They were old pious and rich—
tweed jackets and bowler hats—
They bore a guilt
They cringed at some words
They translated the ancient world
purging it from some words
turning an ugly “amta”
into a quite respectful “handmaiden”
I raised my hand yesterday
I raised my head yesterday
in a seminar room, in an Oxford college,
with the portraits of those old pious and rich on the walls
and I said that “amta” is a slave woman
and everyone looked at me
and I thought
this must have been my face
when I looked behind the door of hell
for the first time
in Antwerp, in a shabby café,
when my classmate told me
she was once abducted
to be a prostitute
It exists. It exists.
Do not ever translate “amta” as “a handmaiden”
It’s “a slave”. They exist.
Curtains.
Sofia Puchkova
