从一篇译文看翻译的重要性
英军退伍军人的伊战回忆录“Iraq is always with you': a veteran's memories of the war”。国内潇湘晨报予以翻译报道,标题改为“那个被我袭击的少年,是否还活着- 一个英国老兵回忆伊拉克战争,对参与战争感到耻辱,并已删除所有参战照片。”现将“卫报”的原文和“潇湘晨报”的译文转载如下,供读者参考、赏析。经过仔细阅读,发现这篇译文与原文是在有较大的差异。试对后面一部分译文做一点分析如下所示:
查资料得知:詹姆士·杰弗里(James Jeffrey)现在是一位住在美国德州奥斯丁的英国籍自由记者,2012年5月,他从德州大学奥斯丁分校获得新闻学硕士学位.他是在2010年4月以上尉的军衔从英军退伍的,为英国女王的皇家骑兵服役了九年,曾参加过2002年的科索沃战争,2004-2006年的伊拉克战争以及2009年曾在阿富汗服役。在阿富汗服役时曾指挥过无人机攻击行动。近年来已为英国“卫报”、“BBC"以及美国的“纽约时报”等报刊写过多篇有关战争报道及专题文章。应当说他是一位对伊战和阿富汗战事进行反思的退伍军人,特别是他获得新闻学硕士之后。
他在对BBC记者谈论他在阿富汗指挥无人机攻击时的经历时说:“2009年我在阿富汗负责指挥无人攻击机在赫尔曼德省的攻击行动。是否向敌人发起攻击实在是一种生死攸关的决定。”他对BBC驻巴基斯坦的记者说:“有一次计划攻击有可能正在制造简易爆炸装置可疑武装分子,我几乎就要发出攻击命令。”“当我从电视摄像机镜头里看到所谓潜在的敌人只不过是在玩耍的一个孩子时,在最后一分钟取消了攻击。”他还曾经看到过从一架喷气式战斗机传来的图像,当时正对一个塔利班目标发起攻击,最后在这个区域里留下了好几具平民的尸体。
杰弗里先生现在离开了军队,在美国当一名自由记者。他警告说:“虽然无人机是很精准、很有效的武器,但是,用它杀人太容易了。”
潇湘晨报译文照片。
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那个被我袭击的少年,是否还活着
一个英国老兵回忆伊拉克战争,对参与战争感到耻辱,并已删除所有参战照
2013年3月20日
2003年3月30日,伊拉克家庭陆续逃离南部城市巴士拉。图/IC
詹姆士·杰弗里和他的部队在伊拉克,旁边是收缴的武器。资料图片
今天,是伊拉克战争十周年的日子。轰隆的炮火已经远去,重建完成之日却迟迟不来,就在昨天,巴格达的连环爆炸,无情地夺去了数十条生命。尽管各国已经撤军,伊拉克国内的局势仍不容乐观,经济在发展,和平却未到来。
战争影响的是普通百姓。曾经参加过伊拉克战争的一名英国老兵,写下了自己的伊战回忆,字里行间,满是自责,今天,他仍然不知道,曾经被自己当做靶子的那个少年,是否还活在世上。
编译/杨涵
作为一名伊战时期的英军中尉,詹姆士·杰弗里曾经对这场战争充满乐观情绪。十年后,他在英国《卫报》撰文,告诉公众他觉得自己如何损毁了当地人的生活,为何对参与伊战感到耻辱。下面是他的自述。
战争如影随形,从未远离
今天,所有的讨论都聚焦在伊战十周年上,但对于和我一样的老兵来说,这些讨论并没有太大意义。不管是五周年、十周年或者多少年,对于我来说,伊拉克战争如同沙漠之风裹挟而来的鬼魂,如影随形,从未远离。
每一个参与伊拉克战争的人,都有自己的主观体验,有人感觉到糟糕,有人感觉还不错。对大部分伊战老兵来说,我敢打赌,这场战争的一切让他们感觉厌恶。
这大概可以解释,为什么在2010年在伊拉克的服役期满后,我删除了Facebook上所有在伊参战时期的照片,同时将全身的士兵装备卖掉,保证没有任何相关物件将那场战争带回我的生活中。自始至终,我都处在对伊战的深深回忆中,时至今日,我仿佛还在体验那一段经历。
奔赴战场前,充满期待
2003年3月,当兄弟部队的坦克在美索不达米亚的沙漠上艰难行进的时候,我正在位于德国的军营里打包一些印刷品,准备回英国。当电视新闻报道联合部队在伊拉克的最新行动以及伊拉克投降的消息时,我还在和塑料包装膜、胶带和木箱打交道。
那个时候,12万平民的死亡、一个国家的毁灭与我们都没有任何关系,也没有那么多的伊拉克母亲捶胸痛哭,我的朋友们,也没有死在被击落的直升机里或武装车辆的车轮下。
