Biziei ere omen
Askoren artean
Aurkibidea
Aurkibidea
Margaret Atwood
Kanada, 1939
itzulpena: Asier Sarasola
Gerra historialariaren bakardadea
Aitor ezazu: aztoratzen zaitu
nire lanbideak.
Horregatik gonbidatzen nau hain jende gutxik afaltzera,
baina agian ez dut nahikoa egiten beldurrik ez emateko.
Molde eratsuko soinekoak janzten ditut,
tonu beix apalekoak,
izpiliku lurrina izaten dut eta ile apaindegira joan ohi naiz:
ez dut profetesa baten ilaje sugedunik,
gaztetxoak ikaratuko dituenik.
Begiak biraka eta marmarka hasten banaiz,
bihotzari oratu eta izu oihuak egiten baditut
aktore eskas batek eszena ergel batean bezala,
etxean egiten dut eta ez du inork ikusten,
ezpada bainugelako ispiluak.
Oro har, ados egon ninteke zurekin:
emakumeek ez lukete hausnartu behar gerraz,
ez lituzkete taktikak inpartzialki aztertu behar,
edo etsai hitza ekidin,
edo bi aldeak aintzat hartu, eta ezer ez salatu.
Emakumeak bakearen alde manifestatu behar lirateke,
edo luma zuriak banatu ausardia pizteko,
beren burua sastakatu baionetaz,
beren haurtxoak babesteko
—hala ere, garezurrak apurtuko dizkiete—,
edo, behin eta berriz bortxatuak izanik,
beren burua urkatu behar lukete beren ileaz.
Zeregin horiek dira erosotasun orokorra dakartenak.
Horiek, eta soldaduen galtzerdiak jostea,
eta halako bihotz-altxagarri bat izatea.
Orobat: hilak deitoratzea.
Seme, amoros eta abar.
Ume erail guztiak.
Horren ordez, egia gisa
geratzea espero dudana kontatzen dut.
Egia gordina, ez apaina.
Egia gutxitan da ongi etorria,
batik bat afaritan,
alabaina, iaioa naiz neure jardunean.
Nire bizibidea kuraia eta basakeriak dira.
Behatzen ditut, baina gaitzetsi ez.
Idatziz jartzen dut gauzak nola gertatu ziren,
haien oroitzapenetik ahalik eta hurbilen.
Ez dut galdetzen zergatik, ia beti kontu bera delako.
Gerrak gertatzen dira
pizten dituztenek irabaz dezaketela pentsatzeagatik.
Nire ametsetan, kontuak glamourra du.
Bikingoek urtero uzten dituzte euren lurrak
hilketa eta arpilatze sasoirako,
mutikoak ehizara doazen lez.
Bizitza errealean nekazariak ziren.
Ondasunez lepo itzultzen dira.
Arabiarrek zaldiz egiten diete eraso gurutzatuei
zeta airean ere
mozten duten zimitarrekin.
Ebaki bizkor bat zaldiei lepoan,
eta gizon-puska armaduraduna amiltzen da
dorre bat bezala. Sua metalaren aurka.
Poeta batek honela esango luke: erromantzea hutsalaren kontra.
Jakintsuago esnatzen naiz.
Propagandaren despit, ez dago munstrorik,
ez behintzat betiko lurperatu daitekeenik.
Bat akabatu, eta beste bat
sortuko dute inguruabarrek eta irratiak.
Sinets iezadazu: armada handiek sutsuki egin diote otoitz
Jaunari gau eta gauerdi, uste osoan,
eta, hala ere, sarraskitu dituzte.
Ankerkeriak maiz irabazten du,
eta sekulako etekinak eman ditu
gailu mekaniko baten asmakuntzak, alegia, radarrak.
Egia, adoreak axola du batzuetan,
esaterako, Termopiletan. Batzuetan
irabazleak erabakitzen du nork duen arrazoi
—bertute goren gisa, tradizioz onartutako eran—.
Batzuetan gizonek granaden gainera salto egin,
eta paperezko heste poltsak legez lehertzen dira,
euren kideak salbatzeko.
Miresgarria iruditzen zait.
Baina arratoiek eta kolerak gerra asko irabazi dituzte.
Horiek, eta patatek,
edo patatarik ezak.
