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.