Bonjour, quelqu'un peut me traduire ça svp ? merci beaucoup bonne journée
This is the heart of Gilead, where the war cannot intrude except on television. Where the edges are we aren’t sure, they vary, according to the attacks and counterattacks; but this is the centre, where nothing moves. The Republic of Gilead, said Aunt Lydia, knows no bounds. Gilead is within you.
Doctors lived here once, lawyers, university professors. There are no lawyers any more, and the university is closed.
Luke and I used to walk together, sometimes, along these streets. We used to talk about buying a house like one of these, an old big house, fixing it up. We would have a garden, swings for the children. We would have children. Although we knew it wasn’t too likely we could ever afford it, it was something to talk about, a game for Sundays. Such freedom now seems almost weightless.
We turn the corner onto a main street, where there’s more traffic. Cars go by, black most of them, some grey and brown. There are other women with baskets, some in red, some in the dull green of the Marthas, some in the striped dresses, red and blue and green and cheap and skimpy, that mark the women of the poorer men. Econowives, they’re called. These women are not divided into functions. They have to do everything; if they can. Sometimes there is a woman all in black, a widow. There used to be more of them, but they seem to be diminishing.
You don’t see the Commanders’ Wives on the sidewalks. Only in cars.
The sidewalks here are cement. Like a child, I avoid stepping on the cracks. I’m remembering my feet on these sidewalks, in the time before, and what I used to wear on them. Sometimes it was shoes for running, with cushioned soles and breathing holes, and stars of fluorescent fabric that reflected light in the darkness. Though I never ran at night; and in the daytime, only beside well-frequented roads.
Women were not protected then.
I remember the rules, rules that were never spelled out but that every woman knew: don’t open your door to a stranger, even if he says he is the police. Make him slide his ID under the door. Don’t stop on the road to help a motorist pretending to be in trouble. Keep the locks on and keep going. If anyone whistles, don’t turn to look. Don’t go into a laundromat, by yourself, at night.
I think about laundromats. What I wore to them: shorts, jeans, jogging pants. What I put into them: my own clothes, my own soap, my own money, money I had earned myself. I think about having such control.
Now we walk along the same street, in red pairs, and no man shouts obscenities at us, speaks to us, touches us. No one whistles.
There is more than one kind of freedom, said Aunt Lydia. Freedom to and freedom from. In the days of anarchy, it was freedom to. Now you are being given freedom from. Don’t underrate it.
This is the heart of Gilead, where the war cannot intrude except on television. Where the edges are we aren’t sure, they vary, according to the attacks and counterattacks; but this is the centre, where nothing moves. The Republic of Gilead, said Aunt Lydia, knows no bounds. Gilead is within you.
Doctors lived here once, lawyers, university professors. There are no lawyers any more, and the university is closed.
Luke and I used to walk together, sometimes, along these streets. We used to talk about buying a house like one of these, an old big house, fixing it up. We would have a garden, swings for the children. We would have children. Although we knew it wasn’t too likely we could ever afford it, it was something to talk about, a game for Sundays. Such freedom now seems almost weightless.
We turn the corner onto a main street, where there’s more traffic. Cars go by, black most of them, some grey and brown. There are other women with baskets, some in red, some in the dull green of the Marthas, some in the striped dresses, red and blue and green and cheap and skimpy, that mark the women of the poorer men. Econowives, they’re called. These women are not divided into functions. They have to do everything; if they can. Sometimes there is a woman all in black, a widow. There used to be more of them, but they seem to be diminishing.
You don’t see the Commanders’ Wives on the sidewalks. Only in cars.
The sidewalks here are cement. Like a child, I avoid stepping on the cracks. I’m remembering my feet on these sidewalks, in the time before, and what I used to wear on them. Sometimes it was shoes for running, with cushioned soles and breathing holes, and stars of fluorescent fabric that reflected light in the darkness. Though I never ran at night; and in the daytime, only beside well-frequented roads.
Women were not protected then.
