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I am my father’s daughter in more ways than one, but I never could claim a fraction of his eloquence when it came to speaking, reading, and writing in Arabic. When pressed to employ Arabic, I called, texted, and pestered way too often for some sort of help. He was my hero in that way.
Children look up to their parents in an idealised way, but as you grow up, those relationships stretch and shift when you realise that your parents are human too.
My idealised relationship with Baba was too brief, and early on it became strained. It was a full-fledged struggle for a 7-year-old to understand why things were the way they were: difficult, heartbreaking, and wholly unlike my friends who seemed to have the perfect family.
Later in my life, I eventually accepted my father for who he was—the good and the bad. I gathered and tried to save up the boundless love he had shown me. Still, I was an extension of him, and that didn’t trouble me anymore. I met him in the middle, both of us filled to the brim with lots of love and respect for one another and our respective journeys. It was an understanding that needed no words.
I only properly understood that he was my hero after he had passed. What a shame, I tell myself. But I learned how to forgive myself and approach our relationship with grace, since I was the little girl burdened with adult pressures to heal bonds she never broke and pay emotional debts she never incurred.
The earliest memory I possess of my father, the Arabic language and my early hatred for it, dates back to when I was in the fourth grade. He was helping me study for my civics class in my hometown of Zgharta. We were sitting in his family home, on a beautiful Spring day, the garden outside in full bloom. I was miserable, probably on the verge of tears, as he went over the several chapters due for my final exams.
But what I found to be more miserable was that I hated the Arabic language. In fact, I hated everything about being an Arab, except maybe the food. It all came down to identity pressure.
I was born and raised in a small country in the Levant situated in West Asia, bordered by Syria to the north and east, Palestine to the south and the Mediterranean Sea to the west. In its heydays, our capital Beirut was hailed as the “Paris of the Middle East”.
That comparison, in hindsight, is not only orientalist in nature, but it is very much the way we are raised—under the scope of Western ideals and standards. Beirut was a Paris and Lebanon was a product of Western colonial lust.
Considering the garbage that the West dumped in the Global South, I have seen the deprecating consequences in countries like mine.
While I cannot and would never generalise on behalf of the entire Arab ummah, my own story goes as such: I was taught, if not brainwashed, to have an estranged relationship with my identity as an Arab.
In Lebanon, being an Arab usually meant that your life was splattered with the blood of martyrs, then known as terrorists, who were hungry for war. It meant that we were oppressed and repressed economically, politically, geographically, socially and spiritually. It meant that speaking Arabic was considered uncouth when compared to French—the language of our colonisers. To speak the language of our former masters, meant that their ideals, politics and social norms were epitomised. Favouring Arabic was close to cultural apostasy; sin and treason.
It meant that nothing was ever enough, no matter which direction you heeded. It meant that we, as a people, were also never enough. And so, I carried that with me for much longer than I would have ever liked.
The stereotype of middle school Arabic teachers, whichever stereotype you hear of, is true. I apologise to whomever this statement might offend, but, Lord, was it torturous to sit in these women’s classes as a kid.
This is what mainly drives impressionable pupils away from the language and the low culture it seems to present.
For years of my life, I would either speak French with my family or English. I could not as much put together one coherent sentence in Arabic.
When I got to high school, I’d see this one teacher walking through the halls every day. She seemed a little intimidating. She was a tall woman, jet-black hair and eyes accessorised with heavy kohl. Mrs. Hala would not smile much, at least to the students she didn’t know. She kept to herself, and I often thought her weird. Until she became my Arabic teacher the following year.
If there is anyone in this world who I’d credit for bringing me closer to my culture, history and language, it is Mrs. Hala.
This was the first year we were properly introduced to Arabic literature in our curriculum. Her scandalous passion for the language was contagious, at least for me. I soaked up every last bit of the culture and history she beautifully presented to us that it completely altered the way I viewed being Arab for quite literally the rest of my life.
