This guest post was written by Hossam Abouzahr, the man behind The Living Arabic Project (www.livingarabic.com), a compilation of multiple dialect and Fusha dictionaries that contains the largest Egyptian dialect dictionary and (what will hopefully soon be) the largest Levantine dialect dictionary. A half-breed (Arab-American), he found out that Arabic is actually beautiful after escaping from Arabic classes and meeting cool teachers who introduced him to the fun side of the language.

Anis Freyha, the famous Lebanese linguist and professor of Semitic languages, wrote that he actually planned to make his dictionary of Lebanese colloquial dictionary, معجم ألفاظ العامية اللبنانية., English – Arabic, but then felt that it was important for Arabs to know the origin of their language, and made it Arabic – Arabic instead. I’m translating his dictionary now for The Living Arabic Project, and what I’ve noticed is that at times the dictionary focuses more on the origin of the words than it is about their meanings.

The origin of words shows how languages are interconnected, and how they’ve come together to form what are the present-day Arabic dialects. While beautiful in and of itself, word origins are also practical. They help learners tie words together and place them in social and historical contexts, making language learning easier and more fun.

To prove my point, here are some words that you probably won’t forget after reading about their origins, and you might also learn something about history and Arab cultures in the process.

 

شَرْمُوطة، ج شَرامِيط.

Meaning: Whore

Origin: From the French “charmante,” meaning lovely, charming. French soldiers used the word during the French occupation to refer to escorts and prostitutes, or the lovely women who responded to their needs.

 

فَلافِل

Meaning: Falafel

Origin: Though commonly thought to simply be the plural of the word فِلْفِل, meaning pepper, there is a another camp that claims that it is Coptic in origin. No, this is not just an Egyptian consipiracy to steal Falafel from the Lebanese. The argument is that in Coptic, the three words fa-la-fel mean “of many beans.” Coptic Christians invented Falafel as a substitute for meat during fasts. Whatever the origin, it sure is tasty, especially when obtained from a dirty, greasy دكان — in fact, the dirty the tastier.

 

مْؤَيَّر

Meaning: dick-ish, dick-like

Origin: From the base word أَيْر, which means dick, or as Lisan al-Arab defines it, “one of the crudest words for the penis.” أير actually comes from the Greek “eros,” but here the Levant folk improved on it. مْؤَيَّر commonly means “dickish,” but is probably literally translated as “one turned into a dick.” This is mainly a Levant word, and generally Egyptians won’t know it. I once had to define it for an Egyptian professor, much to her horror, and told her it means لقد جَعَلَ اللهُ منْهُ زُبًّا.

 

بِخّ

Meaning: boo!, and commonly used as peek-a-boo! With kids.

Origin: Coptic. I mainly wanted to include this word to point out that almost every Arab country and often even sub-regions has a different word for peek-a-boo. In Palestine I’ve heard بَقُّوْسِة, and in Lebanon دَقَّانِة. Children’s language, especially rhymes, tends to preserve ancient words.

 

كُشَرِي

Meaning: Kushari, that wonderful Egyptian street food consisting of noodles, rice, beans, lentils, fried onions, and sauce (and sometimes other random things depending on the region).

Origin: It’s actually from Hindi, from the word “kitchiri.” The meal is quite different in India and Pakistan, where it tends to consist of rice cooked in broth with some meat and a شوربة added on top. Kushari probably came to Egypt from India through the British during the 1800s. For the British soldiers, this would have been not only a tasty and cheap food, but also a safe food. The noodles that are added to it in Egypt are probably from an Italian influence.

 

عَرْص

Meaning: Pimp (commonly used as an insult)

Origin: Supposedly this was the name of an official position in the Egyptian Ministry of Interior during the English occupation. At that time, prostitution was legal, and the عَرْص was the police officer who was responsible for conducting patrols and ensuring that prostitutes had their licenses in order. It now is now commonly used as an insult in most Arab countries.

 

تَبْصِيْرَة

Meaning: snack

Origin: 100% Arabic – not all fun words have to come from another language. تَبْصِيرة is from the root صبر, meaning patience, because تصبيرة gives you the patience to wait for the main meal. Although this is entirely proper Arabic in its pronunciation and derivation, it is only used in Egyptian colloquial.

 

سَحْلَب

According to Oxford’s English dictionary, the English word sahlep is of Arabic origin, from خَصْيَتَيْ الثَعْلَب, meaning the fox’s testicles. It was actually the name of the orchid from which sahlep is made. The word ثعلب probably entered into the Levant area and what is now modern Turkey, where many languages don’t have a th sound and transform it into a t or s sound. Then along the way the ع became a ح (since the ح is simply the unvoiced form of the ع). The final “p” in English might be from the Turkish influence, where many voiced consonants, when they are the final letter of a word, become unvoiced. For instance, the word طالِب becomes Talip in Turkish.

 

حَمْرَن / اِسْتَحْمَر

Meaning: to act like a donkey / ass

Origin: 100% Arabic, from the word حمار (donkey). Although completely Arabic, and the derivation rules that they follow are also perfectly good Fusha, these words are only used in colloquials (حمرن being Lebanese, and استحمر being more Egyptian but broadly understood across the Arab countries).

 

مَرَدَ

Meaning: to be rebellious, recalcitrant.

This word, being Fusha, is actually from the shared Semitic root م ر د .The root may be tied to the name Nimrod (نمرود), known in the Bible for disobeying God and being oppressive. In the Levant dialects, the word تْنَمْرَد is used to mean to act like a tyrant (although in Egyptian, according to Badawi and Hinds’ dictionary, it means to make worldly wise).

