Sometimes it's not what you say...

Early this week I gazed into the cataract clouded eyes of the sweetest bit of crazy I've ever seen. Buckets of rain were dumped on this city, and so I opted to take the bus home from work. While waiting for the #75 to fill up, a teeny, tiny, wee little Hajjah sat down next to me. She was approximately 215 years old and I pray that if I ever make it to her age, I hope that I am that cute.

Soon after we departed the bus station, she began to make chit chat. Unsure if she was chatting with me or with herself, I didn't bother to ask her to repeat what she said. I made noncommittal umms & uh-huhs and tried to cope with the discomfort of not knowing the language well enough to follow along with her dementia. I decided that she was indeed talking to me, but it didn't really matter if I understood or not. She just had something to say.

I overheard her conversation with the driver, so I knew that she wanted to go to Makassat Hospital. The other passengers repeatedly assured her that this bus would take her close to her destination. I, on the other hand, was going to Ilmuttallah Hospital--a quick detour from the normal bus route. The driver asked her several times whether she meant Makassat or Ilmuttallah, and he explained that we were going to stop at Ilmuttallah first.

As my travel companion chatted away, I found myself looking directly at her sweet little face. She had quite a bit to say about the Israeli soldiers who were now peppered all over the neighborhoods near Damascus Gate. She also had quite a bit to say about Makassat Hospital. Rather, the people either in or around Makassat were on her mind. In her opinion, there is a whole lot of crazy there. She just kept saying crazy, crazy, crazy. It was pretty clear that she wasn't looking for a response, but I felt compelled to let her know that I was paying attention to her. I said in my broken Arabic, "I'm sorry Hajjah. I don't understand everything. I only speak a little Arabic." She beamed.

Naturally, the first question she had for me was "Are you married?" In Arabic class, in order to assuage my annoyance with this daily question/judgement, my teacher taught me to say two things: 1) "Its none of your business" and 2) "I am single, and I have no worries about it." Neither one seemed appropriate in this context, so I said: "No, but God is generous" Clearly she was tickled with this topic, and the best I could make out from her response was either she had thought I had already been married many times, OR she has been married many times. I'm putting my money on the latter. She continued to cackle away to herself for quite some time.

The bus approached the intersection where the driver turns either left for Ilmuttallah Hospital or right for Makassat Hospital. He called back to the passengers to see if any of us needed Ilmuttallah and I called back "aiwa". The name Ilmuttallah put my companion into quite a spin. Despite several passengers trying to come her down, the Hajjah jumped up, yelled "Makassat!! Makassat!! Makassat!! and darted off the bus. She was surprisingly spry for her age.

Despite not knowing what she was saying to me, that was probably the best conversation I've had since I've been here.

I'm Not the Only Lucky One...

...you too can study Arabic in Palestine! I have had people ask me what the options are for studying Arabic here, so let me lay it on you.

First, I have to give props to my teacher Issa. My language classes are through the Kenyon Institute which is a division of The Council for British Research in the Levant. Classes have just ended for this session but begin again on April 30th - June 28th. After that, he then starts classes back up in September. The class is mostly colloquial and is held two days a week. It is probably one of the better deals around at 1,200 NIS. (Approximately, $325) You can reach Issa directly at issa.faltas@gmail.com or contact the Kenyon Institute at kenyon@cbrl.org.uk

I met two cool people in Ramallah last week at an Advocacy Fair sponsored by AIDA and PNGO. The gave me info about their summer language programs that include homestays. The first was The Palestine Summer Encounter through The Middle East Fellowship. http://www.middleeastfellowship.org/pse2007

The second was Siraj Center for Holy Land Studies. http://www.sirajcenter.org/courses.htm
Both are definitely worth checking out. If you plan on just doing a short course, I would suggest going with a homestay.

There are also options through
Birzeit University http://home.birzeit.edu/pas/
Al-Quds University http://www.alquds.edu/qiss/index.php?page=about

I would suggest that anyone coming to study Arabic at a Palestinian institution should enter Israel on a tourist visa and keep their yap shut about their linguist aspirations. No need to risk getting turned back at Ben Gurion Airport--and people do get turned back.

If you're the adventurous type, I would even recommend not signing up for any course until you've arrive. There are quite a few options available that you won't find through an internet search. (That's how I found the Kenyon Institute)

As I hear of more, I'll post.

Just an addendum to my last post...

I didn’t even have ayna and bejaanab right. To all of you who study MSA and who feel pretty comfortable with your conversation skills; it is with a big heaping dose of shadenfreude that I tell you...you know nothing. Colloquial Arabic here in Jerusalem is nothing like the Arabic I learned in DC. Nothing. Does anyone know which regional dialect is closest to fussha Arabic? Wherever it is, that must be where all the newscasters come from. What a blessed country it must be for it to have all that media talent.