伊拉克战争的开始,展现在眼前的似乎是一个大好机遇,英国国际开发署也将在伊战中扮演重要角色。不过,对于所谓的国家建设和民主推进之类的陈腐措辞,我没时间也没兴趣关心。对我来说,重要的是,我将拥有一支坦克部队,而且将变得忙碌而充实。
战争的“错误体验”让人兴奋
此后,我来到伊拉克服役。在伊拉克,不论遇到什么事情,我都可以一笑而过。在一次夜间巡逻中,我被困在一辆卡车后,子弹打穿金属板,从我身边呼啸而过。那时,我感觉到非常恐慌,但最终得以成功逃脱,在这次经历后,我竟然迫不及待地等待下一次交火。
“战争提供了无尽的奇特体验,如此丰富以至于让我终生难忘。”曾参加过越战的美国作家威廉姆斯·布洛莱斯说。战争的诱惑,部分来源于人类有着见识万物的本能欲望。见证炮弹在广阔沙漠里爆裂,运输机高速俯冲以躲避敌方火力……在伊拉克,这种体验无处不在,充满吸引力。
我知道这些体验并非“正确”当我与战友在炮塔内高兴地大声议论的时候,伊拉克的孩子却蜷缩在他们的床上,担心自己的住处是否会遭受炮火的袭击。但在当时,我只是被一股看不见的势头推着走。承受着重压、与战友们没日没夜地调侃,我感觉自己肾上腺素分泌旺盛,这让人兴奋。
从那时起,有一些东西,好像已经远离了我的生活。
被我袭击的少年,是否还活着
如今,我们交给民众的伊拉克,并不是曾经许诺的那样。这也许是英国犯下的最大罪行:在重建伊拉克这个被英国肢解的国家上毫无作为,派系斗争无休无止,爆炸袭击致死伊拉克人的新闻仍然源源不断。英国驻伊拉克巴士拉的领事馆也于2012年末关闭,对于在伊拉克所发生的一切,我的国家似乎并未打算做出弥补。
注:这一段词不达意,连意译也算不上。采用翻不出就不翻的办法也是不可取的。确实英国人的意境要找到等值的中文表达是有点儿难,但没理解也能乱翻吗?
“Reports of explosions killing dozens of Iraqis seem unending as the country continues to be cleaved by sectarian strife, while the UK watches on, if that.”应当译成“报道杀死数十人的爆炸事件看来永无休止,而这个国家继续被教派冲突所割裂。”
“The British consulate in Basra, scene of my second Iraq tour in 2006, was closed down at the end of 2012.” ,应译为“英国驻巴士拉领事馆,我第二次去伊拉克时曾到过,也已经于2012年年底关闭。”
这一段最后一句为“It doesn't appear that making amends for what's happened to Iraq is a priority for our nation.”,应译为“看来尚未将在伊拉克出现的事情做出改善当作我们国家优先考虑的问题。”这和原译文中所表达的意思有差别的。根本没有弥补的意思。
我不是,也不会成为一个暴力的人,学生时期尝试打过一次架后,我便不再与人争斗。我并不清楚我是否真的在伊拉克杀死过谁。当年的某一天,有一名肩扛火箭筒的少年,站在一栋建筑的角落,恰好在我的坦克部队的视野下,我一声令下,炮弹发射,灰尘弥漫,然后一切归于沉静,他便消失了。[1]
他是倒下被拖走了吗?我多么希望他及时躲进角落里,从而保证了人身安全。如果他还活着,现在也已经是一名成年男子了吧,谁知道呢?[2]
从那以后,我再也不愿将炮火朝向另一人,甚至一只动物。如果我有了孩子,我真希望他不要爱上争斗。时不时地,我的回忆又会陷入那场战争中去,对于战争的结果,我难以相信,同时感到非常耻辱。[3]
我们究竟做了些什么?
一个月前我离开了军队,住在伦敦一名军人朋友家中。一天早上,一位电工顺道路过,想要我朋友身穿军服的照片,我问起了他的情况。我告诉他我曾在他的国家服役,他收起工具箱,有力地跟我握了握手,对我表达感激。我又想起了伊拉克战争,内心深深自责,只好转过身,怕被他看到我脸上的泪水。[5]
无论我,或者任何老兵,对伊拉克说些什么,也都换不来一次感激的握手了吧。在错误的时间、错误的地点,我们究竟做了些什么?
