Christine was waiting for me at the door as though I couldn’t be trusted to navigate my interactions with the students myself. Particularly she wanted to introduce me to Amar, granted his leave to remain and working in the laundry now.
We don’t know whether he understands or not she said back over her shoulder as she took me down the short corridor, when he doesn't understand something he just sort of freezes. Locks up and we can’t get anything out of him.
There was ten or so of them, all Syrian, different ages, all men. Two standing smiling at the serving hatch and the others bringing out food and sitting at the tables with some of the locals after they had served them. The organizers away in the corner of the room next to an old piano looking slightly uncomfortable in a way that I thought of as being typically middle-class, worried that someone would say something inappropriate, something racist, or insensitive. Worried less for the effect it would have on either of the participants in the conversation than they were that their default faith in the essential goodness of normal people would fall apart. The Community Centre was in one of the council estates off behind the station, perhaps that was what was making them nervous. They were both lecturers at the university I think, I saw them around a lot but never got to know them that well.
The café customers were mostly middle aged, presumably retirees form the surrounding estate and the atmosphere was a little boisterous. The Syrians themselves seemed to be busy reassuring everybody that they were going back home, don’t worry, the moment the war ends, explaining how they were professionals, with good jobs waiting for them, had family members stranded here and there and generally their English was good, suggesting that they were the professionals they claimed to be. Just a bit of a break over here in liberal, tolerant England for some nice lawyers and dentists who would all express their gratitude and then disappear.
The organisers don’t look like they are having a very good time, I remarked as we threaded through the tables, Christine having chairs pulled out of her way and people standing and leaning backwards to accommodate her bulk.
Well there’s been a bit of trouble, she said.
What kind?
She stood still and swivelled her torso round toward me, eyes fixed on the doorway I'd come in through. There was an interview in the Lancaster Guardian where they said Lancaster could house up to 300 refugees over the next few years. Some people were up in arms about it. Some graffiti on the wall outside, I had that scrubbed off now. She cocked her head slightly to one side as though to ask if I had any further questions.
300 refugees. Hard to imagine there was a time when that seemed like anything other than a drop in the ocean.
Amar was sitting off to one side in his t-shirt and shorts, his backward baseball cap on, big brown eyes watching it all as though from a great distance. He stood as I approached and looked at me shyly, a little anxious, rocked from side to side and rubbed his hands together. He was overweight and his t-shirt looked too tight on him, perhaps he had gained weight since setting off on whatever journey had brought him here.
Hello, I said.
Hello, he responded in a soft voice.
I am Carl.
Amar, my name Amar.
Nice to meet you. I extended my hand.
Nice to meet you. His hand was soft and damp with nerves. My English not good, he said. They English good, he said. pointed to the others. Sometimes not understand. Very difficult, he said. Sorry.
That’s ok, I said, I nodded reassuringly. I think your English is pretty good.
No, no.
I am a teacher, I said. I teach English every day. I have taught English every day for twenty, more than twenty years. That’s a long time, I said.
He nodded. Long time.
So... I said. I was talking more slowly of course, reducing the complexity, using repetition, lowering the vocabulary load, maintaining natural rhythm and stress. They say that parents do it naturally with their kids, know, instinctively perhaps, how to modify the language so the child can assimilate new words, structures, meanings. The Zone of Proximal Development. If I say your English is good, believe me your English is good.
He moved his head from side to side. Yes. yes, believe, Teacher, but. He paused. Smiled, looked bashful.
You understand me. I said. No problem.
Yes, yes, understand, but, he moved his head from side to side again to show his doubts.
I know, I said. I put my hand on his shoulder. Where are you from? In Syria.
Yes, Syria.
Syria yes but where? A pause and I saw the panic flit softly across his face. I had felt that too, the sense of being lost, exposed, the expectant face, the unknown word. He didn’t understand my pronunciation, too open, elongated diphthong in place of the hard /r/ he expected at the end.
Which city your city?
A slight nod, a small breath of relief. Aleppo.
OK. We will have lessons.
His face brightened. When?
Any day is OK. After work. Maybe, first lesson you teach me about Aleppo. In English.
He moved his head from side to side as if to say, me teach you, no, no. A comical idea.
Now, he said, Aleppo, struggled for the word for a moment and then his eyes widened as he found it. Gone.
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