.

Não sei se fiz aquilo apenas porque me espelhava nos meus colegas, João senda jogado para cima urna vez, duas vezes, eu segurando até que na décima terceira vez e com ele ainda subindo eu recolhi os braços e dei um passo para trás e vi João parado no ar e iniciando a queda, ou se foi o contrário: se no fundo, por essa ideia dos dias anteriores, algo que eu tivesse dito ou uma atitude que tivesse tomado, uma vez que fosse, diante de uma pessoa que fosse, independentemente das circunstâncias e das desculpas, se no fundo eles também estavam se espelhando em mim.

38.

Porque é claro que eu usava aquelas palavras também, as mesmas que levaram ao momento em que ele bateu o pescoço no chão, e foi pouco tempo até eu perceber os colegas saindo rápido, dez passos até o corredor e a portaria e a rua e de repente você está virando a esquina em disparada sem olhar para trás e nem pensar que era só ter esticado o braço, só ter amortecido o impacto e João teria levantado, e eu nunca mais veria nele o desdobramento do que tinha feito por tanto tempo até acabar ali, a escala, o recreio, as escadas e o pátio e o muro onde Joao sentava para fazer o lanche, o sanduíche jogado longe e Joao enterrado e eu me deixando levar com os outros, repetindo os versos, a cadencia, todos juntos e ao mesmo tempo, a música que você canta porque é só o que pode e sabe fazer aos treze anos: come areia, come areia, come areia, gói filho de urna puta.

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SOME MORE THINGS I KNOW ABOUT MYSELF

27.

In a school like mine, the few non-Jewish students even enjoyed certain privileges. For example, they didn’t have to attend Hebrew classes. Or the classes about Hebrew culture. In the weeks preceding reli­gious holidays, they were excused from learning the traditional songs, saying the prayers, doing the dances, taking part in the Shabbat, visiting the synagogue and the Old People’s Home, and decorating Moses’s cra­dle to the sound of the Israeli national anthem, not to mention the so-called Youth Movement camps.

28.

At camp we were divided into groups, each with an older boy as a monitor, and part of the <lay was taken up with the usual activities one would expect at such a gathering: lunch, football, group hugs, treasure hunts and messy games involving talcum powder and eggs. We took a tent, insect repellent, a cooking pot and canteen, and I remember carefully hiding anything that might be stolen in my absence, stowing a bar of chocolate at the bottom of my dirty laundry bag, a battery charger in the middle of a clump of nettles.

29.

At night we were divided into two groups, in an exercise known as “camp attack,” with one group hidden in the vegetation and the other in charge of defend­ ing the camp. Then, in a clearing in the early hours, we would form into platoons that basically did what patrols are supposed to do, armed with compasses and in columns, crawling through undergrowth and scaling hills, an imitation of what we had heard about in talks the monitors gave about the Six-Day War, the War of Independence, the Yom Kippur War, the Lebanese War.

30.

There were other non-Jews at the school, but none like João. Once, one of them got hold of a Jewish classmate, dragged him along for about forty meters, pinned his victim’s right arm to the wall next to an iron door, and repeatedly slammed the door on the boy’s and when the boy was screaming and writhing in pain, he grabbed the boy’s left arm and did the same again. João was different: if a classmate ordered him to stand, he would stand. If a classmate flung Joao’s sandwich across the playground, Joao would go and fetch it. If the same classmate, then grabbed Joao and made him eat the sandwich, bite by bite, Joao’s face would remain utterly impassive-no pain, no plead­ ing, no expression at all.

31.

When João’s father asked me if I didn’t feel ashamed about what had happened at the party, I could have described that scene to him. I could have told him more than he was expecting to hear, rather than about how I had apologized to João when he returned to school. Instead of telling him how relieved I felt when I found out that João would make a full recovery, walking normally and leading a normal life, and how knowing this had made our conversation easier, as if my apology had instantly erased everything he had been through after the fall, João lying on the floor in front of his relatives, the breath knocked out of him, João in the ambulance and in the emergency room and in hospital, where not a single one of his classmates visited him, and then another two months spent at home, where, again, none of us went to see him, and then back at school where, again, none of us spoke to him until I plucked up enough courage to do so–instead of that I could have told him what it was like to see João eating that sandwich watched by his attacker. And how, when he had finished the last mouthful, his attacker had hit him again, hidden behind a tree in one corner of the playground, sur­rounded by a small group of boys who chanted the same refrain every day.

32.

The refrain went like this: eat sand, eat sand. It was a sort of ritual, intended to drive them on while João turned his head to try and avoid the blows, until he could resist no longer and opened his mouth, the hot, rough taste, the sole of someone’s sneaker in his face, only then did his attacker grow weary and the shouting diminish and then João would be left to get his own, red-faced and straightening his rumpled, clothes, picking up his backpack and going up the stairs like a public admission of how dirty and weak and despicable he was.

33.

None of this prevented him from coming to school with the invitations to his party. For bar mitzvah ceremonies, the invitations were always professionally printed on a folded piece of card, with a ribbon and gilt lettering, the name of the boy’s parents, a telephone number to confirm that you would be coming and an address where presents could be sent. João’s invitations were homemade on a sheet of foolscap paper placed in a cardboard envelope and written in felt-tip pen. Two weeks beforehand, he silently gave them out, going from desk to desk, inviting the whole year group.

