My Name is Adam
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Results: Exact: Elapsed time: 82 ms. Word index: , , , More Expression index: , , , More Phrase index: , , , More Developed by Prompsit Language Engineering for Softissimo.
Join Reverso, it's free and fast! Register Login. These examples may contain rude words based on your search. These examples may contain colloquial words based on your search. See examples translated by je m'appelle Adam 8 examples with alignment.
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See examples translated by Je suis Adam 3 examples with alignment. My name is Adam Garone, and that's my story. My name is Adam Noshimuri. Je m'appelle Adam Noshimuri. My name is Adam Gilflower from the Bureau of Entomology.
My Name is Adam
Je suis Adam Guifleur du Bureau d'entomologie. Je suis Adam Noshimuri. Murad drains his glass to the dregs and gets drunk. He pours another glass and drinks it, and the words come out of his mouth and turn into a rope that winds itself around his neck. The man cries out for help in words that come out as separated syllables, and with each cry the rope tightens around his neck and his words turn into a sort of rasp.
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Itidal and I never move from our places. First, the name disappears, then little by little the features evaporate, and finally the person vanishes into his name. However, I said nothing. I felt that the transformation of our names into our graves was the height of abomination. We had to fill the small army trucks with canned goods, grains, flour, sugar, milk, everything.
At first, we felt ignominy and shame. Why did we have to loot ourselves? Why did we have to rob our city for the benefit of these people? We knew that the trucks would go to Tel Aviv, and we worked with gritted teeth under the pressure of fear. After a couple of days of work, though, everything changed. We became full of enthusiasm and felt the ecstasy of thieves. We stole fearlessly because the army was protecting us and began to enjoy the looting.
You have to, because I did. Did you ever experience such a thing? No one but us has ever tasted the moment of ecstasy felt by the victim when he flogs himself, and no one can understand the feeling.
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The Israeli officer told us he wanted everything that was inside the houses and made it clear that we must leave nothing behind. We were to go into each house, clear it out, and clean it; even the doors and the windows we were to unhinge and load onto other, larger, army trucks. This new job was more difficult than the first. The young man told Murad that their group had faced two hard cases. He lived with his parents and three sisters in the church and never stopped telling jokes.
When we went in to loot one of the houses, though, the Egyptian discovered that it was his own. At first, he led us through the rooms showing off the beauty of the furniture, which his father had brought from Damascus. We began loading up, as usual, and got to a large mirror in the living room, about two meters tall with an oak frame topped by a wooden triangle resembling a crown that was inlaid with Damascene mother-of-pearl.
He went up to the Egyptian, said something in Hebrew, and left the house. I, as head of the team, asked the Egyptian to step back and let go of the mirror, but he just clung to it more fiercely. The four of us formed a circle around him in an attempt to persuade him that such carrying-on was pointless. Sergeant Roni— I think that was the name of the blond, blue-eyed sergeant—told us to load the mirror onto the truck immediately, plus a lot of stuff along the lines of our not having any right to take state property.
He raised his stick and advanced with the soldier, who also had a stick, behind him, but instead of retreating, the Egyptian glued himself to the surface of the mirror, blending into its image, and we saw all of us inside it—five Palestinians and two Israeli soldiers inside a Damascene mirror. The soldiers fell on us and started beating us.
Our concern was to protect the mirror from them, so we too glued ourselves to its surface, the blows from the sticks raining down on our heads while we screamed and cursed. The living room filled with Israeli soldiers who beat us with sticks and rifle butts and blood began to flow. Suddenly the mirror started to break into shards. Our image disappeared and we and the Israeli soldiers were covered with blood, which oozed from our splinter-filled bodies.
We spent the night there without food or drink. They put on them a yellowish medication that stung and that we discovered later was iodine. Moshe began by telling us off.
My Name is Adam - Archipelago Books
He said he could refer us to a military tribunal on a charge of assaulting the soldiers, but that Sergeant Roni had interceded on our behalf. Sergeant Roni, over whose head you broke the mirror with the intent to kill him, is the one who has asked me to pardon you! The condition is, though, that you apologize to me, because you broke a valuable mirror that is the property of the state.
And to him, because you were rude to him. And Roni and I have accepted your apology. The boy said that at a gesture from the captain, the young men began to leave the large room, without a word of apology passing their lips. I was staring at the table at which the Israeli captain sat and could scarcely believe it. Everyone left and I stayed.
What could I say? I was devoured by fear and felt as though my tongue had stuck to the roof of my mouth. The officer stood up, came toward me, shook me by the shoulders, and asked me what I wanted. What matters is that the smell filled where we were, and I too suddenly smelled the smell of Lydda welling up from my childhood. I shall never be able to describe it, for the aromas of memory are hard to put a name to, but the colored undulations in which silver blends with the green and blue that rise from the leaves of an olive tree under the sun took me back to the scent embedded in my depths, and I smelled the color—a mixture of the scents of the olive and the fig, the two trees by which God swears in the Koran, when He says, By the fig and the olive and Mount Sinai and this land secure!
The two trees occupy a special place in the memory of my childhood, especially of when I was arrested at the age of six for picking figs from a nearby garden that was part of the land owned by my grandfather and was put in jail for stealing state property and spent a whole night at the police station before being got out by my mother, who explained to me that I had to think of everything as lost and start from zero. How can a child at the outset of his life understand that he has to begin from zero and from loss?
The boy said the Israeli officer ordered him to pick the table up and take it home. When we reached the hospital, Dr. He said that every morning he still smelled the smell.
I go out to breathe in the air and get rid of the stench.