For the week of November 5 - 11, 2003

Lost and found
in translation

Commentary by JoELLEN COLLINS

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There is an especially telling scene in the recent movie "Lost in Translation" where Bill Murray, as a somewhat over-the-hill American film star, is shooting a commercial in Tokyo. The director issues wordy directions in Japanese that are then translated into just a few brief English words. Murray seems bewildered at the disparity of the length of the spoken Japanese and the succinct English version.

I have often wondered at the crucial role interpreters play when speaking for world leaders or at summits. I know there are enough scholars around who could catch any errors made, but what if the correction is made after feathers are ruffled? I’ve also wondered at the role of being the messenger when feelings aren’t good between the people conversing … does the messenger get blamed for hostility? Does he soften the blow a bit with euphemisms? I imagine that there is an established code of ethics for all of this. Still, I wouldn’t have wanted to be an interpreter for Stalin or Khrushchev!

Anyone, by the way, who can speak Arabic must be in great demand. It is woeful that we have missed credible intelligence because of the paucity of skilled linguists in that language. I can imagine the fright on an Iraqi citizen’s face when he is trying to tell a uniformed GI that he is not a terrorist or has some kind of business being where he is. And our soldiers are, I fear, inadequately prepared for effective communication to the citizens of the country they occupy.

When I visited my daughter at Dartmouth College over 10 years ago, her French professor, the renowned Dr. Rassias, invited me to sit in on her class and also to observe a seminar he was holding for NYC police officers. He was helping them understand the languages and dialects of some of the constituents with whom they dealt daily, a necessary component of police work in the city.

Recently I read about a Haitian immigrant who has a widely popular and often controversial radio show in Rockland County, New York. The show is conducted in his native Haitian Creole dialect. Recently he was accused of making anti-Jewish remarks and has been widely condemned by Hassidic scholars and residents in his area. He has stated that the true meaning of his words was not only taken out of context but also suffered in a poor translation, that he had been praising the Jewish community for pulling together and having an influence over their destinies. Instead, the translation hinted at an abuse of power by the local Jewish leaders who, it was inferred, take advantage of federal programs that should be available for everyone. His detractors argue that he has used similarly incendiary language about other ethnic groups in the area, which is constantly changing and shifting in its ethnic makeup.

Whatever the truth of that particular incident, it underlines the importance of accurate translation.

When I lived in Italy two years ago, I found that my language skills, which were dreadful by any standard, didn’t get in the way as much as I would have thought. If I listened very closely, smiled, asked politely for someone to slow down a bit, gestured, (easy in Italy,) and indicated that I wished I could speak better, I was usually accepted and often understood.

The same was true in Thailand, where I barely got through an intensive Peace Corps Thai language immersion program. I felt like a kindergartner who was flunking. But I found, as the months slipped by, that I could communicate better than I thought, again with good intentions, gestures, some smiles and by asking questions. I could get around most places, have long talks with old women on buses, and generally make my fellow Thais teachers laugh with my "pidgin" Thai. But it didn’t matter. The true translation in my case was in the communication of goodwill whatever the words were that framed it.

One evening my neighbors and I were cooking dinner on the small patch of lawn in front of my house. Every night we would share our meals and rudimentary thoughts, but often I just listened to their conversation. This particular night I was distraught over the news I had received in the day’s mail of a life-long friend and writing partner who had finally succumbed to the cancer he had fought for six years. I couldn’t concentrate on the moment, and this saddened my friend Tawatchi, a young man whose family called me "Mama Jo." He asked me to put aside my sadness and join the others in celebration of a beautiful evening. To no avail, I explained that I would try to be a good sport but that my heart was heavy. Finally, I came up with an expression that I thought would effectively relate my mood, and I said, "Cheewit yak," which means "life is hard." Tawatchi nodded his head "yes," indicating he understood my words, then smiled and said, "Sanuk," which means "joy" in Thai. He indicated the area where we were sitting, and said, in Thai, "Now. Here." I understood.

No matter the specific words, I found something valuable in the translation between two different cultures. I could still honor mine and his. I tabled my grief for a more private time and joined the women in preparing pomelos for dessert.

 

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