34,

That Saturday I woke up early. I got dressed, went to the fridge and spent the morning in my room. I liked watching TV like that, with the blinds clown, the bed still unmade and breadcrumbs among the sheets, until someone knocked on the door to tell me it was a quarter to one, and the rest of the day was: lunch at my grandmother’s house, a visit to the shopping mall with my mother, her asking me if the classmate whose birthday it was would prefer a pair of shorts or a backpack, a wallet or a T-shirt, or if he liked music and would be happy with a record-voucher, and me answering and waiting for her to pay and for the assistant to wrap the present up and then still having time to visit the arcade where I played at circuit racing and electronic snooker.

35.

1 wished João a happy birthday when I arrived at the party. I gave him his present. I may have said helio to his father too, or to some relative of his standing nearby, and I may even have enjoyed the party along with ali the other guests, I may even have had a good time without for a moment appearing nervous, along with the four other classmates chosen to form the safety net, and who I had also greeted when I arrived, and with whom I chatted normally, all of us dressed and ready and united as we waited for the moment for the birthday cake to be cut and for everyone to sing “Happy Birthday.”

36.

I don’t know if I took part because of those other classmates, and it would be easy at this stage to blame them for everything, or if at some point I played an active role in the story: if during the previous days I had an idea, made a suggestion, and was in sorne way indispensable if everything was to work out as planned, with us singing the last line together, happy birthday to you, before we gathered round him, one at each leg, one at each arm, with me supporting his neck because that’s the most vulnerable part of the body.

37.

I don’t know if I did it simply because I was mirroring my classmates’ behavior, João being thrown into the air once, twice, with me supporting him right up until the thirteenth time and then, as he was going up, withdrawing my arms and taking a step back and seeing Joao hover in the air and then begin the fall, or was it the other way round: what if, deep down, because of that plot hatched in the previous days, because of something I might have said or an attitude.1 might have taken, even if only once and in the presence of only one other person, quite independently of the circumstances and any possible excuses, what if, deep clown, they were also mirroring my behavior?

38.

Because of course I used the same words, the words that led up to the moment when the back of his neck struck the floor, and it didn’t take long for me to notice my classmates beating a hasty retreat, just ten steps to the corridor and the porter’s lodge and the street and suddenly you’re tearing round the corner without a backward glance and not even thinking that if you had only reached out an arm to break the fall João would have got up, and 1 would never have had to see in him the consequence of everything I had done up until then, school, break-time, the stairs and the playground and the wall where João used to sit, the sandwich flung across the playground and João buried in sand and me, allowing myself to be carried along with the others, all panting the same words, the same rhythm, al of us together at the same time, the song you sing because that’s all you can do when you’re thirteen: eat sand, eat sand you son ofa-bitch goy.

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MAIS ALGUMAS COISAS QUE SEI SOBRE O MEU AVÓ

Eu comecei a beber aos catorzes anos, depois que mudei de escola junto com João. Embora já tivesse tomado um ou outro copo de cerveja com meu pai, e uma ou outra taça ele vinho em algum jantar ele adultos em casa, a primeira vez ele verdade foi numa festa logo no início das aulas. Eu não fui direto a festa, e sim a casa de um colega cujos pais não estavam, e quando saímos de lá alguns estavam cantando e falando alto e eu entrei no táxi com urna garrafa ele plástico cortada ao meio. Alguém tinha misturado cachaça com Coca-Cola, e era impossível tomar um gole sem prender a respiração, e ao descer do táxi eu senti as pernas meio ocas e nessa hora já estavam todos rindo e foi mais fácil entrar e passar o resto da noite encostado muna parede ao lado de uma caixa ele som: eu misturei a cachaça com vodca e um vinho com embalagem de papelão que deixava os dentes roxos e antes das onze já tinha me arrastado até o jardim e procurado um canto escuro e sentado com a pressão baixa e ninguém me acharia ali depois que eu me deixasse cair sem ajuda porque ainda nem conhecia direito os colegas.

5.

Demorou para os colegas perguntarem se eu era judeu, por  que identificar sobrenomes é coisa de pessoas mais velhas e em geral também judias, e o meu não termina em man ou berg ou qualquer desses sufixos óbvios que dá as pistas a quem não sabia onde eu tinha estudado antes. Nas aulas da escola nova o Holocausto era apenas eventualmente citado entre os capítulos da Segunda Guerra, e Hitler era analisado pelo prisma histórico da República de Weimar, da crise econômica dos anos 30, da inflação que fazia as pessoas usarem carrinhos para levar o dinheiro da feira, e a história dos carrinhos despertava tanto interesse que se chegava ao vestibular sabendo mais sobre como alguém precisa, à ser rápido para que o preço do pão e do leite não subisse antes de passar no caixa do que sobre corno era feito o transporte de prisioneiros para os campos de concentração. Nenhum professor mencionou Auschwitz mais de urna vez. Nenhum jamais disse urna palavra sobre É isto um homem? Nenhum fez o cálculo óbvio de que eu com catorze anos naquela época, certamente tinha um pai ou avo ou bisavó meu ou de um primo ou de um amigo de um amigo de um amigo que escapou das câmaras de extermínio.

6.

Não sei se meu avo leu É isto um homem? e se ter vivido o que Primo Levi narra faz com que o livro soe diferente, e o que para um leitor comum é a descoberta dos detalhes da experiencia em Auschwitz para o meu avo era apenas reconhecimento, uma conferência para ver se o que era dito no texto correspondia ou à realidade, ou a realidade da memória do meu avo, e não sei. até que ponto essa leitura como pé atrás tira parte do impacto do relato.

