You think English is hard: try learning Arabic

by BETSY O’NEIL

(Chestnut Hill resident Betsy O’Neil, 36, is a 1985 graduate of Springside School. Now a teacher at Penn Charter Middle School, she is on a leave of absence and living in Damascus, Syria, where she is teaching English and studying Arabic. Her reports home appear here periodically.)

Things here can be very strange. As I sat down to type up a new journal piece in the Internet café, an American guy, over 6’5” and mildly tattooed, came in. I have seen him here many times (this café is a daily stop for me here in Damascus), and from a quick eavesdropping session knew he was an American. He towers over most men here in his tank tops and gym shorts, which brings up the leg thing again. Even Syrian men seldom walk around in shorts; the only exceptions are the more westernized teenage boys. I decided, the moment he walked in today, that I would talk to him. But I’ll get back to him, Eddie, later.

Today I have been here for exactly five weeks. The cultural, sleep and food adjustments are tapering off, and routine has set in. I appreciate my life here and am busy enough. I have school five days a week and started teaching English classes at Berlitz three nights a week. The Berlitz building is new and white, made of smooth thick cement and, best of all, air-conditioned. This is a city where summer highs can approach 120 degrees, so I think that feature tipped the balance while I ruminated the pros and cons of teaching English. After a brief yet successful guilt trip from my landlord, I no longer run my air conditioner all night.

The woman from the gym — the manager with the tracksuit and the head-scarf, Satanae — told her friend who owns a language school that she’d met an American and a teacher who was living here for some time. Sabah, Madam Sabah as people refer to ladies here, owns Berlitz, and I get the feeling that there are not crowds of native English-speaking teachers milling around Damascus. The Berlitz mother company is run in Japan, yet each franchise is privately owned.

It is not easy to start a business in Syria, but I found out from another acquaintance that Sabah’s dad has connections with the president. The threads of nepotism are the only way one can get a business off the ground. So, Sabah gets a business, and after our long interview I have decided she is lovely. She has a pretty, fleshy face and a ready smile for all of her employees and customers. In Germany, Sabah learned enough German from her courses at Berlitz to change her life from one filled with only her family to a life interacting with Germans. Her happiness soared and this passion spurred her desire to run a Berlitz school of her own. People say if she were more of a go-getter, Berlitz would be packed. I have never discussed any of this with her; I am happy to have her place as an oasis. Everyone is cordial.

I am especially fond of Ahmed, the 14-year-old (he looks more like 12) who runs the snack bar. He has a killer smile and is intent on both teaching me Arabic (the Syrian colloquial) and practicing his English. He is frank enough to make me realize the proper Arabic I am learning in my classes means little to the average Syrian. It’s like talking Shakespeare in Norristown. Some people may figure out what I am trying to say and understand that I am a student of fus’ha (the formal Arabic); however, their responses are seldom Shakespearian. Basically, I am not sure what they are saying back to me even if they know what I want.

You may be saying to yourself, “Why doesn’t this knucklehead study the language they speak instead of the Shakespearian version?” An excellent question with an answer that saves me from looking like a dingbat. The colloquial versions of Arabic vary drastically from country to country. A woman on the streets of Casablanca may have a difficult time conversing with a woman from Kuwait. Even an Egyptian and a Jordanian do not speak the same. This is not to be confused with the differences in accent between, for example, someone from Alabama and someone from Vermont. It can be more extreme.

I know how frustrating and difficult it is to learn a new language. I can relate to these English students in a way that is new for me. I think their English is fantastic, a million times better than anything I’ll be able to do in Arabic in the foreseeable future. They think their English is horrible. I sadly realize that in America we are intolerant of anyone whose English is less than fluent. I still can only fantasize about ever becoming fluent in Arabic. So, why are we as Americans so intolerant of non-English speakers? The standard is so high that these Syrians judge themselves as mere strugglers in English.

In my early class I have four girls, all around the age of 15, three with headscarves and one without. The girls seemed timid and formal at first, but soon they warmed up to me and the relaxed culture of the classroom. School here is run much more strictly than our classes in America. Students are still expected to learn most of their lessons by rote. The Berlitz stress on talking and my un-authoritarian leanings make for a different learning space for these kids.

There is one girl, Jomana, who is very smart. She seemed more serious than the others, and I wondered if she was more devout. Over time, I see it is just her way to be a bit detached. She never misses a beat and often gets the answers faster than everyone. Perhaps she is just not a big smiler. I have three boys in there: Alaa who puts his hand up (thus giving me the hand gesture, palm facing me) when he is laughing too hard to participate; Bilal, who struggles with pronunciation, and a third boy. At first I thought Bilal was the slowest, but then I realized that it is just hard for him to enunciate the words.

I flashed to my classes in Cairo where as a student I treated each letter as an entire sound to be solved and then stressed rather than a letter tripped over just to form a word. I remember my teacher’s frustration and her snapping at me, “Betsy, just look at the whole word and then say it!” This stung. Give me a break. It is a miracle I can even link these sounds let alone look at them, process them, and have them then leave my mouth strung together, I thought to myself, bitterly angry at her and even more angry at myself for putting myself in this situation.

My 7:45 class is downright rowdy. It is dominated by five boys in their early 20s. I have resorted to shushing them now and threatening to move people if they keep talking. I am right back in my room at Penn Charter. These boys love it! They are excited, chatting with each other, involved and liking the tiny bit of danger that a pretending-to-be-annoyed teacher brings to their evening.

So, back to the tall American man sitting net to me at the Internet café. He is eager to chat once I break the ice. He is going home in a few days. He plays basketball here, paid by the Syrians to bring their internal league play up to a decent level. There is another American on his team, and the rule is that only one foreigner can be on the court at a time. He says the fans are into it, and he doesn’t care what they say about him, “Because I don’t understand them anyway.” Actually, he understands many of the curse words, and when he hears one uttered from the stands, he spits another one right back at them. The pay is good; he is saving money and investing it in real estate in his hometown, Chicago.

I can tell he is not super-happy socially, but the expatriate crowd is entertaining enough. Lebanon, he adds, is much more fun, and he hopes to play there next season. Syrians recognize him and his buddies on the street (he is not hard to miss), and that bit of fame feels good. Because of his stature, both literally and within the country, he feels that nobody would mess with him. I asked about home and he said they think he is crazy. “No surprise,” I said, “same with me.” None of his friends or family has come to visit him in the four years he has been living here. Although they have called him every day for the last week because they are so excited he is coming home, none of them is interested in visiting. I can understand that; only one or two people have expressed any interest in coming to see me.

He invited me along for tonight, and I am curious to check out the scene. The scene will include alcohol no doubt. I cannot tell you how many American guys I met during my year in Kuwait who made alcohol and rigged every kind of party situation for a way to socialize with girls and boys and to drink. It’s like freshman year at college all over again and again and again. Nevertheless, I do want to peek and am excited to get to meet some people whom I already have something rather significant in common with. Eddie and I sensed that from the start of our conversation. A perfect environment to make friends. The final game is tomorrow night, and that makes me even more curious. He said they might ban the crowd for this last game because it has gotten too crazy. Apparently two people died last week during the final match of the Syrian football (soccer) league. That makes me all the more curious and all the more hesitant.

His team usually wins. He said they are like the Yankees and the Red Sox of Syria. I am not a sports fan; ask anyone who works in the middle school at Penn Charter. I am known to be a fair-weather basketball fan. Suddenly drinks and basketball are calling my name. You can take the girl out of Chestnut Hill, but you can’t take Chestnut Hill out of the girl.

TO BE CONTINUED