We Would Like to Inquire of Your Absence

"As we aim to improve educational environment in our institute, We would like to inquire of your absence from sessions?

Your clear answer support us to develop our services." 

اسماء عبدالله صالح قاسم اليافعي'

** 

Dear اسماء عبدالله صالح قاسم اليافعي'

 

Thank you for your email. This is why I stopped attending programs at Fanar:

You cancelled my upper level class after I'd worked so hard to get there

You fired my teachers

You would not allow a conversation majlis (ie, no opportunity to use what I'd learned)

Poor parking around Fanar

Ever increasing, horrendous Doha traffic

I returned to Fanar in Fall 2014 after the summer break ready to begin LEVEL FIVE Arabic. There were just two people in the class, however, and we were told that a day class would not be made available. My classmate and I had worked hard for THREE YEARS and were the last two remaining from a 2011 entry program that had included 30+ students. Our efforts were rewarded with "the possibility" of an evening session but we have families and night classes are not feasible for us.

 

Plus ever increasing traffic in the souk area makes night activities at Fanar undesirable.

 

I paid the 300 QR fee and prepared to retake level four Arabic just for practice. The teacher was MUMTAZA JIDDAN. I liked her very much. But in the end there was too much traffic to make the effort.

 

With the help of your wonderful female staff (ma sha allah) I attempted to gain permission to organize a ladies' conversation majlis. I submitted a handwritten letter in Arabic to the mudier and met with your female staff. This would have been a hour once or twice a week when Arabic speaking staff and learners of all levels would gather, yeshrub shay and SPEAK ARABIC, whether fusha, khaleej or other 'amaayah. This has never been allowed.

 

My teachers were MUMTAZEEN. As I reached higher levels, classroom instruction was always conducted in Arabic. The staff was kind and helpful and often let me sit with them so I could hear and speak Arabic. HOWEVER, as Arabic is generally not spoken on Doha streets and it is difficult to meet locals (especially the ladies), without a majlis there is LOW TO ZERO opportunity to practice what I've learned at Fanar in Doha.

 

It is for all these reasons that I stopped attending Fanar programs.

 

Sincerely,

سندي كنالي

Talk Like An Egyptian

pic borrowed from the web

 

In the American Midwest tree branches are bare. Brown leaves litter streets and sidewalks, frost fogs windows. Crisp blades of frozen grass stand at attention. Breath puffs into the chilly air like clouds.

 

winter in the American Midwest

 

We start out on the couch, but end up cross-legged on the soft, carpeted floor. Books and notebooks whirlpool around us. "Do you want tea or coffee?" she says.

 

No, thank you, I say.

 

She shrugs. Okay.

 

A 6-foot wide tapestry from Kuwait adds a bright bit of color to the cozy earth tone space. There's a dining room table, piles of books. A cheerful, functional kitchen. A bathroom with a spray nozzle built into the toilet seat. With a dial to select level of water pressure and a button to initiate stream.

 

example of portable bidet

pic borrowed from the web

 

We laugh about it, this bit of Middle Eastern preference tucked into America's heartland. "It's cool and refreshing," she agrees. Her smile is bright. "But then you're wet."

 

She has a Ph.D. in law and taught university before moving from the Middle East to Kansas. Where she takes the kids to school, meets up with friends at Starbucks, cleans house, cooks dinner. She's fun, funny, comfortable and smart and she wears a colorful, friendly hijab. She's my colloquial Egyptian Arabic tutor.

 

harakat! I say. In written Arabic the word means movement and refers to those little dots and dashes that appear above and below the looping Arabic letters. In colloquial Qatari dialect it's how a teen might say cool! or awesome!

 

She laughs. "In Egyptian dialect you could say gamda aowee." Which translates to rigid a lot.

 

da soura gamda aowee

not rigid in Cairo, 1974

 

All Arabs read and write using the same letters. Written Arabic has grammar rules, tenses, form, structure and is called fusha (fooS-Ha). It is the language of the Koran, and considered the foundation from which all Arabic dialect is derived.

 

Perhaps you, too, can read and write Arabic. Perhaps there is opportunity to use what you've learned on the street and in alleyways. Where educated Arabs recognize the high form of their language, chuckle at your stilted speech and respond slowly and carefully (because you're obviously not a native speaker). Perhaps communication happens.