 

بَنْشَر

Meaning: to puncture

Origin: Probably from the English puncture. In the Levant countries you can go to the بَنْشَرْجِي to get your tires repaired. Here you can see how the Turkish جِي is added to an English word to form a purely Arabic creation.

 

بُوْبْرَيْص

Meaning: common gecko

Origin: the phrase is probably from the folk belief that the gecko causes a skin disease (either vitiligo or leprosy, depending on who you ask). بوبْرَيْص is the Lebanese pronunciation of أبو بَرَص, the father of leprosy.

 

مَصَأري

Meaning: Money

Origin: This is the plural of the word مَصْرِيَّة. Under the Ottoman empire, the Levant area used the currency known as the عُثْمانِي. When the Empire was broken up after World War I, the عُثْمانِي was replaced by the Egyptian Guinea, الجنية المصرية, which was shortened to مصرية. The plural is now commonly used in the Levant countries to mean money, even though the currency is now the لِيْرة. On a few rare occasions one might still hear the singular used, but this is not common.

 

طز

Meaning: to fart

Origin: I don’t know the origin of the word, but the root طز is quite useful for referring to the ass or things that come out of it. طيز means ass (I still remember my wife’s Arabic teacher getting mad at her for using it instead of مؤخرة , which is the more polite word for the rear). طَزطَز means to do many farts. Across the Arab countries one can hear the phrase طُز في, often translated as “to hell with…” The word طَوْبَز, used in Lebanon, is probably also from this root. طوبز means to behind over so the ass is exposed, and can be used to mean to bend over and fart or to bend over and get shafted.

 

As obnoxious as I was with my word choices, I hope you do actually remember these words. Studying word origins shows the richness of the languages and the history that has developed them. Many Levant words are derived from or shared with Hebrew, Syriac, and Aramaic. Studying word origins also shows the linkages between the Arabic dialects and the strange divergences that occur between them (the brave amongst you can search for the root قلط in the Egyptian and Levantine dictionaries on the Living Arabic Project). Arabic, in its full complexity, is rich and deep, but only by exploring it will you really find it enjoyable.

This is a post about one of the most useful, common, and under-appreciated verbs in Levantine Arabic: طلع (‪le3 yéTla3). Perhaps because it is so difficult to pronounce (i and 3ayn and Taa2 all in one word!!!), and because it is little-used in MSA, I’ve encountered many people who would never even think to use it (in spite of taking colloquial lessons in Levantine-speaking countries) and even those people who do know it are only familiar with it in one or two of its most common uses. Its opposite, نزل (nézel byénzel) is also used in several related meanings, as are these two verbs’ form II causatives; we’ll cover all of them in this post. Although my examples, as usual, are pretty much exclusively Syrian/Lebanese, most of these senses are also used in many other dialects.

In a slightly drier but also useful sense, these verbs are really good case studies for various different features of colloquial and Arabic more generally. They have causatives which can basically be the causative equivalent of any of their meanings, and which, like causatives in Arabic in general, can mean ‘let’ or ‘make’ depending on context; a lot of these causatives don’t line up with specific verbs in English. They also have ‘nouns of instance’ (اسم مرة) which express the meaning of one specific instance of an action. Finally, they have participles which can be either continuous or express the ‘resultative state’ of the verb, depending on the meaning. They also have lots of useful idiomatic usages that are very very helpful to know. So all in all, very useful verbs.

Up, down, in, out

طلع’s most ‘basic’ meaning – if you can talk about words having a ‘basic’ meaning as opposed to their more idiomatic meanings – is to describe upward, or outward motion. This is a sense that lots of people are familiar with and a sense that also exists in MSA, where the two verbs َطَلَع and طلُعَ  (‘to go up’ and ‘to rise’, respectively), cover much of its meaning. طلع in this sense doesn’t have one exact equivalent in English, but covers several different verbs of motion in English.

طلع من البيت Téle3 mn ilbeet – he left the house, came out of the house
طلع الدرج Téle3 iddaraj –‭ he climbed the stairs, came up the stairs, went up the stairs
طلعت لفوق Tlé3@t lafoo2 – I went upstairs
الاركيلة ما عم بيطلع منها دخان ‭ilargiile maa 3am byéTla3 ménna dékhhaan – there’s no smoke coming out of the shisha pipe
الكلمة ما طلعت معو مزبوطة ilkélme maa Tél3et ma3o maZbuuTa – he pronounced the word wrong, it didn’t come out right
طلع بالتاكسي Téle3 bittaksi – he went by taxi, in a taxi (see ‘by camel’ in this video)
طلاع لبرا ولك! Tlaa3 labarra wlak! – get out!
ليش بضل صوتك طالع على أهلك؟  leesh biDall Sootak Taale3 3ala 2ahlak? why are you always shouting at your parents?

Its opposite, nizil, is used similarly for a range of English verbs of motion generally expressing coming and going down:

نزل الدرج –‭ nézel iddaraj –‭ he came down the stairs
في مي عم تنزل من الغسال ‭ fii moyy 3am ténzel mn ilghassaale –‭ there’s water coming out of the washing machine
نزلت من على ضهر الجمل nzél@t min 3ala Dahr ijjamal –‭ I got down off the camel’s back

The form II verbs can be used in the straightforward causative sense of ‘take/bring [something] up’, ‘take/bring [something] down’, ‘take something out’, ‘raise’, ‘lower’, ‘let out’:

طلع هدول لفوق Talli3 hadool lafoo2 – take these upstairs
نزلها للبرداية شواي nazzéla lalbérdaaye shwayy – lower the curtain a little bit
طلع الرصاصة من ايدي Talla3 lirSaaSa mén iidi – he got the bullet out of my hand
نزل المي من تحت الغسالة  nazzal ilmoyy mén ta7t ilghassaale – he made the water come out of the bottom of the washing machine

طالع, the form III verb, is also used as the causative of طلع (possibly not in all senses, but in many of them):

بابا طالعني من هون! baaba Taalé3ni min hoon! – Dad, let me out!
ولها الشي بيطالع الزبالة والقرف من تمه؟ w la hashshi biTaali3 lizbaale w il2araf min témmo? – And that’s why (= for this thing) he spits (= causes to come out) such vile things (= rubbish + disgusting stuff) from his mouth?

