In The Politics of Language Oppression in Tibet, Gerald Roche sheds light on a global crisis of linguistic diversity that will see at least half of the world’s languages disappear this century.

Roche explores the erosion of linguistic diversity through a study of a community on the northeastern Tibetan Plateau in the People’s Republic of China. Manegacha is but one of the sixty minority languages in Tibet and is spoken by about 8,000 people who are otherwise mostly indistinguishable from the Tibetan communities surrounding them. Recently, many in these communities have switched to speaking Tibetan, and Manegacha faces an uncertain future.

The author uses the Manegacha case to show how linguistic diversity across Tibet is collapsing under assimilatory state policies. He looks at how global advocacy networks inadequately acknowledge this issue, highlighting the complex politics of language in an inter-connected world. The Politics of Language Oppression in Tibet broadens our understanding of Tibet and China, the crisis of global linguistic diversity, and the radical changes needed to address this crisis.

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You can read more of Gerald’s work in his blogposts.

Transcript (coming soon)

Additionally, multilingual crisis communication has been the focus of the research projects conducted by Master of Applied Linguistics students at Macquarie University as part of their “Literacies” unit. We close the year by sharing some of their findings.

Here, Kinza Afraz Abbasi shows how mismatched language choices and mismatched communication channels render public health communication in Pakistan’s Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province ineffective.

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English-Only COVID-19 signage in a school in KPK (Image credit: Express Tribune)

In Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK), one of the four provinces of Pakistan, it is widely believed that polio vaccination is a Western plot to make children infertile in their childhood with the aim to control Muslim population growth. As a result of this belief, health clinics have been torched and health care workers killed. Polio, almost eradicated elsewhere, remains a health threat in the province.

What happens in a situation such as this – where mistrust between the population and public health services is rampant – when a new public health disaster such as the COVID-19 pandemic strikes?

There is wide agreement that Pakistan’s response to the pandemic has not been effective and that the country is now in a lethal second wave.

In my research project, I set out to discover what the government has done to inform the public about the dangers of the virus and about measures to stop the spread of the virus.

The linguistic situation in KPK

KPK is located in the northwest of Pakistan and shares a border with Afghanistan. The largest ethnic group in the province are the Pashtuns, who are comprised of many tribes and clans. Tribes are independent to govern themselves and most of the population live in rural areas. In addition to Pashto, Hazara, Hindko, Kohistani, Torwali, Baluchi, Persian, and other languages are spoken in the province.

This linguistically and culturally diverse rural population of around 35 million people has a literacy rate of 50%. In some tribal areas the literacy rate is as low as 9%.

Those who are fortunate to have learned how to read and write will have done so in a language that is not native to the province, Urdu, the national language of Pakistan.

In addition to Urdu, English also enters the picture because it is a co-official language of Pakistan.

English dominates official COVID-19 communication

English has, in fact, been the preferred language of communicating official information about COVID-19. Pakistan’s official COVID-19 website is entirely in English.

The government of KPK has followed the lead of the national government and also communicated most official information in English.

I explored a number of official websites and social media feeds and determined the language of communication was almost always English, with some Urdu communications, mostly on social media. I could not discover any use at all of Pashto, or any of the other languages of KPK.

Few people follow official government information

Equally noteworthy as the mismatched language choice is the lack of attention that official government communications receive.

The official Twitter account of Pakistan’s Ministry of National Health Services, for instance, has 29,400 followers. In other words, out of a population of 212.2 million, a minuscule 0.013 percent follow official health information on Twitter.

With 1,771,291 followers, their Facebook page is slightly more popular but still under 1% of the population.

The follower numbers of the official Facebook page of the KPK government are equally dismal: 11,544 followers out of a population of 35 million, or 0.03% of the population.

Given the dismal state of telecommunications in the province and the low literacy rates, these figures are not surprising.

Private TV channels broadcasting in local languages

The COVID-19 messages of the Pashto-language TV channel AVT Khyber are in English

TV is popular in KPK and many private channels broadcast in Pashto, Saraiki, Hindko, and other languages.

