I arrived in Cairo in the middle
of the night. I smiled as I wended my way in a shared taxi through the darkened
city. Its complicated odors filled my nose and lungs: sweat, coffee, urine,
jasmine and the Nile, all to the background music of Umm Kulthum, the legendary
Egyptian singer, dubbed "Egypt's fourth pyramid." By the time I
reached the American University in Cairo near Tahrir Square, the muezzin's call
to prayer was echoing through the city.
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My first conversation in Arabic
was cautionary. "Ismak eh?" the doorman to my building asked me. He
was a nice Sudanese man who slept in the building entrance. I was thrilled
because I understood what he was asking: What is your name? So I beamed and
answered.
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"Ismi Nick." My name is
Nick. I thought "Nick" would be easy for him to pronounce and simpler
than "Nicholas Kristof." But he gasped and took a step backward.
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"Ismak eh?" he
repeated.
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I knew something had gone wrong,
but I had no idea what. Beaming. I strode toward him. We Americans have long
adhered to the principle that anybody can understand English if it's spoken
loudly enough, so I raised my voice:
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"Ismi NICK!"
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He just looked at me in horror
and hurried off.
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I asked my Arabic teacher about
that. He laughed and laughed.
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"You know what 'Nick' means
in Arabic?" he asked.
?
"If I knew, I wouldn't be
asking," I said grumpily.
?
"It means 'fuck,' " he
explained. What was worse was the conjugation: Nick was the familiar form, like
tu in Spanish or French, so I was not only vulgar but also condescending. Worst
of all, it was the imperative. American friends would see me across the Bab
el-Lug market and shout "Hey, Nick," and we would almost start a
riot.
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Nicolas Kristof "Chasing Hope: A Reporter's
Life" (2024)