Eu não sei como meu avo reagia ao ouvir uma piada sobre judeus, se algum dia contaram essas piadas a ele ou se ele esteve na mesma sala onde alguém as contava, um coquetel ou jantar ou encontro de negócios em que ele estava distraído e por acaso ou um fiapo de voz ou de riso que remetia à palavra judeu, e como ele reagiria ao saber que foi isso que passei a ouvir aos catorze anos, o apelido que começou a ser usado na escola nova assim que João fez o primeiro comentário sobre a escola anterior, sobre a sinagoga pequena que havia no térreo e os al unos da sétima série que tinham estudado para fazer Bar Mitzvah, e que para mim o apelido teve um significado diferente, e em vez da raiva por urna ofensa que deveria ser enfrentada ou da indignação pelo estereótipo que ela envolvia, os velhos que apareciam em filmes e novelas ele TV usando roupa preta e falando com sotaque estrangeiro e dentes de vampiro, em vez disso eu preferi ficar inicialmente quieto.

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SOME MORE THINGS THAT I KNOW ABOUT MY GRANDFATHER

4.

I started drinking when I was fourteen, after João and I changed schools. I’d had the occasional beer with my father and the occasional glass of wine at some grown up suppers at home, but the first time I got seriously drunk was at a party just after term started. 1 didn’t go straight to the party, but to the house of a class­mate whose parents were out and, when we left there, some of the boys were singing and talking loudly. and I climbed into the taxi clutching a plastic bottle cut in half. Someone had mixed cachaça and Coca-Cola, and you had to hold your breath every time you took a swig of it, and when I got out of the taxi, my legs felt hollow and by then everyone was laughing and it was easy enough to spend the rest of the night lean­ing against a wall next to a speaker. I mixed cachaça with vodka and with some cheap wine that stained your teeth purple, and by eleven o’clock I’d crawled out into the garden and found a dark corner where I sat, feeling rather weak, and where no one would find me once I’d slid helplessly to the ground, because I still didn’t really know any of my classmates.

5.

It was a while befare my classmates asked if I was Jewish, because identifying surnames is something that only older people and Jews in general do, and my name doesn’t end in man or berg or any of those other telltale suffixes that would have given a clue to anyone who didn’t know where I’d studied before. In the lessons at the new school, the Holocaust was only mentioned in passing as an episode in the Second World War, and Hitler was analyzed through the his­torical lens of the Weimar Republic, the economic cri­sis of the 1930s, and the soaring inflation that obliged people to use wheelbarrows to carry their money back from the market, a story that aroused so much inter­est that you reached the final year of school know­ing more about how quick shoppers had to be if they wanted to reach the cashier befare the price of bread or milk went up again than about how prisoners were transported to the concentration camps. Not one of the teachers gave more than a cursory nod to Ausch­witz. Not one of them said a word about If This Is a Man. Not one of them made the obvious calculation that a fourteen-year-old like me must have had a father or a grandfather or a great-grandfather or a cousin or a friend of a friend of a friend who had escaped the gas chambers.

6.

I don’t know if my grandfather ever read If This Is a Man or if the fact of having actually lived through what Primo Levi wrote about would have made him read the book differently, whether what was a revela­tion to the ordinary reader, a detailed description of the whole Auschwitz experience, would have been merely a process of recognition for my grandfather, a matter of checking to see whether or not the book corresponded to reality or to the reality of his mem­ory, and I don’t know to what extent that somewhat distanced reading would reduce the book’s impact.

7.

I don’t know how my grandfather used to react when he heard a joke about Jews, assuming anyone ever told such jokes to him, or if he, as the distracted guest at some cocktail party or supper or business meeting, was ever in a room where someone was telling them and where he might have heard a high-pitched gig­gle in response to the word Jew–or what his reaction would have been to knowing that this is what hap­pened to me when I was fourteen, that this was the nickname that began to be used as soon as João men­tioned our previous school with the little synagogue on the grounds and the seventh-grade students studying for their bar mitzvah, and that the nickname meant something different for me, that instead of feeling angry at an insult that ought to be confronted or indig­nant at the implied stereotype-the old men all in black and with vampire teeth who used to appear in films and TV soaps–I preferred not to say or do anything, at least initially.

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Noemí Cohen — Socióloga judío-argentina, radicada en España/Argentine Jewish Sociologist and Novelist, living in Spain — “La partida”- una historia judía de Alepo, Siria/”The Departure”-a Jewish story about Alepo, Syria — de la novela “Cuando la luz se va”/From the novel “When the Light Departs”

Noemí Cohen

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Noemí Cohen es escritora argentina (Buenos Aires, 1956). Reside en Madrid. Es abogada y escritora. Exiliada en México durante la dictadura militar. Tras su retorno a Argentina, sus actividades profesionales la llevaron a vivir varios años en Washington. Asesoró en temas sociales a diversos gobiernos, fue funcionaria de la Organización de Estados Americanos (OEA( y consultora de la Organización Internacional del Trabajo (OIT), y del Banco Interamericano de Desarrollo (BID). Fue directora de Relaciones Internacionales de la Biblioteca Nacional de Argentina entre 2003 y 2006. Fue columnista del periódico Miradas al Sur. Noemí Cohen publicado las novelas Mientras la luz se va (2005), La esperanza que no alcanza (201) y Los celebrantes (2022).

