LUCY

看了Lucy, 很想马上精进禅修去。

霸王和虞姬

“小尼姑年方二八，正青春被师傅削去了头发。。。”
“我本是男儿郎，又不是女娇娥。。。。。。。。”
 
 
再看了一次《霸王别姬》。。。这完全是一部悲剧本子。

短短数小时的电影，我们看到了京剧的兴旺，繁茂的时代，然后经历日本占领，改革，共产党等动乱的社会。京剧的生死存亡在一片一片的人声中灿烂，延续和湮灭。京剧里的人生各自无奈的适应着社会的动荡，而如蝶衣那么的入戏，现实和生活已分不清的戏痴，戏疯子注定要痛苦的独活，陨落。

虞姬是真虞姬，霸王却是假霸王。

蝶衣和菊仙都爱错了人，爱上了一个意志不坚定，立场恍惚，容易被时代变迁的而影响的假霸王，爱得深，伤得深，所以二者的结局都只可以自我了结。一个心灰意冷的梦醒了，辜负了自己笃定的付出；一个只想继续活在永不结束的戏梦中，继续成为那个他恍乱了的真虞姬。

其实到最后每一个人都是注定孤独的。袁四爷亦然，菊仙亦然，蝶衣亦然，小楼亦然。。。

《 星空 》 ~ Starry starry night

         那时候，未来遥远而没有形状 ,

　　梦想还不知道该叫什么名字 ,

　　我常常一个人，走很长的路，在起风的时候觉得自己像一片落叶 。

　　仰望星空，我想知道：有人正从世界的某个地方朝我走来吗？

　　像光那样，从一颗星到达另一颗星 。

　　后来，你出现了，又离开了 。

　　我们等候着青春，却错过了彼此。。。

因为几米，因为星空，因为starry starry night，因为梵高，因为Don Mclean,因为奶茶，因为桂纶美，因为五月天。。。所以我找不到我不看星空这部电影的理由。

看着成群的长颈鹿，大象，斑马，白兔，山羊，犀牛，鸟群。。。一起大迁移似的跨越大桥的那一刻，觉得世界很美，和谐，童话，朴素，纯真，温馨，迷离。。。现实的斗争，拼搏，不公平和丑陋都暂时被遮掩了。

可是，当我看到一块一块的拼图掉下来，撒落在手上，身上，到处都是，如画布慢慢被撕开，小美极力想挽救的拼凑完整的时候，才发现这才是有点残酷但又真实的世界。大人与小孩的世界也可以完全是现实与童话的两个相反的相对论。

很多很多年前，那个时候的我，每一次经过卖拼图的店铺的时候，我都会进去走一圈，然后找一找那个只卖两只手的第一次接触，可是找了很久都找不到，渐渐的，那些你不是很执着的想法就会将这件事情推挤，推到门边，推到那些铺尘的角落里，淡忘或摆放在可有可无的禁区里。

现在，看着那么多的拼图，那个憋在墙角的欲念又蠢蠢欲动，这次我想将他从禁区拖移出来，摆在显眼的心房上，总有一天，我也要拼一拼那个星空和第一次的接触。不过，我不允许有缺角的拼图存在，虽然，有时觉得缺了角或许更有美感。

然后，小兔子，再也沒有變成大兔子；小象，也沒有變成大象。唯一長大的，好像，就只有我自己。

《那些年》的青春

           每一个人心中应该都会有，至少一个这样的朋友-- 你宁愿与他是平行线，永远不会相交，却可以一直相望保持美好。因为如果—旦相交，过了那个点就会越离越远的朋友。看完《那些年，我们一起追的女孩》后，我的记忆也陆续的勾勒出了那些年的那些人，事和物，没有感慨，没有唏嘘，有的只是串串青春的回忆，一页一页美好的故事。
         《那些年》里面比较没有着墨的或许是女孩子那一面的心事，而九把刀却把男人的那一面坦荡荡的表现着，让我们这些女生的映像假设幻成确切的真实画面。有想象过也有听说过那些年的男孩们每个晚上时间一到都会排着队，带着满口袋的碎银，在公共电话亭厅前列队，还要忍受蚊虫叮咬的小苦，等待着一天中或许最甜蜜的时刻。如果后面没有其他人等待用电话，就可以肉麻一点，畅所欲言，聊上一个钟；如果后面有些人在等着使用电话，就只可以识趣的半个钟说完，或先说一半，待会儿继续。

           看着电影里对着电话说出恶心肉麻的对白和画面，虽然搞笑，或许就是真正很多人的缩影，因为不是有人说过吗？恋爱中的男女，做最多的事情，说最多的话都是最无聊和浪费时间的，因为相对望就可以一天，说了很多遍的你爱我吗？我爱你等等也是每次都可以重复得滋滋有味，又不腻的。这些恋爱中的资源可都会一直如氧气，血液般濡养着身体的每一个细胞，肌肉筋骨，滋养脑髓。如果有一天，这些资源不再供应，人们就会颓废，低落，甚至心神失养，做着蒙蔽神窍的行为。

         《那些年》里，男主角一个人哭得稀里哗啦的，在女孩前面却从不流泪的样子，也挺真实的。不晓得那一道古训流传至今，什么男孩儿有泪不轻弹，男子汉大丈夫只可流血不可流泪等，搞到很多男人都很喜欢将自己的那一面硬绷绷的收敛着，压抑着心的舞步，口中还要说着违背心的傻话，可是其实那是伤害着心肝脾肺肾的事情，五脏都被卷缩在一起，扭曲又收紧的。所以，当看到男孩儿哭得那一面，女孩儿们的心都特别疼，特别软化，而忘了自己也经常这样为情而痛苦的抽泣着。

        《那些年》说的最多的还有“打飞机”的事儿，大伙儿围着一起看A片的事儿，一起聊女孩儿的事儿，这都是我们女孩到高中或许都还不明白的事。可是却都一直发生在那些男孩儿身上的事。或许只是因为如片中所言，同龄的女孩总是比同龄的男孩早熟，在思想上，行为上，所以女孩对爱的表达方式还是比较内敛，而男孩则会用各种不同的方法如变魔术，说笑话，捣蛋，逞强来引起所喜欢的女孩的留意与关注。

         女孩一直都想和男孩在一起，可是因为男孩没有信心，竟然收不到信号，害怕面对失败而宁愿选择不要知道答案，而白白浪费了那些机会，而成全了那个平行线上的爱情故事。

        有些男孩追了你N年，其实并没有想和你在一起，因为他对自己的信心超低，所以他换个方式，只想一直关心你，当你的红颜知己，知道你的喜怒哀乐，至少不会因为他的表白而失去了付出的机会，继续默默爱着你。有些男孩等了你N年，虽然表白了但非常了解你，选择在你身边看着你，陪着你，当你被喜欢的人伤害，还可以开解你，为你打抱不平，有时忍不住地痛骂你，也只是心疼你的傻，然后继续默默地等待着开花的那一天。这些N年的日子，我们都曾经拥有，笑与泪水，那时看来很重要，现在回首，依然是花蕊正香。

        给那些年，那些事，那些男孩儿，那些青春的印记。。。

The Life Of David Gale

       “不要依据你达成多少欲望来衡量你的生活，而该以获得多少真诚、怜悯、理性，甚至自我牺牲的时刻来衡量。因为到头来，衡量我们生平轻重的唯一标准，取决你如何看待他人的生命！”

看完了这部由Kevin Spacey 和 Kate Winslet 主演的2003年的电影的那一刹那，是可惜的？无言的？伟大的？赞叹的？还是乏力的？

如果这不是一个真人真事，那我觉得他编剧的能力真的是太强了，后面半个钟里层层叠起的伏笔，时间的吝啬，如拨开洋葱的真伪和预设的计划蓝本缓缓交错行驶。看这部电影前，决对不可以预先浏览影评或有揭露电影片段的文章，那你才会尽兴。。。

       简介：

        2000年，记者贝茜·布鲁姆受邀采访即将被执行死刑的谋杀犯大卫·戈尔。大卫曾是一位受人尊敬的哲学教授，同时还是反对死刑运动的积极倡导者，却在1994年被控谋杀同事康丝坦斯·哈拉维而被判死刑。在押的六年内，大卫回绝了所有媒体的访问，这将是他首次向外界表露心声。

　　贝茜原本对此次任务心存疑问，并对大卫的罪行非常不屑，但随着采访的深入，大卫逐渐赢得了她的信任。在大卫的恳求和自己良心的驱使下，贝茜开始寻找真相……
   

       我们也在寻找真相之中，提出种种假设，直到最后的结局。。。

烟飞烟灭

终于，看了2000年由张国荣執導及主演，香港政府反吸煙宣傳片＜煙飛煙滅＞。

一位六十多岁的医生兼老师告诉我们，当事人抽的一支烟等于身边人吸进二手烟的分量是相等于四倍的。现居癌症排行榜第二的肺癌大部分是抽烟者的贡献，包括二手烟，油烟。。抽烟者或许会在老的时候或n年后患上肺癌慢慢自我折磨死去，可是他身边的爱人，朋友甚至孩子却都会比他更早报到，机率提升，完全没有幸免的列外。

你可以想象你的孩子在他还是天真无邪的时候就要承受那么多痛和苦吗？你可以想象你最爱的人因为你而要提早离开这个世界，离开你吗?

抽烟的借口可以很多：“我的朋友都是这样的，不抽没面子”，“可以提神”，“很有型”，“戒不掉”，“很难的啦。。”。

不抽烟的借口也可以很多：“我爱我的家人，我不可以让他们因我而有患癌的风险”，“我不要每天烧钱”，“我不可以那么自私”，“我不想让自己或挚爱的人活得那么折磨”。。。

如果一天必须抽4包烟的老烟枪叶德娴也可以因为孩子而戒掉烟，如果一名老伯抽了大半辈子的烟也可以说戒就戒，那剩下的只是你的决心，毅力和责任了-- 也就是你要或不要而已。。

无法贴上烟飞烟灭短片，贴上哥哥的没有烟总有花。



游戲再好玩　不過燒時間

拒絕有多難　繼續更加為難
神秘的火花　亦遲早凋殘
難習慣　遲早慣

＊不可愛亦會越愛越燦爛　你愛他有幾晚
從前多平凡　都一般晚餐
越愛越看越燦爛　如合起雙眼
從前的煙花如灰飛的眉彎

＃如浮雲沒有煙　花園總有花
可以放下不必戀上　那暫借芳華
童年時沒有他　記憶一般似畫
亦每天吸氣每天呼氣不用靠它
誰覺得棄挂

如抬頭沒有煙　心中總有花
燒散過後煙花總會似白雪無瑕
如從來沒有他　記憶怎需要他
亦那麼吸氣那麼呼氣哪會驚怕

My Name Is Khan @ 我的名字叫罕

"My name is Khan, i am not a terrorist."

。

911以后，美国人对回教徒的憎恨有如海似深。居留在那里的回教徒面对特别多的刁难和鄙视，一个个都成了惊弓之鸟，被美国人当作犯人来看待，恶言相对，甚至惹来杀身之祸，原本和谐的生活被剥夺，且要承受种种不公平的际遇。

。

这种种族歧视，一支竹竿似的报复行为并不陌生。很多人看了这部电影，留言批评导演的用心不良与邪恶，企图为回教教义正名，影迷将种族恩怨，国家恩怨无限制的放大，忽略了普通人民生活上的难处和尴尬，因为少了所谓的个人切身经历，所以无法设身处地的将事情客观的分析和分开来看，而浑为一潭，加上自己的情绪反应踩上几脚。可是，回观历史诸如菲律宾的人质事件后，香港人对于当地的菲佣的移仇作用，还有印尼和澳洲的排华事件簿等，其实都有大同小异的借镜。

。

这是一部根据真人真事所拍的电影，真实故事特别可以加强启示价值。如果我们无法用智慧来衡量事情的主次之别，公私之意，那我们其实和那些制造混乱的恐怖分子没什么两样。我们一样给与无辜的生命压力和制止他们的生路。至于，什么是真实，什么是谎言，有时局外的我们也很难看得清，纵然局内人亦不一定不会觉得晕眩，因为有些异常现象叫做天狗食日或俗称一手遮天。

。

在指责他国非法拥有与研制核武器的时候，是谁先在战争的时候投下核武器？在谴责日本在二战时期的生化武器（细菌弹）研发的时候，有没有人暗地里买下了７３１部队的试验结果？过去，日本制造了“朝鲜威胁论”，而光明正大的讨论应对措施，如何将天花疫苗储量增加来抵抗未来的生物武器袭击。可是，一国的防生化武器能量是与其制造的能力成正比的，所以这种双刃剑的借口到底还有多少强国在进行着，我们不知道。

。

我们也永远不得而知在所有以正义为战争之名的背后，有多少事实被歪曲与遮盖，我们只从媒体放出来的消息略知一二，而就认定了真伪。

。

这就是现实。

三傻大闹宝莱坞 @ 3 Idiots

这是一部印度片，我知道。

这电影曾获孟买电影博览奖最佳影片、最佳导演、最佳配角（波曼·伊拉尼）、最佳剧本等六项大奖，并获国际印度电影协会最佳影片、最佳导演、最佳剧情、最佳摄影等十六项大奖却是我看完了片子才知道。

