the english lesson

Amira sat at her desk, trying to teach her student, a small boy with a messy mop of hair, the difference between 'aqeedat' and 'izzat', two Urdu words that she knew were crucial to understanding the nuances of Pakistani culture, but which kept getting lost in translation. The boy looked at her, confused, and she thought, how do I explain this, how do I convey the complexity of these words, the way they feel in the mouth, the way they sound in a sentence. She started to speak, to try and find the right words, but they felt like they were stuck in her throat, like they were refusing to come out. The boy looked at her, expectantly, and she thought, maybe I'm just not explaining it right, maybe I need to use simpler words, more English words, but that felt like a betrayal, like she was giving up on the beauty of Urdu. She took a deep breath, started again, and this time, the words flowed, like a river, like a poem, and the boy's eyes lit up, like he understood, like he got it. I think about this moment, about the way language can both connect and divide us, and I feel a sense of wonder, a sense of awe, at the complexity of it all.