Language Shock

I just recently wrote, but I have decided not to communicate at all in English for the first two weeks of the pledge (and after that only through the blog), so I wanted to get one more post out before signing my sanity over. It’s been a crazy week.

For starters, I’m sure you’ve heard this madness about the American man who made a video stereotyping Arabs and defaming the Prophet Muhammad. In response Syrians killed four US diplomats and Egyptians have been protesting and burning American flags. Yesterday the protests were mainly in Cairo, but there were a few in Alexandria. The program warned us about which areas were unsafe and it was pretty easy to avoid, so I’m not worried, but it’s certainly not a popular time to be American.

Thursday, on the microbus, a couple of men started an aggressive discussion about the film with two of the more fluent students on my program. The student that was primarily arguing back has been here longer and I think was frustrated with the associations and aggression towards Americans, but honestly I see nothing to argue with the Egyptians about on this one. As Hilary Clinton has stated, “this video is disgusting and reprehensible. It appears to have a deeply cynical purpose: to denigrate a great religion and to provoke rage.” Of course that in no way justifies the killing of Americans and President Morsi appropriately reminded Egyptians that the Prophet Muhammad teaches respect for human life.

Later on a taxi ride our driver asked us if we were American and we said that we were Canadian. No one in the car spoke much Arabic and it was late at night, near the protests. It took him a while to understand the concept of Canadian, but eventually he at least accepted that we weren’t American. He then ranted about the film a little and informed us that Americans are too scared to come here right now. I’m excited for a time when I know enough Arabic to explain that, while I am American, I find Nakoula Basseley Nakoula’s film to be appalling. Of course Egyptians know that not all Americans are the same; they are not stupid. But it becomes easy to categorize and it can be necessary to receive confirmation of differentiation directly from the “other.”

On that note, I think my roommate will need to take some time adjusting to the whole religion dynamic. Much to my dismay, it came up within my first hour in the dorms. She asked me about my religion and I tried to explain that I am not really observant. “Not religious” appears to be a concept people here can’t quite grasp. To her insistent pleas that I must have some religion I finally conceded that I am Jewish. After clearing up confusion on the Arabic word for Jew, she told me that she was sad. She is still very nice to me, although honestly I don’t understand enough of what she says or of the culture to entirely read her demeanor.

Upon hearing that I am also a vegetarian she expressed further sadness. Then she asked why my hair is like it is. I tried to explain the idea of dreadlocks, again to no avail and she simply asked if I would take them out soon. When I told her I would have to cut them off she said she said she was (wait for it…) sad and that in Egypt they like smooth hair. She then asked if I would like to borrow her brush. Later she saw some of my facebook pictures and said that my old hair was so much nicer. There are a few Kenyan girls living on the sixth floor of our dorm and I was talking with one of them and joking about how they don’t like my hair here and she said, “Oh yes, they say this is Jew hair.” And so we come full circle.

Of all this craziness though, I have bigger concerns at hand. Tomorrow we all sign a language pledge and from that point on no English is allowed anywhere. This means that even when I absolutely can’t understand what someone is saying to me, no one is allowed to translate and I cannot clarify in English—not in the classroom, in the dorms, or on the streets. So far all we have done is placement tests which, along with not understanding any Egyptian colloquial, confirmed that for at least the first week of the language pledge I will not understand a single thing that anybody says to or around me, let alone be to tell anybody anything.

There are two aspects that make the prospect of immersion especially painful. The first is honestly probably something every American should experience and that is the shame involved in giving up one’s native tongue. Adjusting to a new culture is one thing, but acquiescing your language means never being able to fully express yourself. It means speaking like a child and constantly feeling foolish and judged. It means stuttering and stumbling through simple sentences only to be met with confusion, or worse, scorn. It is incredibly humbling and frustrating and something that few Americans ever really have to do. Even I don’t have to do it. I could say I’m sick of this and pack my bags and go home. Yet immigrants around the world have no escape. Intelligent adults are forced into the role of children and often treated just so. It’s an awful feeling and I have only just experienced the fringes of it. It’s not until Sunday that I will truly feel the indignity of being a twenty-one year old that cannot communicate simple thoughts.

