brain fry

The teacher repeats her question but doesn't get an answer. Ten pairs of eyes reflect the effort back at her. In these eyes she can read a spectrum of misery, from bewilderment and puzzlement to confusion and complete loss. She tries again, going back to words that the class should be familiar with, trying to reach out and get some understanding, however ephemeral. It's her only hope. Every now and then, one student or another will show a brief sign of comprehension, a vision expressed by verbal articulation. The utterance is always in a tone of surprise, as if it had come completely unexpectedly and the ears can't believe what the mouth says. As quickly as the insight lights up, it goes dark again. The face goes blank and the eyes fall back into a stare focused on some point of hope in distant eternity. The class is held by torpor until another unlikely connection is made in some other student's head.

I've been attending Arabic classes for half a year now. Tonight was the 15th session. I've sat through thirty hours of self-imposed linguistic torture and still can't quite explain why. It must be the challenge. Arabic is unlike any language I know, and this difference breeds difficulty on a massive scale, especially for a brain that has fallen into a state of poor malleability (for fear of using the word rigidity) four years after being released from the rigors of university study.

We have reached page 100 of our textbook and still not encountered the first verb. This is just one of the little curiosities that characterize the language to the neophyte that I am. Another is the existence of an ungodly number of plural forms, different for different classes of nouns with no logic yet revealed. While this might baffle, pronunciation is bound to exasperate remorselessly. Only half of the sounds in Arabic have a counterpart in English or German. Some I've figured out rather easily once they were properly explained, and the fact that I can produce these sounds amazes me every time, but others remain shrouded in densest mystery. I've tabulated words with one particular letter with the goal of identifying a pattern, something that would give me a handle for trying to shed some light into the blackness of my comprehension. It's been in annoying vain. The sound makes no sense to me. My problems of understanding are compounded by dialect and variation. Vowels change their verbal identity as if every day were carnival. It's a mesmerizing spectacle. Too bad I'm not a passive audience but trying to learn.

The class is from six to eight, after a day at work that can be mildly tiring or outright exhausting. The two hours are brutal – and yet pass surprisingly quickly. I'm looking forward to them because despite the glacial pace, the reality of progress is undeniable. The squiggly lines that have captivated me ever since I visited Tunisia four years ago have become less obscure. I can walk down the street in Shepherd's Bush and read the signs above the storefronts. I remember words. Grammatical constructs start to make sense. When the clock above the door shows eight, I'm near mental collapse. My brain screams at me to prevent me from hearing anything else, especially unintelligible kauderwelsch. I'm glad to hop on my bike and let my legs do some work for a change. But I also know that I'll be back the next week for more. And I'm grateful to the teacher who guides us with equanimity and patience and whose infectious sense of humor takes some of the edge off the subject and makes it vague palatable.