注1:应当译为:“我从来不是,至今也没有成为一个有暴力倾向的人,学童时代曾半心半意地卷入过一场打斗,我被痛打了一顿,从此发誓再也不干这种傻事。我不能确认我在伊拉克杀过人,我只不过尽可能地去瞄准目标,或者我可以这样说,瞄准的是人。有这样一个事例,从我的坦克瞄准镜里看到有一个人,可能只是个十几岁的孩子,谁知道呢?在街角处举着一支RPG发射筒(火箭推进榴弹发射筒),我的炮手正瞄着他,我一声令下,在我瞄准镜里立即扬起了一支小小的烟柱,烟柱消散之后他已全无踪影。”
注2:应当译为:“他倒下后有没有被人拖走?我希望他能及时安全地躲到街角后面。我再也不想对着任何人开火,即便是一只动物,如果哪一天我有了孩子,我衷心地希望他们永远不想打仗或被迫去战斗。现在,时不时地我的思绪会急切地转回到那场我并不相信有其价值而且后果令我羞愧的战争。”
原文中根本没有“如果他还活着,现在也已经是一名成年男子了吧,谁知道呢?”这层意思,难道是译者自己创造出来的吗?
注3:缺的这一段“What can I say? I miss it. I miss traversing turrets, Basher-75, those feisty, irrepressible soldiers, lines of green tracer fire arching lazily in the night sky, gas flares burning on the horizon, the operator on the other side of the turret screaming: "Loaded!" and a whole lot more.”,可以译为:“我能说什么呢?我怀念伊拉克,我怀念左右摆动的坦克炮塔,我怀念“猛击者-75”(Basher-75)这个呼叫代号,我怀念那些易怒、控制不住自己的士兵,我怀念一串串绿色的曳光弹呈弧状懒洋洋地划过夜空,还是怀念在地平线上熊熊燃烧着的油井火焰,从炮塔另一侧传来无线电通讯兵的尖叫“装弹完毕”,随后整整一弹匣炮弹射了出去。”译文中缺了这一整段,当然并不好翻译。装甲车或坦克车里的“Operator”是指“Radio Operator”- 无线电通讯兵,战斗时会兼作装填手工作。
原先不领会原文中的Basher-75是指什么?查资料方才明白,这里说的是2004年10月17日一场在阿玛拉发生的战斗,称之为“幽灵的诱饵”(Spectre baiting)。英军的勇士型履带装甲车参加了这次战斗,詹姆士·杰弗里时任中尉就在其中的一辆装甲车里。攻击的对象是什叶派武装迈赫迪军。但是英军士兵任务是在漆黑一片的街道里将迈赫迪武装人员从屋子里驱逐出来,相当于一场巷战。美军也参与了这场战斗。Basher-75是当时詹姆士·杰弗里中尉的无线电呼叫代号。
因此,当一个好翻译确实不易。好在现在有互联网,多花些功夫,有些不明白还是可以弄清的。
FV510勇士型履带装甲车。主炮是30mm L21A1型Rarden炮。
所以炮弹才可以成匣地装填。另配7.62mm同轴机枪。
注4:原文是:“离开军队前的一个月,”这样翻译会引起很大的误会,因为詹姆士·杰弗里2010年44月已经退伍了。
后面应当译为:“一天早上,一位电工顺道来访,想要一张我朋友穿军装的照片。他的口音使我问他来自哪里。他来自科索沃。在告诉他我服役初期曾经在科索沃呆过两个月后,他放下他的工具箱,有力地握起了我的手,感谢我!”电工要照片和握手的原因是他来自科索沃,对英军帮助科索沃独立表示感谢,为后面一段话做铺垫。
注5:后面的也翻得不准确!应当这样翻译:“我感到像一个骗局,伊拉克 - 一个无声的影子,谴责随之而来,我不得不转过身去,这样他才没有看到我夺眶而出的眼泪。”
后注:最后一段的翻译也不准确,实在不敢恭维这样的翻译,作为一个报纸,应当有译审的。讲故事是可以的,指名道姓的翻译应至少忠实于原稿。作为“潇湘晨报”这样的地方报纸问题尚不大,各大网站或报刊转载了影响就不太好!!
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以下是英国“卫报”的英文原稿
'Iraq is always with you': a veteran's memories of the war
As a British lieutenant during the war in Iraq,James Jeffrey went there with a sense of optimism. Ten years on, he explains why he feels ashamed about how we failed the people there.
