Arabic Tears

Henna by Kim Peters

With that one phone call, the threads of our lives intertwined—forever.

“We heard you speak Arabic. Can you help us with some translation? We have a new Moroccan girl who can’t speak a word of Spanish.”

“Yes, I love Arabic.”

I’d heard about these women, the work—the difficult, heart-breaking work. I’d also heard the statistics in Spain—some of the highest in Europe. Alarming . . .

I wasn’t sure what I was getting into. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to walk through the door that day.

It didn’t take me long to love you—a broken, hurting woman who had left everything—your parents, your son, your land, your culture, your language, your life . . . your broken life in North Africa. Like all the other women sitting next to you in the boat that day, you crossed the Mediterranean to pick strawberries in the fields of Spain.

It was no El Dorado.

Sitting in that room, you begin to tell your story—in Arabic, the language I love.

Arabic. The onslaught of your pain, your trauma, your grief slam me in the face.

Arabic. It stings. I feel sick to my stomach.

Arabic. You speak so fast, sob so loudly. At times, I can hardly understand you.

Arabic. I don’t want to ask you to repeat. I don’t want you to say it again. I don’t want to hear it again.

Arabic . . . But there’s no one else. I am the only one in the room who can hear and understand your story, your words, your pain.

Arabic . . . a blessing, a burden.

Arabic . . . a language I love, a language I hate.

I try to listen, but your pain hits me hard. Tears stream down my face. I reach across the table and take your hand. I lean over and hold you.

You weep. I weep. I have never seen so many tears. I stroke my finger across your cheeks to wipe them away. I hand you a tissue. I hold one too.

The emotion is raw—yours, mine.

Arabic . . . I listen carefully to your words, absorb your pain, your sorrow, your story.

Strawberries, promises, darkness, streets, alcohol, drugs, men, money, Mafia, secrets, torture, death . . .

I swallow hard. I breathe deeply. I turn to the other two women sitting at the table with us.

And I speak.

Arabic.

English.

Spanish.

Your sacred story travels around the table. I hear the trauma once, twice, three times—in three different languages. My head spins. My mind is foggy.

I weep. I hold your hand.

When I walk out the door that day, I carry your story with me. It’s a story that is more than I can handle, more than I can hear, more than I can bear, more than I can carry.

The pain and grief are heavy. I can hardly breathe.

I beat my fists against the steering wheel, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“God, I didn’t ask you for this! I don’t want to do this anymore! I don’t want to use my Arabic like this! Find someone else!”

But there’s no one else. Arabic. I’m the only one who understands your story.

Arabic . . . it feels used and abused . . . just like you, my sister.

I cry Arabic tears.