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The Etobon Project

The Etobon Project

  "Remember! 39 men from Etobon were summarily buried here, having been shot by the Nazis on September 27, 1944 against the wall of the church. They were moved to their final resting place in the Etobon cemetery on December 8, 1944."

Living in eastern France, near Germany, i learned much about the occupation of France during World War II. The experiences of my friends and neighbors led to a profound and enduring interest in this period of France's history.

The Etobon Project began as a translation of the journal of Jules Perret, blacksmith in Etobon, France, during the occupation. The story of this tiny village and its sacrifices are central to my understanding of those years. When the initial translation was completed, I began to discover addition materials in French that needed a wider audience. On these pages, you'll find translations I've done of materials provided to me that are first-hand accounts of the lives of French villagers, soldiers, and others as they navigated the reality of occupation by a cruel and merciless regime.

I hope you find these accounts as moving and enlightening as I do.




Entries in poetry translation (1)

Wednesday
Mar192014

World Poetry Day Translation of Imprisoned Cameroonian Poet

I'm honored to take part in EnglishPen's World Poetry Day translation project. Imprisoned Cameroonian poet Enoh Meyomesse's work is focused on his experience of persecution and suffering. My translation of his poem
Mon chapeau, je te lève’ is found on their website. The project draws attention to Meyomesse's plight as well as that of many other writers whose voices have been silenced by repressive regimes.

I tip my hat to you, old hat

My old hat,

I tip my hat to you

You have known imprisonment

            So that others may be free

            I tip my hat to you, old hat

My old hat,

I tip my hat to you

You have known exile

            So that others may be free

            I tip my hat to you, old hat

My old hat,

I tip my hat to you

You have known persecution

            So that others may be free

            I tip my hat to you, old hat

My old hat,

I tip my hat to you

You have known handcuffs that eat away my skin

Fear that leaves me voiceless

My guts twisted in pain

My mouth dry as a stone

And my chest suffocating

And my hands that tremble,

That tremble

That tremble

            Tremble

            Tremble

ALL ALONE

Like leaves blown about in a tornado

You

Have felt the truncheon cruelly tearing at my back in the CHAPEL

and the boots kicking my ribs in rage and the machete

violently beating my swollen feet and the hut’s flimsy door

broken down and the mattress torn up in the dry-eyed search for pamphlets written by me and the straw ceiling pierced by the bayonet and the raffia roof torched with a smirk

            I TIP MY HAT TO YOU, OLD HAT

Now that I’m the laughing stock of the world

Now that I’m the laughing stock of everyone

Now that I’m the laughing stock of my closest friends

I’ve discovered O God

That it’s not easy to give your soul your body your being your life as a sacrifice for the good of others