杜然以及蒂姆·海瑟林顿

接到杜然的电话时，我正坐在广州的地铁里，下一站——农讲所。

车里人贴人很挤，因为农讲所的创办人曾经以太阳的形象号召人们卯足干劲多“日”。车里的喇叭用普通话、广东话和英语报着站名。事实上，我周围的人都说着广东话，这几年来，我已经习惯了这种身处中国却仿佛在异域的感觉。想起不久前的“保粤”运动，以及家乡越来越少人说的方言，多少有些感慨——因为就在昨晚，我听了林生祥在雕塑公园的现场，歌唱的语言是客家话，歌唱的主题是家乡的树、老人、妻女和农事。我全然听不懂客家话，但林生祥的音乐丝毫不受方言的局限，反而因为方言有了更浓烈的乡音和地域色彩，而这其中传递出来的乡愁恰恰是引起我共鸣的。

其实我当时在满车厢的广东话声浪里用普通话接起杜然的电话时，由于耳朵感受到的强烈反差，突然觉得自己是个混入了一堆同质体里的异物。

“最近的新闻有没有看？”杜然问道，“一个英国的战地记者死了。有没有兴趣写一篇关于他的文章？”
接着他在电话里略微介绍了那个人的事迹，然后跟我说了稿费——我一口答应了。

回去查了资料，这名刚刚去世的英国战地记者叫蒂姆·海瑟林顿（Tim Hetherington），在利比亚报导途中遭到炮袭遇难，和他一同遇难的还有美国的摄影记者克里斯·洪德罗斯（Chris Hondros）。看的资料越多，就越发感到蒂姆·海瑟林顿的死是一个躲也躲不掉的结局，一方面是因为职业本身潜在的危险，另一方面是因为海瑟林顿内心强烈的人道主义责任——就像历史上那些为了道义或是使命屡次出入死神境地的伟大人物，他们的死都加重了人物命运的悲剧色彩。

翻墙看了Youtube上几个海瑟林顿的采访，他的语调平稳，谈到几次生死大劫都说自己很“幸运”，从容地像是在叙述丢了东西、失而复得的经历。“这只是职业的一部分，”他接受PBS电台的采访时说，“你报导完，然后回家、调整，修复在战场上留下的精神创伤，接着就又可以拿起相机了。”以前在卡迪夫念新闻的时候为了写一篇作业，我采访了当时在学校做博士论文的Janet Harris——一名曾在伊拉克随英美联军拍摄纪录片、报道新闻的战地记者。我问她战场上的杀戮和血腥是否会对她的精神产生影响。“我记得第一次看到一个爆炸现场，精神冲击还是很大的。”Janet说，“不过后来就觉得没什么 了，因为随军记者之前要经过一系列培训，这也是我们的职业的一部分。职业的记者会调节好自己的。”

可是为什么还要去报导战争？扛着摄像机、专注地拍摄一个没有战火的世界已经不易，何况周围都是枪林弹雨？“只是一份工作而已，你要生活就需要收入，所不同的是这份工作的风险是你的生命。”Janet的这个回答多少有些不给力。我当时期待的是诸如“为了道义或是内心的calling”之类的答案。我记得问过Verica同样的问题——“为什么选择战地记者这个职业？”Verica的祖国是一个曾经叫南斯拉夫的国家，她在成为大学教师之前一直是那里的记者。她蠕动了一下疤痕下面的嘴唇，用因为口音而略显凝重的英语说：“有些人喜欢肾上腺激素涌起的感觉，就像赛车手喜欢速度，战场是个能给人带来职业刺激的地方。”

海瑟林顿是因为什么选择了这个职业？钱？他经历过身无分文的窘迫，他面临着图片报导业的寒潮，他这次去利比亚是自费的。刺激？他说话平和沉稳，对生死看得比较超脱。我愿意相信他是因为人道主义的使命感选择这个职业的。我看James Brabazon给《卫报》写的讣告，里面提到海瑟林顿在印度旅行时见过达赖，听过藏经。其它的资料里还说海瑟林顿的另外一个身份是“人权观察”组织的观察员，他在塞拉利昂报导那里因战争而失明的儿童时，曾经把这个问题反映给了“人权观察”，并希望能发明一种类似于布莱叶文的能让盲人“看”的图片。我看他拍摄的那张获得“荷赛”大奖的照片，里面手捧头盔、身着迷彩服的士兵脆弱像是一枚布满裂纹的蛋。

