Bản Tin Liên Hội Nhân Quyền Việt Nam ở Thụy Sĩ

Hát với Solidarność (1)

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I am a humble Vietnamese boat people
Like my Polish brothers and sisters, we are a wounded nation
With Popieluszko and Solidarność
I raise my voice in song this Christmas night
Celebrating the birth of Christ,
To sing of the Dignity of Man,
Of Hope, of Spring.

O, Polska! Polska! My rebellious Polska
What emotions warm my heart now
We lived, we died,
In life and death so well united
On the battle field,
In prison cells,
In extermination camps,
Confined to gulags,
Deported to the outer bounds of wild isles.
On the ruins of six million innocent people’s graves
Here spring forth countless green shoots,
And there, flying towards the kingdom of peace,
Spread the broad wings of Hope...
Injustice’s trenches will be filled by alluvium,
Terror’s flames will be extinguished in providential rain,
The heart’s garden will be cultivated and tended by devoted hands.
Inspired by trust and humanity,
Each one of us looks at the other with radiant countenance,
Bestowing compassion on those around us,
And deploring the human condition.
In fraternity, we show our mood with song and dance,
Together we demand of ourselves a life of honesty and truth;
After more than thirty years of oppression and misery,
Our existence as beasts of burden, captives of an inequitable order,
Offers us no future.
To gain our Freedom, we cannot beg,
Who plucked the fruit of happiness from the plant we grew?
This is our native soil,
What right did the Soviet Union have to impose its hegemony?
For whom must we harvest all these fields of golden wheat ?
Which country will gain from our trains full of machines?
The wagons are overflowing with tears and sweat of workers.
During the numbing winter,
We do not have enough coal to heat our homes,
Our sick wives conceal their suffering in silence,
Our scrawny children fade away from malnutrition;
They lack milk, potatoes and medicine.
Replete with satisfaction,
The Party and its élite caste meet to natter,
And, with no regard for the wretched population,
Indulge in the pleasure of sumptuous feasts fit for kings.
Our parents taught us about sharing, and protecting the weak
And the victims of injustice:
The Party vehemently promulgates
Hate, vengeance and bloody class warfare.
A dyke has broken in the hearts of the people,
The tidal wave whirls with wrath...

From that day forth... from the Poznan uprising,
Despite their air force,
Their heavy artillery, their nuclear missiles,
Their divisions of tanks and armoured vehicles,
Nothing will alter their nightmare obsession.
They will never know peace,
They massacred our brothers in Berlin, in Budapest,
In the Prague Spring; in Huê, Têt Mâu Thân*
In Vientiane, in Phnom Penh, in Kabul,
Religious people, intellectuals, peasants, workers, students:
They spared nobody.
They were deluded,
Believing they could drown our people in the abyss,
Trample us, terrorise us, humiliate us,
No coercion can shake Poland’s faith
Because, since the Poznan insurrection,
There has been Gdansk, Cracow, Katowice,
Solidarność, with ten million workers united,
Like the four winds from the mountains and forests,
Like the waves of the vast oceans,
Like the galaxies of the heavens,
The hearts of our brothers on the five continents of the earth,
Beat in time with the songs
Which resound day and night, from the mines, the quarries,
From the factories, the building sites, the ports and town districts,
Resonating out to railway platforms,
Press offices, universities and churches.
You, young night-duty militiaman, don’t you hear them?
Try to recognise imperialism’s real face,
The phantom of darkness who crushes our rosebuds,
Who, with brittle laughter, disregards our grievances,
O, our Liberty! Our Independence! Our Hope!

Black April, 1975,
Plunging to their fate,
Saigon and South Viêt Nam, my native land,
Were put to death,
Boat people who almost perished on the high seas - what miracle brought me back to life?
I go to meet my imprisoned writer friends,
From Hanoi to Pekin. From Pyongyang to Lhasa,
From Belgrade to Sofia. From Havana to Bucharest.
I go to Granada, to Federico Garcia Lorca’s grave,
To Santiago, to meditate in memory of Pablo Neruda,
In Terezin, as a pilgrim, to the place whence Robert Desnos was deported.
I make my way in Paris of Victor Hugo and Paul Éluard,
I make my way in New York of the Statue of Liberty,
Despite storms, the steadfast watchwoman firmly grips
The torch of faith held fervently aloft.
My brothers, my sisters, my friends,
May I never neglect your call,
May I have the honour of echoing your voices.

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