 

But not cultural appreciation, personal comprehension, empathy.

 

shiny flask

 

Empathy is what happens in Qatar's silver and mirror lined window-less majlis spaces far from the English speaking streets. Where hidden women insist, just as it was in Egypt 30 years ago, a guest must eat three sugary dates as is stated in the Koran. To be a good guest here one must sip both tea and coffee, nibble cheesy bread and cake. Language flows fast, like the women who sit close, hover and fuss. It seems there are rules for everything from greeting one another to seating assignments, touching and laughing.

 

As in fusha, guttural 'ein is pronounced deep in the throat and "khaaf" spits like a hissing cat. But "jeem," a letter which says its name in fusha, is pronounced "ya" and the letter "qaaf" sounds like "g" as in "gate." Here "ee" means "yes" and "abee" means "I want."

 

Qatar's dialect, like its society, attempts to remain close to Koranic fusha. Both are ordered, structured. And changing.

 

Egyptian children's stage show

performed at Doha's souk waqif, 2012

 

Egyptian dialect, on the other hand, is loose, easy, indulgent, fun. Words flow, structure transforms to suit the moment, sound bits mix, muddle and sing. Egyptian dialect is the language of colloquial Arabic tv, music, books. Cartoons, comic books, children's programming is often produced using Egyptian dialect too. In Egypt, unlike Qatar, people speak their own language in the shops, markets, businesses and on the street.

 

Here, "ah" or a close lipped "mmm" translates to "yes." It's perfectly polite to add "ya" to the front of a person's name in greeting and everyone is "habibi/habibti" (my sweet one). In Egyptian dialect, "jeem" is expressed as "g" in "gate" while "qaaf" is eliminated altogether. There are words like "bass," "kidda," and "mish" which pepper speech like "yeah" and "uh huh" in English and "aiza" means "I want."

 

Sure, there are rules and structure, but rules are meant to be broken, right? The language, like the people, is vibrant, relaxed, comfortable, forgiving.

 

And changing. Like Egyptian society, which has experienced much turmoil in recent years - I am told there is a movement in Egypt to return the language of the street…to fusha.

 

returning soon to Cairo?

Baseball and Abayas

Bob, Kyle, Brad, Matt, Dawn (with little Mikus on deck), Aaron

celebrate the home team's ALCS victory 3am in Doha

photo credit: Matt Mikus (read Matt's travel blog: postcards and playlists)

 

Thousands of miles away and across the road too, the rest of my world celebrated the Kansas City Royals baseball ALCS victory and qualification for World Series competition.

 

Go Royals

 

I slid into abaya and hijab to attend Arabic classes at someplace new.

 

Maryam Center "Markazy Maryam" offers courses in Arabic, Quran and Islam

to Muslim women

 

The villa was surrounded by a high wall and tucked into a quiet community near a mosque. In front of the wall, a man guarded the sandy street. Behind the modesty-protecting barrier, shrouded women slipped through a paper covered door.

 

sorry, guys

 

Inside, black garbed women circled a stairwell. Windows covered in stained glass muted the hot sun. Like everywhere interior Doha, the air conditioning was set to "arctic" and the chill raised goose bumps on my blanketed skin. Three ladies worked at computers as dark eyed women rustled in and out of quiet rooms. In a windowless office, a lone woman sat at a mahogany desk, her title etched in Arabic on a wooden nameplate.

 

A brief consultation and the mudiera left the room. When she returned, she said: "Our classes are for women who are already Muslim. But you are so," here she supplied an Arabic word that she explained meant you-seem-Muslim, but might also refer to the preacher kid in me, ie, perhaps-your-dad-was-a-pastor-and-your-mom-a-church-pianist.

 

She handed me a registration packet. "I told him I wanted to give you a chance."

 

"Him" (no, not God): the unseen man who maintains unilateral authority

no matter how grand the boss-lady's desk.

 

For three years I've participated in the Arabic program at Fanar, the upside down ice cream cone minaret lighthouse-for-God at the center of downtown Doha. After a three month summer hiatus, one other woman and myself were ready to begin the final session of Fanar's five level program. That's when everything changed: new leadership, teachers fired, upper level courses moved from mornings to evenings. And new rules: we needed three more students before our class would be scheduled.

 

My classmate, a busy young Muslim mother and French expat, chose to go on to other things. I determined to follow our previous instructor to her new teaching position at Markazy Maryam.

