On Wind and the Case of Classical Arabic

Windy
A bit windy today? You don’t say. You probably didn’t notice it, but I live about a block away from the sea. My hair almost flew away. I just, and I mean ‘just’ set up my entire balcony, all very nice and cozy with iron bed, lamps, curtains, pillows and the whole bit.

Well, the curtains are gone, the pillows are all over the place, and my daughter’s play tent flew off to somewhere in Rauche. I hope it landed in the same play as the kiddie pool did. Then they have matching items.

I’ve lost a vast amount of laundry over the years in this neighborhood. Bathroom mats, socks, bed sheets, towels; it has spread itself over Manara (A neighborhood in ‘Ras Beirut’, which means ‘head’, or tip, of Beirut). And the underwear, I don’t even want to go there. Luckily I don’t write my name in mine. And they’re all washed!
Strangely enough, your ugliest items cling to the line as if their lives depended upon it, while the cutest, newest and most popular things are the first one to be gone with the wind.

(It is a genetic thing in our family; boys can’t pull straight faces in front of a camera. Ask my brother. And his son. And the other brothers too. See picture on the right)

As you can see, not much is happening today in Beirut. The only exciting thing that has happened to us the past week was the ‘Forgetting of Ms. V’ on Sunday.

Ms. V. and the case of Classical Arabic
As we were driving the car, a good hour out of Beirut, A. suddenly mentions, at 11:45, that:
“Mrs. V. is coming at 12:00.”
“What?”
“Mrs. V. She is coming at 12.”
“Today?”

”Yes. I forgot. I suddenly remembered.”
There was no way on Earth we could reach the house by 12.
“Can you call her?”
“I don’t have her number. I left my phone at home.”

We both knew that this was no laughing matter. Ms. V. would be ringing our door bell, and there would be nobody home. Ms. V. would not take kindly to that. To say the least. We greatly fear Ms. V. in this family. Although a mere 23, she is a force to be reckoned with. She teaches my son Arabic; and she does it the old way.

Lebanon being a tri-lingual society (Arabic English and French) requires a lot from children. My son is exposed to English, French, Arabic, and Dutch in summertime. He is by no means an exception here in Lebanon, but rather the norm.

The Arabic is a bit of a problem though. Arabic (for those not aware) is divided in two parts; spoken language (a3mmi) and classical (fous-ha).
The spoken language, sometimes called street language, is what we use when talking to each other. This Arabic has no written version. He learned his spoken Arabic from his great-aunt Leila, and is a fluent speaker. The spoken Arabic is a dialect, and differs from region to region. Lebanese Arabic is different from Egyptian, Syrian or Jordanian. You can even detect if a speaker is from Beirut, the south or the mountains.

The classical Arabic is the ‘print’ language, and is the same all over the Arabic speaking world. Newspapers, books, advertisements and signs are printed in classical Arabic. The anchorman on TV uses it, and all official speeches and conversation are written in classical Arabic. This classical Arabic is in most cases quite different from the spoken Arabic with a separate vocabulary as well. ‘Lesh?” (why) in spoken Arabic becomes “Limaza?” in classical. A ‘pseine’ (cat) becomes a ‘kotbe’. Go try and find the logic in that.
Classical Arabic is something you learn at school. The program however is archaically old-fashioned, with books and illustrations so incredibly unappealing, and it requires hours and hours of homework and memorization that A. got himself bumped off at an early age into the ASL program, which is Arabic is a Second Language. Arabic for non-Arabic speakers, so to speak. He’s in good company; about half of his classmates are in the same program. But a year ago it dawned on his Dad that A could not read classical Arabic decently. Or even write it. Let alone speak it. The ASL program does apparently not cater to that.

In comes Ms. V; four times a week, 2 hours at a time, to our house, to teach A. the finer aspects of classical Arabic. And she is ‘old’ school!
She does not eat our food, and does not mingle with the family. She comes in to teach, not to socialize. If I’d give her a ruler I bet she’d slap A’s hands. She frequently erupts in a lengthy high-pitched tirade about A’s handwriting, work habits and what not all. A. fears her tremendously, and diligently does all the homework she prescribes him, without a complaint, because he does not want her to start yelling.

We did manage to contact Ms. V. through another customer of Ms. V. She was already in the car, and quite displeased with the late notice. Quite right she is.

We all breathed out again once she hung up.