The Arabic Tutor | معلمة العربية
"He wants to learn Arabic before his mother dies. She's the online tutor who teaches him. Lessons become conversations. Conversations become more."
The Arabic Tutor
معلمة العربية
His request is unusual.
"My mother is dying. She only speaks Arabic now. I need to learn enough to say goodbye."
I'm a language teacher. I've seen many reasons for learning.
This one breaks my heart.
I'm Leila.
Forty-one, Egyptian, teaching Arabic online from my apartment in Alexandria. Divorced, childless, building a life from small lessons.
James becomes my Tuesday student.
He's maybe fifty.
American, greying, exhausted. His mother has dementia, he explains—reverting to her native tongue after sixty years in English.
"I never learned," he admits. "I thought there'd be time."
"There's still time. Yalla, let's begin."
We start with basics.
Marhaba. Kayf halak. Ana bahebak.
Hello. How are you. I love you.
He practices like his mother's life depends on it.
In a way, it does.
Weeks pass.
His Arabic improves. Our lessons grow longer—starting with grammar, ending with conversation.
"Tell me about Egypt," he says one night.
"Tell me about your mother," I reply.
"She was beautiful once. Spirited. She fought her whole family to marry an American." He stares at his hands. "I didn't appreciate her enough. Now she doesn't know who I am."
"She knows. Love isn't language-dependent."
"But words help."
"Words always help."
His mother dies in March.
He messages me: She heard me. Before she went. She heard the Arabic and she smiled.
I cry in my apartment. For him. For her. For the privilege of helping.
Thank you, he writes. Can we keep the lessons? I don't want to lose the language.
We keep the lessons.
They become something else.
"Tell me about your husband," he says one evening.
"Ex-husband."
"Ex-husband. Tell me."
"He wanted children. I couldn't give them. He found someone who could."
"That's cruel."
"That's life. You endure."
"You shouldn't just endure. You deserve joy."
"Joy is rare."
"Not always." He leans toward his camera. "Not in these lessons."
"James—"
"I look forward to Tuesday more than anything else in my week. Is that inappropriate?"
"Probably."
"I don't care."
We video chat outside of lessons now.
Morning in Alexandria, evening in Boston. Different worlds, same conversations.
"I want to meet you," he says.
"You see me every week."
"In person. I want to be in the same room."
"That's a long flight."
"I've flown longer. For less."
"What would we even do?"
"Whatever you want. See the pyramids. Walk the Corniche." He pauses. "Figure out if this is real."
He lands in Cairo in June.
I pick him up at the airport. We're both nervous—months of screens, now suddenly physical.
"Marhaba," he says.
"Marhaba." I smile. "Your accent is better."
"I had a good teacher."
We explore Egypt together.
Pyramids, museums, my favorite restaurants. He watches me across the table like I'm the attraction.
"I'm not a tourist site," I say.
"You're better. Sites don't change. You keep surprising me."
The first night, we only talk.
Sitting on my balcony, watching Alexandria sleep.
"I didn't expect this," he admits.
"Expect what?"
"To feel like a teenager again. At my age."
"Arabic does that. It's a romantic language."
"It's not the Arabic."
The second night, we kiss.
Soft, careful. Two people old enough to know better, brave enough to try anyway.
"Ana bahebek," I say.
"I love you too."
"Your pronunciation—"
"Shush."
The third night, we don't sleep.
In my bed, learning each other's bodies the way we learned each other's languages. He treats every curve like vocabulary to memorize.
"Beautiful."
"I'm old."
"You're mine." He kisses my belly. "At least, I hope you are."
He worships me all night.
Making up for years of screens with hours of touch. When I finally come, it's with his name and Arabic praise tangled together.
"Ya habibi—James—"
"Right there?"
"Aiwa—don't stop—"
He enters me while Alexandria lights up outside.
The city where Cleopatra ruled, where the library burned, where I learned to live alone.
I'm not alone anymore.
One year later
James lives here now.
Semi-retired, working remotely. His Arabic is nearly fluent—he reads the newspaper with me at breakfast.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Happier than I've been in decades."
"See? Language lessons pay off."
"You paid for Arabic. You got everything else free."
He pulls me back to bed.
Our regular Sunday ritual.
"Uhibbuki," he says—formal Arabic now, not just colloquial.
"Ana kaman."
Alhamdulillah.
For dying mothers who bring connections.
For languages that become love.
For teachers who become wives.
The End.