Language and Cultural Identity

In the train from Switzerland to France, I overheard a woman and a man speaking English. Then I saw them: they were Asians. This made me wonder about their history. It also reminded me of this funny video and how Physical appearance is not necessarily a reflection of one's cultural identity.

My daughters, aged 11, 8 and 6 have fair skin and light hair. They speak British English between them with a Northern England accent. Anyone overhearing them would have no idea that their father is German and their mother is African

When people in Algeria first hear them speak Arabic, they usually react in three steps:

• First, marvel at their ability to speak the local lingo, 
• Then, make fun of their accent and how hard it is to understand them
• Finally, denigrate Arabic as a useless language anyway.

This results in puzzled looks from my girls: "What? all those times you tell us to 'please speak Arabic', now it turns out this language is useless?" followed by utter silence.

This makes me angry. These are the very people who should praise our efforts and celebrate our achievements. It is hard to keep a minority language going, especially when only one parent speaks it, let alone with three more languages and two dialects in the mix!

So, how should you react when someone speaks your language whose physical appearance does not match the language in your mind?

Do

• Acknowledge one's genuine surprise - a dose of curiosity is healthy
• Express whatever positive feelings you feel about this
• Continue conversing in that language if both are happy to.

Do not

• Ask where they are really from!
• Make fun of the accent nor the language
• Correct mistakes if you were not asked to do so explicitly

Cultural identity should never be bestowed from the outside. It is up to each person to decide what their identity is, that is if they wish to label it at all.

Take a look at the rest of the series:  A-Z of Raising Multilingual Children hosted on The Piri Piri Lexicon.

On Belonging and Identity

From time to time, it suddenly hits me. I don't belong anywhere. I left my country, where I grew up. Left my family behind, the familiarity.  There are moments where I feel at ease where I am now, lots of times actually. But then , I suddenly realise, I've not been to a family wedding for a while. Only heard of family members passing away over the phone, not been to see them one last time.

I left home 19 years ago. Another three years, and I would have spent as many years abroad as in my home country. In my heart, I still feel totally Algerian. But I feel definite connections with the places I've lived in: France and England.

But then, it only takes a random sentence, some get-together, to feel excluded. I don't belong. Despite my language and cultural proficiency, I am not French nor English. Actually, I am not sure I still belong in my home country either. And I certainly do not belong in Switzerland!

Ramadan will start in a couple of weeks. For the last eleven years, ever since BK1 was born, I spent most of it in Algeria. There, activity is reduced, life slows right down. Nobody expects you to take kids to the open-door swimming pool in the searing heat while you haven't had a drink or anything to eat for the last 12 hours. Nobody plans a school musical show preceded by nibbles at 5pm. Nobody wonders why on Earth this crazy nursing woman of four kids would abstain from eating or drinking from dawn till dusk.

This year is different. Because the girls are still in school for almost the whole duration of Ramadan, we'll only be able to fast the last few days in Algiers. And it makes me sad. It makes me long for my childhood smells, the market stalls,  the anticipation of sharing a long-awaited meal with my parents, the long evenings, the rituals.

Today is one of those days.

Helwa ya baladi

Sitting on the window sill, looking out the window, la grisaille, la pluie battante, le froid, écoutant Dalida chanter:

املي دائما كان يا بلدي

اني ارجع ليك يا بلدي

و افضل دائما جنبك على طول

My hope has always been, my country

That I come back to you, my country

And always remain by your side, forever

et les larmes coulent d'elles-mêmes. The tears roll down, I can't help it.

Spring (or lack of) in Northern England

I feel silly. I feel a fool. I left of my own accord, I was eager to discover what lay out there, my destiny.

What's stopping me from going back? Nothing and everything. What's drawing me back? What's tying me to my country? Everything, primarily my parents; they spent their lives raising us. They are now left by themselves, facing old age without the daily joys that grandchildren bring. Guilt.

I am nostalgic, I guess as much as any 30 or 40 something parent. I long to replicate what made me happy when I was a child myself. The difference is my childhood memories are inextricably linked to the sun, the heat, the noise, the smells, the conversations, the white veils, the music. And none of it is here, neither in place nor in time. Double whammy.

When will I be content with my destiny, that of an exile? Probably never, according to Dalida, Enrico Macias, and Dahmane El Harrachi. It is a slight consolation that my feelings have been sung and shared for such a long time.

The thing is because I know where I come from, I feel I know who I am. What about my children? A question I did not ask myself when I fell for a foreigner in a third country, then moved to a fourth.

Now, I am acutely aware of these identity questions. My children are not; they are busy being children. Will they have trouble later figuring out who they are, not sure where they came from?

Whether I like it or not, the identity question is catching up with me, and will certainly creep up on the girls.

In the meantime, BK3 keeps pressing replay on Salma Ya Salama. A song by an Italian by blood, Egyptian by birth and French by adoption. Still Egypt, the place of her childhood, remained her bilad, to the end. I wonder how much of her troubles in adult life were linked to any feelings of being cut from a tree, uprooted...

Oh Guitare Guitare

BK1 has taken up guitar lessons at school. The BabelDad is being all posh: "guitar players are so tacky! they sit around the fire and strum on their guitars to get the girls". He is unswerving, even when reminded that our own respective fathers play the guitar.

To counteract BK1's enthusiasm for the proletarian instrument, the BabelDad has splashed on a second-hand electronic piano, which apparently used to belong to Peter Gabriel; he even composed Sledge Hammer on it. Yeah right.

So, for the last week, we have been listening to Oh Guitare, Guitare by Enrico Macias. BK1 was intrigued by some unfamiliar words, reminding me how powerful songs can for learning a language:

Si j'ai mis dans ton coeur andalou

trop de soupirs à ton goût

chasse au loin tes sanglots superflus

This takes me back some thirty years ago; my parents have a collection of Enrico Macias' vinyls, and my dad often strums Enrico's songs on his guitar. Incidentally, I can't help being touched by Enrico's complex identity, a topic for another day...

The girls seemingly enjoy the oriental rhythms and catchy lines of Macias' music. They particularly like Les Filles de Mon Pays. I have told them that they are themselves some of Les Filles Enrico praises. After all, he is originally from Algeria, and they are Algerian too.

BK2's favourite bit of the live version of Les Filles de Mon Pays is a surprising verse at the end of the song... in Kabyle!

Sharing the music of my childhood with my own children gives me so much joy!