就如同周星驰在食神里的对白：“你永远估我不到。”就好像这部戏会给你的惊喜，就是很多的出乎意料，你永远估不到，直到你真的看完了这部戏。

你必须看一看这部看似三星级却有五星级的质数的电影所给的诚意；

如果你想看一部估不到的笑片，他会让你笑足全片，偶尔加几滴眼泪。电影一拉开幕帘，就一直有不一样的点子，估不到又或许我们也可效仿的鬼点子跳出来。

如果你是工程师，因为电影史上很少有工程师为背景的题材，而这电影偏偏就围着某所闻名的大学内的工程系学生所面对的问题来着墨。

如果你是在亚洲（大部分国家）的填鸭式教育制度所孕育出来的，没什么思考或创新空间的大学生，你更应该看，因为电影切确的反应了这些制度下的学生与社会的影响和压力。印度的自杀率奇高，每一个学生不敢追求自己想要的，或许伸手可及的梦，因为还有家庭的逼迫，价值的标码。

如果你看惯了印度的贫穷与落后，你也应该看，因为全片的背景都是养眼的，风光明媚的，让我欲罢不能的自然景色（真好奇到底印度隐藏了多少的好地方）。而另一个主要背景也只是大学内，每一个画面都是考量过的清洁与利落。稍微贫穷的画面与凄凉，他且用黑白两色概括，另一种诠释。

如果你以为一定会有歌舞场面，那他不会让你失望。因为他撇开了一贯的躲猫猫舞曲，而加入了有点如蔡明亮电影里的歌舞，是摩登的，有转折性且可唱出故事与心情的方式。

导演的倒叙电影法，再回到现在的排设，然后间中穿插的片段，让整部电影充实盈满，而且前呼后应的桥段也比比皆是，让你总会自己跟着傻笑。虽然偶有夸张的剧情来圆画，不过，对于一般的印度电影，这完全是跳脱了旧有的框框。非常有意思和启示的一部轻松又有深度的电影。每一个年轻人，父母都应该好好思考的启示。

沙漠之花的故事 @ The waris Dirie story

这是中文版

来源: Waris Dirie / Cathleen Miller 着 ; 读者文摘 译

她是沙漠之女，像沙漠上雨后绽放的花朵一样坚强又美丽。她熬过炎热、乾旱和 贫穷，也经历过人生中最可怕的考验：残忍的割礼。她就是国际着名时装模特儿华莉丝迪里(Waris Dirie)。本文是她现身说法，细述从索马利亚牧羊女变身为超级名模的不寻常历程，这位勇敢妇女把痛苦的个人秘密公之于世，是希望此举有助于破除一个已经残害无数妇女的习俗。

离家出走

我出身于索马利亚沙漠上的牧民部落，小时候与大自然的景色、声音、气味朝夕相伴，无拘无束，其乐无穷。我们观看狮子晒太阳，与长颈鹿、斑马、狐狸赛跑，在沙地上追捕蹄免，开心极了。后来，快乐的时光越来越少，日子渐渐不好过了。我五岁就知道身为非洲妇女实在很不幸，不但要忍受种种可怕的折磨，而且求助无门，必须逆来顺受。妇女可说是非洲的中坚。她们肩负大部分的工作，做对任何事情都无决定权，也无发言权，有时甚至无权择偶。我长大到十二三岁时，已饱受这些传统所摧残。我已不再是小孩，而且动作敏捷，身壮力健。以前我只能默然忍受，没别的选择，可是这一次决定不听命。

父亲才宣布已替我定亲，我就决定出走了。我知道必须迅速行动，于是告诉母亲此事「我打算去首都摩加迪沙找姨妈，但我从未去过那地方。那天父亲和家里其他人都熟睡之后，母亲来叫醒我，轻声说「现在走吧。」我四下张望，看看有什么东西可带。没有水，没有奶，没有食物，什么都没有。我披上围巾，光着脚奔进了漆黑一片的沙漠。我不知道摩加迪沙是在东南还是西北，只是径直往前跑。一连跑了几小时，中午时我已进了红沙腹地，一望无际。我叉饿又渴又累，就转为步行。前路茫茫，我不知道接下来会发生什么事情。沉思之豫，忽然听到「华莉丝........华莉丝......」父亲的喊声在四风周荡！我毛骨悚然，心?知道，如果被他抓到，一定会逼我出嫁。

父亲循着沙地上留下的脚印追赶我，就要追上来了。我再拔腿奔跑，过了一阵子回过头来，看见父亲刚越过一个沙丘。他也看见了我。我很害怕，跑得更快了。父女两人好像在沙漠上「冲浪」我在前面冲上一个沙丘，他在后面滑下一个沙丘。跑了几小时，我终于再也见不到他，听不到他的叫喊。我继续跑，直至夜幕落下，什么都看不见，只好停下来。我饥肠驴辙，双脚流血，便坐在树下休息，转眼间睡看了。第二天早晨我睁开眼睛，只见骄阳似火。我站起来继续跑，虽然又饿叉渴又怕又痛，却一直跑到天黑才停下来。就这样过了几天。

中午我会坐在树下睡一阵子，有一次午睡时，给一种轻微声音惊醒了我睁开眼，一张狮子脸赫然在目。我望看那张脸，想站起来，却因几天没吃东西，两腿发软，「噗通」一声又倒了下来，只好再靠在树上。横越沙漠的长途旅程看来要中止了，但我无所畏惧，视死如归。狮子瞪着我，我也瞪着它。它舐了舐嘴唇，在我面前轻松优雅地踱起步来。最后，它一定是认为我没什么肉，不值得一吃，竟然转身离去了。我知道，那狮子不吃我，是因为上天另有安排，要让我活下去。「是什么安排呢？」我一面挣扎起身一面问，请指引我。」。

小牧羊女

离家出走之前，我生活的圈子就是我家和大自然。我们一家人和大多数索马利亚人一样，过看游牧生活，以养牛养羊为生。我们不能一天没有骆驼，尤其在远离水源之时，因为雌骆驼的奶能供应营养并解渴。我们每天早晚两餐都喝骆驼奶，赖以生存。我们日出即起，第一件事就是去牲口栏挤奶。我们逐水草而居，到了什么地方都要 砍小树给牲口筑栏，不让牲口在夜晚走失。养牲口主要为了取奶，以及用牲口易物。我很小就要放羊，常常独自手持长棒、唱看小调，把约六七十头绵羊和山羊赶到沙漠去吃草。索马利亚人谁都没有牧地，因此我要负责去找草多的地方。羊吃草的时候，我要注意是否有野兽接近，既要防土狼悄悄走来抓羊，还要担心狮子。
　
我像其他家人一样，并不知道自己实际的年龄，只能猜测。我们的生活受季节和太阳支配，哪里有雨水就到哪襄去，每天都根据日照时间的长短来安排种种活动。我们的家是帐棚式的圆顶小屋，用草条编成，以树枝做骨架，直径大约两米。要迁移时就把小屋拆散，绑在骆驼背上，等找到有水有草的地方再搭起来。小屋是中午躲避烈日的地方，也是鲜奶储存之所。夜里我们几个小孩在屋外紧挨着同睡在一张蓆子上，父亲睡在一旁保护。父亲很英俊，约一米八三尚，身材瘦削，肤色比妈妈的略浅。我母亲很美，皮肤又黑又光滑，整个人彷彿是用黑大理石雕刻而成。她举止从容稳重，但一开口便总是妙语达珠，常说笑话和有趣的小事逗我们笑。母亲出身于摩加迪沙望族，我父亲则自出生就在沙漠中流浪，因此当年他向我姥姥提亲时，姥姥一口拒绝了「绝对不行。」不过，母亲十六岁那年终于离家出走，和我父亲结婚。

我出生后，母亲给我取名华莉丝，意即「沙漠之花」。在我的祖国，有时一连数月不雨，只有很少生物能幸免于死，但等到终于再降甘霖，转眼间便到处出现鲜橘黄色的小花，真是大自然的奇迹。

封锁阴部

在我们的游牧文化中，未婚妇女是没有地位的，因此凡是做母亲的都把嫁女儿视为重责大任。索马利亚人传统的思想认为女子两腿的中间有些坏东西，妇女应该把这些东酉(阴蒂、小阴唇和大部分大阴唇)割去，然后把伤口缝起来，让整个阴部只留下一倒小孔和一道疤。妇女如不这样封锁阴部.，就会给视为肮脏、淫荡，不宜迎娶。

请吉普赛女人行这种割礼要付不少钱，索马利亚人却认为很划算，因为少女不行割礼就上不了婚姻市场。割礼的细节是绝不会给女孩说明的，女孩只知道一旦月经来了就有件恃别的事情将要发生。以前女孩总是进了青春期才举行割礼，如今行割礼的年龄越来越小了。我五岁那年，有一天晚上母亲对我说:「你父亲遇上那吉普赛女人了，她应该这几天就来。」

接受割礼的前夕，我紧张得睡不着，后来突然见到母亲站在我面前，以手势叫我起来。这时天空还是漆黑一片，我抓住小毯子，睡眼惺忪、晃晃悠悠地跟着她走，进了小 树林。

　　「我们就在这里等，」母亲说。我们在地上坐下。不久，天渐渐亮了，我听到那吉普赛女人凉鞋的「喀咯」声，转眼间就看见她已来到我身旁。

　　「过去坐在那里，」她伸手朝一块平顶石头指了指。

　　母亲把我安置在石上，然后她自己到我后面坐下，拉我的头去贴住她的胸口，两腿伸前把我拑住。我双臂抱住母亲双腿，她把一段老树根塞在我两排牙齿中间。

　　「咬住这个。」
　　我吓得呆住了。「一定会很痛！」
　　母亲倾身向前，低声说「孩子，乖。为了妈妈，勇敢些。很快就完事的。」

　　我从两腿之间望看那吉普赛女人。那老女人看看我，目光呆滞，脸如铁板。接看，她在一只旧旅行手提包里乱翻，取出一块断刀片，上有血迹。她在刀片上吐了些口水，用身上的衣服擦乾。然后母亲给我绑上蒙眼布，我什么都看不见了。
　　接着我感到自己的肉给割去，又听见刀片来回割我皮肉的声音，那种感觉很恐怖，非言语所能形容。我一动不动，心里知道若动得越厉害，折磨的时间就越长。但很不幸，我的双腿渐渐不听使唤，颤抖起来。我心里祷告道「老天爷，求求你，快些完事吧。」果然很快就完事---因为我失去了知觉。

到我醒来，蒙眼布拿掉了，我看见那吉普赛女人身旁放了一堆刺槐刺。她用这些剌在我皮肤上打洞，然后用一根坚韧白线穿过洞把我阴部缝起来。我双腿完全麻木，但感到两腿中间疼痛难当，恨不得死去。我又昏过去了，等到再睁开眼，那女人已经离去。我的双腿给用布条绑住，从足踝一直绑到臀部，不能动弹。我转头望向石头，只见右上有一大滩血，还有一块块从我身上割下来的肉，给太阳晒得就要乾了。

母亲和我姊姊阿曼把我抱到树荫里，又临时为我盖一幢小屋。在树下建小屋是我们的传统，我会独自在小屋裹住几星期，直至伤口愈合。几小时后，我憋不住了，想小便，便叫姊姊帮忙。第一滴尿出来时我痛得要死，彷彿那是硫酸。吉普赛女人已把我阴部缝合，只留下一个小孔供小便和日后排经血］那小孔只有火柴头大小。

我躺在小屋里度日如年，更因伤口感染而发高烧，常常神志模糊。我因双腿给绑看，什么都不能做，只能思索。「为什么？这是为了什么？」我那时年纪小，不知道男女间事，只知道母亲让我任人宰割。其实，我虽挨切肉之痛，还算是幸运的。许多女孩挨割之后就流血不止、休克、感染或得了破伤风，因而丧生。过了两个星期，我的伤口才渐渐愈合。

盲婚哑嫁

刚十三岁那年，一天晚上，父亲柔声叫我「过来。」他因此我不禁疑心起来。回到家就有大事要发生了。父亲继续说「你干活跟男人一样勤快，牲口照看得很好。我要你知道，将来我会很想念你的。」他说这番话，我猜想是因为他担心我会像我姊姊阿曼那样逃婚！阿曼因为不满父亲为她包办婚姻，逃跑了。我搂住他。「哦，爸爸，我不会走的。」他身子往后一退，盯着我说「好，你果然是我的好女儿。我已为你找了个丈夫。」

「不要，」我摇摇头，「我不要结婚。」我这时已长成反叛少女，精力旺盛又天不怕地不怕。父亲明白非洲男人不愿意讨不听话的女人做妻子，所以想在我个性未为外人所知，仍是值钱商品的时候，为我找个丈夫。我感到恶心又害怕。

第二天，我挤羊奶的时候听到父亲叫我「过来，乖女儿这位是---」我没有听到其余的话，因为有个男人分散了我的注意力。他拄着手杖，至少六十 岁，正在慢慢坐下。

「华莉丝，向葛鲁先生问好吧」

「你好」我尽量用最冷淡的声音说。

那老头大剌剌地坐在那襄，咧开嘴巴对我笑。我惊恐地望着他，再看看我父亲。 父 亲一瞧见我的脸便知道上上之策是立即打发我离去，以免我把未来丈夫吓走。「干你的活去吧」，他说。我跑回去挤羊奶。

