Lost in Translation

I was burning the midnight oil when the call came urgently asking me to come to Tehran in the morning and translate this woman's speech into English at a religious institute. Seeing as they even made it easy on me by faxing me a copy of her speech, I decided it wouldn't kill me to use up the rest of the midnight oil to help their cause.

A bit after sunrise, after I had finally succeeded in hacking prhases such as "the weeping flowers and blossoms of the Resistance" and "the illegitimate Zionist cancer aggressor" into what I felt was acceptable English, my friend and I headed for the religious institute in Tehran. (As usual, once we got near Tehran and began coughing on the thick pollution and languishing in the heavy traffic, I regretted that I had ever wanted to go there, and wished someone would put me back in Qom) As we marveled at the size and stature of the institute, a guide greeted us warmly and told us not to worry because the bus would soon come to take us where we were going.

Where were we going? We looked at each other and at various placards that said "DEATH TO ISRAEL!", and it dawned on me that we were headed for a demonstration. Since I had sworn off demonstrations, I was a bit annoyed; but since I believed in the cause, I didn't say anything.

Scores and scores of black-chadored women -- as well as a handful of men -- met us at the demonstration. As I took in the old women carrying pictures of their martyrs, and the young women wearing kefiyyahs over their faces with (presumably) mock-up explosives strapped to their chests, I realized that this demonstration was unlike any other that I had hitherto been to. This was a real demonstration.

"Death to America! Death to Israel!" roared through the crowd.

"Woe to you, Israel," incited a lady from up front, "if Khamene'i declares war on you!"

"Death to America! Death to Israel!" For the first time since I had come here, I realized how the revolutionary spirit had swept through the country and ousted the shah. As I listened to them chant, I really felt that I too was going to go fight the jihad, and Israel would be demolished. I felt an immense sense of my own responsibility, and decided that I would do everything I could to deliver a stirring translation.

"It's your turn," my guide whispered, leading me up to the stage. "Speak loud. Don't be shy. Let it all out!"

I noticed I was the only one at the microphone. "Where's the lady I'm translating for?" I asked.

"Oh," she said to me conspiratorially, "we thought it would be better if you just gave a speech yourself."

Gulp. I looked out at the crowd, and the crowd looked back at me. I would have said that I couldn't believe what was happening -- except that I have learned that everything that can happen in Iran does. I grabbed my translation and looked for help. "The Zionist cancer. The useless U.N." There was no way those words were going to come out of my mouth with a billion TV reporters pointing their cameras at the token American who hated Israel. I looked at the translation again. "Islamic unity. Boycott Israeli goods." I could work with that.

All of a sudden, as if time stopped for a moment, I caught a glance of that often-circulated picture of Israeli soldiers beating a woman and her children. I decided then and there that I was going to ignore the crowd and the translation and everything else and just do what I could to speak for that child.

I took a deep breath. (Actually, I also prayed) "Allahu akbar!" I called out.

"Allahu akbar!" they replied.

"Allahu akbar!" I repeated.

"Allahu akbar!" they called back.

Thank God, thank God, this was easier than I thought. Calling out one more "Allahu akbar!" so I could take a microsecond and wrack my brain for any tidbits of Sayyid Nasrullah's speeches that I could remember, I plunged in.

As I was describing the second Qana massacre, I caught sight of an American reporter in the crowd. She had interviewed me yesterday, and I had done my best to present myself in a calm and rational fashion. In fact, I had even invited her to the program at which I would be translating. Now, she had the privilege to see my other side, the side that yelled about the "Zionist enemy". I decided that I had best pretend that she was not there, and hoped she wouldn't write about it back home.

And in no time, it was over. With the mantra of "never again" going through my mind, I stepped down from the podium.

"Good job!" my guide congratulated me. "We were worried about you. You seemed so quiet when we met you. We didn't think you could do it!"

I muttered my thanks and escaped from various newscameras on the pretext that I couldn't speak Farsi or that I wasn't allowed to interview. ("But we have a translator!")

Later on that day, my friend and I were blinking back sleep at Tehran airport when, all of a sudden, "Death to America!" blared over a giant set of TV's. It looked even larger on TV. I noted with considerable relief that they had declined to broadcast the American's speech, but the sound still sent chills through me. The anger, the passion, the determination -- it was real.

And now I was a part of it.