 

abaya and hijab required

 

Here's what it's like to climb stairs carrying a purse and book bag as a newbie in abaya and hijab: sheer fabric clings to jeans, tangles at knees like a bed sheet to pajamas and (especially if it's front snapping) the robe flaps open. You instinctively release the handful of material gripped to prevent abaya from dragging as the skirt extends beyond shoes. Muted hallway sounds increase as you flail at the fly-a-way robe. Meanwhile, hijab slides off ears, slips over face. Disoriented and off balance, you, too, might shuffle over the abaya's hem, drop purse, trip over bag, turn the wrong direction and, blinded by a scarf, face plant.

 

Other activities, like the aerobic event that is the Arab greeting, maneuvering into a student desk or using the bathroom will be left to your imagination.

 

My teacher did not immediately know me with my sun-bleached hair and western attire hidden. Upon recognition she wrapped me in her arms and joyfully praised God.

 

"No, I'm not Muslim," I whispered in her ear as that's where my mouth was at the time. "I'm here for your class."

 

She squeezed me tighter. She kissed my cheeks and introduced me.

 

 

I settled into a front row seat and, along with six other ladies in black, learned about 3, 4 and 5 letter past tense root verbs using examples from the Quran.

 

foretelling baseball future?

Christmas Day Dhow ride, 2012

Go, Royals!

Goodbye, Lighthouse...?

In Arabic, fanar means "lighthouse."

In the same way a lighthouse illuminates safe passage for those seeking the comfort of shore, Doha's Fanar Islamic Cultural Center seeks to share the good news of Islam with the world - and you.

 

Inside, a wide, two story, tiled entry. A guard at a podium. An ornate split staircase leads to a first floor balcony. A tall vase stands at the heart of three doors.

 

To the left is a majlis meeting space with authentic-ish red and white cushions. Glass bookcases highlight Qatar's achievements and a ceiling mural depicts the country's proud history.

 

The middle door opens into a narrow hallway filled with cozy leather couches where, if you sit, a bearded man in a long white robe might bring you a glass mug of sweet Arabic tea. "Welcome, welcome," he'd say as you peruse ancient Korans and other artifacts in square wooden display cases and read a book about Islam etched on the walls in life-sized, full color print.

 

 

A third door, to the right of the vase and tucked under the stairs leads to the Ladies Section.

 

This is where women from all over the world - including Qatar - meet for the purpose of spreading the good news of Islam - that all, including you - might see the light and be saved. If you are persistent, you might learn some Arabic here too.

 

You visit the lighthouse this week in hopes of enrolling for an Arabic class. After three years of study and association, all that remains is the final course in the Center's five level program.

 

But it seems that Fanar is under new management. The familiar, hardworking teachers you'd come to know are gone; fired. Arabic class times are limited. In the same way that laws pertaining to freedom of speech took your blog, and malware lodged in your internet provider curiously limits access to your own website…new rules promise to swallow your Arabic classes too.

 

An optimistic woman in black pledges to intervene on your behalf. "I will ask him to make a time for you," she says. But she does not add in sha allah.

 

 

You pay the fee for a class that doesn't exist in hopes of maintaining a connection. Then you leave the way you came in: through the door tucked under the stairs.

How to Read Arabic: Four Easy Steps

Arabic Calligraphy made out of Arabic Calligraphy

Sheikh Faisal's Museum (of eclectic wonderment)

 

It was a simple list of Arabic words, neatly typed in easy to read font, evenly spaced and aligned in a column. "What does it say?" said my friend.

 

I recognized letters, identified familiar words, comprehended general meaning. But understanding shrouded itself in my mind like a fortress sealed for battle. I returned the page in defeat.

 

"That's okay." She shrugged. "I'll ask someone else."

 

Ouch.

 

As I see it, there are four steps to reading Arabic:

 

1) Identify letters.

 

The language does not utilize capitals or "cursive," but there are three shapes for each of Arabic's 28 letters, plus vowel markings, dots and sometimes dashes. There's stylized and sloppy writing, contracted spelling, stacking, dropped dots, added curls, lines, circles, hooks.

 

two ways to write Daad

arabglot.com

 

And there's Arabic calligraphy with its flourishes, lines, circles, vowel markings and decorative symbols:

 

this says: "Al Jazeera"

 

الجزيرة

this says "Al Jazeera" too

 

Reading Arabic is often a rousing game of "Where's Waldo" but with letters instead of people.