Unfortunately, the information related to COVID-19 broadcast on these channels seems to be in English, too, as I discovered when researching COVID-19 messages on the Pashto-language channel AVT Khyber.

Their COVID-19 messages are directly copied from the English language messages of the World Health Organization without any adaptation or localization.

Mismatched communication costs lives

In my research I identified three key communication mismatches:

• Information is made available through the medium of English and, to a lesser degree, Urdu to a population who largely lacks proficiency in either of these languages.
• Information is made available through the written medium to a population who has one of the lowest literacy rates in the world.
• Information is made available online in a context where telecommunications infrastructure is widely lacking.

Given these mismatches, is it surprising that people in KPK do not believe that COVID-19 is real? And that it is yet another plot – by the government, by the West – to oppress and exploit them?

Additionally, multilingual crisis communication has been the focus of the research projects conducted by Master of Applied Linguistics students at Macquarie University as part of their “Literacies” unit. We close the year by sharing some of their findings.

Here, Yudha Hidayat shows that the over-reliance on written communication channels in rural Indonesia has resulted in a stark lack of information about how to prevent the spread of the virus.

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Official COVID-19 information

The information gap between urban Australia and rural Indonesia

When the COVID-19 pandemic really took off in March 2020, I called my parents, who live in a village in West Nusa Tenggara (WNT) province. I asked them how the people in my village were preparing themselves to stem the spread of the virus.

Their shocking response was that they had no idea what to do.

I explained the health protocol in detail and sent money so that villagers could buy face masks. That was all I could do while I was far away from home.

For this research, I explore how it is possible that a community is not aware of COVID-19 prevention measures. How could my parents not know what to do? It is true that they do not own smartphones and do not have internet access but they do watch a lot of TV.

Unlike most people in my village, I am a literate and educated man. Having a strong internet connection in Australia, I can access a wide range of information from different sources in English and Indonesian.

Here, I argue that the pandemic has exposed global inequalities in information delivery and that local governments need to take local communication seriously in the fight against the disease.

How COVID-19 prevention information was delivered in WNT province

The local government has relied heavily on its official website and social media as the primary tools for delivering Covid-19-related information.

Official COVID-19 information

The official website is updated weekly and provides infection lists. The website also includes a long health protocol, and provides flyers, graphics, tables, and figures. All this information is only available in Indonesian with some English words and phrases mixed in, such as “social distancing”, “lockdown”, and “contact tracing”.

Monolingual information in a multilingual context

The reliance on the Indonesian language, as the only language used for this essential information, ignores the diversity of multilingual citizens.

WNT province comprises two main islands, namely Lombok and Sumbawa, and tens of small islands. The majority of the people in this province are from three ethnic groups, namely Sasak, Bima, and Sumbawa. Each of these groups has its own language including various dialects and at least nine other languages are spoken in the province, including Bajo, Balinese, Bugis, Javanese, Madura, Makasar, Mandarin Ampenan, and Melayu.

Given low levels of education in the province, the Indonesian language proficiency of many of these speakers of other languages will not be sufficient to fully understand the public health information provided to them.

Digital written communication in a low-literacy and low-technology context

The reliance on written text and on online delivery is also problematic.

According to data from the Ministry of Education and Culture of Indonesia (2019) WNT has a low overall literacy index (i.e., 33.64). Furthermore, only a small number of citizens use digital technology to access written materials (20.48), and reading is a habit for only a minority (38.17). Another indicator shows that 12.41% of the population of WNT are illiterate.

All these facts make it clear that COVID-19-related information provided only through the written medium on a website is out of the reach of many citizens.

English loan words exacerbate the problem

The use of foreign terms, tables, and figures on the website exacerbates these problems further.

Even among those who are proficient in Indonesian and have access to the internet, not everyone will understand English. The high level of English loanwords thus acts as a further barrier.

Infection numbers remain high throughout Indonesia

The same is true for the ability to interpret tables and figures.

What can be done?

As I have shown, vital information related to COVID-19 is provided in a way that makes it inaccessible to many in WNT. Although it is true that Covid-19-related reporting can also be found on TV and in newspapers, neither of these channels address the problems of illiterate people and/or those who live in remote areas.

