Ah Maha.... her style, her attitude, her pronunciation... from the very first day we were wowed, and when we remembered that "wow" was the second to last letter of the alphabet, we were wowed again. While politically-personal agendas weren't on the syllabus, she embodied all of ours. For CIA girl, Maha was a witty Arab who might need her help one day, since wit and aggression go hand in hand in the eyes of the law. Maha also subverted all the stereotypes CIA girl had studied for her upcoming classified exam. This Arab showed some leg, and her necklines lowered at the same steady rate as my graded exams. But I was also intrigued by her. At first, it was her changing nail color that always matched her outfits. Later, it was the Lebanese music videos she brought for us to watch during the breaks. But by the third week, it was a few words she let slip.
---
Those few words, if only I understood what they meant... probably only some synonyms to clarify some of the words on our list of vocab. But those words most definitely were not in Arabic, nor English, nor a bunch of other languages. Were they in the language my parents used as a secret code? the language I stored in my arsenal in an attempt to decipher that code? the language of people who aren't the most likeable in the Arab world? Were those Semitic sounds emanating from Maha's mouth, in fact, Hebrew?
After that day, the day that Maha whispered those words into Tamar's ear, we progressed from "wow" (letter #27) to "yeah" (letter #28). Maha was a Palestinian, my enemy, as some might say. I was excited about this, but I wasn't sure why. Maybe this was my chance to learn something new about the conflict I think so much about. Or perhaps I thought she would have the latest Diana Haddad CDs. Or maybe I thought she could hook me up with some swell greetings or "what's ups" in the Acre dialect. Regardless, once I found out she was no ordinary Iraqi or Omani, the gossip began.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Friday, March 17, 2006
The "United States of America" is a mudafa OR Arabic class is no place for flag-waving.
First off, a mudafa is a type of noun that could go on forever. A group of nouns becomes a mudafa when they pile on top of each other. A cow is just a noun, but the owner of the cow is a mudafa. Same goes for the house of the owner of the cow. This is all fine and good, you say, but what about when it comes to entities much more precious that livestock? Here's another example: a group of states is a noun, but a group of states that are united is a mudafa. A group of states that are united that belong to America is also a mudafa. Well, that's enough! CIA girl decided that no Egyptian, linguist or not, is going to tell her what the grand ol' US of A is or isn't. She insisted that the United States of America is a proper noun, plain and simple, and don't you dare call her elementary school history teacher a liar, thank you very much.
At first I was amused but as the minutes dragged on, I decided that CIA-girl's point would be best proved with the singing of the National Anthem, I mean let's get straight to the issue, after all, Arabic can wait.
At first I was amused but as the minutes dragged on, I decided that CIA-girl's point would be best proved with the singing of the National Anthem, I mean let's get straight to the issue, after all, Arabic can wait.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Even the shway-shway* student can make friends at La Shish.
***shway-shway= so so (but at least I'm trying)
One day, my roommate decided it was time for me to leave the house and give Al-Kitaab (our textbook) a rest. As an incentive, she took me to eat at "La Shish" in Dearborn, the home to the largest concentration of Arabs outside of the Middle East. I figured if we sat near the kitchen, I could probably glean a few words in preparation for my quiz the next day.
As the words "halib" and "khalas"* flew out the pick-up window, I thumbed through my dictionary and parroted the words out loud. I soon noticed ears perk and eyes shift. Someone must have caught on to my scheme, because the waiter began refilling our water glasses, showering us with loaves, and making the rounds around our table at an unrivaled pace. Each time this gentle fellow set down more pitas, he lingered just a few seconds longer than before. Finally, as I was about to refuse the final bread basket, a young mysterious green-eyed waiter emerged from behind the potted palms to ask me if I spoke Arabic.
* translation "halib" means "milk" and "khalas" means "enough" although actually, I couldn't catch any words outside the pick-up window aside from "habibi" meaning, "my darling"
One day, my roommate decided it was time for me to leave the house and give Al-Kitaab (our textbook) a rest. As an incentive, she took me to eat at "La Shish" in Dearborn, the home to the largest concentration of Arabs outside of the Middle East. I figured if we sat near the kitchen, I could probably glean a few words in preparation for my quiz the next day.