And طلّع من can also be used for ‘kick out’ or ‘fire’, in an extended sense of ‘made me leave’, forced me to leave:

بابا طلعني من الاوضة وشغل الاخبار baabaa Talla3ni mn ilooDa wshaghghal ilakhbaar – Dad kicked me out of the room and put the news on
طلعني ابو ياسر من الشغل عندو ‪Talla3ni abu yaasir mn ishshéghl 3éndo – Abu Yaasir fired me

Take me out

In a very related – almost synonymous – sense, طلع is used for going out, in the extended sense of going to do something, going to a restaurant, going out to have fun, etc etc. This is apparently not the case in Egyptian, where نزل is the usual verb in this sense.

انا طالع ana Taale3 –‭ I’m off, I’m leaving, I’m going out (in this sense, as a verb of motion, the participle is usually continuous, though it can also be resultative ‘Have gone out’ or near future ‘am about to go out’)
طلعت معه يوم الجمعة Tlé3@t ma3o yoom ijjém3a – I went out with him on Friday

Talla3 can also be used as the causative of this sense:

طلّعني! Tallé3ni! – take me out!

Even though نزل is not necessarily used to mean ‘go out’ in the specific sense of ‘going out to have fun’, it can still be used in a similar way:

نزلت كزدر ع بيروت nzél@t kazder 3a beeruut – I went [down] for a wander in Beirut

When is the new iPhone coming out?

Again relatedly, nizil is the verb used to mean ‘come out’ (and nazzal ‘release’) of new models of things:

ايمتى بدو ينزل الأيفون الجديد؟ eemta biddo yénzel il2aayfoon lejdiid? – when’s the new iPhone coming out?

The house of the rising sun

طلع is also the verb used for the sun coming up. But نزل is not used for ‘go down’ in this context, for some reason, only غاب:

طلعت الشمس Tél3et ishsham@s – the sun came up
غابت الشمس ghaabet ishsham@s – the sun went down

It’s getting hot in here

نزل can also be used for describing, for example, the temperature, rates, percentages, numbers – ‘go up’ and ‘go down’:

نزلت درجة الحرارة nézlet darjet il7araara – the temperature’s gone down
نزلت حرارته؟ nézlet 7araarto? – has his temperature gone down?
نزلت نسبة الجوعانين بالعالم zlet nésbet ijjoo3aaniin bil3aalam –‭ the number of starving people in the world has gone down

طلع can be used as its opposite (though I think ارتفع is more common):

طلعت حرارتي ولله Tél3et 7araarti waLLa  my temperature’s gone up!
طلعت نسبة الجوعانين بالدنيا؟ Tél3et nésbet ijjoo3aaniin biddénye? –‭ has the number of starving people in the world risen?

Stop the world, I want to get on (or off)

In a similar and related sense, طلع and نزل are the usual words used for getting in and out of vehicles, including cars, boats, and planes:

طلع بالتاكسي –‭ Téle3 bittaksi – he got into the taxi (this same sentence could also mean ‘he went by taxi’, see above)
نزل من التاكسي –‭ nézel mn ittaksi –‭ he got out of the taxi

Their causative equivalents, Talla3 and nazzal, can be used in the sense of ‘pick up’ (‘let in’) and ‘drop off’ (‘let out’):

رجعنا على محل ما طلعتنا rajjé3na 3ala ma7all ma Talla3tna – take us back to the place you picked us up
نزّلني عندك –‭ nazzélni 3éndak –‭ drop me off here (3éndak here = literally ‘by you’, i.e. where you are now)

Rumours by Fleetwood Mac

طلع can also be used for a rumour or a story to mean ‘start’, ‘spread around’:

طلعت اشاعة انه مات Tél3et 2ishaa3a inno maat –‭ a rumour started that he’d died

Talla3 3ala is then predictably used for the causative, starting rumours about people:

طلع علي قصص Talla3 3aleyyi 2éSaS – he’s been starting rumours about me

So I said to the captain, please bring me my wine

 نزّل can be used in the quite specific sense of a waiter bringing things to a table – drinks, food etc:

نزللنا كاس حبيب nazzéllna kaas 7abiib –‭ bro, bring us a glass (of e.g. whisky)

Download (Upload) Festival

نزّل is also used for uploading, downloading, and – in a presumably related sense – posting on Facebook and related things:

نزللك بوست nazzallak boost –‭ he put a post [on your Facebook wall]
نزلت الغنية الجديدة لهيفا شي؟ nazzalt ilghanniyye lijdiide la-Heefa shi? –‭ Have you downloaded the newest Haifa Wehbe song?

Mum I’m on the TV!!!!

Returning to form I, طلع can also mean ‘appear’, especially when talking about, for example, TV, or photos:

طلع بالتلفيزيون Téle3 bittelevizyoon – he appeared on TV
هو هلأ طالع بالتلفيزيون huwwe halla2 Taale3 bittelevizyoon – he’s on TV now
لا هيك انا مو طالع بالصورة la2 heek ana muu Taale3 biSSuura –‭ no, that way you can’t see me in the picture!