James Jeffrey
Monday 18 March 2013 17.15 GMT
詹姆士·杰弗里和他同部队的士兵展示缴获的伊军武器。
James Jeffrey with his troop and a haul of captured weapons in Iraq. Photograph: James Jeffrey
All the commentary surrounding the invasion 10 years on encourages retrospection but I think most veterans, like me, would agree that talk of anniversaries makes scant difference. It doesn't matter whether it's five, nine or 10 years after the event. Iraq is always with you, the sounds from the minarets, desert winds carrying ghosts.
Everyone involved had subjective experiences, some worse, some better but transcending that for most Iraq veterans, I'll hazard, is the mind-numbing sadness at how it all turned out, the unfathomable human and financial cost of the conflict.
That might explain why after resigning my commission in 2010 I deleted all photos from my Facebook profile, and sold what clothing and equipment I could to an army-surplus store, making sure no related images or emblems remained as I tried to carve out a new life. But all the while I greedily and willingly conjured scenes of my time in Iraq, reliving, even relishing, my experiences.
The invasion on 20 March 2003 held little personal drama for me, for while tanks from two of my regiment's squadrons made a heady dash across the Mesopotamian sands I was in our barracks in Germany, packing paintings in the officers' mess for a forthcoming regimental move back to UK.
As TV news reported the stunning progress by coalition forces and the capitulation of Iraq's military, I was immersed in bubble wrap, sticky tape and endless wooden boxes. To emphasise my removal, surrounding me were images of my 19th-century antecedents charging Sikh infantry squares at the , riding into immortal verse at Balaclava, outflanking the dervishes at Omdurman, and engaged in many other exotic expeditions.
After everyone returned from the invasion, tanned and lean, with tales of high drama, my deployment in April 2004 on Operation TELIC 4 for a six-month tour couldn't come soon enough. A photo of me standing with fellow troop leaders in front of a desert-coloured Russian T55 tank, brought back after the Gulf war, on the day of departure to RAF Brize Norton for our onward flight to , shows us looking cheery and keen for adventure. We weren't to be disappointed by what we found in Iraq.
At that point we weren't part of something that would lead to an estimated 120,000 civilian deaths, and demolish a country, and there weren't as many wailing Iraqi mothers thumping their chests. Friends hadn't been killed in downed helicopters or decapitated by rolling vehicles; the gung-ho ignorance of soldiers hadn't been left unchecked, and the consequences of the military hierarchy's hubris hadn't caught up with it yet.
We were presented with a scene of opportunity: contractors were settling in, apparently useful and minus the greed and inefficiency that would emerge later; the UK's Department for International Development seemed set to play an important, constructive role. And as for the stale rhetoric and grandiose concepts of nation-building and bestowing democracy, I had neither the time nor the inclination to pay attention. I had a troop of tanks to run and, not being the greatest military mind to venture onto the battlefield, was busy enough.
So, unencumbered by what came to pass, I could appreciate, or so I thought, some of the finer points of expeditionary life. I defy anyone to ride in a , looking back over the commander's cupola at 20 armoured vehicles kicking up curtains of sand, speeding across the smooth desert while enveloped in warm winds as the gunner traverses the turret to test fire the coaxially mounted machine gun, and then claim not to have enjoyed themselves.
Even when things went wrong you could come out grinning. On a night patrol I found myself huddled behind a truck making a farcical pirouette as bullets pinged off the metal all around me. Those rounds came from friendly troops engaging the enemy on the far side of the truck. I was terrified and ashamed of getting into that position but managed to extract myself. I returned to base with the rest of the patrol, enjoyed some back slaps all round, and couldn't wait for the next firefight.
"War offers endless exotic experiences, enough 'I couldn't fucking believe its' to last a lifetime," said the after serving as an infantry commander in Vietnam. Part of the lure, he pointed out, is the fundamental human passion to witness and see things: "What the Bible calls the lust of the eye and the marines in Vietnam called eye fucking."
There was plenty of that in Iraq: from Chinook helicopters slicing through the heat haze to mortar illumination rounds trickling down the face of the night like fiery teardrops throwing shifting shadows on to the desert floor. Or sitting in a Hercules transport plane as the interior lights turned off, replaced by a lone red hazard light as the pilot executed a steep descent to the runway to avoid enemy fire; tank turrets flickering with flames after rocket-propelled grenade warheads exploded; a market stall dangling off the end of a barrel as a tank motored through the empty streets of Amara. And smoking a shisha beneath the globes of the Kuwait Towers during two days of operational standdown – the eye-popping slide show never ended.
The aural experience could be just as rich: Warrior armoured vehicles letting loose six rounds of 30mm auto-fire, a beautiful sound when you needed it. Closed down in my turret on a night-time operation into Amara, I listened entranced to the voice on the radio of the American operator in a C-130 Spectre gunship aircraft – call-sign Basher-75 – discussing the acquisition of targets on the ground. "Keep your heads low; it's going to get hot down there," he drawled. I'd never heard anyone sound so utterly damn cool.