As the words "halib" and "khalas"* flew out the pick-up window, I thumbed through my dictionary and parroted the words out loud. I soon noticed ears perk and eyes shift. Someone must have caught on to my scheme, because the waiter began refilling our water glasses, showering us with loaves, and making the rounds around our table at an unrivaled pace. Each time this gentle fellow set down more pitas, he lingered just a few seconds longer than before. Finally, as I was about to refuse the final bread basket, a young mysterious green-eyed waiter emerged from behind the potted palms to ask me if I spoke Arabic.
* translation "halib" means "milk" and "khalas" means "enough" although actually, I couldn't catch any words outside the pick-up window aside from "habibi" meaning, "my darling"
Monday, March 06, 2006
Introducing the Cast of Characters
CIA girl was one of those millions of warm blooded, God fearing Americans whose life took a sharp right after September 11th (of the year 2001... to be specific) . And while she recognized that all that was good and pure in this infallible country of ours was now in danger, she wanted to make a difference, you know, she thought she could help out. And so since, according to her figures, only 1 percent of Arabs (living both in the U.S. and abroad) were terrorists, she figured there was a critical mass of them, 99 percent to be exact, who could use her help.
Then there were the others...
The unblinking, big-bosomed blonde was hard to get to know. For one, she was always late.
Danny was an undergraduate in political science, and I could only guess that since Arabic-speaking nations were occupying a sizeable chunk of the political arena these days, he was learning his "aleph bas" to get a piece of it.
Aisha was an Indian by way of England who learned how to read Quranic Arabic as a child, but never learned what those elegantly written words actually meant. So since she was halfway there, she thought 10 credits should fill in the gap.
Sarla was the poster child for the overworked and overeducated. A young girl of twenty-something, she already had Espanol under her belt and was on to Al-Arabi. She needed both languages for her dissertation in order to get the full picture of those transient Moroccans (women in particular) who migrate between Marrakech and Madrid.
Tamar was a Tel-Avivi suffering from a self-imposed exile in the Midwest United States. After evading the Israeli army, she left the Fertile Crescent for a stint in the Big Apple and then a few back and forths led her to forth to a PhD program in Comp. Lit. to study the great literary works of her people, and while she's at it, the great literary works of the those other people. After all, what's an Israeli without a Palestinian? And vice versa.
Jon, Jimmy, and Johnny each had a story too. Jon was a mustachioed med student. Jimmy was fond of felafel and fuul, and Johnny was undecided between pursing the path toward precious posts at the CIA or FBI, but he had some other prospects too.
That leads to me... as the daughter of an Israeli and former Cairene, I had quite a few reasons to be in this class, but how to fit them all together was beyond me. Besides wishing to decipher the lyrics of Umm Kulthum, the Egyptian diva who sung to swooning Arab crowds from the 1930s on, and died the year I was born, I also wanted to be able to order hummus at Kabab Palace using correct pronunciation, and watch Elia Suleiman's films without the hassle of the subtitle menu on my DVD player. Mostly, I was looking to answer the "vice versa" of the Israeli-Palestinian question.
Then there were the others...
The unblinking, big-bosomed blonde was hard to get to know. For one, she was always late.
Danny was an undergraduate in political science, and I could only guess that since Arabic-speaking nations were occupying a sizeable chunk of the political arena these days, he was learning his "aleph bas" to get a piece of it.
Aisha was an Indian by way of England who learned how to read Quranic Arabic as a child, but never learned what those elegantly written words actually meant. So since she was halfway there, she thought 10 credits should fill in the gap.
Sarla was the poster child for the overworked and overeducated. A young girl of twenty-something, she already had Espanol under her belt and was on to Al-Arabi. She needed both languages for her dissertation in order to get the full picture of those transient Moroccans (women in particular) who migrate between Marrakech and Madrid.
Tamar was a Tel-Avivi suffering from a self-imposed exile in the Midwest United States. After evading the Israeli army, she left the Fertile Crescent for a stint in the Big Apple and then a few back and forths led her to forth to a PhD program in Comp. Lit. to study the great literary works of her people, and while she's at it, the great literary works of the those other people. After all, what's an Israeli without a Palestinian? And vice versa.
Jon, Jimmy, and Johnny each had a story too. Jon was a mustachioed med student. Jimmy was fond of felafel and fuul, and Johnny was undecided between pursing the path toward precious posts at the CIA or FBI, but he had some other prospects too.
