"Your deed is immortal”
литературно-музыкальная композиция, посвящённая памяти поэта Мусы Джалиля
(для учащихся 9-х классов)
Цели мероприятия:
Образовательная: Систематизация и расширение знаний учащихся по теме «Герои нашей страны»
Воспитательная: Воспитание любви к своему отечеству, чувства патриотизма, формирование межкультурной компетенции учащихся
Развивающая: Расширение кругозора учащихся, развитие интереса учащихся к предмету английский язык
ХОД МЕРПРИЯТИЯ
Brave in battle you must be, jigit.
Hope in battle never leaves the brave.
Freedom goes with courage, they are granite.
If you have no courage, you are a slave!
Pupil1: There's a monument to Jalil at the Spasskaya Tower of the Kremlin in Kazan, one of the highest points in the city open to the winds blowing freely from the Volga. The poet is depicted with his feet entangled in barbed wire, his hands tied behind his back. With proudly raised head and narrowed eyes he gazes into the vast distance where he is destined to "live after death". The muscles of his limbs are tensely knotted and his bare chest seems to breathe with unconquered power.
Pupil2: "The world and its literature know many poets who have made their names immortal, but there are few poets who have won immortality both by their unfading works and by the gallant sacrifice of their lives. They are: the great Byron, the renowned poet of the Hungarian people Petofi, the heroic Julius Fucik and, finally, Mussa Jalil."
Pupil1: His name has become the synonym, the symbol of courage, heroism and unbounded service to his country.
Musa Jalil: "...I am not afraid of death. That is not an empty phrase. When I say I despise death, that is indeed so... There is a life... after death, in the awareness, the memory of the nation; If I have done anything of significance in my lifetime, anything that will remain, then I have deserved this other life-a life after death... Therein lies the objective of our lives: 'to live so we don't die after death.'"
Pupil2: To die in the prime of life and talent is unnatural. Even the thought of death is unbearable for any human who is sound of mind. It was the more unbearable for a man who loved life to such a degree as did Mussa.
The last song
The Earth is so vast,
Spacious, lovely!
And my prison is
Dark and stinking.
A bird in the sky
Soars to the clouds.
On the floor I lie,
My hands are chained.
A flower grows in freedom,
Sweet its smells!
I languish in prison,
My breath fails.
Victorious force of life!
UI know life is sweet.
And I die in prison.
This song is my last.
ПОСЛЕДНЯЯ ПЕСНЯ
Какая вдали земля
Просторная, ненаглядная!
Только моя тюрьма
Темная и смрадная.
В небе птица летит,
Взмывает до облаков она!
А я лежу на полу:
Руки мои закованы.
Растет на воле цветок,
Он полон благоухания,
А я увядаю в тюрьме:
Мне не хватает дыхания.
Я знаю, как сладко жить,
О сила жизни победная!
Но я умираю в тюрьме,
Эта песня моя - последняя.
Mussa Jalil: " I love my homeland, it is so far from here. And sometimes it seems to me that I am sleeping. And all this horror will be finished soon and I will see my tenderly loved Amina and the "flower of my soul’ Chulpan, my little daughter. They are always with me in my thoughts.
Pupil3: Mussa Jalil was born in the small Tatar village Mustafino, in the Orenburg steppes. From childhood he knew poverty and hunger and how people were open to pre-revolutionary years. In 1921, when a severe draught hit the steppelands, he left home. So the family would have one hungry mouth less to feed and became a vagrant in the city of Orenburg.
Pupil4 :He slept in the streets, ate what he picked up in the marketplace and even stole to keep from starving. Soviet government enabled him to get an education and made a respectable man of him.
Then he became a student of a workers' university, in 1931 he finished the Moscow University. After the University he worked as the instructor of the Orsk, and then the Orenburg district committees of the Young Communist League, the editor of the children's magazines Kechkene Ipteshlyar (Little Comrades) and Oktyabr Baiasy (The Children of October).
Pupil3: Jalil was never solely a professional man of letters. He was always studying or working, often combining two or three duties simultaneously. His friends never stopped wondering at his inexhaustible energy, his erudition and the steel-trap wit of his logic.
Pupil4:His poetry was like him. Impulsive and passionate, believing implicitly in the just cause of socialism, hostile to all the trash surviving from pre-revolutionary times, it was, at the same time, kindly responsive, tender and lyrical.
The willow
Near our home there’s a willow growing,
She’s so happy the spring is here.
When I come in, or when I’m going,
She bows her greeting to me.
When I’m back home from my work I settle
In the bluishness of her shade.
Every evening I love to rest here
‘Midst the flowers’ sweet cascade.
