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从五年前开始，阿根廷女诗人玛丽亚·麦德拉诺（María Medrano）每周都会走进阿根廷首都布宜诺斯艾利斯附近一座女子监狱的大铁门一次，并在那里组织了一个诗歌班。她由此创建了一座连接“里面”和“外面”的桥梁，并让它成为来自不同国家的女犯人的一个非常重要的空间……
Sunglasses propped on her head, a 1)white iron megaphone in hand, she begins the day by uttering: “Friendship is a sacred name, a sacred thing. It exists only between good people […] There can be no friendship where cruelty, disloyalty and injustice prevail.” Silvia Elena Machado reads aloud one of the posters an independent publisher stuck on the pink walls of the function room in Unit 31 of the 2)Ezeiza women’s prison, located in the suburbs of
3)Buenos Aires.
Every Friday for the past five years, this room hosts a poetry 4)workshop bringing together ten to fifteen 5)inmates. Today, [December 7, 2007], is a day of celebration because it marks the second edition of the annual poetry festival entitled “I Didn’t Do It.”
A crowd of people follows Silvia Elena across the room. She continues reading the Discourse of Voluntary Servitude, by French writer 6)Étienne de La Boétie: “Between mean people […] there is no love, only fear. They are not friends, but
7)accomplices.” The megaphone is passed from hand to hand, and after Silvia Elena, who has returned to the prison for the first time after having been freed ten months ago, it is the turn of Laura Ross, an inmate without a foreseen date of release: “Decide to stop being 8)servile...”
Other convicts read with difficulty, timidly, encouraged by small pats on their backs from fellow prisoners. Applause resounds. Outside the sun is shining but the prison guards are not authorized to open the door that gives onto the small courtyard.
“I Didn’t Do It” is Bart Simpson’s favorite expression [Bart is the 10-year-old boy who is one of 9)The Simpsons main characters], which the workshop participants selected two years ago to 10)baptize their first festival. They also gave this title to their first 11)anthology of poems. In the anthology, María Medrano, the poet who, once a week, with fellow Claudia Prado, enters Ezeiza prison with 12)a cartload of books, writes “Most women who participate in the workshop had never had any contact with this literary genre. Some of them decided to sign up to ‘kill time’, others, to see what it was all about. But what is certain is that, bit by bit, the workshop has become a vital space [...] They did not want to write ‘tumbera’ poetry [note: tumbera is the term used to designate what belongs to the prison world in Argentina ; la tumba (tomb) means jail], because for them, this language is part of the 13)depersonalization process of which they are victims: when you enter prison, you stop being a person and become a ‘package’ (this is what the guards call the inmates), you receive a new first name, a new surname ‘tumbero’, and little by little, daily language becomes prison language.”
Here, poetry becomes a space of resistance, even if the 14)penitentiary system considers it part of the “non-productive”, cultural workshops, meaning that they do not generate any revenues as opposed to the bread- or stuffed-animal-making workshops (prisoners who participate in these receive a small salary which they can spend themselves or send to their families).
Two years ago, when she read her texts at the first festival, Liz, a young Black woman with small
15)braids 16)cascading down her forehead, was pregnant. Today, she sees her son running among the male and female poets, journalists and visitors who have come in from the outside, while she awaits her turn to share her writings. She says: “I will read something I really like, and hope you will also like it… ‘I love him like the cancer that eats into my flesh…’”
A young, blond woman, whose pregnancy is already far along, asks a photographer who has come to attend the festival to take her picture: she wants to send it to her fiancé who is outside and cannot always visit her. She also wants to take advantage of the presence of a digital camera to see herself because there are no mirrors in the jail.
Through the windows up high we can see airplanes: the airport is only a few kilometers away, which is also the reason why this unit receives women accused of 17)trafficking 18)narcotics. They are “mules”, people who transit towards other countries, who were caught by customs officers with drugs in their luggage. A number of these women are foreigners. They did not understand the details of their sentence. It is only in prison that they learned Spanish.