翌日清晨，父亲对我说「你知这吗，那就是你未来的丈夫。」

「可是爸爸，他太老了！」

「那才好，。他年老就不会去鬼混，不会离开你，会照顾你，而且他答应给我五头骆驼。」

那天我坐在草地上望看羊群，心里知道这可能是我最后一次替父亲放羊了。我想像自己在沙漠上某个偏僻地方和那老头一起生活的情况一切活儿都由我来干，他只是拄看手杖一跛一瘸地走来走去后来他心脏病猝发，我孤独地度过余生，或者独力抚养四，五个娃娃。

我心中有数了，我不要过这样的生活。

那天晚上大家都睡看之后，我走向仍然坐在篝火旁边的母亲，悄悄地说「妈，我要逃。」

「嘘，轻声点，你打算逃到哪里去？」

「摩加迪沙。」我姊姊阿曼在那里。

「睡觉去。」她表情严肃，似乎暗示这件事到此为止。

入睡之后不久，母亲来到我身边，跪在地上轻拍我的手臂，柔声在我耳边? R「现在走吧。乘他还没醒，现在就走吧。

她伸出双臂紧搂着我。我在黯淡光线下想尽量看清楚她的脸，好把她的容貌铭记于心。我原想表现坚强，岂料眼泪滚滚而下，也哽咽得说不出话来，只能把她紧紧抱拄。

「你会成功的，」母亲说，「只要一路上非常小心就行了。保重，.还有，华莉丝 ......求你，一件事。别忘了我。」「我一定不会忘记你的，妈妈。」我放开她，向黑暗中奔过去。

寄人篱下

摩加迪沙濒临印度洋，当年很美。我一边走，一边引颈观看那些有棕榈和五彩缤纷花朵围绕的漂亮白色房子。大部分房子是义大利人建造的当时摩加迪沙是义大利索马利兰的首都，洋溢着地中海城市的气氛。

我离家出走数周后才终于到达那裹。一路上我的表姊妹收留我过夜，把阿曼的消息告诉我，给我钱完成旅程。抵达摩加迪沙之后，我按地址来到我姊姊所住的地区，在菜市场上问人是否认识阿曼。

「我觉得你很面熟，」那个妇女喊道。她叫儿子带我去阿曼家。我们走了几条小街来到一幢小屋，我走进去，看见姊姊在睡觉，便把她叫醒。

「你来这里做什么？」她半睡半醒地问，同时望着我，彷彿我是梦中人。我坐下来，说了我的事，她深表同情。

姊姊已经结婚，丈夫是个工作勤奋的好人，夫妇俩快要有第一个孩子了。她家很小，只有两个房间，但仍勉强同意收留我，说我想待多久都可以。我替姊姊打扫房子，洗衣服，去菜市场买东西。她漂亮的女儿出生之后，我也帮忙照料娃娃。但不久我就看出姊姊的个性显然和我大相迳庭。她爱指挥别人，而且仍然把我当作五年前她离家时的那个小妹妹。

我在摩加迪沙还有别的亲戚，于是我去投靠姨妈莎露，姨妈家里帮忙做家务。我常常担心母亲，怕她会因为没人帮忙干活而过劳。后来，我觉得应该给她寄点钱聊表心意，便出去找工作，在某建筑工地说服了工头雇用我。第二天早晨，我开始做建筑工人。辛苦极了。我整天搬运一袋袋沉重的沙泥，双手都起了大水泡。人人都以为我会辞职，但我撑了一个月，一共储到了六十美元。我请一个熟人把这六十美元带给母亲，但母亲始终连一分钱都没收到。

我回到姨妈家再过打扫房子的生活。一天，索马利亚驻伦敦大使穆罕默德查马法拉来访。他是我另一姨妈马鲁伊的丈夫。当时我在隔壁房间拂拭灰尘，无意中听到法拉姨丈说要去伦敦做四年大使，想在出国之前找到一个女佣。我的机会来了。

我叫姨妈出来，对她说「请你去问问他，可不可以请我做女佣。」

她回到房间里，轻声对妹夫说:「你何不就带她去？她真是个很好的清洁工。」

姨妈叫我进房。我立刻跳了进去，对姨妈说：「帮我跟他多说好话。」

「华莉丝，嘘！」然后她对法拉姨丈说「她年轻力壮，做女佣正适合。」

姨丈一动不动地坐看，用不屑的眼光看着我，过了一会儿才说「好吧。明天下午在这里等我。我带你去伦敦。」伦敦！我不知道伦敦在哪裹，只知道它离摩加迪沙很远，而且我很想去。我无比兴奋。第二天，法拉姨丈来接我，递给我一本护照。我拥抱莎露姨妈，向她挥手告别。

独留伦敦

飞机慢慢把车驶出机场，进入伦敦早晨的车流。我惊觉自己对眼前这个地方完全陌生，周围全是憔悴的白脸，孤独感油然而生，悲从中来。我们驶过一个高尚住宅区，看见积雪使人行道变成了白色。车子在姨丈家门前停住时，我惊讶得愣住了。姨丈的寓所是一幢四层楼的大宅。我们从正门进屋。马鲁伊姨妈在门厅迎接我。「进来吧，」她冷淡地说，「把门关上。」

我本来想冲上前去拥抱她，但是一看见她交叠双手站立的姿势，立刻不敢造次。

「我先带你到处去看看，再告䜣你要做什么工作。」

「哦，」我低声回应。经过长途飞行，我感到浑身乏力。

「姨妈，我很累，想躺下。能不能让我先睡一觉？」

马鲁伊姨妈带我到她的房间。那卧床有四根帷柱，比我们家的小屋还要大。我爬上床去，有生以来从未摸过那么柔软美妙的东西。我一下子就睡着，彷彿掉进了又长又黑的隧道。第二天早晨我在屋里闲逛时，姨妈来找我。「好，你起床了。我们到厨房去，我来告诉你要做什么。」厨房里蓝色的瓷砖和奶白色的碗橱、碟橱闪闪发亮，中间是一台六个炉头的灶。姨妈把一个个抽屉拉开又砰然关上，喊道「这是碗碟、餐具、餐巾。」我不知道她在 说什么。

「你每天早晨六点半钟就要给你姨丈端上早餐草药茶和两个水煮荷包蛋。我七点钟在房间里喝咖啡。然后你要给孩子做薄煎饼他们八点吃。早餐后---」

「姨妈，我不会做这些东西，谁来教我？什么叫薄煎饼？」

她用吃惊的眼神盯看我，慢慢呼了一口气，对我说「我先给你示范一次。你要仔细看，仔细听，用心学。」我点点头。一星期后我熟习了，其后四年天天如法炮制。早餐后我清理厨房，收拾姨妈的房间和浴室。然后给每一个房间尘、刷洗地板再擦亮，从一楼到四缕全部打扫乾净。我不停干活，每天都到半夜才睡觉，而且从未休过一天假。

一九八三年夏天，法拉姨丈的妹妹去世，她的幼小女儿索菲搬来和我们同住。姨丈送索菲进「英格兰万灵堂小学」读书，我早上的任务自此包括了送索菲上学。那时我大约十六岁。一天早晨我们去学校的时候，我看见有个陌生男子目不转睛地看着我。他是白人，四十岁左右，梳着马尾发型，他女儿也是在这学校读书的。我送索菲进校门之后，那男子朝我走过来，说了一些话，我不懂英语，不知道他说什么，更因心里害怕，匆匆跑回家去了。

此后，每次在学校看见他，他只是礼貌地笑一笑，便继续忙他自己的事。有一天，他走过来递给我一张名片。我把名片塞进口袋，他转身离去了。回到家，我把名片拿给马鲁伊姨妈的一个女儿看。「上面说什么？」

「说他是摄影师。」

我把名片藏在自己房间裹，彷彿听见有个微弱声音叫我把名片留着。

姨丈任期即将结束，他决定到时全家人都回国去。我不想回索马利亚，希望名成利就才回家。我的愿望是赚到足够的钱给母亲买一幢房子，而且认为留在英国就可以实现这个愿望。我不知道如何达成心愿，但我有信心。

姨丈说了动身日期，要大家检查一下护照。我做了手脚把护照放在塑胶袋内封好，埋在花园里，然后撒谎说护照丢了。我的计划很简单既然没有护照，当然就不能回去。姨丈察觉其中有诈，但我说：「就让我留下吧，不会有问题的。」

他们果然让我留下来。我站在人行道上向众人挥手告别，目送汽车驶出了视野。前路茫茫，我心里很害怕，但知道必须克服。我捡起我的小行李袋挂在肩上，去花园挖出护照，微笑看沿街前行。

娇艳动人

当天我走进一家商店，看见有个身材高挑的非洲裔美女在挑选毛线衣。她非常友善，我和她用索马利亚语交谈起来，知道她名叫贺胡。「你住在哪襄，华莉丝？做什么工作？」

「哦，也许你不会相信，我现在没地方住，因为我家里的人今天回索马利亚去了。

我姨丈本来是大使，但任期满了。如今我不知道去哪里是好。」

她挥手止住我，彷彿那样挥一挥手就能把我所有的烦恼扫走。「我在基督教青年会有个房间。你可以来过夜。」

贺胡和我成了密友，几天后，我在街对面的基督教女青年会租了个房间，着手找工作。

「你何不就去那里? 」贺胡指着麦当劳快餐店说。

「不行。我不会说英语，也看不懂，而且没有工作许可证。」

但她有门路。于是我开始在麦当劳快餐店的厨房里工作，负责洗碗，抹柜台，刷洗烤架，拖地板，晚上下班回家时总是浑身油腻味。但是我没抱怨，因为至少可以养活自已了。

我上免费语言学校去学英语。这是多年来我第一次并非从早到晚只是工作。

有时贺胡带我去夜总会，那里的人似乎都认识她。我撇开非洲女人的传统观念，主动跟陌生人聊天。我明白自己必须学会各种在这个新世界求生存的技巧。

一天下午，我取出夹在护照襄的摄影师名片，走到贺胡的房间，向她解释了卡片的来历，然后说「我真不知道他用意何在。」

「嗯，你何不打电话问问他？」

「你和他谈吧。我的英语还不灵光。」

贺胡和他谈了。第二天，我去参观迈克戈斯的摄影室。我不知道自已指望什么，但是一推开摄影室的门，当下就跌进了另一个世界。大厅里到处挂着大幅的美女海报。

「啊！」我喊了一声，感到眼花撩乱。我只知道「不枉此行，机会来了。」迈克出来了，对我解释说，他第一眼看见我就想给我拍照。我愣望着他，嘴巴张得老大。

「是真的吗？拍这样的照片？」我举起手朝海报挥了挥。

「是真的，」他说，同时点头强调，「你的侧面美极了。」

两天后，我再来到摄影室。女化妆师让我坐下，用棉花、小刷子、海绵、乳霜、胭脂、口红、香粉等替我化妆，又用手指戳我，拉扯我的皮肤。

「好了，」化妆师后退一步，满意地看看我，「照镜子看看。」

我望看镜子。我的脸变了，变得细腻柔滑，光彩照人，漂亮极了。「哇！真美！」化妆师带我到摄影间去。迈克让我坐在凳子上。我周围全是以前从未见过的东西照相机、灯、电池、像蛇一样挂看的电线。

一开始了，华莉丝，迈克说，「把嘴唇闭拢，望向前面，下巴梢微抬高。就这样 ---漂亮！」我听到「喀嚓」一声，接着是响亮的一声「砰」，吓了我一跳。闪光灯一闪即逝，但很奇怪，那闪光竟让我觉得我已经脱胎换骨，从此变成另一个人了。

迈克从照相机里拿出一张纸，打手势叫我走过去。他掀掉纸的面层。我看看那纸，只见一张女人脸渐渐显现。他把那张拍立得照片递给我，我一看，照片上是个娇艳动人的美女，髦不逊色于大厅裹海报上的那些女郎。我巳今非昔比，再也不是女佣华莉丝，而是模特儿华莉丝了。

打开封锁

不久，有位见过那照片的模特儿公司职员介绍我去拍照。我不明白她说什么，但既然她给了我钱坐计程车，我就去了那地方。那里挤满了职业模特儿，每个都像绕看猎物打圈的雌狮般神气活现。我向其中一个打招呼。

「是什么工作？」

「倍耐力年历。」

「唔---」我点点头，「谢谢。」但那到底是什么呀?