在PBS的同一个采访里，海瑟林顿提出了自己对战争的理解，而这种理解更多地把视角放在了人的身上：“战争机器不仅仅是科技——炸弹、导弹、电子系统，或是CNN的电视时间。战争机器是那种把男人放到一个极端环境之后产生的纽带，这种纽带剔除了他们身边的女人，却让他们紧密联系在一起、为彼此而战也为彼此而亡。这是战争机器的核心。”

我记得Mark Brayne在卡迪夫大学新闻学院那次演讲里说了这么一句话，“我相信人类文明会因为全球变暖、环境污染、人口等系列问题而在这个世纪终结，但我不会对‘人’丧失希望，因为人道的力量（humanity）不会终结。”

我想正是因为有了像海瑟林顿这样伟大的心灵，我们谈论这个世界的时候才会看到希望。

感谢杜然，让我生平写的文章第一次见报，也让我了解了一颗伟大的心灵。当然还要感谢杜然让我第一次靠文字赚了一笔稿费（虽然还没拿到，但我对钱会打到帐上还是坚信不疑的）。

杜然的博客：I'm blinded by blackness.


我的文章刊登在《经济观察家》报2011.5.9刊的“全球视角”版块，题为：
蒂姆·海瑟林顿：我只是想表现战争本身的质感

以下是正文：

Ballads for Bad Children

These poems are translated from the ones in Chinese by Bao Huiyi (包慧怡), who called herself Madame Blavatsky. As you can see, her poems contain a celestial mysticism and magical imagination. You can go to her BLOG for more of her original works. Bao Huiyi is also the Chinese translator of Margaret Atwood's Good Bones.


Desert Giant

My dear dearest girl
please don't blame my rudeness
don't blame me
for swallowing you into my chest
without your permission

Calm down and mind your skirt
my gullet is probably damp
and my throat might be dark
just stay calm, don't be panicked

Turn around that curve
and you will see my heart
dry and spacious, burning
white candles give off a lovely scent

For you, my dear
I went to France and swallowed beignets
piled on the table neatly in order

For you, my dear
I went to the East and swallowed the chinaware
containing the nectar of lilies

Of course
I also swallowed many other things my throat resists--
a pair of silk dancing shoes
an ivory harp
a birch forest
and a pond filled
with sweet flag grass
I'd even swallow a little boat
so you could row it adrift
I'd even swallow a swarm of bees
and let them fly about by your hair

My dear, dearest girl
if there is anything I've forgotten
please forgive my short memory
please forever and ever
live in my heart
no turning back or whatsoever
I will be careful and make sure
it'll be a warm and peaceful place like never



My Lovers

My lovers
have always been the same one
tall and walking in hesitancy, none of the others
but always bearing the water zodiac signs
when smoking, his face looks like ceramic in profile
when walking in the sun, he is weightless almost unnoticeable
He wrote poems for me, asked me out on the phone in a low voice
and kissed me only at sunset
He never made decisions, but always kept his ambitions
as fragile as me, we were the best people
He bid me farewell with a smile, caring about me no more ever after
like two friends knowing each other so well

My lover grows a thorn that reaches inwardly
with so many enduring bronze blades
a pair of ebony hands find nowhere to land
his white face can be written on
his white eyelashes blink without an answer
a gloomy heart-beating happens once and for all
I pushed the door open and went out in the morning
the flowers were calm and elegant, silently the dews imploded
the clouds assumed an air of some sort
I thought I was a lovely being then

I thought I could love a different one
I thought I could move on anytime, and leave cape jasmine stems
on my way to gauge the border of the island
stand in the water for a bit when tired
and let the rhinoceros beetle
stand on my eyebrow for a while
I though I could plant those transparent zebras

I thought my heart was huge and grand
I even thought I could finish this song
without being sad


A long train is piercing through my rib cage
but I think I will see it again



I can Still Look at You

I can still look at you
like I've never met you before
also like
we have been in love for so long
a leopard walks out of the moonlight
by the window a basket of jelly fungi is covered in dust
If I love a man
I will only kiss his left cheek
If I'm loved
I only want to be touched on my eyebrows

a little history about today and the past

I was at Jane and Nichola's today last year. It was a starry night and the leafy trees were swaying outside the shimmering bungalow house. I was taking a shower in the bathroom, fumbling in a pile of "woman use" lotions with my eyes covered in hair shampoo. Jane said the tap water in town had been contaminated, but still could be used to clean our contaminated bodies. I found the tub drain was clogged so I bent over to unclog it. A tiny ball of hair was pulled out in a tangle. Judging by the color, I knew they were not mine.