It is obviously impossible to lift the literacy levels of a populations during a crisis or to catch up on telecommunications infrastructure. But that does not mean that public health information cannot be communicated effectively.

The alternative method that I propose is to utilise the oral method as an additional communication channel, as has been done successfully in Taiwan (Chen, 2020). The infrastructure exists as every neighborhood has a leader (‘Ketua RT’) who could be trained and tasked with providing COVID-19 information in this manner.

Oral communication could utilize the loudspeakers of mosques and temples that are readily available in every neighborhood. Oral announcements over loudspeakers are plausible since they can easily be delivered in local languages and are accessible regardless of literacy level and internet access.

This would not only help curb the spread of the virus but also accord local people the dignity and respect they deserve.

Reference

Chen, C-M. (2020). Public health messages about Covid-19 prevention in multilingual Taiwan. Multilingua, 39 (5), 597-606.

Students in a Tibetan-medium school in Kathmandu study for their exams. By knowing the number and age of speakers of a particular language, policy makers can better plan for their inclusion as the medium or subject of instruction in early education.

The 21st of February marked International Mother Language day, an annual UNESCO Heritage Day that celebrates linguistic diversity and multilingualism around the world. This year’s International Mother Language Day has particular importance, as 2019 has been marked as the United Nations International Year of Indigenous Languages.

Most estimates place the total number of languages in the world at around 7,000. Calculating the number of languages in a given country or region is important for both linguists and policy makers (as well as a host of other professions) for many reasons. By knowing the numbers of speakers of a particular language, policy makers can more effectively plan for linguistically-inclusive public communication and administration, consider the role of different languages as the medium or subject of instruction in education systems, and direct efforts for language preservation and revitalisation.

However, while empirical data on other social characteristics is usually readily available or easy to collect, data on language has often proved more difficult to enumerate. This post will explore how the question, the context, and the response all provide room for subjective interpretation and can lead to vastly different figures for the number of languages in a single country: Nepal.

Nepal

The small South Asian nation of Nepal boasts huge linguistic diversity relative to its geographic, economic, and population size. Inhabitants of modern-day Nepal were historically made up of hundreds of distinct groups of people with different cultures, languages, and leaders, who were only united under a single ruler in 1768. Topographical barriers like the great mountains of the Himalayas and the sweeping plains of the lowland Terai region meant that many languages developed in relative isolation.

Nepal has collected language data through regular decennial censuses for the last 60 years. Yet within this relatively short period, various censuses and other independent linguistic surveys have returned different tallies for the number of languages present in Nepal. Estimates have ranged from as few as 17 in the 1971 census, to 123 languages in the most recent census of 2011, to an estimate of over 140 in a 2005 linguistic survey, as shown in the table:

Data from Central Bureau of Statistics, Malla, Toba, and Noonan quoted in Yadava, Y. (2014). Language Use in Nepal. In Central Bureau of Statistics. Population Monograph of Nepal Volume II: Social Demography. (pp. 51-53) and from Ethnologue 13th – 15th, and 21st Editions. Retrieved February 15, 2019, from https://www.ethnologue.com/archive

While it’s true that language, and language use, shifts naturally over time due to factors such as generational change, revitalisation efforts, or migration, the radical differences between estimates in Nepal over just sixty years suggests something more complicated is at play.

While many census or survey questions can be answered objectively and impartially, others, such as questions on mother tongue, language use, ethnicity, or religion, require the respondent to make a subjective judgement. In Nepal, as elsewhere, the wording of the question, the wider social and political context within which the question is asked, and the respondents outlook and ideology towards language, have all influenced efforts to calculate the country’s languages.

The Question

The first way in which respondents may be influenced in their reporting of language is the wording of the question itself. Subtle differences in the terminology, phrasing, or layout can change the way a question is interpreted and answered.

The 2011 Census in Nepal included one question on language (Yadava 2014, p. 52):

Looking closely at this question, there are several possible ways respondents could have been influenced in the responses they provided.

Firstly, the terminology itself may have induced certain responses. Nepal’s Central Bureau of Statistics opted to use the term “mother tongue” (मातृभाषा /mātr̥bhāṣā/ in Nepali) in the 2011 Census, over alternatives such as “main language”, “usual language”, “home language”, etc.

