I was seventeen when I met Samir, and I was old enough to think I had very little to offer anyone. That summer, my school in north inner-city Dublin asked for volunteers to help at a small English club in the Ilac Centre Library. I signed up because my mother said it would look good on a college application, and because I was tired of sitting in my room pretending I was too busy to be lonely.
Samir arrived on the second Tuesday in a red jacket much too warm for July. He was eight, from Syria, and living with his mother and little sister in temporary accommodation near the city centre. He held a pencil like it might bite him. When I said hello, he stared at the floor. When I asked his name, his mother answered for him, softly, as if apologising for taking up space.
The first few sessions were difficult. I had imagined teaching English would mean flashcards, smiles, and quick progress. Instead, Samir would sit beside me in silence, pushing the same worksheet back and forth. He knew some words, but he seemed afraid of using them. If he made a mistake, his shoulders rose to his ears. I remembered that feeling from Irish class, the hot embarrassment of being wrong in front of people, and I realised he was not being rude. He was protecting himself.
So I stopped treating it like a lesson. I brought a football magazine from home and pointed at pictures. Goal. Boot. Grass. Rain. He liked the word rain, probably because it was everywhere in Dublin and needed no translation. We walked one afternoon to Moore Street with his mother’s permission and named things from the stalls: apple, bag, fish, flower. A woman selling strawberries heard him whisper the word red and handed him one for free. He looked at me as if Dublin had performed a magic trick.
After that, he began to try. Not loudly, not all at once, but in small brave pieces. He learned bus, library, please, sorry, tomorrow. He confused sheep and ship, which made us both laugh so hard the librarian gave us the look. I taught him that grand in Ireland could mean fine, okay, or sometimes not very grand at all. He taught me to count to ten in Arabic, and when I got the sounds wrong, he laughed without covering his mouth. That was the first time I saw him look like a child instead of a small person carrying adult worry.
One wet Thursday, we were meant to practise introductions. I had written simple lines on a page: My name is. I am from. I like. Samir read them slowly, then stopped at the last one. I like. He tapped the pencil against the table. I thought he did not know the word he wanted, so I offered football, sweets, cartoons. He shook his head. Finally, he wrote in careful crooked letters: I like here.
I did not know what to say to that. I was a teenager who complained about the Luas, homework, and the price of chips. He was an eight-year-old boy trying to build a life out of borrowed words. I remember looking out at the grey roofs beyond the library window and feeling ashamed, but not in a crushing way. More like a door opening inside me. I had thought empathy was feeling sorry for someone. Samir showed me it was paying attention long enough to understand what they were trying to say.
At the end of the summer, the library held a small gathering for the children. Nothing fancy, just biscuits, orange juice, and certificates printed on stiff paper. Samir was asked if he wanted to read one sentence aloud. His mother immediately shook her head, afraid for him, but he stood up. His red jacket was gone by then; he
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