I had just returned to Grahamstown from Queenstown, where I did a whole day's documentary shooting with Asa and Zikhona, two Xhosa girls who kept making fun out of the things they had seen.

"That's the hospital where I was born! " Zikhona shouted when we were waiting for the mini-bus outside Fort Hare. "I can't believe it's still there."

She pointed to a piece of white wooden board which said "Victoria Hospital". As the bus took me away, I saw a sign nailed to a tree on the side of the road: "Abortion is a sin. God will punish you." I had heard that polygamy was a commonplace among the Xhosa people and that unprotected sex was started at an early age by the youths in townships before they even had a good knowledge about AIDs. However, Catholic churches ruled all.

The hot shower did me tremendous good or perhaps it was because I had attempted to use some of Jane and Nichola's beauty products. Mithril, Jane's wolf dog was scratching his itchy part when I came out in my top and short pants. Jane insisted that I use her room for the night. "I'll sleep in the living room. Don't worry, I like sleeping there." Jane said. Her room was tidy with three kinds of decoration: framed photos, light wooden pieces in animal shapes hanging from the ceiling, and a low shelf stacked with books. I recognized Lord of the Rings among them, from where Mithril got his name. A rug was placed before the bed and I smelt a strong scent coming out of it. A dog's smell, by all that my nose could tell. I felt a little bit sorry for Mithril who might have been a regular sleeper in this room.

"...really? Today's Chong Way's birthday?... I see..." Jane was talking on the phone when I came into the light in the living room. "Chong Way," Jane handed the receiver to me with one hand covering the upper end, "Here's a call from Mindy."

I took it over and heard Mindy saying in guilty voice. "Chong Way, I should've told Jane earlier so that she could prepare a cake and some candles for you. I'm sorry that Robert and I can't be with you to celebrate your birthday. I wish you a happy birthday."

"Thank you, Mindy, but it's alright." I scratched my head and said, "I really appreciate that you still remember it. My father could hardly tell the day I was born. It's really OK. My family doesn't have a tradition of observing birthdays."

"Oh, poor Chong Way. " Mindy said, "You deserve a birthday celebration here. Don't worry, Jane will do it for you."

I hung up the phone and found Jane discussing with Nichola.
"Hey, boy, how come you don't tell us today is your birthday?" Nichola said accusingly.
"I didn't realize it until Mindy called me." I said. Obviously the matter was taken far more seriously than I could expect.
"Well I think we've still got a half cake in the fridge. haven't we?" Jane asked.
"Oh, yes. And some candles we had used in the last black-out." Nichola added.
Then both of them giggled.

A couple of minites later, an incomplete cake and some used candles were ready out on the wooden table on the veranda.
"Make a wish, boy." Nichola said after she had lit the candles with a matchstick.
I closed my eyes and palms, and made a wish of God-knows-what. When I was about to blow the candles, Nichola interrupted, "Give it a hard blow, boy. Concentrate and wipe them out once and for all."
I re-inhaled and blew the air out.
"Hurray!" They shouted, and Jane took out a long knife and gave it to me.
"OK, now you need to cut the cake. Remember when knife touches the bottom, you must scream the hell out of you." Nichola said.
"Scream? Really?" I asked doubtfully.
"Yes, Scream, Ahhhh--! Like this." Nichola demonstrated by holding her face in two hands and let out a high-pitched voice.

I slowly slid down the knife through the cake's softness.
"Do you feel it?" Nichola asked tentatively.
"Yes, I think I've touched the bottome."
"Ahhh---!!!" Jane and Nichola screamed, both holding their faces in hands.
"Ahhh---!!!" I joined them with my coarse voice.
We all laughed and finished the cake while sitting on the veranda facing the starry sky. Mithril jumped onto the couch and put his head upon Jane's legs. It was early winter, but the breeze still felt warm.

