Nou Dhufáyyá Mazí
Soiddó dinna sañdor foórót giyyé dhuli dórí
Hál farayyá háñçi gíló zaga dui ek kuni
Bowór bóíné háñci háñci, maijjé añiçá faní
Fúu hórí yé dójje hóoñlá, gayyé rok dórí
Razar zérfúá bou banayyé, anér bonnout gorí
Tal bazoya bunzaáñz bazar, kiyé marer tali
Thándha boyar uñrai loizar, sañdot mazé bari
Mazí thaner foñi fuñhayya, hírár fúçá zórí
Golot thane hálor gúlát, nou giló góí dhufí
Bicáyá fúl mozi zargóí zaáñlámátár hárí
The Boat-sinking Captain
Full moon night, a wedding
crosses the river and the pageant walks a few acres.
The sister of the bride throws down filthy water and smiles.
An auntie in-law sings. Hóoñlá hits a nerve.
Princess into bride, she arrives on a large rowboat.
Musicians play cymbals, others clap their hands.
A cool breeze wafts rhythm to the moon.
The captain pulls the oars rapidly, diamond drops fall.
A false tug sinks the boat in a whirlpool.
Flowers spread through Zaáñlámatár, perish.
Note:
Hóoñlá is a Rohingya traditional wedding song, often sung to tease from groom’s side to bride and vice versa.
Zaáñlámátá is a place on the bank of Mayyu River.
Ofúrání sófor
Oñccá rait hoto lambá
Gā matá ím, sukhót ghúm no āyé
Áñçilám boót duré
Ajjó monzil hañsé no āyé
Acá diló rait fúrar hói
Ratá kurár bak funá no āyé
Bajjailám hoto doroda
Ajjó honó juwab no āyé
Holiddwá fúl bointe deházá
Háráyá hók kén fírí no āyé?
Fúinnidé foór bole hókkolór bec sole
Añár híkka kén ebbereo no āyé
Áñçilám boót duré
Ajjó monzil hañsé no āyé
Endless Journey
How dark Oñccá night is!
Cold-bodied, sleepless eyes.
I have walked so far,
But the destination is no closer.
They gave me hope the night would end,
There is no crowing of the rooster.
I’ve knocked on so many doors,
No-one has answered.
Even buds are visible as they become flowers,
Why don’t lost rights return?
I’ve heard that light travels the fastest,
But why does the light never come my way?
I’ve walked so far,
The destination is no closer.
Notes:
Oñccá night is the longest night of the year.
There is a saying in Rohingya that buds can’t be seen blooming as flowers. So, the “Even buds are visible as they become flowers” is used to present an impossible event.
Noú Asé Gór Noú Asé Mon
Noú asé ghór noú asé mon asé hoibár ki ki
Fúnóyá yo hóçé asé hoyúm haré ki ki
Sensár beráí cúka bórí nokót dilám bari
Faássólóí thani gibot goillám aro goillám ki ki
Dana besi iman añárá diyí doijjat dhali
Muúmmíká ayér nosól tarár óíbó ki ki
Bháyé bháyé háná haní fororé lóí thana thani
Ki zindegi geilgóí añrár aró zaibo ki ki
Sukh táí añdá óyyi añárá gal táí buk óyyí
Bēlómí lóí mogoz dúye aró dúíbó ki ki
Gujja haçi mujjáí féillé roidot fúaddí
Hoto zala cói félailám cóoyúm aró ki ki
Noú asé san noú asé tara asé ar ki ki
Zindegit foór asé hoçé dekhíyúm añí ki ki
Noú asé tór noú asé mon asé hoibár ki ki
Fúnóyá yo hóçé asé hoyúm haré ki ki
No, I don’t have a home or the strength to speak
No, I don’t have a home or the strength to speak. What do I have to say, what?
No-one listens. So, who should I speak to? What would I say, what?
I rolled the family census paper, heaped with tobacco, tapped the filter with a thumbnail.
Took a drag from the Faássólóí, gossiped, and did whatever. Whatever.