For some people, these terms could be considered synonyms as they elicit the same response. For example, an Australian, living in Australia, of British-heritage parents, would answer “English” in all three situations. For others, the response may be different based on the subtly different slant of each term. For example, a child of a Vietnamese immigrant mother in Montreal who first learned Vietnamese (the “mother tongue”), but uses mostly French when interacting with the Canadian father and local friends (the “home language”), and speaks English to colleagues in a multinational workplace (the “usual language”).

In his chapter in the ground-breaking book Census and Identity: The Politics of Race, Ethnicity, and Language in National Censuses’, Arel (2002) refers to this as different “language situations”. Canada is one of the few countries that attempts to collect data on all three possible language situations in its surveys – most countries, including Australia and Nepal, only ask about one or two potential language situations. By focusing on the “mother tongue” of the respondent, ignoring other potential terms such as “usual” or “home” language, the 2011 Census elicited a certain response from respondents.

Though the 2011 Census in Nepal did also request respondents to provide another language as their “second language”, no further definition or guidance was given to clarify what was meant by “second language”. Given that the majority of respondents (56%) who chose to answer this question listed the national language, Nepali, as their second language, it is likely that many took this as an opportunity to assert their knowledge of the language of social mobility.

Another potential challenge is the layout of the census form itself. In 2011, a single space was provided for each part of the question, forgoing the possibility of more than one language being spoken in favour of simpler enumeration, indicating a bias towards mono- or bilingualism in a country where multilingualism is common, if not the norm.

A young woman from the Thulung ethno-linguistic group of far-eastern Nepal proudly poses in traditional wear during a language documentation workshop in Solukhumbu district

In 2011, the response format was open-ended, with no list of languages to choose from. This led to confusion between duplicate, indistinct, or unknown languages that was ultimately resolved by grouping some 21,000 responses into a single ‘other’ category, and another 47,000 as ‘non-responses’ (Yadava, 2014) – potentially missing smaller, lesser known or documented languages.

Conversely, in 1981, the census question around language provided a list of the five largest, most dominant languages and a catch-all ‘other’ category, reflecting the wider socio-political context at the time, as we will see soon. It is likely that the inherent bias contained in this question influenced the way people responded.

The Context

Quantifying the number of languages in a country or region can also be influenced by the prevailing political, social, and cultural climate. As Sebba (2017) aptly puts it when describing the inclusion of a language question in the 2011 British Census: “inevitably, questions about language are asked within a social and historical context which both constrains the possible answers and motivates respondents to select certain answers rather than others from those available, in accordance with prevailing ideologies about (among others) nation, ethnicity and language. The act of census-taking (…) is always politically and ideologically charged.”

The relatively low number of languages reported in Nepal’s early censuses were undoubtedly influenced by the assimilation policies in place at the time, and the generally higher levels of social exclusion. From 1962 to 1990, under a political system known as “Panchayat” and controlled by an authoritarian monarchy, the state viewed linguistic, gender, ethnic, and spiritual diversity as barriers to be overcome in the pursuit of a ‘unified’, ‘modern’ Nepal. Cultural ‘unity’ was projected as essential to nation-building and the maintenance of independence. The relatively low number of languages reported in the 1962, 1971, 1981, and 1991 Census reflected the widespread restrictions on cultural and linguistic expression that the Nepali population was experiencing during these years.

Through the 1990s and 2000s, the Maoist ‘People’s War’ raged against the monarchy, promising greater representation to minority caste, ethnic, linguistic, and gender groups. The decade-long civil war was linked to the populations’ growing awareness of social and cultural inequalities that had persisted for generations. The substantial increase in the number of languages reported in the 1996 Census, and all censuses thereafter, was therefore a manifestation of the wider phenomenon of ethno-linguistic awakening.

Since the conclusion of the civil war, the Government of Nepal (which today includes a majority of Maoist and Communist party members) has for the most part promoted linguistic diversity and harmony – for example, the 2015 Constitution declares that ‘all languages spoken in Nepal’ are to be considered national languages, and has opened the doors for individual provinces to declare their own official languages as part of the new federal structure – which is reflected in the 2011 Census results.

