Maalish: The Word That Changed Everything

The Patient Everyone Warned Me About

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him give me a slow head-to-toe scan like he was calculating the odds of me surviving a week on the unit.

His face said no-nonsense, but my brain interpreted it as: Another new nurse? Let’s see how long this one lasts. I turned my back quickly so he wouldn’t see me visibly gulp.

I didn’t know him, not really. But I knew of him. He was the guy nurses prepped you for like a final exam.

“Just give Mr. M his meds and leave. Don’t expect small talk. And if he opens his mouth, it’s usually to bite. Possibly rabid.”

Someone added he didn’t like newbies. Great. That’s me. The fresh meat.

When Everything Went Sideways (Literally)

I put on my best “I’m not intimidated by you” smile and said, “Good morning, Mr. M. Here’s your medicine.” I placed the pill and a little cup of water on his table like I was disarming a bomb.

He looked at the cup. Then at me. No words.

So far, no explosions. Back away slowly, I told myself. I turned—and then heard the dreaded sound of water splashing.

I’d knocked over the cup.

Classic, Len!

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I muttered, scrambling for paper towels like they were defibrillator pads.

He started wiping his pants while I dropped to the floor, cleaning up as if my job depended on it. Maybe it did.

And then—without thinking—I blurted, “Maalish.”

Again: “Maalish.”

My brain was in panic mode. My mouth reached for an old reflex.

The Moment That Changed Everything

Mr. M froze mid-wipe. His frown shifted to puzzlement. He stared at me like I’d just spoken in Morse code.

“Bti’raf Arabi?” he asked. Do you know Arabic?

I blinked, frozen. My brain whirred, trying to catch up to what just happened.

He tried again.

“Malum Arabic?” — switching from proper Arabic to the version used by non-native Arabic-speaking workers, including many hospital staff. A kind of workplace dialect.

I nodded—slowly, cautiously.

“Swayya,” I answered automatically. A little.

He smiled.

Wait. What?

Then it finally clicked—my panicked brain somehow unearthed, deep from my memory, an Arabic word I hadn’t said in a long time.

Maalish. Sorry.

I was apologizing to the patient in Arabic! My subconscious had dug deep.

Slowly, my head nodded, and I smiled. Aiwa. Yes.

And just like that, the man who had terrified half the staff broke into a grin.

He launched into rapid-fire Arabic. I caught “kwayyis” and “enti zain,” but the rest was pure wind tunnel.

“Shway, shway, baba. Ana malum shwayya Arabic,” I said, hands up like I was surrendering to a lovely storm.

He laughed. Laughed!

We talked. He asked about the places I worked in the Middle East. I told him snippets of my journey.

He told me he’s Jordanian. He worked in Saudi Arabia for years before moving to the U.S.

His wet shirt forgotten, his cold reputation fading faster than a new grad’s confidence on day one.

All eyes turned to us. Coworkers stared as they walked by.

One nurse almost tripped over the cord of the BP machine. Another staff member pretended to talk to the patient next to Mr. M, but could not hide the fact that she was eavesdropping.

The unit’s vibe shifted. Even the dialysis machines seemed to be quieter than usual, as if stunned.

Mr. M was, in fact, human.

Misunderstood, Not Difficult

That one word—maalish—broke through a barrier months of polite professionalism couldn’t touch.

Mr. M wasn’t rude or grumpy. He felt misunderstood. Trapped in a place where no one spoke his language, literally or otherwise.

We hadn’t met him with curiosity—we met him with assumptions.

But the moment he heard his language, the walls came down.

From that day on, our sessions changed. He joked, asked questions, and even made fun of my Arabic accent. I let him.

From Language Barriers to Real Connection

Healthcare settings are wild. You’ll hear English, sure—but also Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, Tagalog, Bengali, Russian, and many other languages.

It’s like someone mashed all the world’s airports into one place.

Most of the time, I nod like I understand everything until context catches up. In truth, I don’t understand half (maybe more than half) of what some patients are saying in their own language.

Sometimes I mixed them up, too. I caught myself more than once saying “aiwa, baba” while speaking to a Spanish-speaking patient, instead of saying “sí, papi.”

Working in the Middle East taught me something I didn’t know I needed: you don’t need fluency to create magic—just effort and a questionable accent.

One clumsy word—maalish, gracias, salamat—can cut through tension better than IV Tylenol.

It says, “I see you.” Even if you butcher it with your pronunciation.

After that day, I started collecting phrases like Pokémon. (Gotta catch them all, eh Nash?)

Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But intentionally.

That changed more than just the patient.
It changed the shift.
It changed me.

I was no longer just administering care—I was giving it. With subtitles.

When the Barrier Became the Bridge

Mr. M became one of my favorites. Not because he was easy, but because he reminded me why I chose this job in the first place.

We had our routine. He’d teach me one Arabic word a day. I’d butcher it. He’d laugh. Then he’d correct me like a schoolteacher with infinite patience.

Soon, I was “the nurse who speaks shwayya Arabic.” Word travels fast in healthcare settings—especially among patients.

What started as a spilled cup became a ripple effect. Other patients opened up. That one word became a doorway for better communication.

I found myself connecting more with others as well, like Spanish-speaking patients, using simple phrases like ¿Cómo está? and gracias.

It wasn’t perfect, but it made a difference.It made things warmer, easier, and more human.

The Medicine Isn’t Always in the Pill Cup

Mr. M taught me something that day: sometimes, healing doesn’t start in the treatment method—it starts in the voice.

Not all the time. Not for every patient. But every once in a while, the medicine they need most is to be recognized as human.

I didn’t do anything revolutionary that day. I did not solve world peace or get a standing ovation in a TED Talk.

I spilled water and panicked. My Arabic was duct-taped together, my good intentions overshadowed my laughable pronunciation.

But the message got through:

You matter — you’re not invisible — you’re not alone.

Your Turn

You don’t need a spilled cup of water to make a connection. Just start small. Try this:

• Think of one language you hear often at work.
  
• Learn two basic phrases: hello and thank you.
  
• Use them—awkwardly, bravely, sincerely.
  

You’re not expected to be fluent. Just human. That’s enough.

And who knows? Your next connection might start the same way—with one familiar word, said at the right moment—your very own maalish.

Want to learn Arabic phrases you can actually use at work? Or laugh at the time a nurse told someone he (the nurse) had no brain?
👉 Click here for phrases and that story.