In this little 19)Babel, however, they have found a way to 20)partake in the poetry workshop. Around one of the six meeting tables, we hear Polish, German, and Romanian words. One day, María Medrano came to the workshop with poems written in these women’s mother tongues. The prisoners of the workshop had the idea of bringing these texts to the festival, of reading them in their original version and translating them to share them with fellow inmates and visitors.
Carmen, a blond Romanian woman of 52 with a proud and soft voice, remembers that she had cried that day: “Then, I began to translate the text so that others could understand what it says. And today, I wanted to sing it, but I was so moved that I did not dare.” It is not the fear of speaking in public that discouraged her, but rather the memory of her mother, who had passed away in Romania the week before.
In February, Carmen will be 21)extradited, which is the usual route for women accused of trafficking narcotics.
头上架着太阳镜、手持白口铁扩音器，她就这样开始了她的一天。她念道：“友谊是一个神圣的名字，也是一个崇高的事物。它只存在于好人之间……在残忍、背叛和不公正肆虐的地方是不可能有友谊的。”在布宜诺斯艾利斯郊区的埃塞萨女子监狱里，西尔维亚·埃琳娜·麦乔道大声朗读着一张宣传海报上的文字，这张海报是一家独立出版社张贴在该监狱第31单元的多功能厅的粉红色墙壁上的。
过去五年来，每逢星期五，这个多功能厅里都会举办一个有10到15名同狱犯人参加的诗歌班。今天（2007年12月7日）是一个节庆日，因为这里在举行一年一度的名为“我什么也没做”的诗歌节，今年已经是第二届了。
一大群人跟着西尔维亚·埃琳娜在多功能厅里来回走动。她继续朗读着法国作家埃蒂安·德拉博埃蒂的《论自愿奴役》：“在卑鄙的人之间……没有爱，只有恐惧。他们不是朋友，而是同谋。” 扩音器从一个人的手中传到另一个人手中。为了这个活动，西尔维
亚·埃琳娜于10个月前刑满释放后第一次回到监狱。在她读完之后，轮到了刑期漫长的犯人劳拉·罗斯，她读道：“你自己来决定不再被奴役……”
其他的犯人在她们同伴轻拍后背的鼓励下，或吃力，或羞怯地朗读着。掌声不断地响起。在室外，阳光普照，但是监狱看守没有权力打开通向小天井的门。
“我什么也没做”，是巴特·辛普森（巴特是一个10岁的小男孩，是电视动画片《辛普森一家》中的主角之一）最喜欢说的一句话。诗歌班的成员在两年前选择了这句话来命名她们的第一届诗歌节。她们给她们的第一本诗集也起了同样的名字。每周一次，诗人玛丽亚·麦德拉诺和她的女同伴克劳迪娅·普拉多带着大量书籍走进埃塞萨监狱。在这本诗集中，麦德拉诺写道：“参加诗歌班的大部分女性从未曾接触过这种文学形式。她们当中的一些人为了‘消磨时间’才决定报名参加；其他人则是为了看看热闹。但是，可以肯定的是，渐渐地，诗歌班变成了一个非常重要的空间……她们不愿意创作关于‘监狱’的诗（注：tumbera 在阿根廷指代监狱里的一切事物；la tumba（坟墓）指代监狱），因为对她们来说，这类用语是她们丧失自我个性过程的一部分：人一旦进了监狱，就不再是一个人了，而变成了一个‘包裹’（这也是监狱看守对犯人的称呼），犯人会有一个新名字，姓氏也会被改成‘监狱里的’。日常用语也会逐渐转变为监狱里的行话。”
在这里，诗歌成为抵抗的阵地。尽管对监狱系统来说，诗歌班属于文化作坊，也就是“非生产性的”，那意味着它们不能创造任何收入，与面包作坊或者毛绒玩具作坊是不同的（参加面包作坊或毛绒玩具作坊的犯人会获得一点报酬供自己花费或者寄回家里）。