 

2) Read the word.

 

Congratulations, you've located the letters! Now you're in a position to make sounds. In English this is the part where your index finger hovers over diphthongs, blends, consonants, vowels. Is the sound long or short, hard or soft, speak its name or remain silent?

 

Reading in Arabic requires the same step, only without vowels, which, by the way, do not commonly appear in the everyday literary Middle East scene - ie, newspapers, street signs, television commercials, correspondence, textbooks, event flyers.

 

"(Vowels) are for babies," said Teacher. "You will understand from context."

 

Kitty likes her harakat (those squiggles over the letters: vowels)

"Kitten," from an idea by Andrea Dami, illustrations by Tony Wolf, Text by Silvia D'Achille

Oh yeah, you're expected to elucidate vowels when reading. It's just that they're not provided (once you graduate from board books).

3) Comprehend meaning (of individual words).

 

Way to go! You've identified letters and applied sound. Now you may translate.

 

Only…factoring in the million or so Arabic dialects, Koranic use, invisible vowels and what happens to meaning when you add "the," conjunctions, prepositions or adjectives…each word in Arabic has approximately 400 different definitions. (I might be exaggerating but only slightly.) Some meanings are literal and unique like, for example, this word:

 

شعر

 

which may mean poetry, to feel - or hair - depending upon where your mind applies that missing vowel.

 

اشعر الشعر و الشعر.

 

I feel poetry and hair.

 

Other meanings are less literal, like this word:

 

فكر

 

which is pronounced "fakkr" (yes I know what it sounds like in English) and means, generally, "to think" (along with variations on the theme like "contemplate, idea, intellect, consider…")

 

(When a different invisible vowel is applied) this combination of letters also refers to a prayerful thinking-on-God activity called "fikr" where observant Muslims caress prayer beads and speak God's name over and over. This form of contemplation results in heavenly reward.

 

prayer beads

Sheikh Faisal's Museum (of eclectic wonderment)

 

"One minute of fikr is equivalent to a year of worship, and one hour of fikr competes with 60 years of worship."

Muslim-mind.com

 

4) Understand.

 

You've found the letters, recognized words and have a general idea as to meaning. Now, relax. Drink tea. Release understanding into your mind in the way that steam floats from a mug of sweet Arabic coffee to warm cold fingers on a snowy day.

 

Snow in Egypt, 2013

twitter pic pic by @belharesya

 

At least that's the idea.

 

words shaped like a flower

Sheikh Faisal's Museum (of eclectic wonderment)

 

Hours later, long after my friend and I had gone our separate ways, understanding danced in my head like rain over the Sahara: too late.

 

Arabic isn't just nouns, verbs, adjectives (and a bunch of other things that don't translate). It's more like an orchestra of colloquialisms strung together by sound. You don't translate as much as absorb the secrets in the melody and rejoice in the harmony of understanding.

 

But first, you must locate the letters, drink tea - and wait.

 

Why I love Arabic

study time

 

First it was me and the girls from the 5A class, chatting in the hall. The Turkish student didn't speak English so conversation was necessarily in Arabic.

 

Where are you from? How long have you studied Arabic? How many children do you have? How old are you? What languages do you speak?

 

Then class, as always, conducted in a rapid fire mix of classical Arabic with a side of Egyptian dialect, garnished in English (but only when absolutely necessary).

 

And finally, the ladies:

 

Wahashteenee! I've missed you! How is your health? How is your family? When is your baby due? (Not mine.) Where will you travel this summer? When will you be back?

 

The Sudanese jewel was a teacher in her country but stays home now. The Moroccan is expecting twins. The Kenyan's first language is English but she learned Arabic in Mombasa where a dialect is spoken. The young girl from Nepal is learning Arabic like me.

 

I ping ponged through the building, collecting hugs and kisses, laughter, words. One young mother liked my Arabic children's books. A ten year old is learning Arabic in English at her French school. There was talk, reading, writing, explanations, diagrams, corrections and fun.

 

With a limited vocabulary spanning a narrow range of subjects, I float in a sea of sound in search of the island of understanding. When opportunity for conversation meets a day my brain is (more or less) tuned in, I'm reminded of the many reasons why I love Arabic. Here are a few:

 

Interesting display near the Convention Center

God is part of everything. When I expressed joy over a friend's pregnancy, she hesitated then said, like a mother telling her child to remember to eat his peas: "say ma sha' allah" (what God wills).

