I was sixteen the summer I met Sami, and I thought empathy was mostly a word adults used when they wanted teenagers to stop being selfish. I lived in Cabra, took the bus into town for school, and spent most evenings pretending to study while actually watching videos on my phone. My mother worked long shifts near the Mater, and she had a way of making small kindnesses sound like chores. One Thursday, she told me the library in Ballymun needed volunteers for a children’s reading hour. “You’re good with English,” she said. “Go be useful.” I went mostly because arguing with her took more energy.
The first day, the room smelled of crayons and wet coats. There were little tables, picture books, and children from everywhere, including a few families who had arrived in Ireland after leaving places I only knew from the news. Sami was eight, from Syria, though he told me that much weeks later. At first he told me nothing. He sat with his hood up, both hands tucked inside his sleeves, staring at a book about animals as if the pages might trick him. His mother stood near the door, smiling too much, the way people smile when they are afraid of being a burden.
I tried the usual things. “Hello.” No answer. “My name is Aoife.” Nothing. I pointed at a picture of a dog and said, “Dog.” He looked at me, then looked away. I felt awkward and useless. Around us, other children were shouting colours and days of the week. Sami stayed silent. After twenty minutes, I wanted to disappear into the shelves. Then I noticed the small football keyring on his schoolbag, scratched and blue. I pointed to it and said, “Ball.” He glanced down. I mimed kicking. He almost smiled. Almost.
The next week I brought a soft foam football from home. We sat on the carpet and passed it back and forth, whispering one word each time. “Ball.” Pass. “Foot.” Pass. “Goal.” Pass. He repeated the words like they were pebbles in his mouth, heavy at first, then smoother. By the end of the hour, he said “goal” loudly enough that a baby nearby started crying. Sami laughed then, sudden and bright, and I remember feeling as if someone had opened a window in the room.
We made a game after that. Every Thursday, I taught him words from ordinary Dublin life: bus, rain, chips, Luas, school, friend. He taught me Arabic words I pronounced terribly. He would cover his face laughing and shake his head, as if I was the one who needed saving. Sometimes we walked with his mother and my mother to the bus stop, and he would read signs aloud. “Ballymun.” “City Centre.” “No smoking.” He loved “no smoking” because he said it like a guard giving orders.
There was one evening in October when everything changed for me. The library had organised a little autumn event, nothing grand, just children reading a sentence or two for their families. Sami’s teacher had sent him with a page from a book about a fox. He had practised with me for three weeks. The sentence was simple: “The fox runs under the red leaves.” But on the day, when he stood at the front of the room and saw all the faces, his hands began to shake. His mother was sitting in the second row, twisting a tissue in her fingers. I could see Sami going back inside himself, back behind the hood, behind the silence.
I was not supposed to help. The librarian had said the children should try on their own. But I remembered being twelve and freezing during a school reading in Phibsborough, my throat closing while everyone waited. So I stood up from
Note: Please be aware that these are written in confidentiality and there is not reference or mention of any real people and their sentiments here. Every incident and Story tends to be emotional so please read at your own emotional risk. Website is not responsible for anything related. HumansofDublin.io is not related to the photography project HumansofDublin by Peter Varga
