Speaking in tongues: the language her daughter speaks causes Reem
Haddad a good deal of soul-searching
Reem Haddad
I'm not sure how but I have managed to produce a daughter whose sentences
can only be understood by the Lebanese. For only they can understand the
bizarre mix of Arabic, French and English.
'Ana going aa' ecole,' (translation: I am going to school) declares
three-year-old Yasmine in the mornings.
My British husband often seeks me out to translate his child's sentences.
'I think I know what she's saying but I'm not sure,' he says, looking a
little ashamed. And so Yasmine repeats her mixed-up sentences and I
dutifully translate.
At first, I worry. 'By age three,' a magazine article declares, 'your
child should make clear sentences and use proper works.' I begin to panic.
Yasmine's sentences are far from clear. I blame myself. I decide to read
her books only in one language. I put away the French and Arabic ones.
Yasmine has a fit. I bring them back.
Then I decide to speak to her solely in Arabic. Not an easy task. I am a
typical Lebanese who floats from one language to another. I don't know the
Arabic words for many things. I usually just use the English or French
word. So I buy a dictionary and spend time looking up the proper Arabic
words.
But the headmaster of her school frowns. 'How do you expect her to compete
with other children if she doesn't speak French?' he practically bellows.
'Speak to her only in French.'
And so I switch to French. Yasmine continues to speak Arabic but
incorporates some French works here and there. And since her father only
speaks English, the child's sentences become trilingual.
'We're back where we started,' I complain to my husband.
Lebanon, a French mandate between the two World Wars, is well known for
its multilingual talents. Nearly a quarter of a century of French rule has
strongly influenced aspects of life. French was first taught in Lebanese
schools in 1834. But when American missionaries arrived in the region in
the middle of the 19th century, they founded several English-speaking
schools and universities. While French continued to flourish in the
Christian areas, English grew increasingly popular in the Muslim regions.
During the 16-year civil war, thousands of Lebanese fled the country. Many
settled in Anglo-and Francophone countries. When the war ended in 1990,
many returned bringing with them French and English speaking children.
There's also a strong US influence--with the introduction of cable
television, viewers here are bombarded with non-stop American films.
As a result, English and French words continue to enter the Arabic
language mainstream.
Today, when registering their children at elementary schools, parents have
to choose whether to put their children in an English or French section.
While some class material is taught in Arabic, most is taught in the
language chosen by the parents. At a certain point in school, all three
languages are taught simultaneously.
Children end up imitating their parents, whose business and social
conversations often contain mixed sentences. This is particularly annoying
to visitors from Arab nations where Arabic is considered the main language
in schools.
'Why can't you just stick to one language?' asks a friend visiting from
Jordan. 'Do you think we can stick to Arabic?'
I try. But it's hard. Conversations just don't flow as easily. I revert to
the dictionary. My friend sighs. 'Arabic should be your main mother
tongue,' he reprimands. 'If you want to speak English, speak purely
English. If you want to speak French, speak purely French. But stop mixing
them. It's annoying and I can't understand you.' I'm relieved when he
leaves.
When my son, Alexander, was born a year ago, I was determined to use only
one language when speaking with him. I chose Arabic. I thought myself
wise.
One day I was trying to coax Alexander (in Arabic of course) to follow me
to the elevator. He refused to budge. Yasmine, watching us, looked at me
disdainfully. Finally, she came and stood squarely in front of her
brother.
'Alexander,' she said, 'taa go to ascenseur. Rahan walk bil jardin maa
mommy.' (Alexander, come let's go to the elevator. We are going to take a
walk in the garden with mommy.)
An excited smile appeared on my little boy's face as he jumped and crawled
after his sister.
Reem Haddad works for the Daily Star in Beirut.
COPYRIGHT 2005 New Internationalist Magazine
COPYRIGHT 2005 Gale Group
