ARABIC TO ME
Hearing the Koran recited by Bok Haram’s captives led Firdose Moonda to reflect on the layers of the language
“Alhamdu lillahi rabbi l-alamin, Maliki yawmi ddin, Iyyaka na’budu wa iyyaka nasta’in, Ihdina ssirata al-mustaqim.”
THOSE words were the first my father whispered in my ear when I was only seconds into the world. They were some of the first my mother cooed to me, often before bed. By the time I was three, I could recite them on my own or with children at my Islamic pre-school. They were the soundtrack that accompanied my cousin’s bride when she walked up the aisle and they filled the room with comfort the day we sat around my grandmother for the last time; the day we buried her. So it just did not seem right when they were uttered in high-pitched fear.
More than 200 voices combined to form a powerful chorus but their pitch was shrill, their tone anxious and their enunciation, while correct, was obviously hesitant. Even an ear that had never heard these words before would have known they were being forced out.
At first I absent-mindedly tried to waft the sound away. It crept up on me the way a familiar object in the wrong place does and I had the urge to dispatch it back to where it belonged. Before I realised my reaction, I was saying the words too.
Then I glanced up to the television, which was burbling in the background of my work day, and I saw them: the Nigerian schoolgirls abducted weeks ago by Boko Haram. I heard them saying the words that had once been so peaceful to me with an anguish that made me stop and simply listen.
They were seated on the floor, clothed head to toe in varying shades of blue, their hair covered, arms raised slightly, their hands folded, right on top of left, their eyes were cast downwards. The pose for prayer.
Boko Haram claimed these were the girls who had converted to Islam. The rest would be sold. The video was proof to the world that they were still alive. It was also proof of how Boko Haram was going to use religion and language to impose their brand of terror and deepen the stigma and misunderstanding about Muslim people and the Arabic language. They are separate things but the way they are presented often does not allow them to be distinguished from each other.
Arabic is taught in madressas to Muslim children from a young age. At preschool, they learn the basics of the alphabet and when they are of reading age, they know how to string the letters together and how the vowel sounds work to turn those into sentences. Reading is likened to singing a melody, with the emphasis on pronunciation.
Although certain small chapters of the Koran are taught alongside their meaning, the language is not allowed to be alive. It is presented as sacred because it is the script of a Holy Book and so there is no class dedicated to understanding the grammar or expanding the vocabulary. The Arabic of the madressas I know is not a language of communication; it is a language of function. The aim of learning it is to be able to read the Koran. The meaning does not matter.
At university, I signed up for an Arabic language course where, for the first time, I began to interact with the language on a human level. We began by learning simple phrases such as hello, asking after someone’s health and introducing ourselves. I soon picked up on words I had once read in the Koran without knowing what they meant and being able to see how they were used in their context.
I did not continue in the course to its more advanced levels but I experienced enough to have some understanding of conversational Arabic. When I first travelled to an Arabspeaking country, the United Arab Emirates in 2009 on Emirates Airlines, I was thrilled at being able to understand the signage on the aircraft — in particular the word for exit.
Other people enjoy stopping at Dubai International Airport because of the shopping. I enjoy stopping there because it is a lesson. The flight-schedule board is a place to brush up on country names; the gate numbers are a quick revision in numeracy; and listening to the announcements provides an opportunity to test my knowledge of time and direction.
I have not yet had cause to hold an entire conversation with someone in Arabic, bar one occasion when ordering food at a hotel in Abu Dhabi. Frustratingly, I did not get to say anything because the Arab waiter thought my husband should order food for both of us. More’s the pity.
Through all of that, my relationship with the opening words of the Koran has not changed. Whether or not I had learnt Arabic, those words and their meaning are as much a part of me as my first memories. This is what they mean.
“All praise is due to God, Lord of the Worlds. The Merciful, the Compassionate, Master of the Day of Judgement, You alone do we worship and You alone we seek for help. Guide us to the straight path.”
Not words of terror, they are words of worship and wonder. I hope the Nigerian girls know that.