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Noemí Cohen is an Argentine writer (Buenos Aires, 1956). She lives in Madrid. She is a lawyer and writer. She was exiled in Mexico during the military dictatorship. After her return to Argentina, her professional activities led her to spend several years in Washington. She advised various governments on social issues, was an official of the Organization of American States (OAS) and a consultant to the International Labor Organization (ILO), and the Inter-American Development Bank (IDB). She was director of International Relations of the National Library of Argentina between 2003 and 2006. She was a columnist for the newspaper Miradas al Sur. Noemí Cohen has published the novels Mientras la luz se va (2005), La esperanza que no alcanza (2013) and Los celebrantes (2022)

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De/From: Cuando la luz se va. Buenos Aires: Editorial Losada, 2005.

“La partida”

La tarde en que Sara le dijo que el día siguiente irían juntos a una tienda en el otro extremo de la Ciudad Vieja a comprar telas para bordar, supo que su madre había aceptado el pedido del primo Jaime; una vida cambiaría y nada podía decir. Desde pequeña, escuchó historias y pareceres sobre el primo que vivía solo desde hacía quince años en la Argentina, un lugar lejano cuyo nombre no podía pronunciar y en donde, se decía en la familia, nadie era pobre. También se decía que el primo era buen mozo, rubio y trabajador; pero era imposible que ella recordara algo, apenas tenía unos meses de haber nacido, cuando él que tenía veinte años, dejó la casa familiar y se fue primero a Francia y luego a Sudamérica.

           Sara era viuda y tenía cinco hijos, tres de ellos mujeres, todos nacidos en Alepo. Ella era de Alejandría, había podido ir a la escuela, donde aprendió a leer y escribir y hasta algo de francés. En cambio, sus hijas, un poco por la costumbre del lugar y otro poco por la miseria, no sabían leer y sólo los varones fueron al colegio y hablaban francés. Las chicas se dedicaron a ayudarla en la casa y Elena además aprendió a tallar bronce; hacía armoniosos diseños que luego eran vendidas por el primo Faud en su bazar, al lado de la Sinagoga del shuk.

           Cuando Elena comenzó a trabajar, cincelaba en bronce dibujos con símbolos judíos; tenía un gran sentido de la proporción de las formas, pero era analfabeta, y aún no se le había ocurrido que podía dejar de serlo. Años después, ese deseo se transformaría en una obsesión, pero eso es otra historia. En cambio, conoció muy pronto los símbolos de los otros porque los dueños de los bazares vecinos al de Faud pidieron piezas decoradas con diseños islámicos y las representaciones cristianas para vender a cualquier que pasara por las calles del shuk y no sólo a los judíos que salían de la sinagoga.

           Al decorar las piezas de bronce con tan diferentes signos, aprendió el sentido de la armonía, supo el arte de combinar las formas, aprendizaje que le permitiría transitar la vida con la placidez de quien sabe que todo es mutable, aceptó algunas virtudes que hacen bueno a quien las tiene. Aunque también aprendió, viendo a su tío Faud negociar con los otros comerciantes, que no siempre eran virtuosas las relaciones con los extraños y menos aún en cuestiones de comercio.

           Sara había criado a sus hijos en la tradición y la ética sefardíes; les enseñó a ser solidarios y honestos, a distinguir lo puro de lo impuro, lo limpio de lo no limpio y, por sobre todas las cosas, les habló de la recta razón que guía las acciones de una buena persona. Principios sencillos de aplicar, ayudan distinguir el bien del mal en las cosas concretas de la vida diaria y hacían previsibles las conductas. Transmitió esa herencia de verdades absolutas como si fuera parte de la naturaleza, como los hábitos de comida o higiene; no comer cerdo o no mezclar la carne y leche, descansar por el sábado, lavarse las manos antes de comer y, para las mujeres, ir todos los viernes al hamman; era el orden de su mundo y no se le ocurría que sus hijos lo pensaran distinto.

           Al día siguiente de anuncio de la aceptación del pedido de mano, madre e hija comenzaron las caminatas por los barrios de la Ciudad Vieja donde vivían los judíos; en sus callecitas transitadas por camellos y mulas, pobladas por los gritos de los vendedores de habas, de aceitunas o de menta fresca, por las cinco llamados sonidos del almuecín que salían de los minaretes, únicas construcciones sobresalientes en esa laberíntica ciudadela. Subían y bajaban por esos paisajes angostos y polvorientos, debían conseguir todo lo necesario para prepara el ajuar y organizar la partida de Alepo. Elena no sabía que habría de viajar a un mundo tan distinto del suyo. “Alepo, La Blanche”, le decían los franceses a la ciudad, tal vez por sus casas blancas con balcones de piedras talladas en estilo andaluz, o tal vez por vestigios de un nombre que significaba de leche en arameo, herencia de una leyenda que señala a ese sitio como el lugar donde detuvo a ese sitio como el lugar donde se detuvo Abraham para alimentar a su rebaño o tal vez la otra, que cuenta sobre los antiguos de la

La primera salida fue para la casa de Marcos, el hermano mayor de Jaime, a buscar el giro postal enviado desde la Argentina. Les convidaron un té con hojas de menta, muy azucarada, propiciatorio de las dulzuras que le vendrían a la pequeña, según dijeron los parientes, quienes, a pesar de su pobreza, también habían preparado una bandeja de trufas, un manjar de lujo guardado en el sótano para una ocasión que mereciera celebrarse con tal exquisitez. Entre bendiciones y vaticinios de una prole numerosa de hijos varones, aconsejaron a su madre dónde comprar mejor las telas y objetos diversos que serían para el ajuar