He turned out to be an idiot

طلع can also mean ‘turn out to be’ or ‘turn out to look’ or ‘seem’ or a number of related meanings:

طالعة كتير حلوة اليوم Taal3a ktiir 7élwe lyoom – you look really pretty today (I guess this participle is resultative – ‘you have turned out very pretty’)
طلعت كتير حلو بالصورة Tlé3t @ktiir 7élw biSSuura –‭ you look really good in the picture!
طلع الزلمة حرامي Téle3 izzalame 7araami – the guy turned out to be a thief
حطيت ايدي بجيبتي وطلع معي ميت ليرة بس ‭ 7aTTeet iidi bjeebti w Téle3 ma3i miit leera bass – I put my hand in my pocket and it turned out I only had a hundred lira

Its causative can be used, similarly, to mean ‘make me turn out to be’, ‘make me look like’:

 ليش بتضلك تطلعني كذاب مع بيك؟ leesh bitDallak tTallé3ni kazzaab ma3 beyyak? – why do you keep making me lie/look like a liar to your dad?

I won the lottery!

In a similar usage, it is used to describe the results of dice throws, or the lottery:

طلعلي خمسة Tlé3li khamse – I got a five
طلعلو ميت مليون ليرة باليانصيب Tlé3lo miit milyoon leera bilyaanaSiib –‭ he won 100,000,000 lira in the lottery

I take after my grandfather

In a related sense, it’s used to ask who a child is more like (out of their parents):

لمين طالع؟ la miin Taale3? – who does he take after?

What do I get out of it?

In another related sense, طلع لـ can be used to express what you get out of something, or how much you’re earning (I guess this is pretty identical to the lottery thing):

بيطلعلي ميتين دولار بالشهر byiTla3li miiteen doolaar bishshahr –‭ I earn/get twenty dollars a month
ما بيطلعلي من القصة شي؟ maa byéTla3li mn il2éSSa shi? – don’t I get anything out of it?

It can be used metaphorically as well in a sense which is basically synonymous with بيحقّلي bi7a22illi ‘be my right’:

واذا اشتكيت؟ ما بيطلعلي؟  w iza shtakeet? Maa byéTla3li? – so what if I complain? Don’t I deserve to?

The causative has the sense of ‘earn’ or ‘get your hands on’ some money:

طز بها الكام ألف ليرة بدك تطلعيلنا ياهن Tézz b-ha-lkaam alf leera béddik tTall3iilna yaahon –‭ screw this few thousand lira you want to earn for us
 اكيد ابوك الله يرحمه كان يطالع براني كتير bass akiid abuuk aLLa yar7amo kaan yTaale3 barraani ktiir –‭ but of course your father, God rest his soul, must have earned money outside a lot

All together, it’s…

In yet another related meaning, it can express the total of things all added together, or how much a price has ‘come to’:

قديش طلع ع العداد؟ ‭ 2addeesh Téle3 3a l3addaad? –‭ How much is it on the meter?
قديش طلعو مع بعض؟ ‭ 2addeesh Tél3u ma3 ba3D? –‭ how much are they all together?

It’s out of my hands

It’s also used in a number of expressions to do with not being able to do anything:

ما عم بيطلع معي شي ma 3am byiTla3 ma3i shi – I can’t do anything

This is also a somewhat direct euphemism for erectile dysfunction. Similar to this expression are the (perhaps quite Syrian):

ما بيطلع بايدي maa byéTla3 bi2iidi – I can’t do it

ما طالع بايدي شي maa Taale3 bi2iidi shi – it’s out of my hands, I can’t do anything about it

And the simple (although not طلع-related):

مو بايدي mu bi2iidi – I can’t help it, it’s out of my hands

My temper’s all up

There’s also these exciting expressions to do with being sick of things:

طلع خلئي عليا ‪Téle3 khil2i 3aleyya – I lost my temper with her
بتعرف انه الواحد احيانا ممكن يطلع خلقه bta3ref énno ilwaa7ed a7yaanan mumken yéTla3 khél2o – you know that sometimes, a person can lose their temper…
ولله طالع خلئي انا waLLaahi Taale3 khél2i ana – I’m really annoyed!
طلعت عيوني منو Tél3it 3ayuuni ménno – I’m fed up with it, I’ve given up
طلعت روحي وأنا عم اسأل Talla3t roo7i wana 3am és2al –‭ I’ve worn myself out asking, I’ve tried my hardest

The former can also be made into a causative, of course:

طلعلي خلقي ع الزلمة  Talla3li khél2i 3azzalame – he made me lose my temper with the guy

On the up-and-down

ع الطالعة والنازلة means ‘all the time’, ‘constantly’. طالع نازل can also be used as an adjective with a similar meaning:

حاج تحكي كلام طالع نازل ع البنت lak 7aaj té7ki kalaam Taale3 naazel 3a lbin@t –‭ stop saying these [horrible] things about the girl all the time!

Ups and downs, rises and falls

Finally, the اسم مرةs of طلع and نزل – which are طَلعة Tal3a and نَزلة nazle – are used for hills and dips:

في قدامنا نزلة fii 2éddaamna nazle –‭ there’s a dip ahead of us (or a descent, a place where we’ll have to go down)

نزلة is also used for an exit from the motorway – presumably where you go down off it.

طلعة and نزلة are also, in their more normal roles as اسم مرةs, used to mean one instance of doing something:

بلا نزلتك ع الساحة بنص الليل! bala naz@ltak 3a ssaa7a bi néSS illeel! –‭ forget about going down to the square in the middle of the night!/there’s no way you’re going downstairs in the middle of the night!

