"Jun-ho says there's a reinforced closet in 911. His wife built it. He says… he says 'tell the firefighter with the sad eyes to check behind the fallen wardrobe.'"
Shahd didn't respond. May knew why. His partner, Rami, had died behind a fallen wardrobe three years ago. The same fire that gave Shahd the sad eyes.
"May, it's Shahd. I need you."
One evening, Sarang drew a picture: three stick figures under a rainbow, with a phone floating above them. On the receiver, she'd written in clumsy Arabic and Korean: "Love 911 – May Syma 1" — her way of saying "the first time May Syma answered the call that brought us all together." shahd fylm Love 911 mtrjm awn layn may syma - may syma 1
Finally, in the hospital cafeteria at 3 AM, he sat across from her.
Then: "I see her. May, I see her. She's breathing. Tell Jun-ho she's breathing."
"Left wall buckling," Shahd's voice crackled. "Jun-ho says there's a reinforced closet in 911
And that was the best translation of love she'd ever known.
May set down her pen. For the first time in three years, she didn't need to translate. She simply reached across the table and took his bandaged hand.
He looked up. "Like 'I'm sorry I pushed you away after Rami died.' Like 'I see his face every time I pull someone from a collapsed room.' Like 'I never stopped loving you, May Syma.'" May knew why
"Then don't waste time translating," May whispered. "Go. I'll stay on comms." The next seventeen minutes were the longest of May's life. She crouched inside the mobile command unit, headset clamped over her ears, translating every crack of the building, every sob from Jun-ho, every order Shahd gave his team.
"He's not asking for love. He's saying… 'Love, 911. The girl is still in room 911.' There's a child. He's been calling her 'Love'—his daughter's nickname."
"Then let me translate this," she said softly. "You're still alive. So am I. And Sarang is safe. That's the only language that matters now." Six months later, May and Shahd stood in a small apartment that smelled of jasmine and Korean rice cakes—Sarang's favorite. Jun-ho had gotten a work visa. The little girl was learning Arabic, calling May "Ammah May" and Shahd "Baba Shahd."
May relayed the words. Jun-ho wept. And somewhere in the rubble, Shahd wrapped a small, unconscious girl in a thermal blanket and carried her down a ladder that groaned like a dying animal. At the hospital, May stayed for twelve hours. She translated between doctors and Jun-ho, between social workers and the girl—whose name was truly Sarang, "Love." She translated Shahd's report to the incident commander. She even translated the silent language between Shahd and herself: the way he wouldn't meet her eyes, the way she clenched her pen when he walked past.