The Response

Arel (2002, p. 106) argues that in responding to questions around language, respondents can take a ‘forward looking’ or ‘backwards looking’ stance in providing their response. Arel points to the Belgium census of 1947 as an example of this, when many Flemish citizens provided “forward looking” responses by identifying French, as the language they wished their children would use in order to move up in social status.

Tibetan, also known as Bhot, is still spoken as the mother tongue of around 4,445 first, second, and third generation Tibetan refugees in Nepal

Many respondents in Nepal appear to be providing ‘backwards looking’ responses in the 2011 Census. A ‘backwards looking’ response is one that reflects the language of one’s parents or ancestors, regardless of the individual’s actual knowledge or regular use of the language. ‘Backwards looking’ responses may be politically or ideologically driven – the lack of knowledge of one’s ancestors’ language being seen as a temporary state brought about by authoritarian state policies – or simply a nostalgic and sentimental nod to historical or cultural roots.

Nepal’s 2011 Census data reported that there was 1,424 people who speak Tilung as their mother tongue. The Language Commission of Nepal, through their own local-level surveys and consultations, found there to be only two fluent speakers of Tilung. Other members of the wider ethnic group reported Tilung as their mother tongue despite not speaking more than a handful of isolated words, thus displaying a ‘backwards looking’ approach in their responses. The Language Commission has received many anecdotal reports of other languages similarly being over-represented in Census results due to ‘backwards looking’ reporting of cultural heritage versus the language most often or most fluently spoken. And while there are still living speakers of a language, as with Tilung, correcting this practice would not necessarily change the total number of languages present; but knowing the precise number of speakers of a language allows government to better target language documentation and preservation efforts, particularly in a resource-strained context like Nepal. A language with 1,424 speakers might be considered only ‘threatened’, but with two elderly speakers it is ‘almost extinct’ (see Expanded Graded Intergenerational Disruption Scale).

Looking forward

Regardless of the precise number of languages reported, Nepal is and always has been a multilingual and multicultural country. Nepal is already planning for the 2021 Census, and by further refining its Census protocol and considering the various ways the socio-political context and personal ideologies may influence responses, the Government of Nepal will be able to better plan and implement linguistically-inclusive policies for its citizens.

References

Arel, D. (2002). Language categories in censuses: backward- or forward-looking? In D. I. Kertzer & D. Arel (Eds.), Census and Identity: The Politics of Race, Ethnicity, and Language in National Censuses (p. 97). Cambridge, UK ; New York: Cambridge University Press.

Bennett, L. (2005, December). Gender, Caste and Ethnic Exclusion in Nepal: Following the Policy Process from Analysis to Action. (p. 7) Paper presented at the New Frontiers of Social Policy Conference, Arusha, Tanzania.

Sebba, M. (2017). Awkward questions: language issues in the 2011 census in England. Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development. https://doi.org/10.1080/01434632.2017.1342651

Yadava, Y. (2014). Language Use in Nepal. In Central Bureau of Statistics. Population Monograph of Nepal Volume II: Social Demography. Central Bureau of Statistics.

In Bahrain, I was beaten. For example, they asked for tea. I gave tea leaves. I did not make the tea. She put her hand on my neck and moved me to tell, ‘Boil the tea leaves. Make tea’. They told me things in Arabic, I did not know Arabic. There was no other Bangladeshi to help me out. That’s how I worked. Sometimes, the children said me something, but I didn’t understand. Then the children knocked me. But you can never have a gloomy face. (Afia, pseudonym, a Bangladeshi migrant domestic worker)

Pakhi Begum left Bangladesh for Dubai to work as a maid … (Source: Say NO – UNiTE)

This quote is taken from an interview with a female Bangladeshi migrant worker who was a participant in a research project we undertook which aimed to explore perceptions of the value of English for migrant workers from Bangladesh to the Middle East. The quote aptly illustrates Afia’s vulnerability as a domestic worker. Partly her vulnerability is a result of limited Arabic and English language proficiency and miscommunication.

