“Forgive me– I don’t speak Arabic well yet. I am new here. I have been here about two months.”
Often I will introduce myself in the local language, prompting a flow of Arabic words that surpasses my comprehension. So I make this little speech, and then say what I can. And listen.
This week, 20 Syrian refugees came together at the community center. Local Arab women, from our center’s fitness program, had talked about what it means to love others and what they could do to help. They donated clothes. Then they organized and folded donations from others, and packed 41 bags to share with refugee families. We invited these 20 women to come for a health seminar and– of course– coffee, tea, and sesame cookies.
When I welcomed each lady in Arabic, and their response flowed past my comprehension, I made the speech. “Forgive me, I don’t speak Arabic well yet…” I added something extra: “But in America, I studied a little Arabic with a friend from Syria.”
Fast connections. Warm smiles. I even understood their response: one confirmed that my Syrian accent was still clear, and another insisted that I was “part American and part Syrian.”
Someone noticed the half-dozen young children, present with their mothers. In record time, she assembled bags of kid-friendly snacks and chocolate milk, and deposited them into six delighted little pairs of hands.
With our own hands wrapped around coffee mugs, the fitness program ladies and Syrian women got to know each other. One older refugee had been a mathematics professor at a university for 33 years. “I got tired,” she told me, adding that she now lived with her youngest daughter. Others named the cities from which they had come. I recognized these cities from the news; they were sites of violent sieges and extreme civilian suffering.
Another woman told me her name, and I tried the question: “What is your story?” She shrugged, saw that I wanted to listen, and began. I caught some fragments: war, house, destroyed, child… leg (these last two were repeated multiple times). She did not need me to understand every word. Even if I had, I think I would not be able to understand what she had been through. So I listened.
I noticed three children, between three and five years old, contentedly munching from their snack bags. They sat together. Their feet dangled off of their chairs. I attempted to talk to them, and they smiled, but were unsure of how to respond to the woman with long, yellow hair and words that tumbled. The smallest got an idea, though. Wordlessly– cheerfully– he offered me a chip.