摄影师泰伦斯唐纳芬给我端来一杯茶，让我看他的作品。桌上有一本年历，每页上都有一个不同的迷人美女。「这是去年的倍耐力年历，」泰伦斯告诉我，「今年的会有所不同---全是非洲美女。」他给我解释了拍照的程序。我直到这时才总算感到轻松自在，而旦从此成了真正的职业模特儿。工作完毕，我的照片获挑选做封面。

我的模特儿事业一帆风顺，渐渐出名。我起先在巴黎和米兰工作，后来转去纽约，迅即红起来，赚钱比以往任何时候都多。我穿着白色的非洲长袍为某珠宝公司拍了一系列广告，为露华浓公司拍了几辑化妆品广告，后来又为该公司新香水艾姬的代言人。

那广告说「来自非洲心脏的芳香，每个女人都为之倾倒。」我和辛蒂克劳馥、克劳迪姬希弗、罗兰赫顿一起出现在露华浓公司的广告上。我越来越红，不久就常常在各大国际时装杂誌上亮相。

新生活给我带来兴奋和名利，昔日的创伤却依然使我苦恼。割礼之后我的阴部只有 一偭小孔，小便时尿液只能一滴滴流出，每次小便都要花上十分钟。来月经时更苦不堪言；每个月总有几天无法工作，只能躺在床上，痛苦得但愿就此死去，一了百了。

我以前在法拉姨丈家时，更曾因月经问题几乎送命。一天清晨，我端着托盘从厨房去饭厅，在半路突然失去知觉，倒在地上。我甦醒后，马鲁伊姨妈说「我要带你去看医生，今天下午就去。」我没告诉医生我之前行过割礼，他也没有给我检查，所以不知道我的秘密。「我给你处方避孕药，应该可以止痛，」他说。吃避孕药之后，我体内随即产生激烈变化，既古怪又异乎寻常样，我于是停止服药。一切恢复原样，只是痛得比以往更厉害。后来我又看了另外几位医生，也只是给我处方避孕药。我知道要另想别法，便对姨妈说「也许该去看专科医生。」

她严厉地看看我，斩钉截铁地说「不行。顺便问一下，你对那些男人说过些什么？」
「什么都没说。只说我要止痛，就这样。」我心里明白她言外之意「割礼是我们非洲人的习俗，不应该跟那些白人谈论。」

但我如今渐渐明白必须去找白人医生讨论一下，要不然我每月总有三分之一时间要活受罪。我去看迈克尔麦雷医生，对他说「有件事我一直没有告诉你。我是索马利亚人，我......我.....」

他没有让我把话说完。「去换衣服。我要给你检查。」他看见我面露惧色，便加一句「放心，不会有事的。」

他把护士叫进来带我上我去换衣服，又问护士，医院里可有人会说索马利亚语。护士回来时旁边有个索马利亚男子。我心想「噢，真倒楣，讨论这种事竟然找来一个索马利亚男子做翻译，还有比这更槽糕的吗？」

麦雷医生说「对她说，她封闭得太过分了，我不明白她怎能熬这么久。她要尽快动手术。」

我看得出那索马利亚男子很不高兴。他朝医生瞪了一眼，对我说「嗯，如果你真的想把封锁打开，他们可以给你开刀。但你可知道这样做是有违文化传统的吗？家人知道你要这样做吗？」
「不知道。」

「我认为你应该先跟他们商量一下。」
我点点头。他说这番话，是非洲男子的典型反应。

一年后我决定动手术。麦雷医生的手术很成功，我会永远感激他。他告诉我
「不只你一个人有这种间题。常有妇女因为这种问题来求诊，大部分来自苏丹、埃及、索马利亚。其中有些是孕妇，因为担心不能生产，未经丈夫同意就来找我。我总是尽力而为。」
不到三个星期我就能坐在马桶上了。呼，.那种痛快非笔墨所能形容。

母女团聚

一九九五年，英国广播公司建议为我的超级模特儿生涯拍一套纪录片。我对导演捷里波默罗说，如果他愿意带我回索马利亚并且帮我找到我母亲，我就答应。他同意了。

英国广播公司在非洲的工作人员随即开始努力寻找。我们查阅地图，我尽可能指出家人常去的地方，又列出我家所属部落及氏族的名称。突然间沙漠里冒出许多妇女自称是我母亲，但都是假的。后来捷里想出一个主意。

「我们需要一个只有你母亲和你知道的秘密。」

「唔，我母亲以前叫我时，总是叫我的乳名---艾多荷。」

「她会记得吗？」

「一定记得。」

从那时起，艾多荷就成了秘密口令。英国广播公司的人与前来认亲的妇女面谈时，那些妇女通常都能回答头两三个问题，但一问到乳名就无言以对。后来有一天，英国广播公司的人打电话对我说：「看样子已经找到了，这个妇女不记得乳名，但她有个女儿名叫华莉丝，曾在伦敦为大使工作。」

几天后我们飞抵衣索比亚首都阿迪斯亚贝巴，再包租双引擎小飞机前往衣索比--- 索马利亚边界上的小村加拉迪。那时候索马利亚发生内战，边境上聚集了许多难民。我闻到热空气和沙的气味，记起了我的童年，每一件大事小事都在脑海浮现。我奔跑，轻摸土地，捏弄沙泥，抚摸树木。树木满布沙尘，而且很乾，但我知道雨季就要来临，到时会遍地开花。后来查明那妇女不是我母亲。我们在村里挨家逐户去问是否有人知道我家人的下落，有个老人走到我面前说「还记得我吗？」

「不记得了。」

「我叫伊斯梅，和你父亲是同部落的兄弟，而且是好朋友。」

我终于想起他是谁了，并为了刚才认不出他而深感惭愧。其实也不能怪我，因为我只小时候见过他。「我大概知道你的家人在哪里，应该能找到你母亲，但我需要钱买汽油。」

我们给了他一点钱，他跳上卡车，随即开走，扬起大团沙尘。三天过去了，依然不见母亲的踪影。捷里焦躁起来，我对他说「我向你保证，我母亲明晚六点钟以前会来到这里。」我不知道为何有此信念，但我就是那么想。

第二天傍晚五时五十分左右，捷里向我慢跑过来。「真是想不到！那人回来了，还带了个妇女，说是你母亲。」前方就是伊斯梅的车，一个妇女正从座位上爬下来。我看不到她的脸，但从她披围巾的方式上且即认出是我母亲，拔腿就奔过去。

「妈妈！」

起先我们只是谈日常琐事，但母女团聚的喜悦很快就使我们之间的隔膜冰消瓦解。

母亲告诉我，卡车到时父亲刚巧外出找水源去了。她又说，父亲老了，视力很差，亟需配副眼镜。
随母亲来的还有我小弟弟阿里，以及一个堂弟。

那天晚上，母亲睡在加拉迪村一户人家的小屋里，我和阿里睡在屋外，就像从前一样。我躺在那里，有一种安详幸福的感觉。

第二天和母亲聊天时，母亲问「你为什么不结婚?」

「妈妈，我一定要结婚吗？难道你不想看到我坚强独立、出人头地吗？」

「但是，我想有外孙、外孙女。」

飞机来接我们离去了，我问母亲想不想和我一起到英国或美国生活。

「但我有什么可做呢？」

「问得好。我什么都不要你做。你做得够多了。该享点福了。」

「不。你父亲老了，需要我。再说，我也闲不住。如果你想为我做点什么，就在索马利亚给我盖幢房子吧，我累了可以去那里休息。这里是我的家。我离不开这里。」

我紧紧拥抱她。「我爱你，妈妈。我会再回来看你的，可别忘了。」

我的使命

回到美国，我的事业继绩欣欣向荣，常在广告和音乐录象带上露面，也常和时装界大名鼎鼎的摄影师合作，生活愉快美好。我对母亲说过还没找到合适的对象，但一九九五年秋天一个晚上，我终于在纽约某家小爵士乐俱乐部里找到了。他名叫达纳墨雷，是个内向而带有一九七O年代非洲乡土味的鼓手，我对他一见锺情。

第二天我们一起吃晚饭，我笑看对他说，将来有一天会给他生个孩子。这是我有生以来第一次想有个丈夫。不久我们相爱了，愿意共同生活，白头偕老。一九九七年六月十三日，我们的儿子出生，实现了我那奇妙的预言，儿子很漂亮，头发乌黑柔软，脚和手指很长。我给他取名阿里基。
从阿里基出生那天起，我的生活就改变了。他给我带来愉悦，如今已成为我的至宝。生命---以及生命所赐予我的---比什么都更重要，这一点是我生儿子之后才明白的。

从五岁接受割礼到三十岁生孩子，我在这段岁月里所经历的一切，使我对母亲更加尊敬了。我已经明白索马利亚妇女的能耐是多么惊人。我想到家乡灌丛里的女孩，尽管月经来的时候痛得几乎无法站起来，却仍然要把山 羊赶到几公里外的地方去饮水想到妇女怀孕九个月仍然要去沙漠为孩子寻找食物 想到做妻子的刚分娩就得用针线把阴部缝起来，好让丈夫日后仍可享用到紧窄的阴道想到阴部缝紧的新娘的初夜，以及后来生第一个婴儿时的情景。

孕妇独自进沙漠去生产，其间会不会出什么事？

如今我阅历增加，已终于明白由于一种残酷的仪式，非洲大陆许多妇女终生要活在痛苦之中。 那些没有发言权的小女孩太可怜了，必须有人挺身代为打抱不平。既然我像她们之中许多人一样出身于游牧部落，我觉得自己注定要去帮助她们。

不久前，时装杂誌「玛利嘉儿」(Marie Claire)的撰稿人劳拉齐夫来访问我，一见面我就喜欢上她，跟她说「我不知道你准备怎么写我，只知道那种以时装模特儿生涯为主题的文章已刊登过无数次了。如果你答应一定发表，我给你讲一个真实的故事。」她说「那太好了，我会尽力而为。」她开了录音机，我给她讲述我小时倏行割礼的经过，请到一半她就哭了起来，关掉录音机。

「太可怕了，」她说，「我做梦都没想到今天，世界上还有这种事。」

「问题就在这里，」我说，「西方世界的人不知道。」

接受采访后翌日，我感到很不自在，坐立不安。不久就人人都会知道我那个最私人的秘密。我小时候曾行割礼的事，连我最亲密的朋友都不知道，如今却就要公之于世了。

再三考虑之后，我明白有必要告诉世人我曾受割礼。首先，它害得我饱受折磨。割礼不但使我健康出了问题且至今未愈，也令我终生体会不到性爱的乐趣。我感到自己残缺不全，而且知道自己无力扭转这种感觉。

第二个理由是我希望让大家知道这种习俗至今仍存。我不但要为自己讨公道，也要为数以百万计曾遭此苦甚至因之去世的女孩仗义执言。专访发表之后，反响强烈，杂誌编辑部收到无数来信。我接受更多的访问，并且去 学校、社区组织和一切能去的地方演讲，一有机会就谈论这个议题。

一九九七年，联合国人口基金邀请我参与他们的反女性割礼运动。世界卫生组织蒐集了一些骇人听闻的数据，助人了解此问题。我看了那些数字以后，心里更明白这不仅是我个人的问题。割礼主要流行于非洲---二十八个国家有此习俗。美国和欧洲的非洲裔移民当中，据报也有女孩和妇女曾行割礼。全世界有一亿三千万女孩和妇女遭此厄运每年至少有二百万女孩可能成为下一批受害者，即每天六千人。

手术通常由村妇用刀、、剪刀、甚或锐利的石片在原始的环境中施行，不用麻醉剂。手术致残程度最轻的是割去阴蒂，最重的是封锁阴部(百分之八十的索马利妇女曾如此受害)，以致终生无法享受性爱的乐趣。一想到有许多小女孩将要经历我曾经历的酷刑，我心都碎了，也义愤填膺。我很荣幸获联合国人口基金邀请担任特使，参与该基金的运动。我要回非洲去讲述自己的遭遇，声讨这种罪行。

朋友担心我会被激进分子杀害，因为许多伊斯兰原教旨主义者认为割礼是可兰经所要求的神圣习俗。其实，可兰经从头到尾都没提到女性要行割礼。我只祈求有朝一日再也没有妇女要受这种罪，但愿割礼成为历史。这就是我奋斗的目标。从上天当年保祐我狮口余生那一刻起，我就感到上天对我另有安排，要让我活下来做某件事。我的信念告诉我，上天有工作要我去做，有使命给我。我清楚我的任务危险。我承认我害怕，但决定碰碰运气。我的个性一向如此。

本文摘自读者文摘中文版

The Waris Dirie Story @ 沙漠之花的故事

昨天看了由导演（Sherry Horman ）所拍的沙漠之花 ( Desert Flower ) 。

这电影是根据一个出生在索马里的黑人模特，华莉丝·迪里（Waris Dirie ) 的自传而完成。是关于一个国际名模所经历的"残忍割礼"的真实故事。

记得我中六的时候就看过了刊登在读者文摘上的这篇故事，感受深刻。这部电影的拍摄手法更加起了那画龙点睛之效。不过，看这部电影前，最好先看看他的故事，她人生所经历的，我们无法想象的那些可怕的过去。

这是英文版本：

My family was a tribe of herdsmen in the Somalian desert. And as a child, the freedom I had to experience nature’s sights, sounds and smells was pure joy. We watched lions baking in the sun. We ran with giraffes, zebras and foxes. We chased hyraxes—rabbit-size animals—through the sand. I was so happy.

Gradually, those happy times disappeared. Life became harder. By five I knew what it was to be an African woman, to live with terrible suffering in a passive, helpless manner.

Women are the backbone of Africa; they do most of the work. Yet women are powerless to make decisions. They have no say, sometimes not even in whom they will marry.

By the time I was around 13, I had had my fill of these traditions. A little girl no more, I was fast and incredibly fit. Before, I had no choice but to suffer. This time I determined that I would run away.

My nightmare journey began when my father announced he had arranged my marriage. I had to act fast, I told my mother I wanted to run. My plan was to find an aunt who lived in Mogadishu, the capital, a place I had never been.

While my father and the rest of the family were sleeping, my mother woke me and said, "Go now."

I looked around, but there was nothing to take—no water, milk or food. So, barefoot and wearing only a scarf draped around me, I ran off into the black desert night.