           Una mañana salieron temprano para ir hasta la avenida principal; en la tienda de un primo segundo compraron la seda blanca para hacer tres camisones y una bata, seda de color curdo para otro, una pieza de lino blanco para confeccionar seis juegos de sábanas y cuatro manteles, lino muy fino color salmón para dos camisones, muchos metros de puntilla blanca, y una pieza color natural de encaje de Bruselas. Otro día fueron hasta el shuk, para ir al negocio de otro primo, donde compraron tres alfombras. A Elena, la que más le gustó fue una que además del tradicional borde de diseños geométricos multicolores sobre un fondo marrón, tenía un centro de rombos recortados en azul y rojo oscuro. Era la más cara y también la que le parecía más linda; pensó en ponerla arriba de un diván de su futura casa. Con las otras dos, cubriría los colchones en los dormitorios; aún no sabía que en el otro lado del mundo las alfombras eran sólo usadas en el piso. Esa alfombra que tanto le gustó tendría el extraño destino trashumante de algunos objetos y sería llevada de ciudad en ciudad, con la impronta de algo portador de buena suerte.     

         La salida más importante fue ir a la joyería. Deslumbrada, encargó dos anillos de oro, uno con un rubí y el otro con una aguamarina y los aros haciendo juego. Eligió también una pulsera de oro con un ancho broche central en el que se unían cadenas muy finitas y donde se podían agregar otras más que quedaban sostenidas por ese centro. Esa pulsera sería su adorno permanente y fascinaría años después a sus nietas. La verían condimentar las comidas mientras ese oro en movimiento parecería un llamado a la gloria de los sabores inminentes. Como a toda mujer oriental, a Elena le gustaban los brillos y si eran joyas más aún, pero dada la pobreza en la que vivía, sólo le era posible mirarlas en las vitrinas de los negocios, donde quedaban petrificadas como un niño hambriento ante una vidriera de dulces. Con el transcurrir de la vida, su deseo se realizaba con frecuencia, pero las vitrinas de las joyerías le siguieron produciendo siempre ese mismo efecto de encantamiento. Ese día fue distinto, eligió a su gusto mientras sonreía pensado en el ruidito de sus pendientes y en el efecto del brillo en medio de su pelo rojo. Mientras, recordaba los dichos de las mujeres de su familia: si un hombre quiere a su mujer debe regalarle joyas, sobre todo oros, muchos oros, porque él es el protector contra los males. Le gustaba repetir para llamar a la buena suerte: Tocando oro y mirando la luna”.

           En cuatro semanas, debía tomar el vapor hacia Marsella, desde donde embarcaría hacia la Argentina. Ese nombre era un sonido sin significado; en cambio, la intrigaba Jaime. Pensaba en él todo el tiempo mientras bordaba las prendas del ajuar disfrutando del rumor de la costura y del contacto del encaje y la seda en sus manos jóvenes estropeadas por el cincel, aún torpes para los trabajos más delicados.

           Por la tarde, las mujeres de la familia y las vecinas sacaban sus sillas bajas al patio de la casa grande; repitiendo gestos y dichos que habían visto en sus madres y sus abuelas, se reunían alrededor de la novia para ayudarle en la costura del ajuar. Ella cosía, acompañada en silencio las risas y cuchicheos mientras trataba de encontrarle un rostro a su futuro marido de quien no tenía siquiera una foto. Sentía una mezcla de nostalgia anticipada y alivio; ya no iba a tener tardes de algarabía como ésas, pero se iba a casar con un hombre rico que la esperaba para cuidarla y darle todo lo necesario. El amor llegaba después, repetían desde siempre los dichos familiares, sentencia inapelable para consolar a las niñas ante las bodas arregladas con desconocidos y el miedo de la soledad prematura

           No sabía nada de hombres, pero desde pequeña aprendió que el deber de la mujer era cuidar a su marido, cocinarle y darle hijos varones, también alguna mujer. Aunque hacía largo tiempo que Jaime vivía entre los otros, ella pensaba seguramente que era un buen hombre, como los de su familia, a pesar de algunos muy festejador de mujeres u otros entusiastas jugadores de cartas. Ayudaría a ese hombre si había desviado; le habían enseñado que sólo a través de la mujer bendiciones de Dios son concedidas a una casa, y el hogar es bendito cuando la mujer atiende a los destinos de la familia y que el hombre también será bendito y vivirá el doble de los años cuando ame y honre a su esposa.

           A sur madres y a sus tías les gustaba repetir que los hombres no podían estar solos. ¿Cómo lavar, planchar o cocinar? Sólo aprendieron a ir al negocio, donde hablaban y, gracias a las palabras, cobraban dinero, Era necesario que tuvieran una mujer al lado para ser buenos, limpios y felices. Si ellas les decían a que ellos les gustaba, les hacían ricas comidas y algunas otras cosas, ellos después cumplían con la voluntad de sus mujeres. Había aprendido a hacer algunas comidas; conocía el placer del sabor al morder la masa crocante de un quipe, la textura aterciopelada del hummus o la dulzura húmeda y crujiente de una baclawa, pero no sabía cuáles serían esas cosas que provocaban risas y murmullos en las tías y en mamá mientras se juntaban en el patio de la casa grande, cuchicheando con complicidad mientras cocinaban para las fiestas, como luego también lo hicieron para preparar el ajuar.

           Se iba sola y muy lejos a casarse con un desconocido. Nadie le preguntó si estaba de acuerdo; sólo tuvo permiso para elegir alguna joya, un adorno para su futura casa o una alfombra. Elena creyó que debía hacer algunas preguntas antes de partir, porque cuando estuviera lejos ninguna de las mujeres de la familia podría responderle y, entonces, se atrevió a susurrar que necesitaba sabe cómo era eso de cumplir con el marido para conseguir después todo lo deseado.