Selling drugs we squandered our faith in the river.
What will happen to the future generation, what else?
Friendly among strangers, bickering among brothers.
What a life passed us by. What else will pass? What?
Even with eyes, we became blind. Even with a mouth, we were silent.
They washed our brains with illiteracy. What else is to be washed? What?
Cut from the stem, wilted, forced to dry out in the sun.
So much we suffered, What else is there to suffer? What else?
There is no moon, no stars. What else is there? What else?
No light in my life, what can I see? What?
No space under my feet, or the strength to speak. What do I have to say, what?
No-one listens. Who should I speak to? What would I say, what?
Note:
Faássólóí is a thin cigarette or mini-cigar filled with tobacco flakes and commonly wrapped in a leaf or paper tied with a string or adhesive at one end.
Belor Wada
Wada mozin beínná uçé
Gaíllá múkhót roid fore
Ghúm gas zehón seton ó
Gasór agat báttwá nase
Gom fuain moktobot za
Gaíllá zehón dat añsé
Tháça fáçá roid fore
áíllá hakku kér basé
duúñjjá óilé fara nizám
Kírkíríttun roid gólé
Beilor cóçákót dúil nase
Zeiñlla honó tal fúné
Duré honnát fiñyajja gan gaár
añdá dúilór tale tale
Beil no deílé ghúm gas zúré
áñzzua zúrá lesá dóré
Beil zagói oinna mullúk
Foór foóñsá ghóré ghóré
Beil hono din cúthkí no lo
Tarfor dín házír wadar ore
Wada mozin beínná uçé
Gaíllár múkhót roid fore
The Sun’s Promise
As promised, it rises,
sunlight falling upon the lazy man’s face.
When the rain tree wakes up,
the Myna birds dance on the treetop.
Dutiful children travel to school
while the lazy man scratches his teeth.
The sun burns hot.
My uncle, the farmer, weeds grasses.
At noon, the village is serene,
sun rays climb through the window,
particles dance in the light,
as if they can hear music.
Far off, a sparrow sings
on the rhythm of blind atoms.
If the rain tree cannot see the sun, it dozes off.
Áñzzua zúrá imitates the tree,
and the sun moves on elsewhere,
carrying its light inside every house.
The next morning, the sun appears, as promised,
it never has an off day.
As promised, it rises,
sunlight falling upon the lazy man’s face.
Note:
Áñzzua zúrá is a person who dozes off in the evening.
All the poems are translated from Rohingya by James Byrne and the author, Ro Mehrooz.
Ro Mehrooz is a young Rohingya poet, translator, and award-winning photographer. Born in 1999, he is originally from Arakan (now Rakhine State) of Myanmar. Growing up under the oppression of the Burmese regime, he fled his country at the young age of sixteen avoiding arbitrary arrests. Primarily in Rohingya, he started writing in early 2016 about the longing of his homeland and harsh conditions of his community. His poems were published for the first time in 2019 in the anthology, I am a Rohingya: Poetry from the Camps and Beyond (Arc Publications, 2019). His poems are also featured in Modern Poetry in Translation (Summer 2020), Border Lines: Poems of Migration (Everyman’s Library, 2020), No, Love Is Not Dead (Chambers, 2021) and Adi Magazine, (Spring 2021).
James Byrne is a poet, editor, translator, and visual artist. His most recent poetry collections are Places you Leave (Arc Publications, 2022) and Of Breaking Glass (Broken Sleep Books, 2022). He has edited various anthologies including Bones Will Crow, the first anthology of contemporary Burmese poetry to be published in English (Arc, 2012, Northern Illinois University Press, 2013) and I am a Rohingya, the first book of Rohingya refugee poems in English. Byrne is the International Editor for Arc Publications and works as a Reader in Contemporary Literature at Edge Hill University.
Norske lesere kan oppsøke dette intervjuet med James Byrne hos Vagant for å få vite mer om Rohingya-prosjektet.
KLIMAAKSJON / NORWEGIAN WRITERS´ CLIMATE CAMPAIGN // NWCC 