I didn’t know which direction led to Mogadishu; I just ran. Slowly at first, because I couldn’t see. But as the sky lighted, I was off like a gazelle. I ran for hours.

By midday I’d traveled deep into the red sand. The landscape stretched on to eternity. Hungry, thirsty and tired, I slowed and walked.

As I pondered what was going to happen next, I heard, "Waris … Waris…" My father’s voice echoed all around me! I was frightened. If he caught me, I knew that he would make me, marry.

Even though I had gotten a head start, Papa had tracked me down by following my footprints through the sand. He was close.

I started to run. I looked back and saw him coming over the hill. He spotted me too. Terrified, I ran faster. It was as if we were surfing waves of sand; I flew up one hill, and he glided down the one behind me. On and on we continued for hours, until I realized I hadn’t seen him for some time. He no longer called to me.

I kept running until the sun set, and the night was so black I couldn't see. By this time I was starving and my feet were bleeding. I sat down to rest, and fell asleep under a tree.

In the morning, I opened my eyes to the burning sun. I got up and continued to run. And so it went for days—days marked by hunger, thirst, fear and pain. When it grew too dark to see, I would stop. At midday I’d sit under a tree and take a siesta.

It was during one of these naps that a slight sound woke me. I opened my eyes and was staring into the face of a lion. I tried to stand, but I hadn't eaten in days, so my weak legs wobbled and folded beneath me. I slumped back against the tree that had sheltered me from the merciless African sun. My long journey across the desert had come to an end. I was unafraid, ready to die.

"Come and get me," I said to the lion. "I’m ready."

The big cat stared at me, and my eyes locked on his. He licked his lips and paced back and forth in front of me, elegantly, sensuously. He could crush me in an instant.

Finally he turned and walked away, no doubt deciding that I had so little flesh, I wasn't worth eating.

When I realized the lion was not going to kill me, I knew that God had something else planned, some reason to keep me alive. "What is it?" I asked as I struggled to my feet. "Direct me."

Child of the Desert

Before I ran away from home, my life had been built around nature and family. Like most Somalis, we lived the pastoral life, raising cattle, sheep and goats. On a daily level, our camels kept us alive, since the females gave milk to nourish us and quench our thirst, an enormous asset when we were far from water. For everyday sustenance, we had camel's milk for breakfast, and again for supper.

In the morning we got up with the sun. Our first chore was to head out to the pens and milk the herds. Wherever we went, we cut saplings to make pens for the animals, to keep them from straying at night.

We raised animals primarily for their milk and to trade for goods. While still a little girl, I was responsible for taking herds of about 60 to 70 sheep and goats into the desert to graze. I got my long stick and headed off alone with my herd, singing my little song to guide them.

No one owns the grazing land in Somalia, so it was up to me to discover areas with lots of plants. While the animals grazed, I watched for predators. The hyenas would sneak up and snatch a lamb or kid that had wandered off. There were also lions to worry about. They hunted in prides, but there was only one of me.

Like the rest of my family, I have no idea how old I am; I can only guess. We lived by the seasons and the sun, planning our moves around our need for rain, planning our day around the span of daylight available.

Our home was a tentlike domed hut woven from grass and built on a framework of sticks; it was about six feet in diameter. When it came time to move, we dismantled the hut and tied it to the backs of our camels. Then when we found a spot with water and foliage, we'd setup again.

The hut provided shelter from the midday sun and storage space for fresh milk. At night we children slept outside under the stars, cuddled together on a mat. My father slept off to one side, our guardian.

Papa was very handsome, about six feet tall, slim and lighter-skinned than Mama. My mother was beautiful. Her face was like a Modigliani sculpture and her skin dark and smooth, as if perfectly chiseled from black marble.

Her demeanor was very calm, very quiet. But when she started talking, she was hysterically funny, telling jokes and saying silly little things to make us laugh.

She grew up in Mogadishu, where her family had money and power. My father, on the other band, had always roamed the desert. When he asked permission to marry my mother, my grandmother said, 'Absolutely not." However, when Mama was about 16, she ran away and married Papa anyhow.

My mother affectionately called me Avdohol, her word for "small mouth." But she named me Waris, the word we used for the desert flower. In my country sometimes it doesn't rain for months. Few living things can survive. But finally the water pours down and the brilliant yellow-orange blooms of the desert flower appear, a miracle of nature.

Becoming a Woman

In a nomadic culture like the one I was raised in, there is no place for an unmarried woman, so mothers feel it is their duty to ensure their daughters have the best possible opportunity to get a husband.

And since the prevailing wisdom in Somalia is that there are bad things between a girl's legs, a woman is considered dirty, oversexed and unmarriageable unless those parts--the clitoris, the labia minora, and most of the labia majora-are removed. Then the wound is stitched shut, leaving only a small opening and a scar where the genitals had been-a practice called infibulation.

Paying the gypsy woman for this circumcision is one of the greatest expenses a household will undergo, but is considered a good investment. Without it the daughters will not make it onto the marriage market.

The actual details of the ritual cutting are never explained to the girls-it's a mystery. You just know that something special is going to happen when your time comes. As a result, all young girls in Somalia anxiously await the ceremony that will mark their becoming a woman. Originally the process occurred when the girls reached puberty, but through time it has been performed on younger and younger girls.

One evening when I was about five, my mother said to me, "Your father ran into the gypsy woman. She should be here any day now."

The night before my circumcision, the family made a special fuss over me and I got extra food at dinner. Mama told me not to drink too much water or milk. I lay awake with excitement, until suddenly she was standing over me, motioning. The sky was still dark. I grabbed my little blanket and sleepily stumbled along after her.

We walked out into the brush. "We'll wait here," Mama said, and we sat on the cold ground. The day was growing lighter; soon I heard the click-click of the gypsy woman's sandals. Then, without my seeing her approach, she was right beside me.

"Sit over there." She motioned toward a flat rock. There was no conversation. She was strictly business.

Mama positioned me on the rock. She sat behind me and pulled my head against her chest, her legs straddling my body. I circled my arms around her thighs. She placed a piece of root from an old tree between my teeth. "Bite on this."

Mama leaned over and whispered, "Try to be a good girl, baby. Be brave for Mama, and it'll go fast."

I peered between my legs and saw the gypsy. The old woman looked at me sternly, a dead look in her eyes, then foraged through an old carpet-bag. She reached inside with her long fingers and fished out a broken razor blade. I saw dried blood on the jagged edge. She spit on it and wiped it on her dress. While she was scrubbing, my world went dark as Mama tied a blindfold over my eyes.

The next thing I felt was my flesh being cut away. I heard the blade sawing back and forth through my skin. The feeling was indescribable. I didn't move, telling myself the more I did, the longer the torture would take. Unfortunately, my legs began to quiver and shake uncontrollably of their own accord, and I prayed, Please, God, let it be over quickly. Soon it was, because I passed out.

When I woke up, my blindfold was off and I saw the gypsy woman had piled a stack of thorns from an acacia tree next to her. She used these to puncture holes in my skin, then poked a strong white thread through the holes to sew me up. My legs were completely numb, but the pain between them was so intense that I wished I would die.

My memory ends at that instant, until I opened my eyes and the woman was gone. My legs had been tied together with strips of cloth binding me from my ankles to my hips so I couldn't move. I turned my head toward the rock; it was drenched with blood as if an animal had been slaughtered there. Pieces of my flesh lay on top, drying in the sun.

Waves of heat beat down on my face, until my mother and older sister, Aman, dragged me into the shade of a bush while they finished making a shelter for me. This was the tradition; a little hut was prepared under a tree, where I would rest and recuperate alone for the next few weeks.

After hours of waiting, I was dying to relieve myself. I called my sister, who rolled me over on my side and scooped out a little hole in the sand. "Go ahead," she said.

The first drop stung as if my skin were being eaten by acid. After the gypsy sewed me up, the only opening left for urine-and later for menstrual blood-was a minuscule hole the diameter of a matchstick.

As the days dragged on and I lay in my hut, I became infected and ran a high fever. I faded in and out of consciousness. Mama brought me food and water for the next two weeks.

Lying there alone with my legs still tied, I could do nothing but wonder, why? What was it all for? At that age I didn't understand anything about sex. All I knew was that I had been butchered with my mother's permission.

I suffered as a result of my circumcision, but I was lucky. Many girls die from bleeding to death, shock, infection or tetanus. Considering the conditions in which the procedure is performed, it's surprising that any of us survive.

The Marriage

I was around 13 when came home one evening and called, "Come here," in a soft voice. Normally he was very stern, so I began to feel suspicious.

He sat me on his knee. "You know," he began, "you've been really good." Now I knew something serious was up. "You've been working hard as any man, taking good care of the animals. And I want you to know I'm going to miss you very much."

When he said this, I thought he was afraid I was going to run away like my sister, Aman, had when he had tried to arrange her marriage.

I hugged him. "Oh, Papa, I'm not going anywhere."

He pulled back, stared at my face and said, "Yes, you are, my darling. I found you a husband."

"No, Papa, no!" I shook my head. "I'm not going to marry."

I had grown into a rebel, sassy and fearless. Papa had to find me a husband while I was still a valuable commodity, because no African man wanted to be challenged by his wife. I felt sick and scared.

The next day I was milking my goats when my father called, "Come here, my darling. This is Mr.-"

I didn't hear another word. My eyes fastened onto a man sitting down, holding on to a cane. He was at least 60 years old, with a long white beard.

"Waris, say hello to Mr. Galool." (name has been changed to protect privacy)

"Hello," I said in the iciest voice I could muster.

The old fool just sat there grinning at me. I stared at him in horror. I looked at my father, and when he saw my face, he realized his best tactic was to shoo me away so I didn’t scare off my prospective husband. "Go finish your chores," he said.

I ran back to my goats.

Early the next morning my father called me. "You know that was your future husband."

"But Papa, he's so old!"

"That's the best kind. He's too old to run around. He's not going to leave you. He'll look after you. And besides," Papa grinned proudly- "he's giving me five camels."

As I sat watching the goats that day, I knew it would be the last time I looked after my father's herd. I pictured my life with the old man in some isolated desert place. Me doing all the work, while he limped around with his cane. Me living alone after he had a heart attack, or raising four or five babies by myself after he died.

I made up my mind--this was not the life for me.

That evening after everyone went to sleep, I went to my mother, who was still sitting and whispered, "I’m going to run away."

"Shhh, quiet! Where are you going to go?"

"Mogadishu." My sister, Aman, was there.

"Go to bed." Her stern look seemed to say the subject was closed.

While I was sleeping, Mama knelt on the ground beside me and lightly tapped my arm. "Go—go before he wakes up," she said softly into my ear. My escape across the desert was about to begin.

I felt her arms tighten around me. In the gloomy 1ight I struggled to see her face, trying to memorize its features. I had planned to be strong, but instead choked on my tears and hugged her hard.

"You're going to be all right," she said. "Just be very careful. Careful! And Waris..., please, one thing. Don't forget me."

"I won’t, Mama." I spun away from her and ran into the darkness.

Mogadishu

A port city on the Indian Ocean, Mogadishu was beautiful then. Walking along, I craned my neck to look at the stunning white buildings surrounded by palm trees and brightly colored flowers. Much of the architecture was built by the Italians when the city was the capital of Italian Somaliland, giving the city a Mediterranean feel.

I arrived there several weeks after fleeing home. Along the way cousins sheltered me, told me news of Aman, and gave me money to complete the journey. Once in the city, I got directions to my sister's neighborhood and asked some women at a market if they knew Aman.

'I thought you looked familiar!" one cried. Then she told her son to take me to Aman's house. We walked1 along the quiet streets until we came to a tiny shack, I went inside, found my sister asleep and woke her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked groggily, looking at me as if I were a dream. I sat down and told her my story. At last I had someone to talk to who

would understand. She had found a husband, a good man who worked hard.

They were expecting their first child.

Hers was a cramped two-room place, but she grudgingly agreed I could stay as long as I needed. I cleaned the house, scrubbed the clothes and did the shopping in the market. And after Aman gave birth to a beautiful little girl, I helped take care of the baby.

However, it became clear that my sister and I were not alike. She was bossy and treated me like the same little sister she'd left behind five or so years before.

We had other relatives I’d met in Mogadishu, so I went and knocked on the door of Aunt Sahru, my mother sister, and asked if I could stay with her family for a while.

"You have a friend here," she said. "If you want to stay with us, you can."

Things were off to a better start than I'd imagined. Once again, I began helping around the house.

I had been worried about leaving Mama without anyone to help her with her work, and one day I decided that a partial remedy was to send her money.

So I set out to find a job. I stopped at a construction site and convinced the man in charge that I could carry sand and mix as well as the men.

The next morning my career as a construction worker began. It was horrible. I carried backbreaking loads of sand all day and developed enormous blisters on my hands. Everyone thought I would quit, but I stuck it out for a month. By then I had saved $60, which I sent to Mama through an acquaintance, but she never saw a penny of it.

I had started cleaning house for my aunt again when one day Mohammed Chama Farah, the Somalian ambassador in London, arrived. He was married to yet another aunt, my mother's sister Maruim.*

As I dusted my way around the next room, I overheard him say he needed to find a servant before beginning his four-year diplomatic appointment in London. This was my opportunity.

I called Aunt Saliru aside. "Please ask him if I can be his maid."

