这首《藏历土鼠年的痕迹》，始于2010年3月14日，在我个人写作史上非常重要，不只是因为长达四年才写完，更在于获得了诗歌意义的“解放”。这张图片是今天上午拉萨大雪，佚名摄影，来自网络。 |
藏历土鼠年的痕迹
唯色
接下来的纪念日[1]，似乎都能做到若无其事
而那年，看似变局乍现，他冲出去，她尖啸着
更有那么多平日藏在阴影中的无名人氏
抛弃了比谁都逼真的幸福面具
瞬间即永恒：被消灭的，成为国家机密
……清晨，我悄然推开家门
这天，将有多少偶遇，属于藏历土鼠年[2]的痕迹？
我相信，我会看见秘密
一路上：修鞋的，配钥匙的，上山开矿的，下河筑坝的……
多么勤劳的移民啊，早早地
开始了日常生活的烟火，就像满大街的杭州小笼包子[3]
在等候一群群饥饿的淘金者
每个路口，又添了几名穿黑衣的特警
背抵背，绑着硬邦邦的护膝，握着盾牌和枪
至于不计其数的据点、摄像头和告密者，犹如天罗地网
一旁吸烟、斜视的几个男子，将尾随拒绝合作的人
我被两个靠在小店门口的塑料模特吸引住了
各穿一套玫红翠绿的劣质内衣，曲线毕露
脖子上套根细绳，像凄惨的吊死鬼拴在卷帘门上
难道会被谁一把抢走，逃之夭夭？
关于宗角鲁康[4]，依然用母语口耳相传轶事趣闻
我素来沉醉。但今日的此处却让我紧闭双目
一线光明，径直射向作为背景的颇章布达拉[5]
却使插在顶上的五星红旗，泄露凶器的本质
这一线犹如照耀中阴之路的光明啊
希冀的并非来世，反而是无数个前世
于是，被砍光的一棵棵左旋柳[6]在复活
往昔垂挂湖面的大片连绵的经幡重又飘动
而那湖，当然，必须是葱茏环绕的过去之湖
仅仅容纳几条狭窄的牛皮船[7]划来划去
身穿绫罗、挂满珠宝的男女佳人，就像从地狱归来
湖心中的小寺，犹如金瓶似的小山
袒呈着一幅幅如梦幻泡影的壁画却徒留刀痕
是否所有的伤口都被授意愈合？
是否所有的印迹都可以被仔细抹平？
是否在不安中度日的你我仍如从前，一无所求？
黑夜却是倏忽而至，来不及做好心理准备
分明听见一辆辆装甲车碾压地面如闷雷滚动
夹杂着时断时续的警笛和各地口音的汉语令人慌乱
他们似乎是永远的胜利者，明天摇身一变
年长的是不要脸的恩人，年少的是被宠坏的游客
以及旷野上，活割藏野驴生殖器的矿老板[8]得意洋洋
狗也在凑热闹，一个比一个更能狂吠
我不用抬头，也能看见近在咫尺的颇章布达拉
在丧失中保持沉默，在沉默中抗拒丧失
我不必细数，也能铭记从阿坝[9]燃起的第一朵火焰[10]
它不是火焰，而是一百四十一位连续诞生的松玛[11]
我将掉落在地的泪珠拾起，轻轻地，放在佛龛上
2010-3-14，拉萨
2014-6-12，北京
2015-3-10，北京
注释：
[1]即2008年3月10日起，拉萨多座寺院连续发生僧众和平抗议事件，14日民众参与，与此同时图伯特（全藏）许多地方发生和平抗议。拉萨的抗议事件被中国政府以“拉萨‘3·14’打砸抢烧暴力事件”的名义镇压。
[2]藏历土鼠年即公历2008年。
[3]杭州小笼包子：来自中国南方今已遍布拉萨的小吃店。
[4]宗角鲁康：རྫོང་རྒྱབ་ཀླུ་ཁང་། (Dzonggyab Lukhang ),布达拉背后供奉鲁神（鲁为栖息在江河湖海、森林沼泽、神山古迹等地的各种生灵的总称）的殿堂。汉语称为龙王潭，藏语简称鲁康。
[5]颇章布达拉：ཕོ་བྲང་ཕོ་བྲང་པོ་ཏཱ་ལ།（Phodrang Potala），布达拉宫。建于公元七世纪，属吐蕃（图博）君王松赞干布及五世之后历代达赖喇嘛的宫殿。
[6]左旋柳：拉萨等地特有的一种顺时针方向盘旋生长的柳树。
[7]牛皮船：用牦牛皮缝制成的、呈梯型的一种皮船。藏语ཀོ་གྲུ།（Kordul），发音为“廓”。
[8]2014年8月某日，一汉人男子在西藏自治区阿里地区的旷野虐杀一级保护动物藏野驴，活割其生殖器的照片披露网络后引发关注和报道。新华社称该男子及同伴被公安部门拘捕，但身份与网友搜索及一些媒体报道不符，当地相关部门负责人的对外说辞也不一样，从之前所说的开矿包铁路的浙江老板变成了陕西某电力公司的电工，引发对虐杀者真实身份的质疑。
[9]阿坝：རྔ་པ།（Ngaba），即今四川省阿坝藏族羌族自治州阿坝县。
[10]2009年2月27日，在阿坝县，格尔登寺僧人扎白以自焚表达抗议。至2015年3月5日本诗完成，在境内藏地有136位藏人自焚，在境外有5位流亡藏人自焚，共141位藏人自焚。（补充：从1998年至2019年11月26日，在境内藏地有156位藏人自焚抗议，在境外有10位流亡藏人自焚抗议，总计166位藏人自焚抗议，包括26位女性，以农牧民、僧尼、学生为多。）
[11]松玛：སྲུང་མ།（Sungma），意为护法神，包括出世间护法神、世间护法神等，具有宗教的意义。
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《藏历土鼠年的痕迹》这首诗，2014年由美国诗人、翻译家Andrew Clarke先生译成英文，收录于泰瑞新音乐基金会（Terezin Music Foundation）为“2015年纳粹集中营解放七十周年”出版的这本诗集，与全球数十位诗人共同参与这一表达“解放”主题的项目。 |
Traces of the Tibetan Year of the Rat
by Woeser
Each year since, on this day of memories, it looked as if nothing had happened;
But that year, the crisis flared: he rushed out, she kept screaming,
And many nameless ones long hid in shadow
Threw off their lifelike masks of satisfaction.
A moment turned eternal: blotted out, they became secrets of state.
