Email: Celeste Mason

Querido Amigos,

I don’t remember exactly when I reached the point when I switched from being translated for to being the translator. In fact, I don’t think the line is clear, because I often need people to explain things to me in different ways so that I understand. Nonetheless, I am now also doing the translating. I’ve helped translate for two groups from the United States, and last week I translated for a women’s weaving group called “Corazón de las Mujeres,” or “Heart of the Women.”

These jobs require two different types of translating. One is a casual paraphrasing, such as “How do you say…?” This kind is much easier and is a lot less pressure. It is a loose translation where translations such as “He said something about that dog,” are often sufficient. And the response “I’m not sure” when someone asks “How do you say clothespin in Spanish?” leaves no one feeling voiceless. That type of translating is really quite harmless. The worst that can happen is a translation blooper that causes a big laugh and a community forming an inside joke for the rest of their time together.

On my first translating trip with a group from the United States, someone asked me “How do you say parachute in Spanish?” Being unsure, I went to my bilingual Guatemalan counterpart and asked him, “How do you say parachute in Spanish?”  Without any hesitation, he responded, “Par de zapatos.”  “Pair of shoes?” I thought. Then it hit me that he thought I had asked, “How do you say pair of shoes in Spanish?” Needless to say, we all had a big laugh. And some might say that the blooper was actually a blessing, causing joy.

The second kind of translating I have done is direct translation using the first person.  In other words, all of my “She saids” and “He saids” become “I´s.” There is much more pressure to get it right. And this is the kind of translating I have been asked to do now with Corazón de las Mujeres.

Corazón de las Mujeresis a group of women that formed during the armed conflict here in Guatemala in the early 1990s. The armed conflict is known for being a horrific 36 years when the military brutally murdered thousands of indigenous Guatemalans, even wiping out entire villages. These women were victims of the war. Their family members were killed and, as survivors, they were displaced from their communities. Since the early 1990s, this group of women has met monthly to discuss their experiences, share their stories, or attend women empowerment workshops put on by Centro Evangélico de Estudios Pastorales en Centro América (CEDEPCA). In addition to having meetings, they are also weavers. They work together to make woven handicrafts to sell to groups who come to visit them and hear their stories. Being a part of the Corazón de las Mujeres community is a means of emotional support and provides educational and financial opportunities in a country where opportunity of any kind is often limited to the elite and non-indigenous.

I have been asked to help out a lady who meets with women from Corazón de las Mujeresto conduct interviews about the women’s experiences and the tradition of weaving in their lives. Since these are interviews, I have to do direct translations. No paraphrasing. No “I’m not sure.” And I need to translate in first person.

As I listen to the ladies’ perfected, memorized stories and translate in their voices, I feel as though I have stepped into their shoes. It becomes easier to put myself where they have been. I really hear their suffering. And when tears well up in their eyes, tears enter my eyes too. At that moment, their voices are being heard through my voice. And the responsibility of translating their stories is both frightening and wonderful. From these women, I have understood the importance of telling one’s story. These women have told their stories to countless groups. Yet, the tears still come. It’s like something is weighing down their shoulders and it needs to be spoken aloud in order to lift the weight. Telling one’s story is a very personal experience. But without someone to listen, the story can’t be told.

After each interview is over, it takes me a moment to step out of the heart of the storyteller, to step out of the story and enter my own body, my own life. I worry that I didn’t convey in English what the women had conveyed to me in Spanish, that something was lost in translation. But the story was told again. And rather than the burden of reliving the same horrific events over and over, I see in the women’s eyes that telling their story has empowered them all over again. Maybe because as the storyteller, you are in control of what comes out of your mouth. And that makes you, in some way, in control of what has happened to you, I think.

As I reflect on the importance of sharing one’s experiences, I think about how I will convey my own story when I return to the United States. What will it mean to me to share my story? What will make the final cut of the perfected, memorized version? What is it that I really want to convey about my experience in Guatemala? With only two weeks left in my community, these questions become more pertinent. And though I’m sure that the story of the beheading of my Guatemalan Thanksgiving turkey would be entertaining, I don’t think that is the story I need to tell. Really, telling my story is telling these women’s stories and the stories of all those who have impacted me so much here. Those are the stories that explain what it is I have experienced and learned as a Young Adult Volunteer in Guatemala. Those are the voices that need to be heard.

Con amor,

Celeste