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“The Departure”

The afternoon in which Sara told her that the next day they would go together to a shop at the other end of the Old City to buy cloth to embroider, she knew that her mother had accepted the request from Cousin Jaime; her life would change, and she couldn’t say anything. From when she was little, she heard stories and opinions about the cousin who lived alone in Argentina for fifteen years, a faraway place whose name she couldn’t pronounce and where, within they family they said no one was poor.  It was also said that the cousin was a good man, blond, a hard worker However, it was impossible that she remembers anything about him, she was barely a few months old, when he, at twenty, left the family home and went first to France and then to South America.

           Sara was a widow with five children, three of them women, all of them born in Alepo. She was from Alexandria, had been able to go to school, where she learned to read and write and even some French. On the other hand, her daughters, in part because of the customs of the place and another part because of poverty, didn’t know how to read and only the boys went to school and spoke French. The girls dedicated themselves to help her at home, and Elena learned how to engrave bronze; harmonious designs that were then sold by Cousin Faud in his Bazar, at the side of the Synagogue of the shuk

           When Elena began to work, she engraved bronze pictures with Jewish symbols; she had a fine sense of the proportion of the forms, but she was illiterate, and it had never occurred to her that she could begin to stop being so. Years later, this desire would be transformed into an obsession, but that’s another story. Instead, the quickly learned the symbols of the others, as the owners of the bazars neighboring Faud’s asked for pieces decorated with Islamic designs and Christian representations to sell to anyone who passed through the streets of the shuk and the not only to the Jews leaving the synagogue.    

           Decorating the pieces of bronze with such different signs, she learned a sense of harmony, she learned the art of combining forms, an apprenticeship that allow her to go through life with the calmness of somebody who knows that everything is mutable. She took on some virtues that do well for whoever has them. Although she also knew, watching her cousin Faud negotiate with the other merchants, who were not always virtuous in their dealings with strangers, even less when dealing with business.

           Sara had raised her children in the Sephardic tradition and ethics; she taught them to be caring and honest, to distinguish the pure from the impure, and most of all, she spoke to them of the upright reason that guides the actions of a good person. Simple principles to apply, they help in distinguishing the good from the evil in the concrete things of daily life that guide the actions of a good person and made conduct to be expected. She transmitted that inheritance of absolute truths as if it was part of nature, like the habits of food and hygiene, to not eat pork or mix meat and milk, rest during the Sabbath, wash hands before eating, and for the women, to go every Friday to the hamman; it was the order of her world and it never occurred to her that her children might think differently.

           The first outing was to Marcos’ house, Jaime’s older brother, to seek the postal order sent from Argentina. They invited them to have tea with mint leaves, heavily sugared, propitiatory to the sweets that would come to the little one, according to what her relatives said, who, despite their poverty, also had prepared a tray of truffles, a luxury food kept in the basement for an occasion that merited that was worthy of a celebration with such a delicacy. Between prayers and predictions from numerous offspring of boys, the advised her mother where to better buy the cloths and various objects that would be for the dowry.

          One morning, they left early to go as far as the principal avenue; in the store of a second cousin, they bought the while silk to make three nightgowns and a bathroom, Kurdish-colored silk for another, a piece of white linen to sew into six pairs of sheets and four tablecloths, salmon-colored fine linen, and a piece of natural-colored Belgian lace. Another day, they went as far as the shuk, to negotiate with another cousin, where they bought three rugs. Elena liked best the one that went beyond the traditional borders of geometric design of multi-color geometrical designs on a maroon base, it had a center of uneven diamonds in blued and dark red. It was the most expensive and it also was the prettiest, she intended to put it above a couch in her future home. With the other two, she would cover the mattresses in the bedrooms; she did yet know that in the other side of the side of the world, rugs were used only on the floor. That rug that she liked so much, would have the strange human nomadic destiny that some objects do, and would be carried from city to city with the imprint of something that carries good luck.

           The most important trip was to the jewelry store. Dazzled, she ordered two gold rings, one with a ruby and the other with an aquamarine and earrings to match, she also chose a gold bracelet with a wide central clasp in which brought together very fine chains and where she could add others that were held by the center. That bracelet with be her permanent adornment and years later would fascinate here granddaughters. They would see her season the dinners while that gold in movement seemed a call to the glory of the imminent flavors. Like all Eastern women, Elena loved sparkles, and if they were jewels, so much the better, but given the poverty in which she lived, it was only possible for her to look at them through store windows, where they remained petrified, like a hungry child before a store window of candy. With the passing of life, her desire was frequently fulfilled, but the jewelry store windows always produced in her the same feeling of enchantment. That day was different. She chose as she pleased, while she smiled thinking about the little sounds of her pendants and the effect of the shine in the middle of her red hair. Meanwhile, she remembered the sayings of the women of her family. If a man loves a woman, he ought to give her jewels, especially gold ones, lots of gold one, because he is the protector against evil. She liked to repeat to call for good luck: Touching gold and looking at the moon.

          In four weeks, she had to take the steamship to Marseille, from which she would embark for Argentina. That name was a sound without meaning; in contrast, Jaime intrigued her. She thought about him all the time, while she sewed the clothing for the dowry, taking advantage of the sounds of the sewing and the contact with the lace in her young hands, damaged by the chisel, still awkward for contact of the lace, still clumsy for the most delicate jobs.