Hospitality is so deeply engrained in the language that it overflows into culture: a greeting must be returned in the same or bigger manner. Kind words are a gift. A smile is a form of charity. The most difficult subject gets an alhum du il allah (praise to God).

There's music in the alphabet: the hissing cat (khal), long breath (Haa), gargle ('ein), growl (ghein), pause (hamza), open throat sigh (Saad), hollow dee (Daad). Sounds mix, flow, surge, rest. One word may mean many different things and an altered tone or pitch, length, vowel choice or the placement of the word or sound in a sentence can change the essence of an interaction.

the chameleon "jeem"

makes a different sound depending upon where the speaker is from

 

I like that differentiation in order or pronunciation is generally chalked up to dialect (and not a slow brain). And that if I talk for more than a minute, someone always, always asks: are you from Egypt?

 

Qataris cheerfully break speech speed records but Egyptians talk slow and easy. A Syrian can say the exact same thing and I don't understand at all (to my ear it's like the difference between American English and whatever it is Australians speak).

 

Innumerable dialects add confusion and misunderstanding but also multiply, divide and grow nuance, beauty, mystery, magic, music.

 

I like the way comprehension doesn't come from a single word but a combination of meaning, form and intonation. And that understanding happens in waves that stream over you like a warm summer breeze. "You must feel the language," says my teacher.

 

I'm a grammar geek, so I love that there are countless rules and word groups. For example, "kanna and her sisters" and "inna and her sisters" affect sentences in opposite ways. And you only add alef to tanween when it comes with fatha but not if there's an alef lam. I like searching text for mafgool bihee and mansoob and the many different forms of fael. And how Sifa the describer must match moosouf the described in gender, markings, number, grammar. And that majroor follows harf il jar the preposition which predictably - in a seeming morass of unstructured structure - calls for kessra.

 

And I like that that none of this - none of it - matters once you start talking.

 

But among the most important reasons I enjoy Arabic: I like the ladies.

 

jelabia

for special occasions

The woman in abaya and sheer red and yellow hijab sat in an empty classroom, Arabic Koran and notebook open before her. Sabah al kheer, I said. Good morning.

 

She blinked.

 

Kayf ilhal? I said. Izzayik? Chismich? Hatha ghorfa f-ay mostawa? How are you? What's your name? Which class is this?

 

In a lilting Indian accent, she replied in English. "No, no. I'm in the Islam class, so I only read Arabic. I don't know what the words mean." She took my level 4B Arabic book, slid a finger below individual words as a Kindergartner recites from a primer.

 

"You see? I can read." She shook her head. "But no meaning. Yet."

 

Ahhh. Her fun is just beginning.

W'Allahee! Ten Arabic Phrases

BMD Wives and babies smiling in Doha, March 2014

Photo credit: Kari Viet

 

"Your smile…is a charity."

-Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)

 

Most Arabic speakers won't be bothered if you call a man "habibtee" or refer to that important organ in a person's chest as a "dog" (kelb) instead of a "heart" (qalb). Which doesn't mean they won't laugh at your mistake! To keep the hilarity to a minimum, I've put together a list of ten common Arabic phrases and how to use them (along with random photos from our week in Doha).

 

First, a couple things: 

• Allah means God.
• salaam means peace.
• There are no capital letters in Arabic, so I've used lower case for phonetically spelled Arabic words.
• Some literal meanings don't match usage when translated to English. Don't try to understand the "why" - just go with it.
• What's rude in one context may be funny in another. And what's polite may be insulting when uttered with the right/wrong inflection.
• To attain this information: I (studied the language, participated in conversation and) asked Arabic speaking Arabs (to explain why they were laughing).

 

Qatar National Theater

all lit up for a

Thai cultural event

w'allahee!  والله

 

"This word, it is swearing," she said.

"w'allahee, it is not," said another. "It is for emphasis, when something is

true and right."

"It is overused," she said, crossing her arms.

Similar to, "By God…" in English. As a way to emphasize the correctness of something by pointing out that a thing is fundamentally so true, you say it here right here, right now, in God's presence.

 

But nowadays it's often used (along with the shorthand version, w'allah) to mean: OMG.

