Teaching again

refugee camp (wikipedia)

Today Janey and I helped the refugee family we sponsor learn some English. We took the elevator up to the third floor and knocked on their apartment door. We heard feet scrambling on the other side, and children’s excited voices, and Arabic. We waited. Manal opened the door with a big smile, her head covered with a scarf, and her clothes covered with a beautifully embroidered, full-length jacket. I assured her Robert was not with us—it was just us women—and she whipped off the extra clothing. (The apartment was hot; they can’t control the temperature.) The kids gave us hugs. This is Bayan’s fourth day of school (first grade), and Rashad’s first day of English (there was no space for Manal at the Multicultural classes). Janey and I are filling in the gap for Manal.

She’s a smart and willing student. “More,” she motions with her hands when I offer to quit the lesson. She shows me phrases she has downloaded on her phone: I’m hungry; I’m thirsty, I’m tired. I’m bored. “Am Darshdy,” she says.  Every fiber of my teacher being is awakened when I see her face fall at her failure, and I gesture for her not to try to pronounce the words but simply listen to them and response with a gesture until she has grasped their meaning. This method is effective for first-time learners, TPR Total Physical Response. “I’m hungry.” She rubs her tummy. “I’m thirsty.” She mimes drinking. The “thirsty” frustrates her. “Englezi za’ab,” she says. “English is difficult!” Yes. Englezi za’ab.

She cooks early supper (I have no idea when mealtimes are for her; we try to show up in between them, but she still insists on feeding us, reminding me of Mexico), and we follow her into the kitchen to name the ingredients she is using for the meal. We try to pronounce the Arabic equivalent: “Ta’am” is garlic. “Flayflay” is pepper. “Macaroni!” We laugh. I recognize the Arabic for oil “zeit” because it is so close to the Spanish “aceite,” and I guess that the word was learned from the Moors when they occupied Spain. I recognize “verdera” and “tomatim.” Manal takes a pinch of  green herbs from a plastic bag (did she bring this with her from Syria?) that smell like mint and makes a tasty pasta supper and insists on feeding us. How can we say no?

Janey is gluten-intolerant, so she just can’t eat the food, a disappointment for the family, and we hunt for “allergic” on Google Translate, which, as we have discovered, has maybe a 50/50 chance of ever getting it right. Half of what they try to tell us is lost. We feel the distance.

When it’s time to leave, little Bayan climbs into Janey’s arms and wants to come home with us. We would take her if we could. “I love you,” she says with a radiant smile. She is beautiful to me. This family makes me think more about the God I love and the Jesus I serve than any preacher. It is always this way, you know. “God, shower this family with your love. Reveal yourself through your Son Jesus.”

I think the beginning of the answer to this prayer is:

“Manal, touch the table.”

“Bayan, touch the chair.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I love you.”

Robert and Rashad