The other issue is far more petty, but has still been difficult to come to terms with. I was expecting that all of the Americans would be at approximately the same level of Arabic going into the program, but oh how wrong I was. Almost everyone in the group has either studied in the Middle East before or been in some other immersion program. There are a few other people who are the same place as me in the Al-Kitaab book, but only two or three people, and I still feel like I’m behind even them. I know that the field will quickly level out and that really comparing never does anyone any good. It’s hard though. It’s salt in my already wounded vanity. It’s that worst-nightmare-coming-true-feeling. I tend to catastrophize and immediately worried that I would be the worst person on the program and lo and behold! I have to say though, I think I have been taking it in stride. I mean what else can I do? But hey, maybe I’ll end up being really popular because I make everyone else feel so good about their Arabic skills.

I know things will get better. I have already learned so much and can almost carry on a conversation with my roommate—when she speaks to me like I’m two years old and deaf. It’s a start. And I’m sure the first few weeks will make me wonder more than I already do why I chose this program, this region, and this language. But I’m also sure there will be some sort of breakthrough at some point.

I sign the pledge in fourteen hours, so if you haven’t any urgent messages, send them on over now! Otherwise, thanks for reading this and thanks for all the support, it’s been really important to me!

Journey to Egypt

Disclaimer #1: My internet is now in Arabic, so I may post things wrong or in weird orders because I can't really navigate pages.
Disclaimer #2: This post is absurdly long and rambly, so don't feel obliged to read the whole thing.

I’m here safe in Alexandria, Egypt! First and foremost, I need to give thanks to my mom and the kindness of strangers, because without them I would assuredly be bumbling along somewhere lost in transit. My journey took 23 hours, although that was only the time spent in airports and airplanes. I first flew from Minneapolis to Chicago, had a three hour layover (which involved a terrifying realization that I was in the wrong terminal and had to take a train to the international terminal before going through security again. Ugh big cities…). I made it in plenty of time, however, and had two hours to sit before boarding my ten hour flight to Istanbul. I sat next to a Moldovan on the flight and thus commenced my first of many deficient attempts at communication.

After ten hours that involved more listening to the loud woman behind me than sleeping, I landed in Istanbul for my seven hour layover. With a $5, 10 ounce cup of coffee in hand, I set out to try and find my gate, but my ticket read “Gate 000” and my flight wasn’t listed on the screen. Fending off panic, I asked someone at a desk if he could help me locate my gate and with a disdainful look he told me in his strong Turkish accent that because my flight was at 1 AM the next day my gate would not show up until midnight. I therefore spent the next six hours drifting from gate to gate trying not to fall asleep or look too much like a vagabond. Either I failed at the latter attempt, or I just looked blatantly American, because the disdainful looks I got from everybody I made eye contact with were positively withering

The frostiness continued on the plane, where the man next to me literally turned his head the other way when I asked him a question. I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt and tell myself he was deaf, but when his wife came over and asked him a question, his perfect pitch that eliminated that option. I won’t lie, I was beginning to doubt my certainty about this whole study abroad experience, but things took a turn for the better once we landed.

The first positive sign was a man who helped me fill out the Arabic customs form and told me where to find the visa counter and exchange my money. Outside the airport another man asked if I needed a taxi. I had actually arrived fifteen hours before the program was set to pick us up, because I hadn’t known the specific time of pick-up when booking my ticket. I played it safe and booked the earlier ticket rather than the evening option. My program director had said I would be able to take a cab to a hotel and just explore Alexandria for the day.

I did, therefore, need a taxi, but following a strange man out to the parking lot at 2 AM seemed like a bad first move in Egypt. There were no cabs in sight however, so my options weren’t exactly infinite. As I started to follow the man, I saw one of the pilots from my flight and, instantly trusting a person in uniform, I asked him if the driver was safe. I tried to be discreet, but to my dismay the pilot burst into laughter and informed the driver of my concerns, then proceeded to assure me that I was safe as could be.

I thought the driver was offended because he didn’t say anything for the first ten minutes of the ride, but when he stopped to buy chocolate and cigarettes he offered me some of each and then blasted Arabic music the rest of the way, so I guess we were okay. He dropped me at a hotel, which was on the fifth floor of a ramshackle building in an alleyway and then massively ripped me off (although I think it had more to do with me being a naïve American than having offended him). I knew 170 Egyptian Pounds was about double what it should have costs but he spoke too little English and I too little Arabic to be haggling at 3 AM in an alleyway.