           In the evening, the women of the family and neighbors, took out their low chairs to the patio of the great house; repitiendo gestures and saying that they had seen in their mothers and their grandmothers gather around bride to help her with the sewing of the dowry. She sewed, accompanied in silence the laugher, and whispering, while she tried to find the find a face for her of her future husband of whom she didn’t even have a photo. She felt a mixture anticipated nostalgia and relief; she still wasn’t ready. She still wasn’t ready to have an afternoon of rejoicing, like those, but she was going to marry a rich man who was waiting to take care of her and give her everything necessary. Love comes later, the family sayings repeated from time immemorial, a unappealable maxim to console the girls before arranged marriages with unknown men and the fear of premature solitude.

          She knew nothing about men, but since she was a little girl, she learned that the responsibility of her husband, cook for him ad give him male children, also a girl. Although Jaime had lived a long time among others, she thought that surely, he was a good man, like those of her family, despite some who played around with women or others who played cards too much. She would help that man is he had strayed; they had taught her that only through the woman are God’s benedictions conceded to a home, and it is blessed when the woman attended to the future of the family and the man will also be blessed and will live twice the number of years when he loves and honors his wife.

         Her mothers and her aunts liked to repeat that men can’t live alone. Wash, iron or cook? The only learned to go to business, where they talked. And thanks to their words, earned money. It was necessary that they had a woman at their side in order to be good, clean and happy. If they said to them what they wanted to hear, made them delicious dinners and some other things, they will then go along with the will of their wives. She had learned to make some meals; she knew the pleasure of taste, when biting into the crispy dough of a quipe, the velvety texture of hummus or the damp and crunchy sweetness of baklava, but she didn’t know what those things that provoked laughter and murmurs among the aunts and mama, could be, when they got together on the patio of the big house, gossiping with complicity while they were cooking for parties, and then they did so while preparing the dowry.

           She was going alone and very far to marry and unknown man. No one asked her if she agreed; she only had permission to choose a jewel, an adornment for her future house or a rug. Elena believed that she should ask some questions before leaving, because when she was far away, none of the women of the family could answer her and then, she dared to sigh that she needed to know about how to fulfill her husband, so to obtain all that was later wished for.

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Libros de Noemí Cohen/Books by Noemí Cohen

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Nora Strejilevich — poeta y escritora judío-argentina-norteamericana/Argentine-American-Jewish Poet and Writer — “Cuando me robaron el nombre”/”When They Stole My Name”

Nora Strejilevich

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Nora Strejilevich es una escritora y profesora argentina cuyo principal interés es el genocidio contemporáneo. Ella es una sobreviviente exiliada de un campo de concentración, y su experiencia enmarca tanto su escritura como su investigación. Tras ser liberada del “Club Atlético” (1977), se exilió políticamente en Canadá, donde realizó un posgrado y terminó un Ph.D. en literatura latinoamericana en la Universidad de Colombia Británica. Enseñó en Canadá y Estados Unidos (1991-2011), principalmente en la Universidad Estatal de San Diego, y su enseñanza se centró en el discurso testimonial. Más recientemente, trabajó en la Universidad de Chile (Santiago, 2012) y en el Centro de Estudios sobre Genocidio de la Universidad Tres de Febrero en Buenos Aires. La Universidad de Konstanz en Alemania la invitó a colaborar con su equipo de investigación en Terror Narratives and Disappearance (2013-2014). Ha impartido el seminario de posgrado “Violencia de Estado y Literatura” para varias instituciones como la Universidad de Milán con el apoyo de la Beca Fulbright y la Universidad de Middlebury en Buenos Aires (2014-2015). Sus cuentos publicados en inglés son “Inventory”, “Anamesis” y “Too Many Names” (narración autobiográfica). Fue galardonada con el Premio Internacional Letras de Oro. Su testimonio, Una sola muerte numerosa (1997, 2006, 2007) le dio reconocimiento internacional, y fue traducido al inglés como A Single Numberless Death (2002) y al alemán, Ein einzelner vielfacher Tod (2014). Fue adaptada al teatro y recibió un premio en EE.UU. (Michigan, 2002). También ha inspirado una docu-ficción, Nora (Italia 2005). Este libro sirve como material pedagógico en Argentina, Colombia, Chile, México, Brasil, Alemania, Austria, Italia y Francia. El arte de no olvidar: literatura testimonial en Chile, Argentina y Uruguay entre los años 80 y 90 (2006) es un ensayo crítico que analiza, desde un enfoque sociocultural, textos de literatura testimonial. El lugar del testigo y Un día, allá por el fin de mundo son unos de sus trabajo más recientes.

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Nora Strejilevich is an Argentine writer and professor whose main interest is contemporary genocide. She is an exiled survivor of a concentration camp, and her experience frames both her writing and research. After being freed from “Club Atletico” (1977), she became a political exile in Canada, where she did postgraduate work and finished a Ph.D. in Latin American literature at the University of British Colombia. She taught in Canada and the US (1991-2011), mostly at San Diego State University, and her teaching focused on testimonial discourse. Most recently, she worked at Universidad de Chile (Santiago, 2012) and at the Center for Genocide Studies at Universidad Tres de Febrero in Buenos Aires. Konstanz University invited her to collaborate with their research team about Terror Narratives and Disappearance (2013-2014). She has taught the graduate seminar, “State Violence and Literature” for several institutions such as Milan University with support from Fulbright Fellowship and Middlebury University in Buenos Aires (2014-2015).Her published short stories in English are “Inventary,” “Anamesis”, and “Too Many Names” (an autobiographical narration.) She was awarded the Premio Internacional Letras de Oro. Her testimony, Una sola muerte numerosa (1997, 2006, 2007) gave her international recognition, and it was translated into English as A Single Numberless Death (2002) and into German, Ein einzelner vielfacher Tod (2014). It was adapted to theater and received an award in the US (Michigan, 2002). It has also inspired a docu-fiction, Nora (Italy 2005). This book serves as pedagogical material in Argentina, Colombia, Chile, México, Brazil, Germany, Austria, Italy and France.El arte de no olvidar: literatura testimonial en Chile, Argentina y Uruguay entre los 80 y los 90 (2006) is a critical essay which analyses, from a socio-cultural approach, texts of testimonial literature. El lugar del testigo y Un día, allá por el fin de mundo are some of her later works.