两年前，当莉斯——一个满头的小麻花辫像瀑布一样垂在前额的年轻黑人妇女，在第一届诗歌节上朗读自己的诗时，她正怀着孩子。而今天，在她等着轮到自己去分享她的作品时，她看到自己的儿子正在这些从外面来的男女诗人、记者和来访者中间跑来跑去。她说：“我将朗读一些我非常喜爱的东西，希望你们也会喜欢……‘我爱他就像爱啃噬我躯体的肿瘤……’”
一个已怀孕数月的年轻金发女人，请一位前来参加诗歌节的摄影师为她拍照：她想把照片寄给在监狱外且不能常来看她的未婚夫。她还想借助这台数码相机看看自己，因为监狱里没有镜子。
透过头顶高高的窗户，我们可以看到飞机：机场就在几公里之外，而这也是为什么这个监狱接收那些因贩运毒品而被起诉的女犯人的缘由。这些人被称为“骡子”，即出境时因行李中携带了毒品而被海关人员抓获的人。她们中的许多人是外国人。她们并不理解对于她们的判决的具体内容。她们是入狱后才学会西班牙语的。
不过，在这座小小的巴别塔里，她们还是找到了参与诗歌班的办法。围着六张会面桌中的一张，我们可以听到波兰语、德语和罗马尼亚语。有一天，玛丽亚·麦德拉诺带着这些女人用母语写成的诗歌来到诗歌班。诗歌班的女犯人们想出了把这些诗歌带到诗歌节上的主意——先用她们的母语朗读作品，然后翻译成西班牙语，以便和同伴及来访者分享。
卡门是一位52岁的罗马尼亚金发妇女，有着让她自豪而柔和的嗓音，她想起那天她哭了。“那时候，我开始翻译我的诗歌，以便其他人能够理解它的意思。而今天，我本想把它唱出来，但是我太激动了，不敢唱。”并不是因为畏惧当众讲话才犹豫，而是因为她回忆起了自己一个星期前在罗马尼亚逝世的母亲。
卡门将在二月被引渡，这是对于因贩运毒品而被起诉的妇女的惯例做法。
Sunglasses propped on her head, a 1)white iron megaphone in hand, she begins the day by uttering: “Friendship is a sacred name, a sacred thing. It exists only between good people […] There can be no friendship where cruelty, disloyalty and injustice prevail.” Silvia Elena Machado reads aloud one of the posters an independent publisher stuck on the pink walls of the function room in Unit 31 of the 2)Ezeiza women’s prison, located in the suburbs of
3)Buenos Aires.
Every Friday for the past five years, this room hosts a poetry 4)workshop bringing together ten to fifteen 5)inmates. Today, [December 7, 2007], is a day of celebration because it marks the second edition of the annual poetry festival entitled “I Didn’t Do It.”
A crowd of people follows Silvia Elena across the room. She continues reading the Discourse of Voluntary Servitude, by French writer 6)Étienne de La Boétie: “Between mean people […] there is no love, only fear. They are not friends, but
7)accomplices.” The megaphone is passed from hand to hand, and after Silvia Elena, who has returned to the prison for the first time after having been freed ten months ago, it is the turn of Laura Ross, an inmate without a foreseen date of release: “Decide to stop being 8)servile...”
Other convicts read with difficulty, timidly, encouraged by small pats on their backs from fellow prisoners. Applause resounds. Outside the sun is shining but the prison guards are not authorized to open the door that gives onto the small courtyard.