That leads to me... as the daughter of an Israeli and former Cairene, I had quite a few reasons to be in this class, but how to fit them all together was beyond me. Besides wishing to decipher the lyrics of Umm Kulthum, the Egyptian diva who sung to swooning Arab crowds from the 1930s on, and died the year I was born, I also wanted to be able to order hummus at Kabab Palace using correct pronunciation, and watch Elia Suleiman's films without the hassle of the subtitle menu on my DVD player. Mostly, I was looking to answer the "vice versa" of the Israeli-Palestinian question.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Welcome to Scenes from an (elementary modern standard) Arabic Class (level 101-102)
I think I may start using my blog to post drafts of my up and coming comic book. Here goes page 1.
Once upon a time there was a twenty-nine-year old girl, a woman really, who yearned for the time when she was just a little baby. Though she always acted young and immature for her age, at this point in her life, just weeks before her thirtieth birthday, she wanted to regress back in time to when she was a language-less ball of fat who spoke only goobely-guk, whose mind was just ripe for the taking-over by the Romantics, the Indo-Europeans, or the Semites. But now she was all grown up (for the most part) and the mother of all languages, English, won the battle for her mind and tongue. It beat out all those other languages that surrounded that little tot during her formative years. It defeated Spanish, the language of her pre-school buddies and her city's mayor. It defeated Hebrew, her father's first language and her mother's third (or fourth). Whatever her mother's first language was, still unknown to her, it beat that too. It beat out French, Polish, and Yiddish, all languages that appeared in her home in one way or another during her formative and malleable years. Though despite the English victory decades earlier, this girl's mind still had a small arsenal of what remained hidden, a few leftover shells lay scattered in the folds. And though this small stockpile lay in wait, and was enough to begin a mini revolution of sorts, she ignored it all and went looking for more.
Once upon a time there was a twenty-nine-year old girl, a woman really, who yearned for the time when she was just a little baby. Though she always acted young and immature for her age, at this point in her life, just weeks before her thirtieth birthday, she wanted to regress back in time to when she was a language-less ball of fat who spoke only goobely-guk, whose mind was just ripe for the taking-over by the Romantics, the Indo-Europeans, or the Semites. But now she was all grown up (for the most part) and the mother of all languages, English, won the battle for her mind and tongue. It beat out all those other languages that surrounded that little tot during her formative years. It defeated Spanish, the language of her pre-school buddies and her city's mayor. It defeated Hebrew, her father's first language and her mother's third (or fourth). Whatever her mother's first language was, still unknown to her, it beat that too. It beat out French, Polish, and Yiddish, all languages that appeared in her home in one way or another during her formative and malleable years. Though despite the English victory decades earlier, this girl's mind still had a small arsenal of what remained hidden, a few leftover shells lay scattered in the folds. And though this small stockpile lay in wait, and was enough to begin a mini revolution of sorts, she ignored it all and went looking for more.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
High Noon
I just finished watching High Noon (at 7pm), a stong moral lesson is embedded in that classic, but I prefer fight scenes.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Ticket to Jerusalem
Hello all after a long hiatus. I have now joined the internet revolution and have access at home, which will give me lots more time for blogging and "surfing". Thanks to Francie, I also now have a TV/VCR/DVD combo. With all these new toys, I won't be leaving the house for awhile, but I'd appreciate it if someone could come by every so often to take my pulse.
Today I watched after waiting months for its arrival in our legendary library, "Ticket to Jerusalem" by Rashid Masharawi. And now I'm kicking myself for being such a film snob, low production values but great story! It's about a guy who's unemployed but has a 35mm film projector that he carts around the West Bank showing films to kids, crossing checkpoints to do it and battling all sorts of obstacles. I suspect that in the filming, that the actor actually waited in line at checkpoints only to stay in character in order to argue with Israeli soldiers on film. I don't think I've ever seen a film that puts fiction out into the streets. Very ambitious but loosely written and edited. More on that later...
Today I watched after waiting months for its arrival in our legendary library, "Ticket to Jerusalem" by Rashid Masharawi. And now I'm kicking myself for being such a film snob, low production values but great story! It's about a guy who's unemployed but has a 35mm film projector that he carts around the West Bank showing films to kids, crossing checkpoints to do it and battling all sorts of obstacles. I suspect that in the filming, that the actor actually waited in line at checkpoints only to stay in character in order to argue with Israeli soldiers on film. I don't think I've ever seen a film that puts fiction out into the streets. Very ambitious but loosely written and edited. More on that later...
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