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“Cuando me robaron el nombre”

fui una fui cien fui miles

NN era mi rostro despojado

y no fui nadie

de gesto de mirada de vocal.

Camino mi desnudez numerada

in fila sin ojos sin yo

con ellos sola

desangrando mi alfabeto

por cadenas guturales

por gemidos ciudadanos de un país

sin iniciales.

Párpado y tabique

mi horizonte

todo silencio y eco

todo reja toda noche

todo pared sin espejo

donde copiar una arruga

una mueca un quizás.

Todo punto y aparte.

Hasta un día

me devolvieron el nombre

y salí a lucirlo por los pasillos

del mundo.

Máscaras encontré

países perfiles adormecidos

lenguas golosas de novedades

absurdo.

Me dejé caminar así

hacia mi ningún lugar

hacia mi nada

por desfiladeros de huellas

sin rocío

sin poder traducir

mis cicatrices.

¡Ese nombre no es mío!

El mío

era cien  era mil  era todos

el mío

era cuerpo  era vientre  era voz

tenía vecinos  silbaba

Se me ha perdido el nombre!

por las veredas de un mapa

era un dios.

sin esquinas grité

era diurno  y nocturno

entre puertas acribilladas de miedo.

¡Quiero mi nombre!

mi nombre  propio  curvo  palpitante

¡Que me lo traigan!

envuelto en primaveras

con rr de rayuela

o con o de ojalá

con a de aserrín asserán.

Mi nombre enredadera se enredó

Entre sílabas de muerte

DE SA PA RE CI DO

ido

nombre nunca más

mi nombre.

Enajenada de sujeto

no supe conjugarme

no supe recorrer

el abecedario de mis lágrimas.

Fui ojos revolviendo ayeres

fui manos atrapando jirones

fui pies resbalando

por renglones eléctricos.

No supe pronunciarme.

Fui piel entre discursos

sin saliva  sin vestigios

de donde ni  por qué

Ni cuando  ni hasta cuando.

No podrás jamás decirlo!

jamás decirte, pensé.

Pero escribirás

Escribiré  sí

Miles de ges  de eres  de eses

garabatos vicarios

hijos de mi boca

remolinos de deseos

que fueron nombres.

Escribiré

látigos negros para domar

otras salvajes mayúsculas

ahogándome la sangre.

Resistiré  resistirás

con nombre y apellido

el descarado lenguaje

del olvido.

NN  No Name

Rayuela   Hopscotch Aserrín aserrán – juego popular

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Ruinas de la cárcel del Club Atlético/Ruins of the Prison of the Club Atlético

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“When They Robbed Me of Name”

I was one of a hundred, out of thousands

and I was no one.

Deprived of gesture, gaze and voice,

My face was reduced to the letters NN.

In my numbered nakedness I walk

alone with them draining my alphabet

in eyeless and selfless rows

through guttural chains

through civic wailing of a country

without initials.

Eyelid and partitions

my horizon

all silence and echo

all bars   al night

all mirrorless wall

nowhere to copy a wrinkle

a grimace    a perhaps

All a full stop and a moving on.

Until one day

they gave me back my name

and I went out to display it through the hallways

of the world

I found masks

countries’ drowsy profiles

tongues greedy for news

the absurd.

I let myself walk like this

Toward my nowhere

Toward my nothingness

Trhough steep paths of

Dewless bones

Unable to translate

My scars.

That name is not mine!

Mine

Was a hundred   was a thousand   was everyone’s

mine

was body   was womb   was voice

had neighbors   whistled

was diurnal and nocturnal

was a god.

I’ve lost my name!

I shouted through the trails of a

cornerless map

between doors riddled with fear.

I want my name!

my own curved, throbbing name

Bring it to me!

wrapped in spring

with an r for rayuela

and an o for ojalá

and an a for aserrín aserrán

My curling name got tangled

Between death syllables

DI SAP PEAR ED

gone

a name never again

my name.

Alienated from my subject

I didn’t know how to conjugated myself

or how to navigate

the abc’s of my tears.

I was eyes looking back upon yesterdays

I was hands snatching at rags

I was feet slipping

through electric lines.

I didn’t know how to express myself

I was skin between

dry and vacuous speeches’

without saliva without vestiges

with no why or wherefore

no whensoever or whereupon.

You will never be able to say it!

never speak for yourself, I thought

But you will write

yes, I will write

thousands of Gs of Rs of Ss

vicarious scribbles

offspring rising from my mouth

whirlpools of desires

that once were names.

I will inscribe

Black whips to tame

Other wild capital letters

drowning my blood.

With first and last names

I will resist   you will resist

the brazen language

self oblivion.

_________________________

NN  No Name

Rayuela   Hopscotch

Aserrín aserrán – popular game

Translation by Celeste Kostopulos Cooperman

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Otros libros de Nora Stejilevich/Other Books by Nora Strejilevich