Broken

I have two small stories to share from the past couple days. Yalla.

This weekend I rode the bus into Jerusalem with two of my cohort-mates. Us being three meant two sat together, one apart. As women in this specific program, we're advised not to sit next to a man. I quickly scanned the surrounding area and sat next to the first woman I saw near to my friends' seat.

I didn't initially take much notice of this woman other than her black hijab and youthful face. It was morning, and I was tired and hungry. Skipping breakfast doesn't mix well with public transportation.

A small tap on the arm scattered my thoughts. I looked over and the woman had broken off a piece of the chocolate bar she was eating. She held out the (quite sizable) piece in her extended hand, insisting, as many Palestinians do, that I eat with her. How could she have known that a piece of chocolate was just what I needed in that moment? How could she be so willing to give up so much of her own snack, which she had had the foresight to pack along, to a complete stranger?

With her chocolate came the friendliest of smiles. Using broken Arabic and many hand gestures, I learned she's a university student living in Jerusalem and studying in Bethlehem. When we came to the checkpoint, she left her books next to me and exited the bus into a long line of people, as required of Palestinians without Israeli ID (which is most of them).

Three armed eighteen-year-old soldiers boarded the bus and checked the permissions of those of us with the privilege to stay inside. Outside, soldiers cleared my new friend and the other Palestinian passengers in a single-file line. The soldiers stepped off, the Palestinian passengers re-boarded, and we were back on the road.

It felt disgusting that I, the visitor, could stay in the comfort of my seat throughout this ugly process, my passport barely noticed beyond its color. But when she returned, she greeted me once more with a smile as sweet as chocolate. For the remainder of the bus ride, I summed up enough Arabic to talk with her about tattoos, what our parents do, what I was doing here, and how she likes her class and loves her professor.

She got off a couple stops before me, leaving me with, in hesitant English,"It is nice to be meeting you".

Again and again I am reminded-- broken language (and broken chocolate) is not something to take for granted.

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My second story happened today at school.

It's become a habit of mine to leave the teacher's lounge during lunchtime and work on Arabic homework outside, where students enjoy their lunch break. While I began the year asking random students sitting nearby the occasional Arabic question, I now usually find a swarm of sixth-eighth graders eager to be my "teacher" (which is ultimately synonymous with making fun of my shaky pronunciation and grammar).

Today, however, I stepped outside the teacher's lounge to find only one student, one of my sixth graders, waiting to see me. "Where are you going?" he asked. "Hunak (there)" I answered, pointing at my usual table. "Inte ustazi il yom?" I asked (Are you my teacher today?). He grinned, and led the way.

This student is by no means the best in his English class, in fact I'd maybe say he's in the lower bracket of the sixth grade English speakers. Nevertheless, he is always fearless in talking to me, sometimes going off in fast Arabic sentences and forgetting that I won't understand. I like it when he does this because he clearly believes we are entitled to communication, never mind this language barrier business.

Midday sun on our shoulders, him and I sat side by side on the slightly broken (and thus less populated) picnic table. I recited my carefully crafted Arabic sentences, and he repeated back to me what they should sound like. He was patient and kind, earnestly wanting me to learn. He even ventured into using English at times, using his broken knowledge of my language to piece together my broken knowledge of his. This kid is considered a troublemaker of the sixth grade class, and yet here he was willingly using English to selflessly further my (and consequently, if not consciously, his own) language learning.

Music signaling break's end ended our study session. "Shukran ustaz", I told him (thank you teacher). I stood and extended my hand to shake in mock-seriousness. He shook it, echoing my feigned formality for maybe a second before breaking into another smile.

View leaving my "official" Arabic lesson later that day