英语翻译

Return from the Cage
It was the open space in Austin that initially overwhelmed me. I couldn't adjust to it. The ease with which I could get in a car and drive to any place left me bewildered and confused. Where were the military checkpoints? Where were the armed soldiers asking for my identification papers? Where were the barricades that would force me to turn back?
I had just returned to the United States after an absence of 11 years, during which I lived in a refugee camp in Bethlehem, the town where Christ was born. I was not used to freedom of movement, nor to going more than a few miles without encountering military checkpoints.
Getting comfortable with my sudden freedom in Austin was going to take time. I had to adjust to no longer feeling like an animal inside a cage. Most days, I felt utterly dazed. I would spend hours sitting on a stone bench at the University of Texas, staring at the squirrels and the birds. The green lawns brought tears to my eyes.
My mind would drift to the refugee camp in Bethlehem, and to 3-year-old Marianna, my delightful ex-neighbor. Marianna has never seen a green lawn in her life and has never seen a squirrel. She lives confined to Bethlehem, forced to remain a *er behind the checkpoints and the military barricades. The distance between Marianna's house and Jerusalem is no further than the distance from my South Austin home to downtown. Yet Marianna has never been to Jerusalem and is unlikely to go there anytime in the near future, because no Palestinian can venture into the Holy City without a special Israeli-issued permit, and those permits are almost impossible to come by.
But adjusting to my sudden freedom paled in comparison to overcoming my fears and my nightmares. When I left Bethlehem, the second Palestinian uprising against Israel's military occupation was already two months under way. The sound of bomb explosions, gunfire and Apache helicopters overhead lingered in my mind. Hard as I tried, I couldn't shake the sounds away. They were always there, ringing inside my head.
Now, in Austin, there were nightmares. I would dream either of friends being shot dead, or see pools of blood spilling from human bodies, or that I myself was the target of gunfire. I would wake up in a sweat, terrified of going back to sleep. During the day, the sound of police or ambulance sirens made me jumpy. Helicopters flying overhead made me uneasy. I had to constantly remind myself that these were most often civilian and not military helicopters. I had to remind myself that the ambulances were not rushing to the wounded demonstrators.
I looked around me, and I wondered if anyone realized, or even knew, that the Apache helicopters being used by the Israeli military to shell innocent Palestinian civilians are actually made in this country! As a writer in Palestine, I had regularly visited bombed-out houses in search of stories. The home of a young nurse sticks out in my mind. A few miles away from the stable in Bethlehem where Christ is said to have been born, her house came under attack by Israeli tanks and was completely burned. I held the remains of some of the tank shells in my two bare hands and read the inscription: "Made in Mesa, Arizona."
I wanted to stand on a chair and scream this information to everyone walking through the mall. The tear gas civilians inhale in the Palestinian Territories is made in Pennsylvania, and the helicopters and the F-16 fighter planes are also made in the USA. Yet here in this society, no one appears to care that their tax money funds armies that bring death and destruction to civilians, civilians who are no different from civilians in this country.
And I worry about the indifference in this country. I worry because someday, young American men will find themselves fighting another Vietnam War - this time possibly in the Middle East - without a notion of what it is they are doing there. And we will have a repetition of history: Mothers will lose sons and wives will lose husbands in an unnecessary war. I have been repeating this warning in all the talks I have been giving in the past nine months. No one took me seriously. I couldn't understand why young Americans, with their whole futures ahead of them, should go to die in a war they will not understand.
奥斯丁（美国德克萨斯州首府）开阔的空间最初令我不知所措.我无法适应.这种可以开车到任何地方的*让我充满了困惑.军队的检查点到哪里去了?那些要求查看我身份证明的武装军人又去哪了?哪里是那些路障,迫使我掉头而回?
我刚刚回到了阔别11年的美国.在这11年当中,我住在伯利恒的一个难民营里.伯利恒是耶稣降生的那个小镇.现在,我不习惯这种行动的*,不习惯走过数里路都不会遇到军队的检查点.
我需要一些时间去适应我在奥斯丁获得的突然的*.我需要去适应不再像一只关在笼子里的动物.大多数时间,我感到十分的茫然.我会几个小时坐在德克萨斯州大学的石凳上,注视着松树和小鸟.绿色的草坪使我泪眼迷蒙.
我的思绪常会转到在伯利恒的难民营,转向三岁的玛丽安娜,我可爱的旧邻.玛丽安娜一辈子都没有见过绿色的草坪和松鼠.她的生活被禁锢在伯利恒,*成为检查点和军事路障下的囚犯.玛丽安娜的家到耶路撒冷的距离不超过我在奥斯丁东部的房子到市中心的距离.但是玛丽安娜从来没有去过耶路撒冷,在不久的将来也没有可能会去那里,因为只有拿着以色列发行的许可证巴勒斯坦人才能进入那个圣城,而那个许可证,几乎是不可能得到的.
但和我战胜恐惧和噩梦相比,适应我突然得到的*显得苍白无力.当我离开伯利恒的时候,第二个巴勒斯坦人民反对以色列军事占领的起义已经进行了两个月了.炸弹爆炸的声音,炮火声,还有阿帕奇直升机在头顶飞过的声音一直在我脑子里徘徊.不管我怎么努力,都不能把这些声音赶走,它们总是在那里,在我耳朵里轰鸣.
现在在奥斯丁,我会做恶梦.我常会梦到我的朋友被枪击而死,或是梦到从人的身体里流出来的血泊,或者,梦到我自己就是炮火的目标.我会满身大汗的醒来,不敢再睡去.在接下来那天当中,警察或者救护车的鸣笛总是会让我神经兮兮.直升机飞过我的头顶会让我很不自在.我不得不时常提醒自己,这是民用的直升机,而不是军用的.我必须提醒自己,救护车不是在去营救受伤的示威者.
我看着周围,寻思是否有人意识到,或者知道,以色列军队用来炮轰无辜的巴勒斯坦平民的阿帕奇直升机就是在这个国家生产的!作为一个巴勒斯坦的作家,我以前经常拜访被爆炸的房屋来搜寻题材.一个年轻护士的家在我的脑海中显现出来.她的屋子距离伯利恒的那个耶稣诞生的马坊有几英里远,她的房子被以色列的坦克袭击,完全被烧毁.我赤手捧起一些炮弹的碎片,读到这样的刻印,“亚利桑那州,美萨制造”.
我想站在一个椅子上,向所有路上的人高声喊出这个信息.巴勒斯坦地区人们吸入的催泪瓦斯是在宾夕法尼亚州制造的,直升机和F-16战机也是在美国制造的.但是,在这个社会,似乎没有人介意用他们交的税款资助军队.这些军队给平民,无区别于这个国家的平民,带来死亡和毁灭.
我为这个国家的冷漠感到忧虑.我担心,恐怕有一天,年轻的美国人会发现他们在打另一场越战——这次或许是在中东——而他们不知道自己在做些什么.历史会重演：在一场没有必要的战争中,母亲们失去儿子,妻子们失去丈夫.在过去的九个月中,在我所有的讲话中我一直重复这个警告.但是没有人把我说的话当真.我不明白为什么,年轻的美国人,他们的全部前途还在前面,竟会死于一场他们并不了解的战争.