Abruptly, the language was not difficult, nor was it cruel or felt like gibberish. Slowly, our history was decolonised, and it was no longer rooted in the perpetuated ideals of the West.
For two years, this woman took us on trips to visit what was considered the ‘Age of Ignorance’, bucking a trend to understand the Umayyads, the Abbasids, and poets like Al-Mutannabi. She narrated modern poet Nizar Qabbani’s love story and even went so far as to print us a picture of his wife Balqis in all her A3arab glory. Our literature was often centred around great lovers
throughout the centuries, and to my surprise, erotic poetry. The Arabs were frisky, and love knew no bounds of race, gender or nationality.
My ignorance of the language, as such, held me back from syntax and rhetoric, as well as cultural appreciation. It was difficult to come to terms with that, especially in those moments where I’d attempt to communicate with family or family friends in Arabic and convey a coherent thought of depth.
Google Translate is one of the 7 Wonders of the World; a phenomenal software, yet incredibly humiliating when used to communicate with your own grandmother who raised you inch by inch. Last week, I started a Paleo diet to help heal my many gut problems and when Teta called to ask about what and how I was doing, it was me, her and that damned app communicating.
What the fuck is gluten in Arabic?
Teta khallike ma3e di2a la tarjemlik. Grandma, stay on the line for a minute, let me translate this for you.
I graduated in 2023 with a Bachelor of Science in Journalism, my speciality in Middle Eastern Studies. At that point, being Arab was exactly who I was and wanted to be. My work was rooted in the culture, history, and modern socio-economic and political climate.
Up until that point, my struggle with the language could still be salvaged. I worked with it; when writing, when researching, when pulling archives. My incapability to do all that in Arabic was often an obstacle in my work and deterred me from pursuing several stories or research projects because primary sources didn’t exist in English, and in what world could a young adult in an American university know how to pull resources strictly in Arabic?
All of that embarrassment and frustration quickly faded in the face of my incapability to communicate with Arabs when I was reporting or on the ground. That became very apparent on October 7th.
Baba had died a couple of months prior to the 7th and I had found an internship at Al Jazeera post-graduation. And this is exactly where I felt the peak of humiliation lie.
Another Hala was dropped into my life, this time my editor. She was yet another intimidating woman; smart, tough, takes no shit, seasoned in her work and knew exactly what she was doing. That woman tough-loved me so much it broke me to eventually make me the journalist I am right this moment. She saw some sliver of potential in me and did not let it go. She and I were the only two Arabic speakers on the newsdesk. The rest of our team who could speak and write Arabic worked remotely from different countries, and so much of the work would fall on our lap in the office. It was the Palestinian plight we were publishing on the website and broadcasting on the news each and every day. We needed the Arabic language more desperately than ever.
It hit me then how incredibly humiliating it was that I couldn’t speak the language properly or at all. Hala would call for me, “Kim, so and so’s brother was just killed in an Israeli raid” or “so and so was just killed in Gaza” and those words day in and day out were already a difficult reality to grapple with. “Call them. Get answers. Ask about their story.”
My mother and my uncle, bless their souls, took on the responsibility of filling in for my father when I needed him.
How do I say that in Arabic?
Can you translate these questions into informal Arabic?
What does this mean in English? How do I translate that?
Does this mean what I think it does?
Mum, I have to call someone and speak in Arabic. I don’t know what to do. I need Baba.
Gaza was being carpet-bombed and the atrocities never ended. Israel-Palestine is Al Jazeera’s biggest beat, and editorially, everyone is aware that the media company opposes the occupation. I was taught since childhood that Palestine is occupied, that Al-Aqsa Mosque is a prisoner, that the Zionist entity is an enemy, that resistance is an honour and that there is no state called Israel, and I now found myself in one the world’s biggest newsrooms, leading the news on Israel’s destruction of Gaza.
