An Introduction to Arabic
When 9/11 happened, I knew right away that it would be the defining moment of my life. On 9/12 I scoured Boulder, Colorado and collected as many Arabic language books as I could find—one. By August, I had transferred to the University of Chicago and enrolled in first year Arabic. Classes were long and boring, but I was already committed to personally fixing U.S. policies in the Middle East.
Arabic is a notoriously difficult language to learn for English speakers. There are close to 10 sounds that exist in Arabic that we don’t have in English, it’s written from right to left, and the letters are completely different from anything I had ever seen. Even after studying French and Spanish, Arabic was the most foreign language I attempted to learn.
One of the memories that continues to stick with me is the first day of summer school Arabic. I was energized to embark on a new adventure, but the instructor wanted to make sure we all knew the perils of the road we were about to travel. In this section of my book, I share the first few months of learning Arabic and how quickly I grew frustrated with the way I was learning. Conquering Arabic became such an all-encompassing mission that it consumed the next 12 years of my life.
When the instructor walked into the room, he didn’t say a word before he started scribbling on the chalkboard. I had been studying the Arabic alphabet, so I could make out some of the letters, but I didn’t have any idea what it meant. Ahmad finished writing and opened with a dramatic reading of the words on the chalkboard. He first recited it in Arabic several times, which none of us could understand, and then translated it into English,
“Arabic is a key to a room with no other entrance or exit. Inside that room is nothing but a closet. The closet has a large imposing door with a solid ivory handle and golden trim. Inside that closet is an ornate wooden chest with golden etchings of buildings from across the known world. Inside that chest is a small metal box that blinds whoever gazes directly upon it. Inside that box is nothing.”
I bellowed. I laughed so loudly that my head rocked backwards and I grabbed my belly it felt so good. Every part of the government was clamoring for people who knew Arabic and there were professor jobs opening up at universities all over the world for scholars of Islam. I didn’t know exactly what to do with my Arabic skills, but there were so many opportunities to make a real difference after 9/11, that I figured Ahmad was trying to lighten the mood.
As Ahmad talked about the door and the room and the closet, I imagined that this would be my first exposure to Arabic wisdom; ancient truths that would hold the key to understanding why terrorists had blown up the Twin Towers. This would be the knowledge needed to help shape US foreign policy or design college courses that would equip future diplomats and soldiers. I expected Ahmad to say that the box contained happiness or serenity or something profound. And then he dropped the punch line.
When Ahmad told us that there was nothing in the box, I didn’t believe him. He told that story in a way that each of us couldn’t wait to hear what was in the box by pausing at certain points and elongating his words at others to draw us into his short story.
Arabic summer school was eight hours a day with at least three hours of homework each night. I assumed that we were all going to need some powerful incentive to keep our motivation and Ahmad was trying to get us talking about what Arabic really meant to us. As I rocked in my seat, I realized that Ahmad’s little joke could actually be a great icebreaker for a class of 20 people who were going to be spending a lot of time together.
But Ahmad wasn’t joking.
I hadn’t noticed that no one else was laughing. As I unclasped my belly and opened my eyes, I saw a few sneering faces and contorted bodies turning to see the guy causing all the trouble in the back. It dawned on me that graduate students at one of the premier universities in the world don’t burst out into laughter on the first day of class. I propped myself up in my chair, opened my book and buried my nose as far into the Arabic vocabulary list as possible.