 

Inside the Qatar National Theater

 

ya habibee/habibteeيا حبيبتي   /  يا حبيبي

 

Adding "ya" is like saying "hey!" but in a personal way: "ya Mom!" or "ya daughter!" when you want to stress something or get the attention of someone you know. It's NOT appropriate to use "ya" to refer to a general acquaintance. "ya Boss!" might be considered rude, for example.

 

habibee means "my sweetheart" when referring to a man; habibtee when your darling is a woman. "ya habibtee, I love you like Blue Bunny Chunky Chocolate Chip Ice Cream."

 

In Arabic slang, ya habibee is also used like "hey" or "man" (California) or "ya'all" (Missouri, Mississippi) as emphasis or to reference a friend: "Hey, ya habibtee, ya'all want some more tea?" or "ya habibee, man, it's hot in Doha."

 

ya salaam!  !يا سلام

 

Literally translates to "Hey, peace!" But before you go all 60s America: this phrase is used to express surprise. (More polite than w'allahee.)

You: "I bought you a car!"

Me: "ya salaam!"

Inside the theater space

Qatar National Theater, Doha

in sha' allah  ان شاء الله

I made plans; God laughed

-famous saying

in sha' allah means "God Willing" and is used when making future plans. Dinner reservations, haircut appointments, business meetings, arrival times, departure dates, a child's bedtime. It's a way to succinctly defer to God in everything, whether choosing a lifetime partner or having spaghetti for dinner.

It's true that time doesn't mean the same thing in the East as it does in the West but use of in sha' allah does NOT mean the person you've invited to tea is looking for a way out of meeting with you. There are more important things than being on time for a business meeting: Mom, for example. A wait of 15, 30, 45 minutes for an appointment isn't considered "late" - just…divine intervention.

  

It's like saying: "I will enjoy Halloumi cheese with you at Zaatar w Zeit at 6pm Tuesday - unless I'm hit by a bus while walking to my car because the Corniche is closed again, traffic is a horror and only God knows the day or time."

 

But shorter and nicer.

 

lahda low samaht, stanna shwaya  Arabic without words:

 

use right hand,

squeeze fingers to thumb, palm up, arm out:

wait, please

 

Attempting to merge in traffic? Someone wants your attention but you're on the phone? Can't find your credit card at Carrefour (the Middle Eastern Walmart) while standing at the front of a long line? Wife attempting a photo op while you're otherwise occupied? No sentence structuring needed as this handy "phrase" crosses language barriers.

 

ma sha' allah  ما شاء الله

 

"I love your dress! ma sha' allah."

"Your baby is beautiful, ma sha' allah."

"The machboos (rice and lamb dish) is delicious, ma sha' allah."

Should be included after any statement that acknowledges a person's talents, gifts, beauty - ie, any special human-generated something. As a way to recognize that everything comes from God, avoid jealousy on the part of the complimenter - and to assure that the aforementioned-wonderful isn't taken away.

 

That pretty face, nice car, beautifully appointed home is yours via heavenly favor only; and any gifts recognized without acknowledgment are subject to removal.

 

The person offering the compliment holds responsibility for including ma sha' allah. If the phrase is forgotten, don't be surprised if the person receiving the gift of words quietly says it.

 

Thai veggie carving at the QNT, ma sha' allah

I see this on your Thanksgiving table, Kay Hedrick…

 

subHan allah  سبحان الله

 

Like ma sha' allah without the avoiding jealousy bit - but bigger…much bigger.

 

This phrase is used to marvel with appropriate thanksgiving at the wonders that could only be created by God:

 

"subHan allah, the sunset is beautiful."

 

carving a bouquet out of a watermelon

Wow!

 

al humdu il allah  الحمد الله

 

Praise the Lord and Bless Your Heart; We Made it to Tomorrow.

 

Dots conversation, lights interactions, stands alone, simmers between, melts hearts, defuses situations. It's heard in business, pleasure, between enemies and friends. It means "praise God" and is used in conversation, in reply, by itself, everywhere, anywhere:

 

"How are you?"

"al humdu il allah!" (even if you're living on the street, kids are sick, dog has the flu).

"I won the race, al humdu il allah."

"I lost the race, al humdu il allah" (I'm strong and healthy, didn't fall and break a leg.