But that year, the crisis flared: he rushed out, she kept screaming,
And many nameless ones long hid in shadow
Threw off their lifelike masks of satisfaction.
A moment turned eternal: blotted out, they became secrets of state.
At dawn I stealthily push open my door.
In all I meet today, will there be any traces of the Year of the Rat?
I think I’ll manage to see what I’m not supposed to see.
In all I meet today, will there be any traces of the Year of the Rat?
I think I’ll manage to see what I’m not supposed to see.
Along my way are those repairing shoes, making keys, setting out to mine ore or build dams:
Hardworking migrants on their daily round—
Been up for hours, like the Chinese steamed buns awaiting hungry prospectors.
Hardworking migrants on their daily round—
Been up for hours, like the Chinese steamed buns awaiting hungry prospectors.
At every intersection stand extra cops (the special ones in black uniforms)
Back to back, girded with shinguards, gripping shields and weapons;
And at countless observation posts you’re surrounded by spies and surveillance cameras,
For to one side there are always a few men smoking and casting glances,
ready to tail anyone who doesn’t follow the script.
Back to back, girded with shinguards, gripping shields and weapons;
And at countless observation posts you’re surrounded by spies and surveillance cameras,
For to one side there are always a few men smoking and casting glances,
ready to tail anyone who doesn’t follow the script.
Two plastic mannequins propped in a shop’s doorway catch my eye.
They’re scantily clad in cheap undershirts of gaudy red and green,
With a cord round their necks, as if two poor souls had hanged themselves on the security grille.
Did the shopkeeper think anyone would make off with them?
They’re scantily clad in cheap undershirts of gaudy red and green,
With a cord round their necks, as if two poor souls had hanged themselves on the security grille.
Did the shopkeeper think anyone would make off with them?
At Dzongyab Lukhang, often I linger
To drink in such news and gossip as is still shared there in the mother tongue.
But today the scene makes me shut my eyes tight:
In the background, a ray of light falls precisely on the Potala and catches,
Jabbed into the top of it, a red flag with five stars
—The murder weapon, revealed.
That sunbeam’s like the light that shines upon the bardo,
Except our hope’s not in the life to come, but in the lives beyond counting that are gone.