The victims of Gaza were in need of a voice. But how would I ever pick up the phone and say, “I am so sorry, I cannot speak our language, So if you can please find it in your heart to cater to my American, my Western education and explain what is happening in the language of a coloniser”?
How could I ever translate the gut-wrenching screams of Palestinians demanding justice from Arabic to English? In what world does the English language ever amount to the estimated 12.3 million words in Arabic? In what world has the language of colonisers ever compared to the depth, beauty and intricacies of Arabic?
This was one of my favourite ways to bond with Baba; chartering his help in anything and everything Arab and Arabic related. He was a world of wonder and knowledge. He never missed an opportunity to share that with me or indulge my curiosity, especially as I grew older.
The last time I asked for his help in Arabic was briefly before he passed, sometime around January of 2023. I had just received three rolls of my developed film pictures and was very obsessed with the Syrian-German duo Shkoon’s Jarra track at the time.
كل كلمة حب نحييها معانا
every word of love we keep with us
I sent it to him, wondering if what I thought it meant was the correct interpretation. We chatted back and forth for a bit, as he tried to decipher whether it should be معانا or معنا and what each would have meant.
A few months following his sudden passing, I was having coffee with a Qatari friend and the conversation, of course, flowed 3arab. We spoke about the lyric
كل كلمة حب نحييها معانا
every word of love we keep with us
She couldn’t believe that I was familiar with the old Yemeni song.
Yemeni song? What are you talking about? Do you know Shkoon?
My lot in life is being surrounded by people who have shared random information about the culture and history, even at times I expected the least. It always connected to someone or something or even a very particular event in my life. Especially the music.
Arabic music gave me space, a beautiful space to not only sing along to angelic melodies but learn my language and recite stories of 3arab in an incredibly wholesome manner. Tween or teenage Kim would have never admitted to that. I would listen to some Arabic music with Baba on our several road trips around Lebanon, namely very old Arabic music or 2000s pop. That was a secret I childishly assumed, believed, that I would take to the grave with me.
It’s vulgar. I hate Arabic music. How cheap.
My life now is a playlist of only Arabic music. I find joy in listening to songs I shared with Baba and now in songs that I share with people who surround me.
A few hours before I left Baba’s hospital bed the night he died, I cried by his side with a horrid feeling in my heart that this was possibly the last time I would hold him. I told him about my senior dinner that would take place the next month and the black dress I bought for the occasion. I promised I would send him a picture, hoping he would open his eyes and say something to me. The last thing I hoped he heard was my terrible, teary voice humming to ‘Al Rozana playing on my phone – the same way he did for his late mother.
He passed peacefully about two hours after I assured him it was okay if he wanted to leave, about two hours after I held his hand and mumbled Wadi Al Safi and Sabah Fakhri’s rendition of ‘Al Rozana through uncontrollable, hysterical sobs.
Two weeks ago, I tried looking up the meaning of ‘Al Rozana. A very random thought. An article for writer Nur Turkmani was the first result to pop. A story of war, famine, hope and possibly love.
I messaged Nur about a week ago to say thank you. In my grief, I like to believe that moments like that are Baba’s doing and not coincidental. I messaged her to say thank you because Baba’s phone number had just been disconnected the night before and I couldn’t send him a link to her article. Instead, I went straight to the source who did not know I ever existed when writing her article in 2020, or ever thinking she’d be allowing me a sense of closure through her words.
At my old age of 23, I still cannot write, read or properly speak 3arabi, but in my life, I have been loved 3arab, nurtured 3arab, supported 3arab, hurt 3arab and then loved some more 3arab.
If this essay ever had any sense of purpose to it, it would absolutely be a thank-you letter to all those who have made me fall in love with my identity over the years.
Not long ago, I saw this comment on TikTok that said, “We are mosaics of everyone we have ever loved.” And here I am today, a proud 3arab woman, a collection of everyone who has ever graced my life with their knowledge, patience, energy and their love.
A mosaic of every 3arab.
Words: Kim Makhlouf