Or, my leg didn't fall off. Or, I still have one leg remaining…).

The idea is appreciation of the good over simmering in a muddle of the not-so-great, dragging others into the morass with you. Look first at you've got without dwelling on what you don't have.

 

Which doesn't mean a person won't come clean about her cancer diagnosis when asked directly by a well-meaning friend. One first gives thanks for the blessing that is this moment before slipping into the down and dirty facts of life. Gratefulness is polite, expected. Plus, God is listening.

 

If I gave you a Toyota would you say Thank You? Or kick the tires and demand a Ferrari? And if you weren't grateful, how likely is it you'd be receiving any more gifts from me? If you believe that life itself is a gift from God, you'd say thank you, too, before putting that Toyota on Craig's List.

 

cultural juxtaposition inside QNT:

majlis space, dhow, bukhoor, coffee pot

traditional Thai dress, Thai music

 

shukran شكرا   and jazaak allah kheer  جزاك الله خير

 

shukran means "thank you."

 

jazak allah kheer means "thank you" while also bestowing a blessing upon the thankee.

 

Both are acceptable. Qataris prefer jazaak (jazaach when speaking to a woman) allah kheer.

 

QNT balcony overlooking Corniche and Bay

lights, traffic, palm trees, tiny Fanar

 

salaam 'alaykumسلام عليكم     

wo 'alaykum assalaam و عليكم السلام 

"…The Prophet (Peace be upon him) said: 'Greet with Peace those whom you know and those whom you do not know'…"

-suhaibwebb

 

"Peace upon you," I said.

"And upon you, peace," she replied.

It's true that some conservative religious believe this special greeting and its response belong only to Muslims. In my experience, the wish of peace is given and returned freely, especially when it's accompanied by a smile.

 

BMD Dawn snuggles two gorgeous BMD babies

 

"All We are Saying is Give Peace a Chance."

-John Lennon

Tea and Arabic

Hospitality Tea with Mary Anne at Fanar

March 2013

 

I'd passed her desk three times - as I skipped from administrative offices, to the bathroom, to class, to offices.  Hurry, hurry, rush, rush.  "Salaam alaykum!" I said.  Peace be with you.

 

"Wo alaykum salaam," she said.  And with you, peace.  She was covered from head to toe with a dark veil over her face.  She held out a hand as if to say, Stop, wait.

 

I am fluent in Arabic - as long as dialogue is limited to:

Hi.  How are you?  I am good.  How do you say (English word)?  Where are you from?  Where is the bathroom?  Do you have it in red/black?  How much?  That's expensive!  I'm married.  My husband works (here/there/Heart of Doha).  I love you/him/her/them/it.  Yes/no/maybe.  Wow, that's a lot of cars/traffic!

 

I can also say:

• "where" in Qatari, Egyptian and classical Arabic (wayn-fayn-ayna?)
• please/thank you/excuse me/I don't understand
• no problem/whatever

I can greet a man or a woman in Qatari dialect (Shlonich?  Shlonak?).  And, while I don't always remember the exact, proper response, I am ready to reply "things are good" (the only acceptable answer to "how are you?") in a variety of ways: bikheer/tammam/alhumduilallah/kwayiss.

 

Of course, my fluency is enhanced when the person I'm talking to: a) confines conversation to words I already understand; b) doesn't speak Arabic; c) doesn't respond.

 

"The Arabic language is beautiful and easy."

- Fanar Arabic book, level three, pg. 45

 

But that's just the spoken language.  Written Arabic is another thing altogether.

 

Subject, predicate, noun, verb, object - these are concepts that translate into English (sort of).  Rufa', mansoob, majroor, majzoom, moodahf wo moodahf ilee - these ideas are harder to reconcile with my current knowledge-on-tap.  Plus, in Arabic, there are words that change depending upon where they appear in the sentence (ma'raab) and those than keep the same form (mabnee) "no matter what."  There are singular, plural and dual tenses for - literally, it seems - everything; male and female adjective endings and those circle and dash-like symbols that appear above and below words.

 

Yeah, those little marks mean something.  Sometimes they mean everything.

 

Qatar's national language is Arabic but given the distorted expat to homeboy/girl ratio, English is more widely spoken.  This means that studying Arabic in Qatar today is much like attempting to learn Arabic in, say, New York, Kansas City or Sweden.