Giving the Gift of Laughter...and Social Awkwardness

Yesterday during one brief moment of total hubris, I thought to myself: “I think I know what’s going on here. These folks are so afraid that they won’t understand what I’m saying in English that their language anxiety precludes them from hearing that I’m actually asking in Arabic!” I became so content with this delusion that, mistaking it for a universal truth, my theory accidentally slipped out when I was chatting with one of my housemates. He sardonically replied, “Yah, that’s what it is…the Palestinians are the ones getting it wrong.” Ouch. Mind you, the derailment of my stupid train was not due to a misguided belief that I have reached any level of fluency in Arabic. It was sabotaged by the certainty that I don’t have any real Arabic fluency, save all but eight words that I am certain I know pretty well. That is, I was certain that I knew them pretty well.

One of these words is ayna. Ayna, to the best of my knowledge means “where”. So being the fearless linguist that I am, I approached the first woman I saw and asked, “Min fudlick, ayna Mount Scopus Hotel fee Sheikh Jarrar?” She smiled, looking around somewhat perplexed. I also detected just the slightest expression of “Oh crap. What did I just step in?” Still, she graciously listened as I repeated this question, and added, “Idrusu Arabbiya fee el maddrasa bejaanib Mount Scopus Hotel.” In my little head, this translates to “I study Arabic in the school next to Mount Scopus Hotel.” I have since come to the conclusion that I alone hold that supposition to be likely. We then embarked on a series of “uhhhhh, ummms...”, shoulder shrugs, crinkled noses, exaggerated neck craning, nervous giggles and empathic eye rolls to the heavens...as if by engaging in this interpretative dance lucidity would bubble to the surface of our respective consciousness. She finally asked, “Sheikh Jarrar?” I replied “Uh...na’am.” She said something to me in what apparently is real Arabic and pointed me toward the road on the right. We laughed a little and off I went in the exact opposite direction of Mount Scopus Hotel.

As I headed toward the city center in West Jerusalem, I figured I better ask someone else for directions. It was a nice day for a hike, but I had other things I needed to do. Man, I swear...It was as if there was a Neighborhood Watch alert. People were avoiding me like ham sandwich. So, doing what any unbelievably conspicuous American would do, I popped into the American Colony Hotel to buy a grossly overpriced tourist map. Too bad the Israeli cartographer who compiled the thing was unaware that East Jerusalem exists. That’s not true. It exists but only with Hebrew street names. Oy. That will get me a whole lot of love in East Jerusalem. “Min fudlick, ayna Ben Gurion Street wa Golda Meir Avenue? Ana bidi yeshiva bejaanib Mount Scopus Hotel.”

So, with my chronic optimism prodding me along, I thought I would give Arabic another try. [If I ever become famous, those better not be my ‘famous last words’.] Alas, I hope you embrace the lesson I learned from this folly and know that it is applicable for every traveler in every travel destination on this planet. If you are lost, and you need assistance there are several types of people you want to avoid:
* those who you can smell before you see them,
* those who are overly anxious to assist and insist on escorting you to a “short cut”,
and possibly the scariest of all...
* pre-teen girls who travel in packs.
My self confidence received its death knell blow when I repeated my questions to a pack of giggling schoolgirls who were walking past American Colony.

Parents: please, please, please; when you have little girls, do whatever it takes to instill in them a sense of agency, self-assurance and grace. All these bobbleheads could do was interject between giggles and snorts: “No English...snort, giggle, giggle, giggle, snort...” Their inexplicable amusement rivaled that of the pasty, Jerry Garcia T-shirt sporting, college freshman who once generously offered a bong hit upon introducing himself to me at a beach party. I wasn’t amused by him either. In an exasperated tone I said “La ‘English’, fee Arabbiya!” They would stop, walk back towards me and say OK. Then before I could get the words out of my mouth, again I’d hear: “snort, giggle, giggle, giggle, No English! Don’t...giggle...understand...giggle-giggle...English...snort” This dialogue repeated several more times before I thought to myself: “How do you say in Arabic ‘I’m going to roundhouse kick you in front of cab’?” Good grief, I wish I could go back to the days when I cut an intimidating form and I could just demand an answer from someone younger than me...and get it. For the time being, I suppose I’m at the mercy of a cadre of hijab-ed Britney Spears.

In any case, today was my first day of school. I already love it. I can’t wait to actually be able to communicate with someone other than the little Arab person in my head. ‘Cause they apparently can’t speak Arabic either. It turns out that although my Classical Arabic gets me by in a classroom in Washington, DC, it is the communicative equivalent of reading the ingredient listing on the side of a Twinkie package here. Some of the words sound familiar, but no one in their right mind wants to investigate their meaning. We all want to continue to like Twinkies.