A Girl Who Writes
Sheila Turjouk

Growing up, I learned how to read from right to left. At first, my handwriting looked like squiggles, I hoped so desperately that with time and practice my writing would eventually be readable. I focused on each letter my hand was drawing, trying to figure out how to make it mean something in my head. I spoke Arabic every day, but writing it was so much more difficult. I love to talk and cherished the sound of my language but converting my passion for words into words on paper was a huge obstacle I faced. After much time and much practice, I did eventually learn to write. Not only could I write, but I could write legibly. The history of the Arabic language is so vast and deep, learning to read and write was such an important bridge connecting me to where I come from. After all my work and tedious efforts, my language turned backward.

In Libya, we ate our breakfasts at our house. Only lunch was eaten at school. The classrooms smelled like chalk as the teacher wrote and we, the students, sat on hard wooden chairs dressed in our school uniforms. Libyan students have to be on time and organize into a line when we would first get to school and wait for our teacher. We would sing the national anthem. The schools were also strict about our writing as well. 

In America, the classrooms smell of markers or different perfumes that different classmates would wear as well. Everyone wore different styles of clothing or hair. Breakfast and lunch were served. The chairs were also hard as metal. It was hard to adapt to American culture, food, clothes, climate, and writing. 

I remember the first time I heard English. I was 11 on the airplane on the way to the United States. I did not know that the sounds the flight attendants were making were English. The language was such a contrast from what I knew compared to what I was hearing. I could not imagine speaking this language, let alone writing it. 

Slowly, I began to talk. I struggled to speak these foreign sounds and strange noises, but like breaking through a barricade, I learned the English language. The next trial I faced was reading English. I needed tutors to teach me to look at these jumbles of letters and make sense of them. I practiced vocabulary for hours. It took me a year to be able to read books fluently. I learned at the age of thirteen what most people learned at the age of eight. When I finally could read, it was liberating. Road signs, labels, posters, books, finally had a purpose besides causing confusion.

The hardest challenge that learning English carried was undoubtedly learning how to write. In Arabic you write from right to left, this new language is the opposite. The letters looked weird, they’re not connected. The way they are written seemed strange. 

There were so many rules. On occasion, the words and letters I wrote had a different sound than what I was saying. I felt like an outsider and I had no idea what I was doing while other kids would get to work instantly. I didn’t want to ask questions. I didn’t want anyone to think I was incompetent. School was a tribulation every day because I had not learned English as young as everyone else.

When I was little, I would look at the English labels printed next to Arabic ones and think of them as pieces of another world. I am now fully submerged into this alien world, proud of myself for all the obstructions I’ve overcome. Not only did I learn a new language, but I learned that I can get past obstacles if I keep pushing. I can learn new things if I never give up. I crossed oceans into the territory of the English language. I learned to read. I learned to speak. I finally learned to write.