To drink in such news and gossip as is still shared there in the mother tongue.
But today the scene makes me shut my eyes tight:
In the background, a ray of light falls precisely on the Potala and catches,
Jabbed into the top of it, a red flag with five stars
—The murder weapon, revealed.
That sunbeam’s like the light that shines upon the bardo,
Except our hope’s not in the life to come, but in the lives beyond counting that are gone.
I reach a grove of willows that was cut down and is now growing back,
And the long strand of prayer-flags which dipped to the water now flutters anew;
But this pond must be the lake as it was of old, rimmed with green fields,
And holding but a few coracles paddled back and forth
By young men and women arrayed in silks and jewels, so fine,
As if they’d come back from the land of the dead.
At its center stands a small temple like the words of a song . . .
Dreamlike scenes, as from a mural—but one bearing the marks of a knife.
Is it possible all the wounds have been healed on command?
Can every imprint have been carefully rubbed smooth?
In this disquiet can we live the way we used to, as if nothing were wrong?
And the long strand of prayer-flags which dipped to the water now flutters anew;
But this pond must be the lake as it was of old, rimmed with green fields,
And holding but a few coracles paddled back and forth
By young men and women arrayed in silks and jewels, so fine,
As if they’d come back from the land of the dead.
At its center stands a small temple like the words of a song . . .
Dreamlike scenes, as from a mural—but one bearing the marks of a knife.
Is it possible all the wounds have been healed on command?
Can every imprint have been carefully rubbed smooth?
In this disquiet can we live the way we used to, as if nothing were wrong?
Darkness falls swiftly and gives me no time to prepare for it.
A column of armored personnel carriers gets under way like muffled thunder,
And a babel of regional Chinese accents, punctuated by police whistles, sets me on edge.
They have the air of those who always win. Tomorrow they will be transformed—
The older ones into seniors with gravitas (they have no shame!), and the young ones into jaded tourists.
Dogs join the din, barking wildly.
A column of armored personnel carriers gets under way like muffled thunder,
And a babel of regional Chinese accents, punctuated by police whistles, sets me on edge.
They have the air of those who always win. Tomorrow they will be transformed—
The older ones into seniors with gravitas (they have no shame!), and the young ones into jaded tourists.
Dogs join the din, barking wildly.
Without looking, I can feel the Potala is there, a stone’s throw away.
It keeps silent in its loss, yet refuses in its silence to accept the loss.
I remember the flames of a fire first kindled at Ngaba—
No, those were not flames but protector deities, one hundred thirty-five of them,
And they are arising still.
It keeps silent in its loss, yet refuses in its silence to accept the loss.
I remember the flames of a fire first kindled at Ngaba—
No, those were not flames but protector deities, one hundred thirty-five of them,
And they are arising still.
I retrieve a fallen tear and place it gently in the basket on the altar.
Translator’s Note:
In the years since completion of a high-altitude rail link to Lhasa in 2006, the city has experienced an influx of Han Chinese tradesmen and workers, in addition to the heavy police and military presence which is predominantly Han.
The Year of the Earth Rat, according to the Tibetan and Chinese calendars, was 2008. That year, a movement of protest and resistance (mostly non-violent, with the exception of the March 14 riot in Lhasa) spread throughout the Tibetan areas of the PRC and was forcibly suppressed.
Dzongyab Lukhang is a park in Lhasa, north of the Potala Palace that was once the home of the Dalai Lama.
The bardo, in Tibetan Buddhism, is a state through which a person passes between one incarnation and the next, that is, between death and re-birth.
Ngaba is a county in the southern part of the traditional Tibetan zone called Amdo, in Sichuan Province. On February 27, 2009, a young monk named Tapey set himself on fire there after authorities cancelled prayers at Kirti Monastery. In the years since then, more than 130 Tibetans have self-immolated in protest. Woeser’s analysis of this phenomenon has been published in France as Immolations au Tibet: La Honte du Monde (Indigène éditions, 2013: transl. Dekyid) and in the United States as Tibet on Fire: Self-Immolations Against Chinese Rule (Verso, 2016: transl. Kevin Carrico).
Woeser contributed this poem to the anthology Liberation: New Works on Freedom from Internationally Renowned Poets (Beacon Press 2015; ed. Mark Ludwig), where this translation first appeared.
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