Zentzurik ez du domina horiek guztiak
hildakoen paparrean jartzeak.
Ikaragarria, baina asko dakit horretaz.
Balentria handiek deprimitu egiten naute, besterik ez.
Ikerketa asmoz,
ugari korritu ditut gudu-zelaiak,
behinola gizonezkoen gorputz
xehatuen ore batez blai eta obus zartatuz beteak,
hezurrak nonahi.
Guztiak berriz zeuden berdetuta
bertaratu nintzenerako.
Haietako bakoitzak eman du aipu sorta on baterako.
Marmolezko aingeru tristeak habia belartsuetan,
nola oiloak txitatzen, kumaldirik gabe baina.
(Kamera angelua zein, aingeruei arrunt esan geniezaieke,
edo zoritxarreko).
Sarreretan maiz ageri da loria hitza.
Jakina, zelaiotan guztiotan hartzen dut loreren bat,
hoteleko Biblian lisatzen dudana,
oroigarri gisa.
Zu bezain gizaki naiz.
Baina ez du zentzurik niri azken adierazpen bat eskatzeak.
Esan bezala, taktikak dira nire ofizioa.
Estatistikak ere bai:
bake urte bakoitzeko laurehun izan dira
gerra urteak.
The Loneliness of the Military Historian
Confess: it’s my profession / that alarms you. / This is why few people ask me to dinner, / though Lord knows I don’t go out of my way to be scary. / I wear dresses of sensible cut / and unalarming shades of beige, / I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser’s: / no prophetess mane of mine, / complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters. / If I roll my eyes and mutter, / if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror / like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene, / I do it in private and nobody sees / but the bathroom mirror. // In general I might agree with you: / women should not contemplate war, / should not weigh tactics impartially, / or evade the word enemy, / or view both sides and denounce nothing. / Women should march for peace, / or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery, / spit themselves on bayonets / to protect their babies, / whose skulls will be split anyway, / or, having been raped repeatedly, / hang themselves with their own hair. / These are the functions that inspire general comfort. / That, and the knitting of socks for the troops / and a sort of moral cheerleading. / Also: mourning the dead. / Sons, lovers, and so forth. / All the killed children. // Instead of this, I tell / what I hope will pass as truth. / A blunt thing, not lovely. / The truth is seldom welcome, / especially at dinner, / though I am good at what I do. / My trade is courage and atrocities. / I look at them and do not condemn. / I write things down the way they happened, / as near as can be remembered. / I don’t ask why, because it is mostly the same. / Wars happen because the ones who start them / think they can win. // In my dreams there is glamour. / The Vikings leave their fields / each year for a few months of killing and plunder, / much as the boys go hunting. / In real life they were farmers. / They come back loaded with splendour. / The Arabs ride against Crusaders / with scimitars that could sever / silk in the air. / A swift cut to the horse’s neck / and a hunk of armour crashes down / like a tower. Fire against metal. / A poet might say: romance against banality. / When awake, I know better. // Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters, / or none that can be finally buried. / Finish one off, and circumstances / and the radio create another. / Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently / to God all night and meant it, / and been slaughtered anyway. / Brutality wins frequently, / and large outcomes have turned on the invention / of a mechanical device, viz. radar. / True, valour sometimes counts for something, / as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right— / though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition, / is decided by the winner. / Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades / and burst like paper bags of guts / to save their comrades. / I can admire that. / But rats and cholera have won many wars. / Those, and potatoes, / or the absence of them. / It’s no use pinning all those medals / across the chests of the dead. / Impressive, but I know too much. / Grand exploits merely depress me. // In the interests of research / I have walked on many battlefields / that once were liquid with pulped / men’s bodies and spangled with exploded / shells and splayed bone. / All of them have been green again / by the time I got there. / Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day. / Sad marble angels brood like hens / over the grassy nests where nothing hatches. / (The angels could just as well be described as vulgar / or pitiless, depending on camera angle.) / The word glory figures a lot on gateways. / Of course I pick a flower or two / from each, and press it in the hotel Bible / for a souvenir. / I’m just as human as you. // But it’s no use asking me for a final statement. / As I say, I deal in tactics. / Also statistics: / for every year of peace there have been four hundred / years of war.
