An American Perspective
I’ve always considered myself a good listener.
I give people space to speak. I nod. I wait my turn.
I thought that was enough.
But it wasn’t — not with her.
She spoke English fluently. She’s articulate, expressive, even poetic.
There were no misunderstandings in the literal sense.
But still — I missed things.
And I didn’t realize it until much later.
Until a conversation replayed in my head, and I caught the things she didn’t say.
The pauses. The careful phrasing. The slight shift in tone when we touched on something vulnerable.
She wasn’t being vague. She was being cautious — and I wasn’t trained to hear that.
In my world, we speak directly. We value clarity, transparency, “just say it.”
But she came from a place where language had weight.
Where speech was shaped by survival, not comfort.
Where silence was not emptiness — it was a strategy. A shield. A form of love.
Sometimes, what she didn’t say was the loudest thing in the room.
I remember a moment when I asked, “Are you okay?”
And she smiled, paused, and said, “I’m fine.”
Everything in her face said otherwise.
But I took the words at face value — and missed the invitation in her silence.
Because in her culture, not everything is said outright.
Not because it’s hidden, but because it’s sacred.
There’s a softness to the way emotion moves in Arabic —
A poetry even in pain.
A layeredness to every answer.
Even “yes” can mean “maybe,” and “no” can mean “not yet.”
I started to notice how often she translated herself — not just her words, but her emotions.
She’d explain what she meant three different ways, just to make sure I didn’t misread her.
She’d smile through discomfort. Downplay conflict. Reframe sadness as being “tired.”
Not because she was being dishonest — but because she was being careful.
I realized how often Western fluency tricks us into thinking we’re on the same page.
But language is more than vocabulary — it’s context.
It’s what we were taught to say.
What we were taught not to say.
What silence means in one world, and what it signals in another.
Sometimes, love doesn’t sound like affirmation.
It sounds like concern. Or repetition. Or asking if you’ve eaten.
Sometimes pain doesn’t come out as “I’m hurting.”
It comes out as “I just need a moment.”
What I’ve learned — and am still learning — is that listening across cultures isn’t passive.
It’s active. It takes humility. Patience. A willingness to hear beyond the words.
I’m learning to notice what isn’t said.
To ask better questions.
To let silence sit for a moment, instead of rushing to fill it.
To stop assuming that fluency equals understanding — because it doesn’t.
This is what The Unspoken means to me:
It’s about the stories between the lines.
The truths tucked inside pauses.
The things that don’t translate easily — but still matter deeply.
Because real listening doesn’t just hear the words.
It hears the weight behind them.
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