I’m going to posit that بتاع – ‘thingy, thingamajig, whatever’ – is one of the most important words in Egyptian Arabic. It has several flexible grammatical uses and is thrown around constantly; the word is especially important for Arabic learners because you can expand your vocabulary tenfold by just replacing words you don’t know with this convenient linguistic evasion. Yes, it is a cop out, but whatthefuckever! Egyptians use it copiously anyways and you’ll fit right in. Anyways. How it works:

 

The word بتاع can be used both as a noun, and as a particle.

As a noun, بتاع replaces the name of an object you’re too lazy to remember the name of; hence, ‘thingy.’

[pointing to something]: هات البتاع دا – Give me the thingamajig.

هاخلص البتاع واجيلك – I’m going to finish the thing and come to you.

جربت بتاع التكيلا مبارح؟ – Did you try the tequila thingy yesterday?

انا هنجوفر فشخ عشان البتاع دا – I’m super fucking hungover because of that thing. (note: if anyone knows a word for hangover in colloquial Arabic other than the English, get at me. I am so curious.)

 

As a particle, بتاع \ بتاعة expresses ownership. The gender of بتاع matches the gender of the object being described, and you stick the pronoun indicating who the object belongs to onto the end of the word, much as you would with عند.

الموبايل دا بتاع ابو شنب دا ولا بتاع مين؟ – Does this phone belong to that guy with the moustache, or who?

.الشنطة دي بتاعتي, شكرا – This bag is mine, thank you.

 

In a more abstract sense, you can use بتاع to express a person’s inclinations or something they do often. For example:

الراجل بتاع النظافة- The cleaning guy

 

It can also be used as a filler word meaning something close to ‘whatever/and so on’:

قالتلي انا مش عايزة اضيقك وبتاع – She said, ‘I don’t want to upset you,’ and whatever…

A synonym for this would be مش عارف ايه, which is often combined with بتاع in a series like so:

قالي النهارده لازم تنظف الاوضة وتلم الزبالة ومش عارف ايه وبتاع – He told me today, you need to clean the room, pick up the trash, yada yada yada…

 

Finally, بتاع can also be a euphemism for a penis (just like ‘thingy’ in English – epiphany ooooooh ahhhhh!) and thus طلّع البتاع = to whip it out.

And please, dear reader, don’t ever say the above out loud in real life – it’s just kind of an FYI thing. Although I genuinely hope you’re never in a situation where there is surprise whipping out involved and this expression comes up.

Both Levantine and Egyptian dialects are filled with phrases and idioms that reference food, and in some cases, the word used to describe a certain food item can have an entirely different meaning in other contexts. Because it is understandably confusing the first time you hear a person’s sleeping patterns compared to a dead, fermented fish, we’ve compiled some of the most common food words/phrases in both dialects here.

كوسة – kosa: Egyptian

You’ll probably recognize this word as describing a zucchini (or ‘courgette’ for our British friends), but in Egyptian dialect, kosa can also refer to useful personal connections (or وسطة – wasta) you have. In practical terms, if you have enough kosa/wasta at Mogamma El Tahrir, you can get yourself a longer visa extension or even avoid waiting in the stamp line entirely, saving yourself hours of misery in your own personal hell.

بتنجان – baatengan: Egyptian

بتنجان is the Egyptian version of باذنجان, the MSA word for eggplant. However, a baatengan can also mean a bullshit excuse or explanation. If you’re trying to convince your friend to skip an obligation for example, you could press them to come up with اي بتنجان (any old excuse) to get out of it.

عنب – ‘enab: Egyptian

This literally means ‘grapes,’ but my soccer (football?) coach always says it when I’m doing something right (which, unfortunately, is not very often).

زبيب – zabib: Egyptian

In the kitchen, a zabib is a raisin, but it is also the term used to describe the greyish blackish bump you find on some Muslims’ foreheads (apparently in English this is called a ‘prayer bump,’ which is a significantly lamer term, in my opinion). It is basically developed from lots of praying, but can also be a sign of insulin resistance, fun fact.

In Syria, this is rather more blandly called الطبعة السودا ‘the black imprint’. Cultivating it was apparently never as popular a fashion in Syria, though.

 

A man with a gnarly beard and zabib.

A man with a gnarly beard and zabib.

عوجا – ‪3ooja: Syrian

This is a pretty obscure kind of Levantine finger food which is apparently a kind of green almond (?) soaked in water. Some people pronounce it 3ooje (and probably spell it عوجة). Apparently along with kuusa (less often), Syrians use this to describe chaos or mess: الدنيا عوجا. This is probably related to the word a3waj ‘bent’ (whose feminine is 3ooja too), maybe from the plant that it grows on, I don’t know.

بطيخ baTTiikh: Syrian and Egyptian

Used to call someone an idiot in a way that isn’t swearing but is nonetheless kind of offensive: yaa baTTiikh! To be fair, watermelons don’t have particularly developed cognitive skills.

Relatedly, in Syria: لا… ولا بطيخة laa… wala baTTiikha ‘neither… nor a watermelon’ means ‘neither X nor anything else!’ For example, if somebody calls you his 7abiibti, you might respond laa 7abiibtak wala baTTiikha!

ما حدا بقول عن زيته عكر maa 7ada bi2uul 3an zeeto 3éker: Syrian

Literally ‘nobody says their olive oil isn’t pure!’ There are apparently lots of local variations, including maa 7ada bi2uul labano 7aamiD ‘nobody says their laban is sour’. This expression means something like ‘nobody says that stuff they’ve produced is bad’, and is usually used to demonstrate somebody’s honesty when they’re saying bad things about projects they were personally involved in – I believe what he’s saying, because nobody would say their own oil wasn’t pure unless it wasn’t!

مهبر méhber: Syrian

From la7@m habra ‘high quality (red) meat’ or ‘de-boned meat’. Someone who is méhber (maybe this means that he only eats red meat?) is rich.

