Abeer Abdel Hafez






Abeer Abdel Hafez, Professor Spanish language and Hispanic literature, Visiting professor Spanish and Arabic at Ohio Wesleyan University 2017- present, and translator. Studied Master and PhD at Complutense Madrid and Cairo University. Her research focuses on contemporary Latin American narrative and poetry (XX-XXI), Comparative studies, Hispanic Orientalism. Director of Dept. of Spanish Cairo University . Director of the Center for Ibero-American Studies, University of Cairo. Chair of Spanish Department Cairo University. Abdel Hafez published many acdemic and cultural articles.

She published more than 30 books translated from Spanish to Arabic and vice versa in NY, Latin America and Arab countries, including Don Quijote, Martín Fierro, Coplasof Jorge Manrique, Roberto Arlt, Julio Cortázar, Juan Goytisolo, Alcíbiades Gonzalez del Valle, Oliverio Girondo, Pedro Mir, José María Merino, Cristina Rivera Garza, Carlos Aguasaco, Juan Rojas and, Ahmad Alshahawy, Kholoud AlMoalaa among others.


She gave lectures at the University Complutense Madrid, Zaragoza, Castilla la Mancha, Sharjah, Jordan, f Denison and Walt Whitman House in NY.

Visiting professor at the University of Barcelona, ​​Autonoma , University of Castilla La Mancha, Zaragoza, Sharja, Denison USA and University of OWU.

Founder of the Wikipedia project - Translation from Spanish into Arabic in Arab universities.


I.
Tercermundista

Ven,

abre la puerta del aire

sus cerraduras son algas que se deslizarán

desde las alturas de los cielos de Oriente,

vete al Oeste.


Llevarás zapatos chinos,

envolverás la cabeza con un turbante,

y ella haría lo mismo,

torcerás tu lengua con vocales extraños

tragarás las consonantes,

temblarás al momento de dar un saludo

pensarás en un idioma y pronunciarás la otra,

moverás la cabeza como si entendieras

y tus hombros como si no te importara,

cerrarás tus papiros


Se apagará la esmeralda de tus ojos,

se partirán las dos aceitunas en tus ojos

se desvanecerán en sus ojos los colores del espectro,

aprenderás a llorar en acentos ajenos:

Si-len-cio-sa- mente

Es-con-di- da- mente,

una vieja serpiente se residirá en tu intestino

permanecerá una eternidad,

no se irá,

el universo será tu única sombra,

los humanos, no.


Musitarás tu discurso a la corteza de los árboles

siendo ésta la más vieja,

hablarás con el pájaro en lengua de signos,

allí, las ardillas se te acercarán porque no te las comes,

la mujer vieja y calva se acercará sigilosamente a ti,

el niño blanco te escupirá en la cara,

y el macho rubio te mirará de reojo.


Morirás y vivirás

en tiempos borrosos,

solo, te quedarán las huellas dactilares,

flotarán en tu cara mapas y mapas,

de tus oídos brotarán oraciones

citando a un solo D I O S con un sinfín de ojos.





II.
El loro en el balcón del sexto piso

Hablaba todas las mañanas

a los transeúntes de ida y vuelta,

y por la noche con Alá,

quería esconderse de los ojos gruesos

“Afaf” la bella,

le daba los granos, el agua y la fruta pelada

le reprendía por su fuga semanal


Se deslizaba al balcón del quinto piso

en el edificio de enfrente,

se filtra en su sangre caliente

una broma fría,

su silbido se vuelve tenaz

se convierte en gritos y gemidos

suplicando la vuelta a los techos

mudos y aburridos

a las paredes blancas pálidas

de la casa

al calor de una habitación

perfumada de canela y clavo


Allí fue testigo

de los latidos de la máquina de escribir

del nacimiento de la niña Araña en su séptimo mes

Todos íbamos a buscar a Coco.

Corríamos entre edificios y carreteras

seguíamos al silbido tono a lamentos

nos dispersábamos por las calles

tocando puertas de madera negras y marrones

dábamos la vuelta en las habitaciones


Oíamos, pero no veíamos nada

volvíamos derrotados

ahogándose en un sueño medio muerto,

íbamos al día siguiente

escuchamos golpes y silbidos,

abrimos la puerta y nos mira con ojos sarcásticos

Han pasado treinta años,

Falleció… seguido por “Afaf”.



III.
El ataúd es demasiado lento

mama…

El ataúd es demasiado lento

no vuela,

camina sobre espinas cortas y duras

diminutivas… invisibles,

generadas de sucesivas generaciones de erizos


La viuda murió hace mucho tiempo

¡culpa de nadie!

se asomaban dolientes en túnicas brillantes

los árboles miraban al cofre

con ojos incrustados y taciturnos,

las ardillas se escondieron,

tímidas del olor a muerte,

tragaron sus colas,

encogieron sus pulmones

para que nadie las escuchara


La Muerte en Ohio

la muerte verde

la muerte era verde, mama.



English translation of the poems

Translator Abeer Abdel Hafez


Tercermundista

Come closer,

open the door of the air

their locks are algae that will slip

from the heights of the Oriental skies,

then … go west.


You will wear Chinese shoes,

wrap the head with a turban,

and you would do the same


You will twist your tongue with strange vowels,

swallow the consonants,

tremble at the moment of giving a greeting,

think in one language and pronounce another one,

shake your head as if you understand,

and your shoulders as if you don't care,

you will have your papyrus closed.



The emerald in your eyes will fade,

the two olives will split in their cavities,

the colors of the spectrum will vanish in your gaze,

you will learn to cry in other people's accents:

Soundlessly


An old snake will remain in your visceral

will persist an eternity

He will not go,

the universe will be your only shadow,

but humans will not.


You will mutter your speech to the bark of the trees

this being the oldest

you will speak with the bird in sign language,

there …

the squirrels will approach you as you don't eat them,

the bald old woman will sneak up on you,

the white boy will smile in your face,

and the blond macho will glance you sideways


you will die and you will live

24 times per day,

alone, you will have the fingerprints,

maps and maps will float on your face,

prayers will flow from your ears

citing a single D I O S with countless eyes.



The parrot on the sixth-floor balcony

He spoke every morning

to passers-by back and forth,

and at night with Allah,

he aimed to hide from the curious thick eyes

“Afaf” the beautiful,

she gave him grains, water and peeled fruit

she scolded him for his weekly elopement

when he slips to the fifth-floor balcony

in the opposite building,

a cold joke…seeps into his warm blood


his hiss becomes tenacious,

it turns into screams and moans

begging to return to the dumb bored roofs

to the pale white walls

of the house

in the heat of a room

scented with cinnamon and cloves


There he witnessed

the beating of the typewriter

the birth of the broken legs-girl

in her seventh month


We were all going to look for Cucu,

we ran between buildings and highways

we followed the whistle tone to laments

we scattered through the streets

knocking on black and brown wooden doors

we turned in the rooms

we heard but saw nothing

we came back defeated

drowning in a half-dead sleep,

we were going the next day

we heard knocks and whistles,

we opened the door and he looked at us

with his sarcastic eyes

Thirty years have passed.

He passed away… followed by “Afaf”.



The coffin is too slow

Mama…

the coffin is too slow

does not fly,

paces on short hard thorns

diminutive... invisible,

generated from successive generations of hedgehog


The widow died a long time ago

nobody's fault!

mourners in bright robes peered out

the trees looked at the chest

with taciturn embedded eyes,

the squirrels hid,

timid of the smell of death,

they swallowed their tails,

they shrunk their lungs

so, no one would hear


Death in Ohio..

the green death

the death was green, Mama.




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