介绍:
The people on the train shot him — after he started dying.
火车上有人向他开了一“枪”——在他已经濒临死亡之时。
They didn’t use guns. They used phones.
作案工具不是手枪，而是手机。
The man first collapsed and then convulsed in the aisle.
这个人先是突然倒下，然后在过道抽搐起来。
People quickly whipped out their phones and shot photos and film of him leaving this world.
人们迅速地掏出手机，用图片和视频的方式拍摄下他离开世界的这一刻。
Some snapped selfies.
还有人跟这个场景来了张自拍。
I saw a few rows before me a man I knew nothing about aside from what he looked like and that he was having a medical emergency he almost certainly wouldn’t survive, as became clearer over time.
我看着坐在我前面几排的这个人，除了他的相貌外表之外，我对他一无所知，我只知道眼前的这个人正在挣扎着，几乎随时都可能死去。随着时间的推移，死亡离这个人越来越近。
And I saw a reflection of my father, who was actually seated across from me on the train, splayed out on the pavement in Jiangsu province’s Wuxi about two weeks before. Blood oozed through his staples and bandages when I looked at my amazingly still-living dad next to me.
此时，我的父亲正坐在我的对面，可是我却仿佛看到大约两个星期前他的身体横陈在江苏无锡的人行道上的模样。在我看着身边奇迹般活着的父亲时，血液还渗透了他的绷带。
That accident is why we were on the train.
我们之所以在火车上就是因为那次事故。
I was watching an alternate version of Dad’s situation play out on the train. Sometimes, the smartphones provided a clearer view — in every sense — of what was actually happening.
我在火车上看到的场景跟父亲的意外遭遇很相似。有时，从各种意义上来说，智能手机为我们提供了一个看待实际发生的事情的更清晰的视角。
Feet obscured the head on the ground.
旁观者的脚遮住了躺在地上的人的头。
You could see the man dying better in the screens than in real life a few actual rows ahead.
在手机屏幕上你能更加清晰地看到他死去的过程，这远比现实中隔了几排的距离更近。
The reason I was on the train with my father was to help him carry his belongings to leave China after surviving a traffic accident that would have killed him if he hadn’t been wearing a helmet.
我跟父亲在火车上是因为父亲痊愈后要离开中国。那次事故中，父亲如果没带头盔的话，可能已经丧命。
It crunched his clavicle into four pieces.
那场事故把我父亲的锁骨撞碎成四块。
He briefly passed out.
他短暂性地昏迷过去。
His friend called an ambulance.
父亲的朋友叫了救护车。
Dad had surgery and about two weeks later was ready to be discharged from the Wuxi hospital and sent home to the United States.
他被送进医院，做了手术，大约两周后就差不多痊愈，打算从无锡出院回美国老家。
That was my mission.
这就是我的任务。
Get Dad out of the hospital and take his belongings on a train from Wuxi to Beijing, from where he’d have to fly home on his own.
接父亲出院，然后带着他的行李从无锡坐火车到北京，然后他自己从北京坐飞机回去。
A while after we’d boarded the train to Beijing, a commotion erupted ahead of us.
我们刚上车不久，座位前面不远的地方就爆发起一阵骚动。
An announcement came over the speakers — one I’d believed was a Hollywood fabrication — asking if there was a doctor on the train because of an emergency in Car 8.
广播里传来广播的声音，询问火车上是否有医生，8号车厢出现了紧急医疗事故。
There wasn’t.
火车上没有医生。
But people who knew CPR stepped forward. They had to push through the voyeurs, jostling phones.
不过有些懂心肺复苏的乘客走了过去。他们不得不拨开层层的围观者，推开围观者的手机。
Some seated passengers asked them to clear the way.
有些坐着的乘客要求围观者把路让出来。
I visualized a butterfly effect of Dad’s accident, and people doing what we were seeing actually happen — crowding around, phones out, cameras digitally sucking up every last drop of dignity of a dying person.
我想象到父亲出事故后的蝴蝶效应，路人就在做着我们现在正看到的这些事情——四周拥挤，人们举着手机，用手机里的数字相机榨干垂死之人的每一滴尊严。
Without reason.
没有任何理由。
I’ll confess, my journalistic instinct was to grab my phone.
我承认，出于新闻职业的本能，我下意识想拿出手机。
But when it became apparent there was no news value in what seemed to be a natural death on a train, it proved better to respect this person’s final moments.
但这只是一个人在火车上自然死亡的过程，没有任何新闻价值，它更好地证明了对这个人最后时刻的尊重。
He didn’t seem to have a companion aboard.
他似乎没有同行的伙伴。
But he likely has loved ones, somewhere.
但是在世界的某个地方，肯定有他爱着的人。
They may have been his reason for being onboard.
他们或许正是他在这趟火车上的原因。
Mine was.
正如我一样。
Unless our deaths are publically significant, we deserve a de facto right to pass away with dignity — even in the smartphone era.
除非我们的死亡有着公众性的意义，否则我们有权带着尊严离开这个世界——即使我们处于一个智能手机的时代。
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