Inside the hotel I checked in and then tried to go to sleep, but each time I changed into PJs the receptionist knocked on my door to tell me something he’d figured out how to say in English and I had to quickly throw my modest clothing back on to see what he wanted. I had initially asked where the bathroom was, forgetting that in Egypt it’s “toilet” and he thought I wanted to shower, so at about 4 AM he came and told me to follow him pointing out that he had mopped the bathroom and turned on the hot water generator for me. At that point I felt too rude not showering, so it wasn’t until about 5 AM that I finally slept, which rendered my expensive journey to the hotel rather pointless. I could have bummed at the airport for free, but oh well.

When I woke up at about 10 AM, I had an email from my program director telling me that the people at the dorms were expecting me to drop off my bags and that I could take a taxi to “The City of the University” in Shatby across the street from St. Marc’s College. I had to check out of the hotel by noon so I packed up and lugged my suitcase down onto the crowded street to try and find a cab. The first cab declined my request, but a man, seeing this, asked where I was going told me that any bus would take me to that area. Eager to avoid another swindling cab driver, I took the man’s advice and boarded the next bus that stopped. Within the first minute of the ride, I Supplied

 the whole bus with a good laugh because I thought the driver was asking for 70 pounds instead of 70 cents. Hilarious, really. The rest of the ride involved a bus-wide argument having something to do with Americans, although beyond the continued use of the word “Amreekiyun” I understood next to nothing.

After a treacherous ride, the bus careened to the side of the rode and I was informed that this was my stop. Despite my clambering that I didn’t see St. Marc’s College anywhere, I was shunted off the bus and left to deal with this dilemma on my own. There was an Alexandria University building, so I approached the guard and after a strained interaction figured out that my actual destination was about a mile down the road. Off I went, 45-pound suitcase and all, along the cracked, litter-filled sidewalk and through perilous traffic, to the apparent delight of many onlookers. At long last, and drenched in sweat, I reached St. Marc’s College, where I found to my dismay that the school was literally surrounded on all four sides by streets. This significantly complicated the phrase “across the street.”

Again I approached a guard, but this time was met with far less comprehension. To my broken Arabic of “where is the dorm?” he responded (rather sardonically I have to say) “which dorm?” and I just stared at him blankly, wondering why my program director hadn’t mentioned this minor factor. I later found out that “The City of the University” was the name of the dorm, but of my many mistakes that day I think this was one of the less intuitive. I was finally able to express that I was looking for a dorm across the street from St. Marc’s and indicating a large, tenement-esque building and he responded, “oh yes, this is a women’s dorm.” Maybe I should have mentioned earlier on in the conversation that I am a woman.

Flooded with relief I entered the building only to be met with more confusion. No one spoke much English, nor had any idea who I was. As an increasing number of women approached me, trying in vain to address me in rapid Arabic, I attempted desperately to explain that I was an American student and that Gamila had told me to come here. Finally someone asked if I was alone or with a group and when I mentioned Middlebury a long-sought after glint of comprehension dawned on her face. She brought me upstairs to Madame Amel’s (?) office, where I was met with a scene strangely reminiscent of Mother Superior and Maria’s in the Sound of Music, only in Arabic, with a hijab instead of a habit, and minus the ten-minute song.

Finally it seemed that I was in right place and after a quick encounter, of which I understood nothing, I was passed along to a younger woman who brought me to my room and introduced me to my roommate. My roommate is wonderful. Our initial interactions involved me pretending I understand her and her becoming annoyed as the conversations progressed and I clearly had not, but she has started to slow her Arabic to a classroom speed when speaking to me. I spent the rest of a long and exhausting day meeting new people, whose names I don’t remember, and being positively showered with new vocab, all of which escaped me within minutes of having it explained. I would be more worried, but I’m pretty sure my brain has just reached its saturation point for the day and hopefully a full night’s sleep will enable me to regain some mental capacity.

Despite the chaos and confusion, I’m very excited. I am extremely relieved that my roommate is sweet and patient. I know I will learn a great deal. Thank you all for bearing with this lengthy blog post! Until next time! Salam!