بله وشراب ميته béllo w shraab mayyto: Syrian and Egyptian

In Egyptian, bellha wishrab mayyitha

‘Wet it and drink its water!’ There used to be an amazing video from an Egyptian talk show demonstrating exactly what this meant, but it seems to have been taken down. It means ‘forget about it’, ‘it doesn’t matter’ or – with the right context, I guess – ‘you can take that idea and stick it up your arse!’

(OK perhaps this one only marginally counts as food but whatever, billo wshraab mayyto imo)

خبز وملح khébz w mél@7: Syrian

‘Bread and salt’. Usually used in the expression في بيناتنا خبز وملح fii beenaatna khébz w mél@7 ‘there’s bread and salt between us’. This means that you owe the other guy some loyalty because you’ve eaten together! I guess this was originally a reference to hospitality norms, but now it often means ‘we’re friends’ or ‘we know one another’. I might’ve done you a favour, but don’t mention it – there’s bread and salt between us!

Hi everyone!

For today I’ve transcribed a scene from غدا نلتقي ghadan naltaqi, a Ramadan series from 2015 that follows a group of Syrians living in an abandoned building in Beirut. In it we see Abu Abdo – the excitable patriarch of a traditional working-class family – bombarding his wife and children with information and speculation about possible refugee destinations. If you were already following Team Maha back in 2016, you might remember this video. But I’ve re-transcribed it and uploaded it with optional Arabic subtitles so you can follow the words as they’re being spoken. I hope you enjoy it!

 

 

سمعتي يا ام عبدو؟ قال بالسويد عم يدفعو1500 دولار بالشهر للنفر
smi3ti yaa 2imm 3abdo? 2aal bissweed 3am yidfa3u 2alf w khames miit dolaar bishshaher linnafar
Did you hear that, Umm Abdo? Apparently in Sweden they’re paying 1500 dollars a month per person!

إم عبدو – it’s not uncommon to address your spouse with 2imm X or 2abu X (with X of course being the name of the oldest male child).

قال – probably the invariable usage here I discussed in this post, meaning ‘apparently’ (and not ‘he said’).

1500 – similar to the fuS7a way of reading this number, but note that the counting form of miyye ‘100’ is pronounced miit.

بالشهر – ‘per month’. بالـ bil- is the normal way of expressing ‘per’, with the definite article.

للنفر – ‘per individual’. Perhaps because this is a fuS7aism (نفر), he pronounces لـ with a li-, rather than la- as is more common.

هادا عدا العلاج
haada 3ada l3ilaaj
And that’s without mentioning the medical care!

هادا عدا – literally ‘this is not including’, ‘this is excepting’. هادا here serves a similar purpose to ‘that’ in the English translation: ‘these things I’ve just said/mentioned’.

يعني من قلع الضرس للقلب المفتوح لا سمح الله
ya3ni min 2al3 iDDares lal2alb ilmaftuu7 laa same7 2aLLaa
Everything’s covered. From tooth extractions to open heart surgery, God forbid!

من قلع الضرس للقلب المفتوح – ‘from tooth extraction to open heart [surgery]. Note it’s all definite where in English there is no article.

لا سمح الله – basically the same as its English translation (literally ‘let God not permit’) but used more frequently.

وهادا كلو غير البيت.
w haada killo gheer ilbeet!
And there’s the house, too!

وهادا كلو غير ‘and all this is except for’. Same sort of structure as above.

شو بيت؟ يا حبيبي! قولي قصر!
shuu beet? yaa 7abiibi! 2uuli 2aSer!
I say house, but my God! It’s more like a palace!

شو بيت؟ – you can put شو before almost anything to mean ‘what do you mean X’. Here, of course, the question is rhetorical.

يا حبيبي – an exclamation

قولي قصر – literally ‘say a palace’. The meaning here is something like ‘you should call it a palace’.

شفتو ع الموبايل! قصر! قصر العادة!
shifto 3almobaayl! 2aSer! 2aSr il3aade!
I saw it on the phone. It was a palace! A real palace!

قصر العادة – an 2iDaafe construction with il3aade gives a meaning a bit like ‘the proverbial X’ or ‘a veritable X’. This doesn’t seem to be an acceptable fuS7a construction but is probably linked to the Turkish adeta.

شلون الفيلا تبع أبو عماد بزمانو؟ متلها تمام
shloon ilvilla taba3 2abu 3imaad bi-zamaano? mitla tamaam
Do you remember Abu Imad’s mansion back in the day? Exactly like that!

شلون… متلها – this sort of question-like structure (and note that his intonation is not a normal question intonation) is very common, as are similar structures with وين ween ‘where’ when saying where something is. The point is just to introduce a comparison.

الفيلا تبع أبو عماد- taba3 stands in for a normal 2iDaafe here, perhaps because فيلا is a loanword. A فيلا is not quite the same as a villa. It refers to a big and luxurious house of a kind common in lots of Arabic-speaking countries.

تمام – ‘exactly’ this could also be تماما tamaaman. 

لك انت مفكر حالك إنو شو هي طنجرة شو هاي طنجرة ألومينوعم تنضفها؟ ها؟
lak 2inte mfakker 7aalak 2inno shuu hayy Tanjart 2alumiino 3am itnaDDifha? haa?
You think that’s an aluminium pan you’re scrubbing away at there? Eh?

لك – this is a (sometimes aggressive) ‘attention grabber’. It doesn’t change for gender, and suggests that what you’re about to say has some dramatic or urgent character to it. Here Abu Abdo (until now so keen on his subject that he hasn’t even noticed) is about to point out to his son that he’s been scrubbing away at his hand.