She walked back into the other room, sat beside her brother-in-law and said quietly, "Why don't you take her? She really is a good cleaner."

Auntie called me, and I leapt through the door. I stood with my feather duster in hand, smacking gum. The ambassador frowned.

I turned to Auntie. "Tell him I'm the best."

"Waris, shhh!" To my uncle she said, "She’s young. She’ll be okay.

Uncle Mohammed sat still for a moment, looking at me with disgust. "Okay. Be here tomorrow afternoon. We’ll go to London."

London! I didn’t know where it was, but I knew it was very far away, and far away was where I wanted to be. I was on fire with excitement.

The next day Uncle Mohammed picked me up and gave me my passport. I looked at it in wonder, the first paper with my name on it. I hugged Auntie Sahru and waved farewell.

Maid in London

As the driver eased the car out of the airport and into the London morning traffic, I was overcome by such a sad, lonely feeling, in this completely foreign place, with nothing but white, sickly faces around me.

Snow was turning the sidewalks white as we glided through a posh residential section. When we stopped in front of my uncle’s home, I stared in astonishment. The ambassador's residence was a four-story mansion.

We walked to the front door and entered. Auntie Maruim greeted me in the foyer.

"Come in," she said coolly. "Close the door."

I had planned to rush to her and hug her, but something about the way she stood there in her stylish Western clothes, her hands pressed together, made me freeze in the doorway. "First I'd like to show you around and explain your duties."

"Oh," I said quietly, feeling the last spark of energy leave my body after the long night. "Auntie, I'm very tired. I want to lie down. Can I please go to sleep?"

Aunt Maruim took me into her room. The four-poster was the size of my family's entire hut. I climbed under the covers. I had never felt anything so soft and heavenly in my life, and I fell asleep as if I were falling down a long black tunnel.

The following morning I was wandering through the house when she found me. "Good. You're up. Let's go to the kitchen, and I can show you what you'll be doing."

I followed in a daze. The room gleamed with blue ceramic tiles and creamy-white cabinets. A six-burner stove dominated the center. Auntie opened and slammed drawers, calling out, "And here are the utensils, the cutlery, the linens." I had no idea what she was talking about.

"At six-thirty each morning you'll serve your uncle's breakfast: herbal tea and two poached eggs. I'd like my coffee in my room at seven. Then you'll make pancakes for the children; they eat at eight sharp. After breakfast-"

'Auntie, who's going to teach me these things? What's pancakes?"

She stared at me with a sort of panicky look. Exhaling slowly, she said, "I'll do these things for the first time, Waris. Watch closely. Listen and learn." I nodded.

I had the routine down t a science after the first week and followed it every day for the next four years. For a girl who had never been aware of time, I learned to watch the clock closely—and live by it.

After breakfast I cleaned the kitchen, my aunt’s room and her bathroom. Then I worked through each room of the house, dusting, mopping, scrubbing and polishing my way up all four floors. I kept working until I fell into bed around mid-night. I never had a day off.

Throughout Africa it’s common for more affluent family members to take in the children of their poor relations, and those children work in return for their upkeep. Sometimes the relatives educate the children and treat them like one of their own. Obviously, my aunt and uncle had more important issues on their minds.

During the summer of 1983, when I was about 16, Uncle Mohammed’s sister died and her little daughter, Sophie,* came to live with us. My uncle enrolled her in All Souls Church of England Primary School, and my morning routine then included walking Sophie to school.

On one of the first mornings, as we strolled, I saw a strange man starting at me. He was white, around 40 and had a ponytail. He had brought his daughter to the school. He didn’t hide the fact that he was staring.

After I left Sophie at the door, he walked toward me and started speaking. Since I didn’t speak English, I had no idea what he was saying. Frightened, I ran home.

From then on, each time I saw him at the school, he simply smiled politely and went on about his business. Then one day he walked up and handed me a card. I tucked it in my pocket and watched as he turned to walk away.

When I got home, I showed the card to one of Auntie Maruim’s daughters. "What does it say?"

"It says he’s a photographer."

I saw that my cousin wanted to get back to the book she was reading, so I hid the card in my room. Some little voice told me to hang on to it.

When Uncle Mohammed’s term was coming to an end, he announced the family would be going home. I wasn’t excited about returning to Somalia. I wanted to go home wealthy and successful, but I had saved only a pittance from my main’s wages. My dream was to make enough money to buy my mother a house, an to accomplish this, I felt I should stay in England. How I would manage this, I didn’t know. But I had faith.

Uncle Mohammed advised us all of the date we were leaving, and of the need to make sure our passports were in order. I promptly sealed mine in a plastic bag, buried it in the garden and announced I couldn’t find it. My plan was simple enough: if I didn’t have a passport, they couldn't take me back. Uncle smelled something rotten, but I said, "Just leave me here. I’ll be fine."

Until the morning of departure, I hadn’t really believed that they would leave me all alone. But they did. I stood on the sidewalk, waved good-bye and watched the car until it was out of sight. I was scared and had to fight an overwhelming feeling of panic.

I picked up my little duffel, slung it over my shoulder, unearthed my passport and headed down the street, smiling.

"Look in the Mirror"

I entered a store that same day and saw a tall, attractive African woman examining some sweaters. We began talking in Somali, and she was quite friendly. Her name was Halwu.*

"Where do you live, Waris? What do you do?"

"Oh, you'll think I'm crazy, but I don't have any place to live because my family went back to Somalia today. My uncle was the ambassador, but now the new man is coming. So right this minute, I have no idea where I'm headed."

She waved to silence me, as if the movement of her hand could sweep away all my problems. "I have a room at the YMCA. You can come and stay for the night."

Halwu and I became close friends. After a few days I took a room at the YWCA right across the way. Then I set out to find a job.

"Why don't you start by looking right here?" Halwu said, pointing to McDonald's.

"There's no way. I can't speak English or read. Besides, I don't have a work permit."

But she knew the ropes, and I began working there, in the kitchen. I washed dishes, wiped counters, scrubbed grills and mopped floors. I went home at night smelling of grease. But I didn't complain, because at least now I could support myself. I was grateful to have a job.

I began going to free language school, learning English and how to read and write. For the first time in years my days weren't only about work.

Sometimes Halwu took me to nightclubs, where the whole crowd seemed to know her. Overcoming my strict African upbringing, I chatted away, forcing myself to talk with everyone-black, white, male, female. I had to learn survival skills for this new world. My life was moving smoothly. It was about to change dramatically.

One afternoon when I got back home from McDonald's, I pulled out the photographer's card, which I'd stuck in my passport, and marched to Halwu's room. I showed her the card, explained the history and said, "I never really understood what he wanted."

"Well, she said, "why don't you call and ask him?"

"You talk to him. My English is still not very good."

She did, and the next day I went to inspect Mike Goss's studio. I had no idea what to expect, but when I opened the door, I stumbled into another world. Hanging everywhere in the lobby were enormous posters featuring beautiful women. "Oh!" I said, spinning. I just knew-this is it. This is my opportunity.

Mike came out and explained that as soon as he saw me, he had wanted to take my picture. I stared at him with my mouth hanging open. "That's it? A picture like this?" I waved at the posters.

"Yes," he said, nodding emphatically. "You have the most beautiful profile."

Two days later I returned to the studio. The makeup woman sat me down and started to work, coming at me with cotton, brushes, sponges, creams, paints, powders, poking me with her fingers and pulling my skin.

"Now"-the woman stepped back and looked at me with satisfaction- "look in the mirror."

I stared in the glass. My face was transformed, all golden, silky, and light with makeup. "Wow! Look at me!"

The woman led me out to Mike, who positioned me on a stool. I studied objects I'd never seen before: the camera, lights, battery packs, cords hanging like snakes.

"Okay, Waris," he said. "Put your lips together and stare straight ahead. Chin up. That's it-beautiful!"

I heard a click, followed by a loud pop, which made me jump. The flashes went off; the lights blazing for a split second. Somehow the lights made me feel like a different person.

Mike took a piece of paper from the camera and motioned for me to walk over. He pulled off the top layer of paper. As I watched, a woman gradually emerged from the sheet as if by magic. When he handed me the Polaroid; I barely recognized myself. There was a glamorous creature like the ones posing in the lobby. They had transformed me. Instead of Waris the maid, I was Waris the model.

Welcome Surgery

Sometime later, a woman at a modeling agency who had seen that photo sent me for a job casting. I had no idea what she was talking about, but she gave me taxi money and I went to the address.

The place was crawling with professional models strutting like lionesses circling for the kill. I said hello to one of them. "What is the job?"

"Pirelli calendar."

"Mmmmm." I nodded. "Thank you." What is that?

The photographer, Terence Donovan, brought me tea and showed me all his work. Lying on a table was a calendar. He flipped through it; on each page was a different, stunningly gorgeous woman. "This is last year's Pirelli calendar," he told me. "This year it's going to be different-just African women." He explained the whole process to me. By that point I felt comfortable, and from then on I was a complete professional. And when the job was done, my picture wound up being selected for the cover.

My career as a model got better and better. I worked in Paris, Milan and then New York, where I immediately began running faster and making more money than ever before. I appeared in a series of commercials for a jeweler, wearing white African robes. I did makeup ads for Revlon, then later represented their new perfume, Ajee. The commercial announced, "From the heart of Africa comes a fragrance to capture the heart of every woman."

I appeared in a Revlon commercial with Cindy Crawford, Claudia Schiffer and Lauren Hutton. These projects kept snowballing, and soon I was in the big fashion magazines: Elle, Glamour, Italian Vogue, and British and American Vogue.

But for all the excitement and success of my new life, I carried wounds from the old. The tiny hole the circumciser had left me only permitted urine to escape one drop at a time. It took me about ten minutes to urinate. My periods were a nightmare always. I couldn't function for several days each month; I simply went to bed and wanted to die so the suffering would stop. The problem had reached a crisis while I was living with my uncle Mohammed.

Early one morning, carrying the tray from the kitchen to the dining-room table, I suddenly blacked out, and the dishes crashed to the floor. When I came to, Aunt Maruim said, "We have to take you to the doctor. I'll make an appointment with my doctor this afternoon."

I didn't tell the doctor that I'd been circumcised. Since he didn't examine me, he didn't find out my secret. "The only thing I can give you is birth-control pills. That will stop the pain."

I began taking the pills, but they produced drastic changes in my body that seemed weird and unnatural. Deciding I'd rather deal with the pain, I stopped taking the pills. It all came right back again, fiercer than ever. Later I visited more doctors, but they too wanted to give me birth control pills. I realized I needed to do something else. I said to Auntie, "Maybe I need to see a special kind of doctor."

She looked at me sharply. "No," she said emphatically. "And by the way-what do you tell these men?"

"Nothing. That I just want to stop the pain, that's all." I knew the unspoken message of her comment: circumcision is our African custom-and not something you discuss with these white men.

I began to understand, however, that this was exactly what I had to do-or suffer and live like an invalid for one third of each month. When I went to Dr. Michael

Macrae's* office, I said to him, "There's something I haven't told you. I'm from Somalia and I...I..."

He didn't even let me finish the sentence. "Go get changed. I want to examine you." He saw the look of terror on my face: "It's okay."

He called in his nurse to show me where to change, how to put the gown on, and asked her if there was someone in the hospital who could speak Somali. But when she came back, she brought a Somali man. I thought, Oh, here’s the rotten luck, to discuss this using a Somali man to translate! How much worse could it get?

Dr. Macrae said, "Explain to her that she's closed up way too much-I don't even know how she's made it this far. We need to operate on her as soon as possible."

I could see the Somali man wasn't happy. He glared at the doctor and then said to me, "Well, if you really want it, they can open you up. But do you know this is against your culture? Does your family know you're doing this?"

"No."

"The first thing I'd do is discuss it with them."

I nodded. His was the response of a typical African man. Over a year went by before I was able to have the surgery. I had to overcome some practical problems and my own last-minute doubts, but Dr. Macrae did a fine job, and I've always been grateful. He told me, "You're not alone. Women come in with this problem all the time. A lot of women from the Sudan, Egypt, Somalia. Some of them are pregnant and terrified. So, without the permission of their husbands they come to me, and I do my best."

Within three weeks I could sit on the toilet and-whoosh! There's no way to explain what a freedom that was.

Back to Somalia

In 1995 the BBC proposed making a documentary about my life as a supermodel. I told the director, Gerry Pomeroy, I'd do it if he'd take me back to Somalia and help me find my mother. He agreed.

The BBC staff in Africa began searching diligently. We went over maps, and I tried to show them the regions where my family usually traveled. Next I had to go over all the tribal and clan names of my family.

Suddenly the desert was alive with women claiming to be my mother, but none were. Then Gerry came up with an idea. "We need some kind of secret that only your mother would know about you."

"Well, my mother used to have a nickname for me-Avdohol."

"Will she remember that?"

"Absolutely."

From then on, Avdohol became the secret password. When the BBC was interviewing, the women would make it through the first couple of questions; then they'd flunk out on the nickname. But finally the BBC called me: "We think we've found her." This woman didn't remember the nickname, but she said she has a daughter named Waris who worked for the ambassador in London."

Within days we flew to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and chartered a small twin-engine plane to take us to Galadi, a village on the Ethiopia-Somalia border where Somali refugees had gathered to escape the fighting at home.