We chatted and Jane told me her child story when I posed a question about the Afrikaners and British living in South Africa.
"I was about 7 when my family moved from Liverpool to South Africa. My father was an engineer, and to work as an engineer in South Africa, one can make a better life than in Britain in the 70s. I remember the family living next to our door were Afrikaners, but I was too little to know what that means. They had a little girl of my age and we'd often play together. Her mother never saw us playing so everything was OK, until one day she took me into her house. Her mother saw me, and asked me about my family. I told her that we were from Liverpool, that's when she grew furious and shouted 'Out out you go! Do you know my grandparents were killed by you people!' She pushed me out of their house. I was petrified. After that, I and that girl were never allowed to see together."

We kept silent for a while, then I started, "I remember in one of Howard's classes, he said that actually it was the British who invented concentration camp. It was during the Boer War, when the British rounded up the Afrikaners and put them in camps like what the Nazis did to the Jews. Right after Howard said that, a student, who was obviously British if not English, interrupted. 'It can't be true!' He protested, 'The Brits didn't do that.' 'It is true.' Howard said sternly, 'Go to a library, it's all written on the books. There is no need for an arguement on a historical fact, which there is no doubt about.' The student looked very defeated and didn't say anything."

"Yes, I can understand why he was upset." Jane said, with one hand stroking Mithril's head, "I also came to understand why that little girl's mother was so furious after I have learned what happened to them in the past."

既然被带到这个世界，那么就生日快乐一下

Luca打来电话的时候，我正坐在办公室里昏昏欲睡。抓起电话，听到了一句久违的意大利语，耳朵顿时像找到了失散多年的亲人，却无法认出对方的脸，又羞又恼。
“Buon Compleanno！”
“啊？什么？”
“生日快乐啊！”
我惊叹一声，既为亲人的真身恍然大悟，又为这突然的生日问候感到惊喜。
“怎么，今天不是你生日吗？”
“啊，不是，Luca，明天才是。”
“我真是个笨蛋，太对不起了。”
“没什么，就当提前祝贺嘛。Grazie！”
“我知道你不觉得有什么，但是在意大利，提前祝福生日，会被朋友骂的。”

这是3月29号的下午，我在一幢写字楼的过道里打着电话。在那之后的10个小时，将是我来到这个世界的28周年纪念日。

28岁了，我银行账户里的钱仅够我在这个城市买两平米的立锥之地；28岁了，我已经丢失了我的人生目标，就像我曾经弹过的吉他被丢在了结满灰尘的角落，断了弦；28岁了，我那记不得自己儿子生日的父亲要我回去做一份他为我好不容易争取来的工作——我没有怪他，他早逝的母亲一直都记不得自己儿子的生日，靠村里接生婆的回忆，他才在自己的身份证上估摸写了个数字；28岁了，我那絮絮叨叨的母亲要她的儿子回去，为她繁衍后代，用另一个新生稳定她衰弱的神经，就像28年前她为这个家族做的那样。我快30了，他们说“你好落定了”，可我他妈还没二够呢。

今年的春天来得特别早

在男人的推动下，隔壁屋的女人又开始叫床了。时间是凌晨3:30。

通常在凌晨3:00，过道里会响起凌乱的皮鞋声和两股声浪交织而成的笑声——我门上原本安装猫眼的地方是个窟窿，所以声音能畅通无阻地直达我的床，穿过我的鼓膜，在我大脑皮层的沟壑里回响，并最终将我的意识唤醒。

我睁开眼，我的意识尚不能感到肉身的存在，它仍一半沉浸在自我的深渊里，一半透过双眼在黑暗里寻找出口。但是很快，深重的黑暗将它打了回去，我的肉身化为乌有，变成一团失重的混沌之物，漂浮在无边无际的黑暗里。

一阵清冷、零碎的金属撞击声后，门被打开，又被砰地关上，那两股持续的声浪突然被截断，猫眼孔至鼓膜的无形通道顿时消失，我的心随之一沉——也就是在那个时候，我的意识找到了我的肉身。我清醒过来，感到了莫名的痛苦。

隔屋的声音变得丰富起来：桌椅和地面的摩擦声，摔东西的声音，女人一惊一乍的笑声，男人翁声瓮声的怜讨声，女人开始呻吟，听不到男人的声音，床终于开始有节奏地吱嘎起来——床头肯定顶着墙，因为我听到墙壁也在呻吟——你太单薄了啊，谁让你这么单薄！