I remember the rules, rules that were never spelled out but that every woman knew: don’t open your door to a stranger, even if he says he is the police. Make him slide his ID under the door. Don’t stop on the road to help a motorist pretending to be in trouble. Keep the locks on and keep going. If anyone whistles, don’t turn to look. Don’t go into a laundromat, by yourself, at night.
I think about laundromats. What I wore to them: shorts, jeans, jogging pants. What I put into them: my own clothes, my own soap, my own money, money I had earned myself. I think about having such control.
Now we walk along the same street, in red pairs, and no man shouts obscenities at us, speaks to us, touches us. No one whistles.
There is more than one kind of freedom, said Aunt Lydia. Freedom to and freedom from. In the days of anarchy, it was freedom to. Now you are being given freedom from. Don’t underrate it.
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Réponse :C'est le cœur de Gilead, où la guerre ne peut s'immiscer qu'à la télévision. Lorsque les bords sont incertains, ils varient en fonction des attaques et contre-attaques; mais c'est le centre, où rien ne bouge. La République de Gilead, a déclaré tante Lydia, ne connaît pas de limites. Gilead est en vous.
Les médecins ont vécu ici une fois, les avocats, les professeurs d'université. Il n'y a plus d'avocat et l'université est fermée.
Luke et moi avions l'habitude de marcher ensemble, parfois, dans ces rues. Nous avions l'habitude de parler d'acheter une maison comme l'une d'elles, une vieille grande maison, de la réparer. Nous aurions un jardin, des balançoires pour les enfants. Nous aurions des enfants. Même si nous savions qu’il n’était pas trop probable que nous puissions nous le permettre, c’était un sujet de discussion, un match pour le dimanche. Cette liberté semble désormais presque sans poids.
Nous tournons le coin sur une rue principale, où il y a plus de trafic. Les voitures passent, la plupart noires, certaines grises et brunes. Il y a d'autres femmes avec des paniers, certaines en rouge, certaines dans le vert terne des Marthas, certaines dans les robes rayées, rouges et bleues et vertes et bon marché et étriquées, qui marquent les femmes des hommes les plus pauvres. Econowives, on les appelle. Ces femmes ne sont pas divisées en fonctions. Ils doivent tout faire; si ils peuvent. Parfois, il y a une femme tout en noir, une veuve. Il y en avait plus, mais ils semblent diminuer.
Vous ne voyez pas les femmes des commandants sur les trottoirs. Uniquement dans les voitures.
Les trottoirs ici sont en ciment. Comme un enfant, j'évite de marcher sur les mailles du filet. Je me souviens de mes pieds sur ces trottoirs, dans le temps avant, et de ce que je portais sur eux. Parfois, c'était des chaussures de course, avec des semelles coussinées et des trous de respiration, et des étoiles de tissu fluorescent qui réfléchissaient la lumière dans l'obscurité. Bien que je n'aie jamais couru la nuit; et pendant la journée, uniquement à côté de routes bien fréquentées.
Les femmes n'étaient alors pas protégées.
Je me souviens des règles, des règles qui n’ont jamais été énoncées, mais que chaque femme savait: n’ouvrez pas votre porte à un étranger, même s’il dit qu’il est policier. Faites-lui glisser sa carte d'identité sous la porte. Ne vous arrêtez pas sur la route pour aider un automobiliste à faire semblant d'avoir des ennuis. Gardez les verrous et continuez. Si quelqu'un siffle, ne vous retournez pas pour regarder. N'allez pas dans une laverie, seul, le soir.
Je pense aux laveries automatiques. Ce que je leur portais: short, jean, pantalon de jogging. Ce que j'y mettais: mes propres vêtements, mon propre savon, mon propre argent, l'argent que je m'étais gagné. Je pense à avoir un tel contrôle.
Maintenant, nous marchons dans la même rue, par paires rouges, et personne ne nous crie d'obscénités, nous parle, nous touche. Personne ne siffle.
Il y a plus d'une sorte de liberté, a déclaré tante Lydia. Liberté et liberté de. Au temps de l'anarchie, c'était la liberté. Maintenant, vous êtes libéré de. Ne le sous-estimez pas.
Explications :