I smelled the hot air and the sand, and suddenly I remembered my lost childhood. Every little thing came flooding back to me, and I began to run. I touched the ground and rubbed the earth between my fingers. I touched the trees. They were dusty and dry, but I knew it was time for the rains soon, when everything would blossom.

Then we found out the woman was not my mother. We combed the village, asking everybody if they had any information about my family. An older man walked up to me and said, "Do you remember me?"

"Well, I'm Ismail; I'm from the same tribe as your father. I'm a very close friend of his." And then I realized who he was and felt ashamed for not recognizing him, but I hadn't seen him since I was a little girl. "I think I know where your family is. I think I can find your mother, but I'll need money for gas.

The BBC crew agreed and gave him some cash. He hopped into his truck and took off immediately, raising a cloud of dust. Three days passed with no sign of Mama. Gerry grew more anxious by the day. "1 promise you my mother will be here tomorrow evening by six o'clock," I told him. I don't know why I had this belief-it just came to me.

The next day Gerry jogged up at about ten minutes to six. "You're not going to believe it! The man is back and he's got a woman with him; he says it's your mother."

Up ahead was Ismail's pickup, and a woman was climbing down from the seat. I couldn't see her face, but from the way she wore her scarf-I could tell immediately that it was my mother, I ran to her. "Oh, -Mama!"

At first, we just discussed little everyday things. But the gladness I felt at seeing her overcame the gap between us. Papa was off searching for water when the truck came. My mother said Papa was getting old. He would go off chasing the clouds looking for rain, but he desperately needed glasses because his eyesight was terrible.

My little brother Ali was also with her, along with one of my cousins. I kept holding Ali, and he would cry, "Get off now I'm not a baby. I'm getting married."

"Married! How old are you?"

"1 don't know. Old enough to get married."

At night Mama slept in the hut of one of the families in Galadi who had taken us in. I slept outside with Ali-just like in the old days. As we lay there at night, I felt such a state of peace and happiness.

My brother started asking me what I thought about this and that.

"Well, I don't know everything, but I've seen a lot and learned a lot I didn't know living back in the bush."

They didn't know whether to believe this bizarre idea, but there was one topic they felt confident I couldn't argue with. My mother started "why aren't you married?" "Mama, do I have to be married? Don’t you want to see me a success- strong, independent?"

"Well, I want grandchildren." Gerry got several scenes of me with my mother. But she hated it, saying: "Get that thing out of my face." The cameraman asked what we were laughing about. "Just the absurdity of it all," I answered.

The next morning before the plane came to get us I asked my mother if she would like to come back and live with me in England or the United States.

"But what would I do?"

That’s precisely it. I don't want you to do anything. You've done enough work. It's time to rest."

"No. Your father's getting old and he needs me. Besides, I can't just sit around. If you want to do something, get me a place in Somalia that I can go to when I'm tired. This is my home. This is all I've ever known."

I gave her a big hug. "I love you, Mama. I'm coming back for you, don't you forget that."

My Mission

By now my career had taken off. I was appearing in commercials, music videos, and worked with the biggest photographers in the fashion business. My life was heavenly.

I had told Mama that I had not found the right man for me. But then one night in the fall of 1995 I discovered him in a tiny jazz club in New York. He was a shy drummer with a '70s Afro and a funky style. His name was Dana Murray, and I knew from that moment he was my man.

At dinner the next night I laughed and told him that someday I was going to have his baby. For the first time in my life I wanted a man. Soon we realized we were in love and wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. My crazy prediction came true with the birth of our son on June 13, 1997; He was beautiful, with silky black hair and long feet and fingers.

I named him Aleeke. With his tiny mouth, chubby cheeks and halo of curls, he looks like a little black cupid.

From the day he was born, my life changed. The happiness I get from him is everything to me now. Life--the gift of life-is what matters, and that's what giving birth to my son made me remember.

After going through the cycle of womanhood that began prematurely with my circumcision at age five and came full circle with my baby's birth when I was about 30, I had even more respect for my own mother. I understood what incredible strength the women in Somalia possess.

I thought of the girl back in the bush, walking miles to water her goats while she's in such pain from her period that she can barely stand. Of the woman nine months pregnant hunting for food in the desert to feed her starving children. Of the wife who will be sewn back up with a needle and thread as soon as she gives birth so her vagina will remain tight for her husband. And of the new wife who's still sewn up tight, and it's time for her first baby to be born. What happens when she goes out into the desert alone, as my mother did?

As I grew older and more educated, I learned that because of a cruel ritual, many of the women on the continent of Africa live their lives in pain.

Somebody must speak out for the little girl with no voice. And since I began as a nomad like so many of them, I felt it was my destiny to help them.

Some time back, Laura Ziv, a writer for the fashion magazine Marie Claire, made an appointment to interview me. When we met, I liked her right away. I said, "I don't know what kind of story you wanted from me, but all of that fashion model stuff's been done a million times. If you promise to publish it, I'll give you a real story."

She said, "Oh? Well, I'll do my best," and switched on her tape recorder I began telling her the story of my circumcision when I was a child. Halfway through the interview, she started crying and turned off the tape. "I mean, it's horrible, it's disgusting. I never dreamed such things still happen today."

"That's the point," I said. "People in the West don't know."

The day after the interview, I felt stunned and embarrassed. Everybody would know my most personal secret. My closest friends didn't know what had happened to me as a little girl, and now I was telling millions of strangers.

But after much thought, I realized I needed to talk about my circumcision; First of all, it bothers me deeply. Besides the health problems that I still struggle with, I will never know the pleasures of sex. I feel incomplete, crippled, and knowing that there's nothing I can do to change that is the most hopeless feeling of all.

The second reason was my hope of making people aware that this practice still occurs today. I've got to speak not only for me but for the millions of girls living with it and those dying from it.

When the interview came out, the response was dramatic. The magazine was swamped with letters. I began giving more interviews and speaking at schools, community organizations and anywhere I could to publicize the issue.

In 1997 the United Nations Population Fund invited me to join its fight to stop female circumcision, or female genital mutilation (FGM), as it is more aptly called today. The World Health Organization has compiled some truly terrifying statistics that put the extent of the problem in perspective. After I saw those numbers, it became clear that this wasn't just my problem.

FGM is practiced predominantly in Africa-in 28 countries. Now cases have been reported among girls and women in the United States and Europe, where there are large number of African immigrants. This practice has been performed on as many as 130 million girls and women worldwide. At least two million girls are at risk each year of being the next victims-that's 6000 a day.

The operations are usually performed in primitive circumstances by village women using knives, scissors, even sharp stones. They use no anesthetic. The process ranges in severity. The most minimal damage is cutting away the hood of the clitoris. At the other end of the spectrum is infibulation, which is performed on 80 percent of the women in Somalia, and which prohibits the girl from enjoying sex for the rest of her life.

When I imagine more little girls going through what I went through, it breaks my heart and makes me angry.

With great pride, I accepted the U.N. Population Fund's offer to become a special ambassador and to join its fight. I will return to Africa to tell my story and speak out against this crime.

Friends have expressed concern that a fanatic will try to kill me, since many fundamentalists consider FGM a holy practice demanded by the Koran. However, this is not the case; neither the Koran nor the Bible makes any mention of female genital mutilation.

I just pray that one day no woman will have to experience this pain and that it becomes a thing of the past. That's what I'm working toward.

From the moment God saved me from a lion, I felt he had a plan for me, some reason to keep me alive. My faith tells me God has work for me to do and this is my mission.

I'm sure my work will be dangerous. I admit to being scared. But I might as well take a chance. It’s what I’ve done all my life.

© Reader’s Digest, June 1999

唐山大地震 Aftershock

下午的场子不多人，却又半数以上是老人，他们都曾经在这段历史里埋藏了哪些回忆吗？

余震，这来自小说的原名或许可以更能表达出这部戏里面，每一个角色心理留下的，存于内的余震，是绵绵的，冗长的，没有止境的心灵颤动，而各自表现出平稳的一面纯粹只是为了尽量跨过那个震伤的地带，避免牵连起一连串所褶皱起来的刺痛，堤防了回忆。反观取名唐山大地震，除了字面的少许震撼力，就只是一个纪念历史的大背景。因为贯穿整部戏，一直徘徊在我心里的尽是那些亲子间的矛盾和抉择，父母和孩子之间的，夫妻之间的，同胞之间的。。那些一直一直都在我们身边上演，每个人都在面对的人性和感情纠葛而却没什么着墨在刻画那场1976年的大地震。所以我想他拍的不是历史，而是生活中或尤其事件后许多人面对的矛盾与抉择。

一开始，镜头一直跟着一大群的蜻蜓，排山倒海的飞向不知名的地方，这是灾难的预兆，自古以来自然界的生物或者说动物最懂得察觉那些即将面临的自然异常，而自以为万物之灵的我们却又最脆弱和后知后觉。

画面掀开不久，在一个漆黑的晚上，人们都安静上床睡觉的时候，铺天盖地的灾难就赤裸裸的在眼前翻天覆地，所有楼宇坍塌矣尽，活生生的人啊，如同玩具般在刹那间血淋淋的，灰沉沉的就悬着挂着或压着在碎瓦上，1976年的某一夜之间，唐山成了废墟，成了人们的深渊，剩下的只是挂在心理永远难以磨灭的余震。。。

王登一直放不下妈妈说的三个字：‘救弟弟 ’。所以她放大了这份恨意，而将他妈妈那个时候的窘境千亿倍的放小了，我们都看到他妈妈是两个都想救，在整个神识都要崩溃的状况下，却又要做出残忍的决定，要弟弟还是姐姐，折腾了很长的时间，差一点两个都要昏厥了才用了极低，极微弱的声音说了这三个字，连他妈妈自己也不愿意自己听到这几个字的声音划过耳边，然，现实还是逼迫着人们的神经。

没了，才知道什么是没了。

只有经历过的才知道什么叫做生命的摧毁，现实的残忍，信仰的离绝。从此，他妈妈背负着罪名而苟且自虐似的活着，心里惦记着的记忆折磨着自己也支撑着自己继续活着。所以当他孩子要买大房，要他离开唐山，他就是不肯离开，因为他心有所属，属于自己的回忆的陪伴，住在有从前的地方，心理和老公孩子的距离比较靠近也比较踏实。终于，女儿回来了。他们之间的矛盾与千言万语却又好像要推开那道厚重的门看到32年后的彼此那样困难。

此外，虽然弟弟是一个很孝顺的孩子。但，为了表达自己的爱，却要硬生生地将自己的方法套在那个他爱的人身上，让她接受她并不喜欢的东西，就好像弟弟要买屋子给妈妈一样。或许有时我们总是忘了或没有尝试真的打从别人的角度去理解他们对事情的看法，因而产生误会或不满。

为什么要救小的？从小在我们中华文化熏陶下的人们，每每都是给予最小的那个孩子特别多的优惠，这就是文化培育出来的本能，姐姐总要让妹妹，哥哥总要疼弟弟，大的总要保护小的，也说不上为什么，如果真要迁怒于老祖宗，也只是或许那个时候还是有那个重男轻女的的概念吧！

养父母之间虽然经常拌嘴，有时也是一种生活的调剂，也可延缓老人痴呆等病症。两人之间若真有一个先走，我觉得另一半真的会很难过，很难熬。我们人啊，长大了都离父母远远的，儿女大了也离自己远远的，只有身边的老伴可以一直一直陪着慢慢的走到老，所以不管任何情况，两人一定要抱得牢牢的，共同进退，因为被留下的那一个的生活不管怎么样都会被对方的影子所填满，还不如生死与共。

有人说这部戏太催情，催泪，可是我却觉得要将32年的余震浓缩成两个钟半的唐山大地震，其实也不太为过，他的力道还是沿着故事线的主轴而左右之，唯一让我觉得煽情和烦长得稍微过火的只是接近末端的那一幕，两母女在墓碑场边痛哭，女儿一直在道歉的片断，显得有点闷场了。还有一点心理比较不适应的镜头是，孩子十年后本该长大的第一幕，看到男主角有点过于苍老，怎么看着就觉得十多岁的孩子变成二三十岁的模样，一时调试不过来。后半段的铺陈又有点仓促，时间短短的就突然生了这么大的孩子，弟弟赚了大钱，还去了国外等都有点交差性质的画面。我只给这部戏4颗星，因为我依然比较喜欢那些画面，起承转续比较完整的，和更多思考空间的，我给5颗星的那两部电影--陆川的的南京，南京和冯小刚自己的集结号。

感人的八公，Hachi

秋田犬( Akita ) 是秋田縣出產的一種狗，是日本具代表性的犬種，個性忠誠，全日本最有名的狗狗「八公」就是秋田犬。八公的主人是東京帝大教授上野英三郎，相處不到几年主人就過世了，八公還是每天到涉谷車站等主人回家，等了9年從不間斷，忠心耿耿的感人故事被登在報紙上，成为家喻戶曉的忠犬，還作成銅像擺在涉谷車站前留纪念。

.

本片根据上个世纪30年代发生在日本的真实故事改编。且，才发现到原来1987 年的时候, 日本已经上映过日文版的同一个故事，而且还登上了1987年日本最卖座电影的宝座。

.