“I Didn’t Do It” is Bart Simpson’s favorite expression [Bart is the 10-year-old boy who is one of 9)The Simpsons main characters], which the workshop participants selected two years ago to 10)baptize their first festival. They also gave this title to their first 11)anthology of poems. In the anthology, María Medrano, the poet who, once a week, with fellow Claudia Prado, enters Ezeiza prison with 12)a cartload of books, writes “Most women who participate in the workshop had never had any contact with this literary genre. Some of them decided to sign up to ‘kill time’, others, to see what it was all about. But what is certain is that, bit by bit, the workshop has become a vital space [...] They did not want to write ‘tumbera’ poetry [note: tumbera is the term used to designate what belongs to the prison world in Argentina ; la tumba (tomb) means jail], because for them, this language is part of the 13)depersonalization process of which they are victims: when you enter prison, you stop being a person and become a ‘package’ (this is what the guards call the inmates), you receive a new first name, a new surname ‘tumbero’, and little by little, daily language becomes prison language.”
Here, poetry becomes a space of resistance, even if the 14)penitentiary system considers it part of the “non-productive”, cultural workshops, meaning that they do not generate any revenues as opposed to the bread- or stuffed-animal-making workshops (prisoners who participate in these receive a small salary which they can spend themselves or send to their families).
Two years ago, when she read her texts at the first festival, Liz, a young Black woman with small
15)braids 16)cascading down her forehead, was pregnant. Today, she sees her son running among the male and female poets, journalists and visitors who have come in from the outside, while she awaits her turn to share her writings. She says: “I will read something I really like, and hope you will also like it… ‘I love him like the cancer that eats into my flesh…’”
A young, blond woman, whose pregnancy is already far along, asks a photographer who has come to attend the festival to take her picture: she wants to send it to her fiancé who is outside and cannot always visit her. She also wants to take advantage of the presence of a digital camera to see herself because there are no mirrors in the jail.
Through the windows up high we can see airplanes: the airport is only a few kilometers away, which is also the reason why this unit receives women accused of 17)trafficking 18)narcotics. They are “mules”, people who transit towards other countries, who were caught by customs officers with drugs in their luggage. A number of these women are foreigners. They did not understand the details of their sentence. It is only in prison that they learned Spanish.