 

I speak Arabic for approximately two hours, twice a week.  In my class - which is conducted in Arabic.  And at Fanar - where kind ladies from a variety of places pause in the midst of their busy workday to wait patiently for the puddle in my head to form and output something response-worthy.  Every now and then I get it right.  But most days these wise, wonderful, patient women earn extra points toward heavenly rewards thanks to two hours, twice a week of, well…me.

 

Um.

 

The woman grasped my hand, pulled me close.  She flipped the veil over the back of her head.  "Anti heloo," she said.  You're sweet.  She smiled.  "But you must relax, slow down, sit."  She patted the chair beside her.  "Drink tea.  The language, it will come."

 

To pause the clock for tea while there are questions to ask, books to read, places to go, things to do, language to learn?  This is a lesson too: in patience, tolerance, culture, understanding…and, it seems, Arabic.

 

You must feel the language.

- Arabic teacher

Arabic in America

Kimber studies culture and language

Doha, 2012

 

"…The meaning of al-Salam Alaikum is informing the person who is greeted that he is in peace and safety from all kinds of mischief from the side of the greeting person…"

Islamweb

 

In My America, the cashier at Target wears a head scarf.  "Salaam Alaykum," I say.

 

She peeks at me out of the corner of one eye, whispers, "Wo alaykum..."

 

"…Imam Ibn Majah…'If they greet you saying al-Salam Alaikum (peace be upon you) reply them with Wa Alaikum (and upon you too)'…"

Islamweb

 

"Do you know Arabic?"  I ask, in English.

 

She's from Togo where French is the national language and English is widely spoken.

She smiles.  "I'm learning."

 

"That's great!" I reply, in Arabic.  "I'm learning too.  Please, will you speak with me?"

 

She laughs and says in English, "No, stop.  I don't know this."

 

"But don't you read the Koran?  I'm learning the Arabic of the Koran."

 

"My husband does.  He's studying Engineering here.  He tries to get me to read the Koran."  She shakes her head.  "I want to learn before we return to Saudi Arabia."

 

"If you speak Arabic with me we can both practice."

 

Katie

Doha, 2012

 

The next time I see her, she's wearing a dark blue snow cap over a black headband.  "My husband was asleep when I left this morning."  She shrugs, adjusts the cap.  "It's fine as long as my hair is covered."

 

She speaks to me only in English.

 

The next - and last  - time I see her, she's wearing a beautiful black and white sheyla.  She goes to break as I approach her line; she does not return my smile.

 

"…the Prophet said: "Do not greet the Jews and the Christians before they greet you and when you meet any one of them on the roads force him to go to the narrowest part of it…"

Islamweb

 

 

 

In Doha, I'm often asked why I want to learn Arabic.  "Because I live here!" I reply.  Perhaps it's also true that since I studied Arabic in my youth I'm drawn to the inflections, intonations, highs, lows - the language's uniquely musical qualities.  I like the way one word or phrase can mean many different things.  That God is part of everyday speech, whether greeting a person, introducing an idea or baking a cake.  How there are so many responses to "I hope you're well" it can take 20 minutes to get past "hello."

 

Sometimes I wonder if Arabic is a language or a religion.

 

"…'al-Salam' (peace, safety) is a Name, Attribute, and Act of Allah, so pronouncing this word is a supplication of Allah. Therefore, this great word should be protected from those who do not believe in it but they are enemies of Al-salam (a name of Allah). Thus when the Prophet wrote letters to the kings of Kuffars he wrote in the beginning 'Peace be upon those who follow the Guidance'; he did not write Kuffars the expression 'Salaam alaikum.'"

Islamweb

 

In America, as in Doha, I study alone at my kitchen table or with other non-native speakers.  I read children's books, watch children's videos, listen to Middle Eastern music and write emails, stories and poems.

 

It's not enough.

 

"…The ideal way to learn a foreign language is by conversing with native speakers…"

Instructables.com

 

Yesterday I mail a package at the post office.  A man passes me carrying a baby.  Behind him steps a woman in abaya and sheyla.  She glances at me.

 

"Salaam alaykum," I say.

 

She smiles, surprise lighting her face.  "Wo alaykum salaam."

 

"A smile is a gift and counts as a form of charity."

- Qatari teacher at Fanar, the Islamic Cultural Center, Doha, Qatar
 

 

How to Speak Arabic

Lesson 1?