因为这部由理查·基尔主演的， 忠犬八公的故事而认识了秋田犬。这是一部美国片却有着日本的味道，没有刻意煽情，凭着自然演技的狗狗，却让我的泪水不停的掉。每天早晨，Hachi 都会送教授去车站，待下午五点又去接教授回家，风雨无阻。一天，一直很依赖主人的 Hachi 表现怪异，似乎有所预知，也玩起了以往从来不会的捡球游戏。可是没有人发现有所不一样。就这样，教授一去不回。Hachi 被教授女儿收养，却数次逃走，流浪于外。每天依然去车站等待教授， 同一个落脚点，同一个等待的目光，一直等。。。直到某一天在大雪中结束了它的一生，也朦胧间看到了主人来迎接。

.

如果只是电影，或许转过头就忘记。恰恰这是真人故事改编，心里的感受就多了起来。这次电影的角度，很多都是由Hachi可以看到的那一面呈现的一种说故事方式，特别生动。配上侃侃而谈的电影音乐，一切都没有过之也无不及只有触动。

《听说》

。

总是以为要对一个人好是很简单的事，只要全心全意地付出，不求回报的成全，那个人就会很开心很幸福。可是，如果两个人里面有太多的以为，往往会适得其反；我以为这样对他最好，我以为他会喜欢这样那样，以为是他想要的，总是以为。。。全部都只是自己以为。。秧秧有自己的以为，小朋有自己的以为，结果反而换成更多的误会和不必要的难过，不必要的牺牲，压力和负担。如果两个人没有带开天窗，永远都不会知道那个以为到底是不是真实。或许只有真实的意义，付出才会有漂亮的轮廓。可是，世上偏偏就有太多人都不知道自己在以为的圈圈里，因为他们都会被另一个单词蒙骗：“他一定会喜欢的，这是对他最好的，我只想让他开心。。。。”
。
这是看完某个片断的时候的一点点感慨。
一月十三日，我看了这样的一部小电影—听说。
。
《听说》
一个关于听不到的故事。
听不到的世界是怎样的一回事。
听不到的是如何和听到的沟通。
听不到的手语你是否看得懂。
听不到的情绪你是否听得见。
。
一个为了宣传台湾听障奥运会而拍摄的电影。
一个清新的，可爱的，活泼的，感动的，淡淡的无声电影。
一个有很多正面的力量，亲情，梦想，爱情，关爱地球，关爱社会的小品电影。

3D 阿凡达

我把我的第一次3D经验给了昨天晚上从9。15分到凌晨12点的Avatar。很久以前看预告片的时候，对于里面的蓝色人的造型和那些想象出来的奇怪的特技其实没有什么好感。但，看在背后的强大力量和努力的精神，我总算没有错过那个潘多拉的世界。老实说，刚开始的感觉有点晕眩，尤其是军人奔跑的时候，慢慢的适应了以后，立体的画面真实独特，别有一番电影的滋味呢，特别在享受潘多拉世界的魅力的时候。

潘多拉世界
最佩服的地方是这个假设的世界，就好像夜里的梦境和白天的仙境。夜里应用了大量的多彩荧光的画面很是难忘，还有那些奇花异木，飞舞的蒲公英等。。。还有白天的石山就像天堂，许多巨型野生动物，花草。。。我都流连忘返了。。这是他们想象出来的2154年的世界？在某个星球的世界？抑或转移并且深化了我们人类出现之前的自然原野？各自都和平共处，互不侵犯，生活在那里的族群也非常顺应自然，可以乘异兽骑飞鸟，对于自然的力量是暂时借用，过后终将归还自然的理念，是环保的先驱。他们也有超乎人类的研究，头发末端还有某些神经末梢来和自然界通电，取得合二为一的默契，那里也有类似生命树的东西，有着联系自然生命和人类细胞神经元胞体之类的力量或通道，有某种冥想意思的力量存在。

惯性丑陋的人类
开始的时候，觉得蓝色人不漂亮。电影却让我慢慢感受到他们的单纯，真诚和自然而忘了外在的虚假，开始顺眼起来。人类的进步可以说是非常优秀，竟然可以制造假的外星族群，用意识控制然后混入其中掠夺人家的世界。可是，人类的习性还是大大地写了出来，为了自己，到了别人的地头还是伺机侵略对他们没有威胁性的族群，一步步的摧毁别人的家园，拓展自己的力量范围等。。尤其是那些所谓的军官和高层总是那么为大局着想而冷酷的实行着这种为人类谋福祉的使命。

过瘾的对抗场面
当一群没有高科技机器人或手枪的部落联手自然对抗军队的时候，最先映入脑海的的是怎么能赢呢？射向铁甲的箭都徒劳无功。不过，当大鸟一起高飞，抓着战机摇头摆尾的摔下去的时候，又变得强了起来。不过，看着受伤的，死的生物们也觉得有点于心不忍。战争嘛，免不了的死伤要如何避开呢？和平是两方面的事，单方面是无能为力的罢。

享受一场又一场神奇的立体画面就是这次的任务。迷人的景致也好，看着被轰炸的家园的鸿烈也好，看着最后被俘虏的人类才最搞笑。

Twin Beach @ Pulau Sibu 的斜阳

09年5月的某一天去了本土的一个小岛度假。诗巫岛不在东马，而是在柔佛的一个小小名胜地，从新加坡出发，驾驶大约两个钟头的车，经过曾经闻名的Desaru， 再往北行一段路就会到达它的码头。从码头乘船过去双子海滩只需要20分钟。然后，我们就可以彻底离开都市，去拥有一片蓝天，白云，清风，悠闲，寂静，晚霞，黎明和那个黄昏。。。



当天还是蓝的时候，小小斜阳开始散发威力，从远处微微的，悄悄的带来黑暗。不晓得是不是远离尘嚣，那里的天特别干净，水特别的澄篮，所以自然的变化特别美，美得没有理由。



当我还在忙着拾取眼前的一切，夕阳已经慢慢的为天际涂上橙黄色的，微红的粉末，让我有点来不及与当下的变化，又要重新适应。



天，一片绚烂的色彩；
一天中，只有一个那么独特的时刻才会闪烁。
就像人生，霎那光辉不代表永恒？
想要抓着最美的那一刻，却总是消失无影踪。。。




蛋黄般的夕阳，真的是无限好吗？
我一直看着眼前的无常，尝试了解无常，却其实正在贪恋无常。
我要将每一个画面都纳入眼帘，然后将幕帘锁上，不可遗漏任何线索。。。



还记得曾经有一个黄昏让我落泪。

那是，吉打港口的黄昏。
我们4个人站在又是桥又是路的边缘；
望着右边回港的渔船，七彩的天际，好像进入了油画里面，让时间静止，我的眼泪也凝结在那一刹那。
望向左边却是不甘进入黑暗的渔村，蓝天还在发酵。。。
我们站在中间，无语。
闭上双眸，假装自己不在那里一样。




到现在，我还是不明白为什么我会那么感动？
就好像太阳完全退出以后的落寞更显凄美。
纯真的感动，那样的神秘，只有最真的大自然。
怀念每一片在我生命中出现过的黄昏。
不是不懂得珍惜，只是无法停驻的常态，只可以看着他来看着他走，带着无限感慨。

天，真的完全黑下来了。

结束了，又即将开始了。

不一样的是那一个人物，环境，地点，与时间啊？

第81屆奧斯卡金像獎名單

纯粹来凑热闹，分一杯喜悦。

講述印度貧民故事的《貧民百萬富翁》揚威第81屆奧斯卡，囊括最佳電影、最佳導演等8個獎項，成為大贏家。真的是众望所归，然而，遇到劲敌的The curious case of Benjamin Button只拿到三个奖是有点可惜，因为这也是蛮另类的一部电影，依然值得大家捧场。琦溫絲莉的《讀愛》虽然只有一奖，但看完这部戏的时候，整体电影的背景是让人蛮沉重的，至于女主角的牺牲更加不容错过。今年的名单，大家都还挺满意的。只是当我听到有些人说最佳男配角是同情票，我就一百个不赞成了，因为如果他依然在世，大奖肯定稳在手中，因为这是实力。马后炮完了，看看名单吧！

最佳電影：《貧民百萬富翁》
最佳導演：《貧民百萬富翁》
最佳男主角：辛潘／《夏菲米克的時代》
最佳女主角：琦溫絲莉《讀愛》
最佳男配角：希夫烈達／《蝙蝠俠－黑夜之神》
最佳女配角：彭妮露古絲／《情迷巴塞隆拿》
最佳原著劇本：《夏菲米克的時代》
最佳改編劇本：《貧民百萬富翁》
最佳攝影：《貧民百萬富翁》
最佳剪接：《貧民百萬富翁》
最佳混音：《貧民百萬富翁》
最佳配樂：《貧民百萬富翁》
最佳原創歌曲：Jai Ho《貧民百萬富翁》
最佳聲音剪接：《蝙蝠俠－黑夜之神》
最佳美術指導：《奇幻逆緣》
最佳視覺效果：《奇幻逆緣》
最佳化妝：《奇幻逆緣》
最佳服裝：《叛逆激情－她與戴安娜的命運》
最佳外語片：《Departures入殮師》 （日本）（香港明報）

我现在最想看的是Milk《夏菲米克的時代》, 竟然将Bradpitt的大奖拿走，一定很有看头，可是网上还没有得看。最近，看了好多好片子，真是感动。

贫民窟的百万富翁 Slumdog millionaire

Question: Jamal Malik is one question away from winning 20 million rupees. How did he do it? 　　A:He cheated 　　B:He`s lucky 　　C:He`s a genius 　　D:It is written

<谁要成为百万富翁>的节目闹得沸沸腾腾时，我也经常守在箱子前吸取知识，挑战自己，然而，其问题的广泛却是你无法完全掌握的，所以多数问题是大家都要靠运气来猜测的。

整部片子就只是一个百万富翁游戏的一道题目：为什么一个贫民窟的小伙子会赢得百万巨奖？欺骗？命中注定？运气？天才？

画面穿插的切割，从被拷问到他参与的百万富翁里的每道题目来来回回，每道真实答案的背后又切连去他所经历的成长过程，而这些成长的经历又如何那么凑巧的使他可以知道所有的答案而成为百万富翁。由始之终，他就是知道答案，他也不晓得为什么，只问他懂的答案。全片以穿插的方式带出故事，最后又以确实的现在来回答最后一道问题来完成结局。

真的很喜欢他说故事的方式，没有太轰动的场景，没有冷场，也很紧凑。而且，许许多多的小细节却又闪闪发亮，让人叹息，思考，发窘，无奈。从他一开始叙述小时候玩乐的时候，被值勤警员追着跑的那场戏，就交待了贫民窟的背景，说故事者深入的去拍摄了一些我们都好像懂却无法如实去体验与见识的另一个世界。充满鲜艳色彩的，简陋的，贫穷的，肮脏的，窒息的，混浊的，拥挤的小方格，慢慢的放大变成大方格，而有了一个贫民窟整体的概念。这让我惊艳得傻眼，拍得太真实了。

闪亮的角落比如哥哥睁着眼睛睡觉，放手不救小女孩的那一幕，跳下粪池为了拿到偶像签名的那一慕，体验真正有代表性的印度或美国的那一幕，回教党派来杀害他们的一幕，用厚棉被裹着抢来射杀坏人的那一幕，住在垃圾堆的那一幕，在火车上快乐生活挣钱的那一幕。。。特别喜欢由小孩所演出的小时候，特别传神，够天真与单纯。

另一段影像颇深刻的剧情转角，是当一批专门利用孩童来行乞的组织的靠近。以善心人物的出现来欺骗不懂事故危险的单纯小孩。当童心以为因为自己的歌唱才能可以有好日子过的未来却换来残酷的对待，将双眼整瞎以便换取更多的同情与金钱，就算她懂的东西再多，再有天赋，不辛的只有终身行乞，被人利用。这叫社会的无奈，而印度社会就恰巧充斥着这么多无奈与残酷，就算电影多么成功的引来了觉醒与注意，真正的改变也只是微小的更动而已，然而，我们惟有正面的思考为聊胜于无吧。难道我们要当作这些际遇是命中注定？因果还得加个缘字，而缘才是可以改变的一环呢！

虽然我并不是很喜欢这个人物，可是他却举足轻重，可以说是中心人物。所谓适者生存，片中的哥哥虽然看似坏人，但，却是很生活化，有些许良心与矛盾而且一直看着自己弟弟长大的。如果不是他哥哥，他们也不会大团圆结局吧！就是那种因为特殊环境的成长，让他们有了自食其力和自我保护的功能。所以，也不是什么大坏特坏之辈。只是先天条件让他懂得了什么是生存之道。

关于爱情。并没有泛滥的注重在这一环，只是如同配角般的用几句话就带出了那淡淡的执著，还有他一直都那么冷静的脸庞，就好像那些梦，还有他参与这个节目的最终目的。到最后，钱不重要，他只想要爱。

虽然，现实似乎无法有那么多巧合而来个大结局，但，不是说戏如人生吗？况且，不要忘记这是两个钟多的电影而已，他所带出的东西已经太多了。特别喜欢那种倒退的电脑效应 ，好像看到了很多从前，却又触摸不到，而又那么真实。

全片没有什么传统的印度片味道。却只在大团圆结束的那个刹那才振兴的来挑一支印度舞曲满足一下大家。很喜欢里面一首人声哼唱的旋律，很有意境。。。充满想象空间。

D: It is written？