这时，屋子里的落地窗也配合着墙壁，将隔壁的声音请进了屋。这他妈大半夜开窗做爱啊，有木有！！！

终于，女人开始忘我地叫起了床。

我起床烧上水，解了个手，然后泡上茶，坐下，开始聆听起了这天籁之音。
已经半个月了，这出戏的高潮还要持续多久？

The Summer Sun

I dedicate this translation, which probably doesn't do justice to the original one, to Haizi on his Death Anniversay


In summer
If there is no cobbler on this street

I will stand barefoot
under the sun and watch it

Then think of the children born during the day
-- they must have planned it

You come to this world
You should take a look at the sun

and walk on the street
with your beloved one

To understand her
you need to understand the sun

(a group of healthy workers
are smoking cigarettes at midday)

The summer sun
oh, the sun

When Jesus came into this world
he also grew up in the sunshine

阳光灿烂的日子

华一路东路口有一家小店，卖炒饭、小面和米线（经营重点逐次递减）。路的旁侧是陡坡，往下塌陷出一块二十米深的凹地。小店就搭在路崖边，一个用水泥和铁皮支起来的L型微棚。外墙已被油烟熏得漆黑，一层沥青似的东西凝固在排烟口。墙角的灌木像是一排烟鬼的牙齿，发黑并且长势稀拉。两个临时方桌放在门口狭长的过道上，提醒着路人旁边逼仄的无名小屋是个卖吃的地方。

经营小店的是一对老夫妻，老太婆负责烧，老头子负责收钱和送饭。年轻的儿媳下晚班后会来搭个手。孙女和孙子两个通常会坐在昏暗的电灯泡下，姐姐念一本发黄的童话书，弟弟拉长了声腔向爸爸提出各种得不到满足的要求。一只尾巴掉毛、身体瘦弱的小白猫会准时地从墙角的细缝里钻进来，爬过地上的土豆、萝卜和四季豆，用微弱的叫声安慰坐在地上赌气的弟弟。我就坐在靠墙的长条桌旁，默默地读报——北碚的新步行街，贝鲁斯科尼的丑闻，易建联的初秀，半年前的故事就这样糊在了墙上，被我念了一遍又一遍。

小店的拐角处是一个熟食摊，卖猪拱、猪尾、猪头和猪耳朵，还有鹅肝、鹅翅和豆干。我会关照大嗓门的老板娘不要味精，少放海椒多放葱，称5块钱猪头肉，切细了再拌上蒜泥和花椒。然后折回小店，一盘用猛火炒出的炒饭已经在桌上备好。这就是我来重庆第一个月的伙食，急火多油的炒饭和香腻的猪头肉见证了我肚子上长出的10斤赘肉和变慢的头脑。

那天是重庆少有的艳阳天。傍晚出去吃饭的时候，还能闻到阳光在街道停留一天后的味道。我已经有三四个月没有系统地吃小店的炒饭+熟食摊的猪头肉了。在老家的一个礼拜让我强烈地感受到了嘴和胃的渴望——它们已经被重庆的食物驯化，这是我不愿看到却不得不接受的现实。

下面要叙述的其实跟吃无关，跟太阳也无关，只是因为恰好发生在我去吃饭的路上，并且那天阳光又出奇地好。也就是我走在瓷砖路上，离小店还差两张桌子的距离时，背后传来了嘈杂的叫喊和奔跑声。还没等我完全转过头，一个中学生模样的小孩就被一个同样中学生模样的人踹到在马路上。他侧身倒在地上，蜷曲双脚，抱住头，任由后者在他身上猛踢。紧接着，一阵纷乱的脚步，大队人马杀到，几个顶着五颜六色头发的中学生模样的人停步在半米远的地方，气喘吁吁地看着出脚的人像喊号子一样来回喊着“我打死你狗日的”、“你妈卖P”。

老太婆拿着铁勺站在小店门口，她的围裙旁探出两个小脑袋，很快被爸爸伸手按了回去。大嗓门的老板娘站在远处，跟身旁的人耳语着什么。路上的行人都收住了脚步，只有汽车迟疑地划过躺在地上的人。作为一个心跳猛烈的旁观者，我站在原地，看着穿过树叶的阳光洒在我们所有人的身上，不知所措。