A very humane description of a day in the life of an interpreter. And so refreshingly reflective.
Lost for words on a migrant's final journey
June 7, 2008
IT'S the same every time. I wait on the footpath, or in the car, for the Royal District Nurse. Or the council employee. When they arrive, I introduce myself and follow them inside. I feel and follow the pecking order. I do a Prince Philip, one step behind the boss.
Waiting in the house is the old woman, or the old man, or both. Sometimes there's a daughter, a tired-looking woman in her late 50s, who says she speaks Italian (so I wasn't really needed) but that for some reason "they" said they wanted an independent interpreter. I say: "That's fine. I'm here if you need me."
"Signora, le faccio da interprete, va bene?" I'll be your interpreter. Is that OK?
To read the whole article (and it is well worth the effort) visit The Age http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/lost-for-words-on-a-migrants-final-journey-20080606-2myi.html?page=-1