I don't know exactly where the attraction lay. Perhaps the synthesis of man and machine up above, all-powerful with a bristling array of weaponry trained on insurgents, omniscient with night vision and radar systems, or knowing it had my back and could be called on no matter what, but there was something seductive about such moments.
2003年一个伊拉克平民家庭逃离伊拉克南部城市巴士拉。
A family of Iraqi civilians fleeing Basra in southern Iraq in March 2003. Photograph: Reuters
And yet, at the same time, I know how wrong these experiences were – especially Basher-75 circling malevolently in the night sky; how, while I was bouncing off the inside of my turret with glee, Iraqi children huddled and wept in their beds, scared out of their minds by fire fights raging around their homes and the ominous rumble of armoured vehicle columns; how the market stall dangling off that barrel – which we all had a good laugh over – represented some faceless Iraqi's livelihood.
But that didn't click at the time. You were carried away with the momentum, the zany mix of action, humour flicking from dark to slapstick, the stress, close shaves and adrenaline. It all made for an intoxicating experience and was possibly, sad to say, the best thing I, and I imagine others, had ever done. Ever since it has been like something has gone out of my life forever.
For it wasn't just the unparalleled sensory spectrum, there was a communal satisfaction, tapping into a primordial core, which came from taking part. That blissful sense of community started with the soldiers, wonderfully skilled and maddeningly headstrong, insubordinate at times but ultimately doggedly looking out for each other.
Obviously it wasn't a total love-in. Some soldiers still disliked you, or you resented other officers, but such incidences tended to be exceptions to the norm that was a sense of comradeship the civilian world just can't seem to replicate. In Iraq you had the most tangible relationships you've ever had: people didn't look through you every day. It was the most utopian experience we'll ever know – possessions, backgrounds and ranks counted for very little, the group was everything; forged by what amounted to a love that transcended class, personality and education. But now it's wrenching to meet up with those friends and comrades as each of us know how the special realm that sustained our intense comradeship is gone. We're marooned among the mundane demands and petty recriminations of everyday life.
But no collective amount of such reminiscences is enough to outweigh our immense failure in delivering to the Iraqi people what we promised, compounded by what may be the UK's greatest crime: having little if nothing to do with rebuilding the country it helped dismember. Reports of explosions killing dozens of Iraqis seem unending as the country continues to be cleaved by sectarian strife, while the UK watches on, if that. The British consulate in Basra, scene of my second Iraq tour in 2006, was closed down at the end of 2012. It doesn't appear that making amends for what's happened to Iraq is a priority for our nation.
I'm not, and never have been, a violent person; a halfhearted attempt at a schoolboy fight in which I got thoroughly licked persuaded me never to try that again. I don't actually know if I killed anyone in Iraq despite doing my best to engage targets, or, should I say, people. There was, for example, a man – he might have been a teenager, who knows? – holding an RPG launcher at a building corner in my tank sight whom my gunner engaged after I gave the order. Next there was a small column of dust in my sight; once it dissipated, he'd gone.
Had he collapsed to be hauled away? I hope he got himself safely behind the corner in time. I never want to fire again at another person, not even an animal, and, if I ever have children, I sincerely hope they never want to or have to fight. And yet, at the oddest, most random times, I find my thoughts turning back eagerly to a war I don't believe in and the consequences of which I'm ashamed.
在一个检查点上,英军士兵命令一个伊拉克人停下来、搜身。
A British soldier stops and searches an Iraqi, at a checkpoint Photograph: Pa/PA Archive
What can I say? I miss it. I miss traversing turrets, Basher-75, those feisty, irrepressible soldiers, lines of green tracer fire arching lazily in the night sky, gas flares burning on the horizon, the operator on the other side of the turret screaming: "Loaded!" and a whole lot more.
A month before leaving the army I stayed at the London flat of an army friend. An electrician called by one morning and asked about a photograph of my friend in uniform, which prompted me to ask about his accent. He was from Kosovo. After telling him I'd been there for two months at the beginning of my military career, he put down his tool box and shook my hand energetically, thanking me. I felt a fraud, Iraq a silent, condemning attendant, and had to turn so he didn't see tears welling in my eyes.
What can I, or any veteran, say to an Iraqi? Whatever desperate words are chosen, they're not likely to result in a handshake, nor should they, which breaks my heart and always will. Damn you, Basher-75; damn all of us for what we did or failed to do in a time and place I'll always long for.