By her willowy arms encircled
All to often my poems I rhyme,
At such times in meditation
To my notes her head she inclines.
When the willow was set in motion
By a gust of the springtime breeze,
One light leaf that had come asunder
Found the lines of my poem with ease.
Willows, alas, have no means of talking
So she hoped that a wind would blow
And the leaf that she’d sent in greeting
Her affection clearly would show.
Pupil5: No definite line can be drawn between Jalil the journalist, the reporter, and the poet. He often contributed articles, essays and reports on how the Stalingrad Tractor Plant and the Moscow subway projects were progressing. He criticised bureaucrats and bribe-takers. He wrote about the youth movement and atheistic education, informed the readers of the sowing and harvesting. To one or another degree all those subjects found their way into his poems.
Pupil6: To Jalil there were no subjects that were below his dignity. Everything that concerned his country, concerned him personally. That is why he has so many poems that were timed for red-letter days. But he never treated such poems as shortlived. He gave them the same attention as he did to all of his other works.
Pupil5: Jalil was the author of the libretto for the first national operas such as "Altinchech” and "Ildar”. The song was one of the most important things for him. All the national traits of Tatar people character - industry, bravery, hospitality and friendliness- were reflected in his songs.
Pupil3: Before the war Jalil was a well-known and widely recognized poet, the chief of the writers’ organizations of the Tatar Republic, whose poems were included in school books.
The girl’s song
My beloved, joy of my life,
To fight for his land departs.
My beloved, joy of my life,
Is taking his friend's heart.
I am parting from my beloved.
How hard it is to part!
Let him come back to his native land,
Through all battles pass unharmed.
The news I await and love him
I'll be sending to my djigit.
The news I await and love him
Is to him the sweetest gift.
Pupil7: In June 1942, the badly wounded and shell-shocked Mussa was taken prisoner when his unit was attempting to break out of a pocket. After months in concentration camps for Soviet prison-ers-of-war, Jalil was transferred to Poland. There Mussa met his fellow countrymen, for the fascists were assembling prisoners of Eastern nationalities in the camp. He sought out people he could put his trust in and together they subsequently formed a resistance group.
Pupil8: In late 1942, the fascists started forming what they called "national legions". Among others, the Idel-Ural legion was formed of prisoners-of-war, the majority were Tatars. The Germans usually called it the Volgo-Tatar legion. The fascists brainwashed the prisoners in anti-Soviet spirit, to prepare the legionnaires for action against the Soviet Army.
Pupil7: Jalil's group set out to destroy the fascist plans, to convince the men to use the weapons they against the fascists themselves. The members of the resistance group printed and circulated anti-fascist leaflets among the legionnaires. They also organised the legionnaires into esoteric action groups consisting of 5 men each.
Pupil8: The very first battalion of the Volgo-Tatar legion that was sent to the Eastern front mutinied, shot all the German officers, and defected to the guerillas in Byelorussia.
Musa Jalil: My heart is ready to overcome any trials, torture, and sufferings, but it cannot reconcile itself to the thought that on the evening of January 8, when Chulpan saw her father off, she was seeing him for the last time.
A dream in prison
I saw my little daughter in a dream…
She came, her little hand caressed my hair.
And then she said to me: " how long you’ve been…’
Before her little eyes my soul lay bare.
With joy my head went dizzy. I caressed
My daughter and my heart was singing loud.
The thoughts occurred to me: "That is what limitless
Love, agony and pain can bring about.”
And then we swam across a flowery sea,
We wondered in the meadows far and wide.
The day was dawning – it was light and free
And once again I knew the joy of life.
Then I awoke – in prison as before,
The same grim cell, and chains, and window barred
In fetid darkness by the gloomy door
My anguish keeps its solitary guard.
And then I thought: "Why call my dream a life?
Why is the world with ugly jails defiled
So that, awake, we suffer pain and grief,
And joy attends us only when we sleep?”
СОН В ТЮРЬМЕ
Дочурка мне привиделась во сне.
Пришла, пригладила мне чуб ручонкой.
-- Ой, долго ты ходил! -- сказала мне,
И прямо в душу глянул взор ребенка.
От радости кружилась голова,
Я крошку обнимал, и сердце пело.
И думал я: так вот ты какова,
Любовь, тоска, достигшая предела!
Потом мы с ней цветочные моря
Переплывали, по лугам блуждая;
Светло и вольно разлилась заря,
И сладость жизни вновь познал тогда я...
Проснулся я. Как прежде, я в тюрьме,
И камера угрюмая все та же,
И те же кандалы, и в полутьме
Все то же горе ждет, стоит на страже.
Зачем я жизнью сны свои зову?