مفكر حالك إنو شو هاي طنجرة ألومينو عم تنضفها؟ – the syntax here is a bit complicated and involves a lot of ‘scrambling‘ (moving elements around for emphasis and other purposes). The basic sentences are مفكر حالك عم تنضف طنجرة ألومينو ‘do you think you’re washing up an aluminium pan?’ or شو هاي طنجرة ألومينو عم تنضفها؟ – ‘what, is this an aluminium pan you’re washing?’

مفكر حالك – literally ‘you think yourself’. This can be followed by a noun, an adjective or a full verbal sentence: ‘Do you think that you’re…’ Other examples include مين مفكر حالك؟ ‘who do you think you are?’ and مفكر حالك بسويسرا؟ ‘do you think you’re in Switzerland?’

طنجرة ألومينو – an aluminium pan. Note that the 2iDaafe is used to express the material.

روح هيك لشوف
ruu7 heek la-shuuf!
Get out of here!

We saw لشوف in our last video.

المشكلة بالسويد إنو ما بيعطوكي الجنسية لتعرفي تحكي سويدي
ilmishikle bissweed 2inno maa bya3Tuuki jjinsiyye la-ta3irfi ti7ki sweedi.
The problem with Sweden is that they don’t give you citizenship until you can speak Swedish.

المشكلة بـ – ‘the problem with’

ما بيعطوكي – note that even though the meaning of ‘you’ here is generic (i.e. = ‘one’) it still agrees with the addressee.

تحكي سويدي – note that this is one of the verbs that takes an indefinite object where fuS7a would have a definite object instead.

والسويدي صعب, صعب كتير.
w issweedi Sa3eb, Sa3b iktiir.
And Swedish is hard, really hard.

يعني أصعب من الإنجليزي والفرنساوي.
ya3ni 2aS3ab mn il2ingliizi w ilifransaawi
Harder than English or French.

الفرنساوي- an alternative form to فرنسي faransi, derived regularly from فرنسا

يمكن لازم نروح على بريطانيا.
yimken laazem nruu7 3ala briTaanya
Maybe we should go to the UK.

نروح – you might be able to hear that he pronounces this more like rruu7. This sort of assimilation of n- to l- or r- is quite common.

ع أساس انت بلبل بالإنجليزي أبي!
3a 2asaas 2inte bilbol bil2ingliizi 2abi!
Because your English is fluent, eh dad?

ع أساس – a variant of على أساس, literally ‘on the basis [that]’. This is used to signal that what follows is an obviously untruthful claim or assumption by the other person: عأساس ما بتعرف ‘as if you don’t know!’ He’s obviously (rudely) pointing out that his dad is as incapable of speaking English as he is of speaking Swedish.

بلبل بـ a nice and common idiomatic way of saying ‘fluent in’. Literally ‘a nightingale in’.

إخرس ولا! اخرس يا كلب
2ikhras wla! 2ikhras ya kalb!
Shut your mouth! Shut it, you bastard!

ولا – a rude or very familiar form of address

اخرس – or خراس – ‘shut up’. The second imperative is actually unclear (to me and to the native speakers I asked), but this was our best collective guess. If you can work out what it is, please tell me!

يا كلب – ‘you dog’. Very rude.

يلعنك
yil3anak
Damned kid.

يلعنك – literally ‘may He damn you’. A slightly folksy curse.

ولك خففولنا ع الطبل والزمر بقى
wlak khaffifuu-lna 3aTTabel w izzamer ba2a!
Turn that racket down already!

خففولنا ع – ‘go lighter for us on’

الطبل والزمر – literally ‘drumming and piping’, a common collocation referring to noise, racket, etc.

العمى, كإنو قاعدين على طريق الغوطة!
l3ama! ka2inno 2aa3diin 3ala Tarii2 ilghuuTa!
Bloody hell! You’d think we were on the road to Ghouta!

لعمى – ‘blindness’, a common exclamation.

كإنو قاعدين – literally ‘[it’s] as if we’re sitting’ on the road to Ghouta, a common picnic spot.

قلتيلي هاي وردة شو بتشتغل؟
2iltiili haay warde shuu btishtighel?
What did you say Wardeh’s job was?

Literally ‘you told me this Wardeh what does she work [as]?’

سكرتيرة بمول
sekrateera b-mool.
She’s a secretary at a mall.

سكرتيرة؟
sekrateera?
A secretary?

Abu Abdo is implying, with his body language and his tone, that Wardeh is actually a (nightclub) dancer and is hiding this fact by claiming she’s a ‘secretary’.

That’s all for now. If you want to watch the rest of the show, all of the episodes are available on YouTube!

Continuing in the spirit of Chris’ last post, here is another joke — which is in pretty bad taste, I might add — about engagement/marriage from the Internet. It’s not as full of useful vocabulary as the last one, but it is certainly amusing:

انا جاي اطلب ايد بنتك يا حج
بس يابنى دى لسا بالمدرسة
خلاص اجى بالليل تكون جت

I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand, Hagg.
Son, she’s still in school!
Alright, I’ll come back at night when she’s here.

