Bayan Abubakr
Tadamon–The Egyptian Refugee Multicultural Council
Cairo, Egypt
Over the past few weeks, I have been busy translating a series of human-rights-related documents (pamphlets, brochures, and flyers, usually from the UNHCR and/or other civil-society/grassroots networks in Cairo) from English to Arabic and vice versa. These documents are distributed to the community members in Tadamon’s various centers.
One poster I am particularly proud of, shown here, was translated from Spanish to Arabic and provides details on the various levels of violence migrant and refugee women can face. We’re working on translating it to French as well, and it will hang in each of Tadamon’s community centers by the end of next week.
This poster literally translates Spanish to Arabic, but in a sense, it also translates the language of human rights into one that can be understood by refugee women in Cairo, whose day-to-day lived reality may include violence. It gives the women who come to Tadamon’s centers the power to name that violence. Not to say they were incapable of this before, but the violence against them is often considered negligible compared to everything else they face. The poster also validates their experiences and shows the psychological services Tadamon provides.
The point has been to make these documents more accessible; yet, the politics of Arabic translation are messy and felt exclusionary, especially in this case. Arabic, though spoken all over the Arab world, has many different dialects. Moroccan Arabic (darija) is usually unintelligible to Arabic speakers from the Levant, the Gulf, and East Africa. Hejazi Arabic, spoken in western Saudi Arabia, is usually unintelligible to Arabic-speaking North Africans. Therefore, Modern Standard Arabic (fus’ha) is used by media outlets, government documents, books, and widely transmittable media, save for movies, TV shows, and music.
Modern Standard Arabic, however, is not spoken in informal contexts. It is usually only written and read. Furthermore, those who can read and write in Modern Standard Arabic have usually received a formal education at the elementary-plus level. Some of the women Tadamon serves cannot understand written Modern Standard Arabic but can understand a written dialect. Therefore, if I were to translate the documents into a specific dialect, I would alienate some. Ultimately, my supervisor and I decided that it would be best to use Modern Standard Arabic.
On another level, I too am being lost in translation. The other day, I was on the metro, going from Downtown Cairo (Tadamon’s HQ) to where I live, Maadi, a neighborhood that has a mix of Arab and black African migrants/refugees on one side and Western migrants (or expatriates, as they are often called) on the other. I asked a woman sitting next to me if we had arrived at a certain stop. She said no, but that we were a stop away. She asked if I lived in Maadi, and I told her I did. She said, “Ahh, into kolakom 7inak!” (all of you are there).
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about black African migrants or Americans/Europeans. I’m Sudanese with dual citizenship from Sudan and the US; however, I don’t look Sudanese in the “traditional” sense. I think it’s my hair that throws people off. Usually, Sudanese women have their hair slicked back, in braids, or permed. I’m wearing my hair naturally, in an afro, and I think this gives the impression that I’m not from “here.”
I am able to step out of the “Western” category, however, once I start speaking Arabic. And since my accent is quickly discerned as Sudanese, I automatically become “Sudanese.” This all means that I am able to access spaces Westerners and Sudanese cannot at various different times, because I can literally switch to being either/or. It’s a unique and off-putting wielding of privilege.
At Tadamon’s Maadi Center–usually frequented by Sudanese migrants and refugees–I am welcomed into conversations with community members when they hear my Arabic. However, upon informing them of my American background, it’s almost like a wall gets built up around me. It’s as if my Americanness negates my Sudaneseness, and the space becomes slightly closed off to me. Growing up in Sudan and being in the opposite situation (having Western foreigners come into my safe spaces), I learned to build a wall up, as their presence could feel invasive and surveillance-like, so I can’t say I don’t understand where they’re coming from. It’s really my job to learn how to negotiate the spaces I enter and how my identity, being both Sudanese and American, affect said spaces and the people around me.