Зачем так мир уродует темница,
Что боль и горе мучат наяву,
А радость только снится?
Pupil7: In August 1943, fascist spies managed to track down the resistance group. Mussa Jalil and most of his militant comrades were seized. There followed nightmare days and nights of interrogations, torture, and more torture. The Gestapo broke his left arm and injured his kidneys. His body was covered with welts from the beatings he got with an electric cord and rubber hose. His crushed fingers were swollen and would not bend. But the poet did not give up. Behind bars he continued his fight against fascism. He had only his poetry for a weapon.
(звучит стихотворение "Варварство” на русском языке.)
Mussa Jalil "I am the Tatar poet Mussa Jalil, held in Moabit prison as a prisoner-of-war against whom political charges have been preferred, and will most likely be shot soon. If some Russian finds this note, convey my regards to my writer-friends in Moscow and break the news to my family."
Pupil4: The feelings of the poet are stark to the extreme. He is totally cut off from the world, from his country, alone with his notebook. The absence of outside impressions brings out the wealth of his inner, emotional world.
Pupil5: Many of the poems of the Moabit cycle reveal how the poet suffered. One had to know Mussa's love of life, his attachment to friends, to his wife and daughter, and his love of people in general to understand how he suffered from his enforced solitude. It was not his physical suffering, not even the threat of approaching death, but his separation from his homeland, from his nearest and dearearest.
Pupil5: He was not even certain that his country would learn the truth about his heroic end, he was not sure his poems would live to see freedom. What if the fascists managed to spread untruths about him and people at home would think he was a traitor? What if the "flowers of his soul", his songs " were fated to go down to the grave with him?
The prison cell
Fetters with fingers bare
From your small cell down tear,
Else with death you not spare,
Stalking here everywhere.
You in a sack they’ve bound,
To their vile jestings’ sound.
Up they’ve your body lined
To be to powder ground.
Grinds the mill people’s lives,
Bags of bones higher rise,
Its millstones iron-wise
Each day more terrorize.
No flour the miller grinds,
But blood that drips from wounds,
Greedy the bug imbibes-
Frenzied, vile despot blind.
Et the mill cease its roar!
Its black sails turn no more,
Let there no longer pour,
Dear to our land, the gore.
Unbind those stacks of sacks!
This house of greed attack!
This mill of tortures wrack,
With angry bayonets hack!
КАМЕННЫЙ МЕШОК
Цепи каменного мешка
Пусть твоя разорвет рука!
А не сможешь, так смерть предстанет --
Ведь она здесь всегда близка!
Положили тебя в мешок,
Завязали под злой смешок.
Ставят в очередь твое тело,
Чтоб смолоть его в порошок.
Мелет мельница жизнь людей --
Громоздятся мешки костей.
Жернова ее из железа,
С каждым днем они все лютей.
Мельник злится, от крови пьян:
Не мука -- кровь течет из ран.
Жадно пьет ее клоп проклятый --
Бесноватый, слепой тиран.
Пусть умолкнет мельницы рев!
Пусть не вертит сила ветров
Крылья черные! Пусть не льется
Дорогая родине кровь!
Развяжите горы мешков!
Раздавите дом пауков!
Развалите мельницу пыток
Остриями гневных штыков!
The condemned man
They today the verdict out are spelling:
And his sentence – execution is.
Then the tears with which his breast was swelling,
All dried up – no sorry weeping his.
Silent the cell…The whole night sky suffusing,
The full moon gazes in dejectedly,
The luckless devil sitting here and musing
That his little child would orphaned be.
Осужденный
Приговор сегодня объявили:
К смертной казни он приговорен.
Только слезы, что в груди кипели,
Все иссякли… И не плачет он.
Тихо в камере… С ночного неба
Полная луна глядит, грустя.
А бедняга думает, что будет
Сиротой расти его дитя.
Pupil 9: The heroic feat performed by the Soviet people in World War II is gradually receding into the past. A whole generation has arisen for whom the past war is a story they have read in books or seen on the screen.
Pupil 10: Years have passed, but we still remember the great heroes who gave their lives for the victory. They are living in our hearts, in the names of the streets, parks and squares. . Everybody knows in our town –the Opera and Ballet Theatre named after Mussa Jalil.
Pupil 9: And Jalil is among us to this day. The poet lives on, he is still fighting, educating people with his own example, he participates in all our interactions and talks with the living as one still alive.
Pupil 10: And we can say to those who fell for our country, who sleep at the grave carved on the gravestone "Your deed is immortal”.
Использованная литература: "Mussa Jalil” Selected poems. Издательство «Прогресс»1981г.
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