حج – Check here for an explanation of this title.
جاي – Remember our dear friend ism fa3el? This formation more literally means ‘I am a comer’ and is made feminine by adding a ta marbuta (أنا جاية).
دي – In reference to the daughter.
يابني – ya + ibny, but in terms of pronunciation, the phrase usually gets smushed together into something that sounds more like ‘yabny.’
لسا – We covered this useful little word here a while back (scroll about halfway down).
خلاص – Can mean 8,000 different things, ranging from ‘That’s enough!’ to ‘Okay!’ to a very reluctant and angry ‘FINE!’. If you don’t know this word yet, or its accompanying hand motions, you’re doing it wrong.
تكون جت – More precisely she will have come back’ – despite the lack of a ه to indicate the future, given the context of the sentence, this is Egyptian colloquial’s version of the future perfect tense.
~Insert intellectual comment about the phenomenon of child marriage in Egypt here~

The other day I stumbled upon a commercial so masterfully stuffed with euphemisms that I had to write about it on the internet. It’s about a guy named بدري (“Early”) who has an issue that affects both him and his ladyfriend. I’ve written out a transcription & translation of the commercial and discussed a few useful words in Egyptian Arabic at the end of the post so you all can have a productive laugh. Also, anyone with insight as to why a man appears on the back of the motorcycle in a fuzzy animal costume around 0:15 gets five gold stars.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01TKDMpYAwU

 

Transcription & Translation:

بصي يا فتحية انا لمعتلك المكنة, ومليت التنك, وهنتفسح النهارده طول اليوم

Look Fatheya, I polished the machine for you and filled the tank, so we’re going to go out and have fun all day!

!يااااا دا انا من زمان نفسي اتفسح

Wow, I’ve wanted to go out and have fun for a long time!

وأنا كمان. يلا اركبي يلا يلا

Me too! Come on, get on, come on come on!

انت على طول كدا مستعجل…يا بدري هو انا لحقت اركب؟؟

You’re always in such a hurry…Badry, did I even get on?!

ولا يهمك, الحل في الهرم

It’s alright! The solution is Haram.

مع الهرم, بدري بطل يجي بدري

With Haram, Badry stopped coming early. (Literally. This is literally what the video says.)

استشر طبيب أو صيدلي على الدواء المخصص لعلاج سرعة القذف

Consult a doctor or pharmacist on medicine specialized for treating early ejaculation.

 

Useful words:

لمّع – The word يلمع, without the shadda, means ‘to shine.’ So the causative form II used in the video means ‘to make shine’ or polish. Hence لمعتلك المكنة = I made the machine shine for you.

يتفسح – This word is often used to talk about travelling and generally being out and about and having fun. Someone out there might have a better English translation for this word than the one I used, but I don’t think it really has a one word equivalent in English.

ياااا — An extended يااااااااا is often used to express surprise in Egyptian. Alternatively: يووووووووووو, always said with the same down-up-down intonation.

نفسي –This is a stronger way to say ‘I want’ than عايز, usually meaning something closer to ‘I desire’ or ‘I’ve always wanted to…’

لحق –This is a verb used most often in the context of ‘making’ a train or bus, for example. So هتعرف تلحق would mean, ‘Will you be able to make it?’ Here Fatheya is saying she didn’t get the chance to get on…if you know what I mean (insert winky face here).

يركب — Literally means ‘to ride’ and used to describe getting in a car, the metro, or a bus: ركبنا المترو مش تكس = We rode the metro, not a taxi.

ولا يهمك is what you usually say when someone accidentally bumps into you and apologizes.

Watching TV in Arabic is a fantastic way to get more listening practice and generally improve your vocabulary and comprehension, and I highly suggest all Arabic learners do this during their down time whenever possible. But when you get sick of that, or when there’s nothing to watch except Saudi men practicing falconry and Amr Adeeb flailing his arms about / having his weekly heart attack on air, you’ll inevitably find yourself flipping over to an English language movie. And I’m here to tell you how to make this experience quadruple the fun: pay attention to the subtitles.

This guy.

This guy. Amirite?

There are two things you’ll notice watching foreign films, especially those shown by MBC, which happens to be Saudi-owned: very obviously censored kissing scenes and highly suspect translations. In reality most channels have their own issues in this regard, like Mazzika, which made the questionable (yet also fantastic) decision to provide lyrics translations for all the music videos it shows–in Ke$ha’s Timber (خشب) “It’s going down,” is translated انها سوف تسقط while Alicia Keys’ This girl is on fire becomes هذه الفتاة متحمسة جدا (lit. ‘This girl is very excited.’) The salacious line ‘She say she love my lolly’ from Maejor Ali’s Lolly video is rendered simply انها تحبني كثيرا (lit. ‘She loves me very much’). In short, you have stumbled upon a pure gold mine of Fusha fails.

In terms of MBC subtitling, the sentence ‘He’s gay’ is consistently translated to انه غريب الاطوار (roughly ‘He’s whimsical/eccentric’) despite the fact that a word (مثلي) does, in fact, exist to express this concept in Modern Standard Arabic. The word girlfriend is expressed through the flat صديقة while “Wanna make out?” is butchered into هل تريدين الاستمتاع؟ (lit. ‘Do you want to enjoy?’), which, let’s be real, sounds way more sexual than the original.

And the colorful spectrum of English swears–every single permutation of inappropriate speech you could think of–is reduced to one of two options: تبا لك (screw you) and اللعنة عليك (‘damn you.’ Google translate also purports this to mean ‘by gosh!’).

In this way, taking care to read the subtitles while consuming foreign media in Egypt becomes an exercise in critiquing translations of cultural concepts that are fraught with controversy (romantic relationships before marriage, sexuality, even swearing). Fusha, in my opinion, will never be capable of accurately transmitting the gist of colloquial speech in any language, a sampling of its failings detailed above. Instead of carrying out its intended purpose–actually, you know, translating the text–the use of Modern Standard Arabic to subtitle foreign films and music ends up providing another unintentional layer of entertainment on top of your regularly scheduled program. And I guess that may not be such a terrible thing after all.

 

ضحك علي

“da7ak alaya”

This phrase literally means “he laughed at me” but in practice translates roughly to “he screwed me over,” as in I was charged too much money for something. One of the most apt phrases I have personally encountered on my Arabic journey–you KNOW that guy let out an extended cackle of sweet satisfaction as your sorry khawaga ass trudged away out of sight.