This afternoon saw me crammed into a taxi next to two grade school-aged boys and their mother. We were waiting on one more body to fill the sixth spot (grande taxis, the most popular mode of transportation in our province, must sell six places before they depart), and while the boys next to me writhed with pre-trip excitement, I sat patiently reading, ready to start our trip.
Ta-fra… ta-fra-out…
Ee-da-osm… ee-da-osm-lal…
Tee-ghee… tee-gee-mree…
Those sets of drawn-out syllables caught my attention, and I looked up to see the two boys at my side trying to read the sign posted in front of our taxi.
The first two towns listed, Tafraoute and Ida Osmlal (written تافراوت and إدا وسملال, respectively) the boys got right. The third, written تغيرت, was a struggle.
Tee-gee-mee, the elder boy declared.
No, it’s ti-ghee-lt!, cried the younger.
Nuh-uh!
Yuh-huh!
This went back and forth for another moment or so, and then the mother was asked to make a decision. She only half-glanced at the sign, sighed dramatically, and told the eldest boy that he was right.
…which he wasn’t.
At that moment, the mother got out of the cab and I seized the opportunity. I leaned over to the boy at my immediate right – the younger of the two – and said simply, tee-gheer-t.
Oh my god, that’s it!, he cried. It’s tee-gheer-t! Wait, you can read that?
Yes, I said, turning back to my book with a smile.
A beat elapsed.
What’s that? The boy stuck a skinny finger, complete with dirty fingernail, onto my book.
English.
You can read that, too?
Mm-hmm, I assured him with a nod.
One day, my little friends, I hope you learn to read both as well.
this is an amazing story.