In this little 19)Babel, however, they have found a way to 20)partake in the poetry workshop. Around one of the six meeting tables, we hear Polish, German, and Romanian words. One day, María Medrano came to the workshop with poems written in these women’s mother tongues. The prisoners of the workshop had the idea of bringing these texts to the festival, of reading them in their original version and translating them to share them with fellow inmates and visitors.
Carmen, a blond Romanian woman of 52 with a proud and soft voice, remembers that she had cried that day: “Then, I began to translate the text so that others could understand what it says. And today, I wanted to sing it, but I was so moved that I did not dare.” It is not the fear of speaking in public that discouraged her, but rather the memory of her mother, who had passed away in Romania the week before.
In February, Carmen will be 21)extradited, which is the usual route for women accused of trafficking narcotics.
头上架着太阳镜、手持白口铁扩音器，她就这样开始了她的一天。她念道：“友谊是一个神圣的名字，也是一个崇高的事物。它只存在于好人之间……在残忍、背叛和不公正肆虐的地方是不可能有友谊的。”在布宜诺斯艾利斯郊区的埃塞萨女子监狱里，西尔维亚·埃琳娜·麦乔道大声朗读着一张宣传海报上的文字，这张海报是一家独立出版社张贴在该监狱第31单元的多功能厅的粉红色墙壁上的。
过去五年来，每逢星期五，这个多功能厅里都会举办一个有10到15名同狱犯人参加的诗歌班。今天（2007年12月7日）是一个节庆日，因为这里在举行一年一度的名为“我什么也没做”的诗歌节，今年已经是第二届了。
一大群人跟着西尔维亚·埃琳娜在多功能厅里来回走动。她继续朗读着法国作家埃蒂安·德拉博埃蒂的《论自愿奴役》：“在卑鄙的人之间……没有爱，只有恐惧。他们不是朋友，而是同谋。” 扩音器从一个人的手中传到另一个人手中。为了这个活动，西尔维
亚·埃琳娜于10个月前刑满释放后第一次回到监狱。在她读完之后，轮到了刑期漫长的犯人劳拉·罗斯，她读道：“你自己来决定不再被奴役……”
其他的犯人在她们同伴轻拍后背的鼓励下，或吃力，或羞怯地朗读着。掌声不断地响起。在室外，阳光普照，但是监狱看守没有权力打开通向小天井的门。
“我什么也没做”，是巴特·辛普森（巴特是一个10岁的小男孩，是电视动画片《辛普森一家》中的主角之一）最喜欢说的一句话。诗歌班的成员在两年前选择了这句话来命名她们的第一届诗歌节。她们给她们的第一本诗集也起了同样的名字。每周一次，诗人玛丽亚·麦德拉诺和她的女同伴克劳迪娅·普拉多带着大量书籍走进埃塞萨监狱。在这本诗集中，麦德拉诺写道：“参加诗歌班的大部分女性从未曾接触过这种文学形式。她们当中的一些人为了‘消磨时间’才决定报名参加；其他人则是为了看看热闹。但是，可以肯定的是，渐渐地，诗歌班变成了一个非常重要的空间……她们不愿意创作关于‘监狱’的诗（注：tumbera 在阿根廷指代监狱里的一切事物；la tumba（坟墓）指代监狱），因为对她们来说，这类用语是她们丧失自我个性过程的一部分：人一旦进了监狱，就不再是一个人了，而变成了一个‘包裹’（这也是监狱看守对犯人的称呼），犯人会有一个新名字，姓氏也会被改成‘监狱里的’。日常用语也会逐渐转变为监狱里的行话。”
在这里，诗歌成为抵抗的阵地。尽管对监狱系统来说，诗歌班属于文化作坊，也就是“非生产性的”，那意味着它们不能创造任何收入，与面包作坊或者毛绒玩具作坊是不同的（参加面包作坊或毛绒玩具作坊的犯人会获得一点报酬供自己花费或者寄回家里）。
两年前，当莉斯——一个满头的小麻花辫像瀑布一样垂在前额的年轻黑人妇女，在第一届诗歌节上朗读自己的诗时，她正怀着孩子。而今天，在她等着轮到自己去分享她的作品时，她看到自己的儿子正在这些从外面来的男女诗人、记者和来访者中间跑来跑去。她说：“我将朗读一些我非常喜爱的东西，希望你们也会喜欢……‘我爱他就像爱啃噬我躯体的肿瘤……’”
一个已怀孕数月的年轻金发女人，请一位前来参加诗歌节的摄影师为她拍照：她想把照片寄给在监狱外且不能常来看她的未婚夫。她还想借助这台数码相机看看自己，因为监狱里没有镜子。
透过头顶高高的窗户，我们可以看到飞机：机场就在几公里之外，而这也是为什么这个监狱接收那些因贩运毒品而被起诉的女犯人的缘由。这些人被称为“骡子”，即出境时因行李中携带了毒品而被海关人员抓获的人。她们中的许多人是外国人。她们并不理解对于她们的判决的具体内容。她们是入狱后才学会西班牙语的。
不过，在这座小小的巴别塔里，她们还是找到了参与诗歌班的办法。围着六张会面桌中的一张，我们可以听到波兰语、德语和罗马尼亚语。有一天，玛丽亚·麦德拉诺带着这些女人用母语写成的诗歌来到诗歌班。诗歌班的女犯人们想出了把这些诗歌带到诗歌节上的主意——先用她们的母语朗读作品，然后翻译成西班牙语，以便和同伴及来访者分享。
卡门是一位52岁的罗马尼亚金发妇女，有着让她自豪而柔和的嗓音，她想起那天她哭了。“那时候，我开始翻译我的诗歌，以便其他人能够理解它的意思。而今天，我本想把它唱出来，但是我太激动了，不敢唱。”并不是因为畏惧当众讲话才犹豫，而是因为她回忆起了自己一个星期前在罗马尼亚逝世的母亲。
卡门将在二月被引渡，这是对于因贩运毒品而被起诉的妇女的惯例做法。