This raises the question what the role of language skills in migrant exploitation is. Could Afia have avoided being beaten if she knew more Arabic or English? Or, to put it more generally, to what extent do communication barriers contribute to the exploitation of migrant domestic workers such as Afia?

We explore such questions in an article recently published in Multilingua, where we suggest that structural entanglements and global inequalities put into question commonplace assumptions linking language skills to economic success for Bangladeshi migrant workers.

Recent reports on the devastating experiences of Bangladeshi female migrant workers in the Middle East (which have gone largely unreported in English-language media) throw into sharp relief the deep structural issues – far beyond the linguistic – affecting the lives of female Bangladeshi migrant workers to the Middle East.

Since 1991 Bangladesh has sent more than 700,000 women abroad to work, primarily as domestic workers to the Middle East (BBC 2018). Many of these have returned reporting that they have faced exploitation and abuse in the workplace. The complaints that have been made – which echo accounts documented in our research – include receiving no salary (or a lower salary than promised), unbearable workloads, physical and verbal abuse, and sexual assault.

Reports in the Bangladeshi media relay the tribulations of Fatema, for example, who went to Lebanon to improve her family’s condition, but came back after only three months physically disabled, with a significantly worsened economic and social status (BBC 2018; Prothom Alo 2018). Her employer under-fed and tortured her, and when she, not able to bear it anymore, informed her employer that she wanted to go back to Bangladesh, the employer pushed her out of a third-floor window. Like Fatema, many of the women returning from the Middle East have physical injuries and/or psychological trauma. Additionally, they also face significant social stigma, including the refusal of their families to accept them back.

Despite these reports, there have been few attempts from Middle Eastern countries to take actions against the employers who were reportedly involved with such crimes. A country with less clout than other migrant-sending countries such as Indonesia, the Philippines or Sri Lanka, attempts by Bangladesh to lobby for work environments where Bangladeshi female migrant workers can work in safety and dignity have had little effect (BBC 2018).

The restricted bargaining power of Bangladesh has been increasingly observable since 2000, when an Indonesian domestic worker who had been tortured by her employer was executed for stabbing and killing her employer in Saudi Arabia. Protests from Indonesia and human rights groups ensued, and stories of the torture and exploitation of female domestic workers in Saudi Arabia attracted global attention. As a result, Nepal, the Philippines and Sri Lanka joined Indonesia to create pressure on Saudi Arabia to improve its treatment of female domestic workers by creating travel bans to stop sending women from their countries. Facing an acute shortage of female domestic workers, Saudi Arabia proposed that Bangladesh step in to fill the gap. Although there had previously been a ban on female migration as a measure of protection, Bangladesh eventually caved in when Saudi Arabia made the continued hiring of Bangladeshi male workers contingent on the availability of a female workforce, too (Prothom Alo 2018). Saudi Arabia further insisted that, even though female domestic workers from other countries are paid 1,500 riyals per month, the pay of Bangladeshi workers would be capped at 800 riyals (Prothom Alo 2018).

Today, Bangladeshi media regularly feature harrowing stories of exploitation faced by Bangladeshi female domestic workers in Saudi Arabia. Despite these gloomy reports we do, of course, not wish to suggest that all migrant workers face abuse and exploitation. In fact, some participants in our research were able to improve their family’s economic and social status considerably by working abroad.

All of them shared stories of hardship, and limited Arabic and English language skills were a significant aspect of the challenges they faced. This raises the question whether pre-departure language skills training would improve the lot of Bangladeshi migrant workers.

There can be no doubt that English and Arabic language skills might help migrant workers to better navigate life in the Middle East. However, we should be wary of suggesting that language learning alone is sufficient to overcome the difficulties in which many migrant workers find themselves. The stories of suffering and exploitation from returnee female domestic workers are clear indicators that structural global inequalities must be considered when exploring the extent to which migration and language skills can be economically, personally and socially transformative to individuals like Afia and to countries like Bangladesh.

References

British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) (2018). ফেরার পর পরিবারেও ঠাঁই নেই: সৌদি থেকে নির্যাতনের শিকার হয়ে ফিরে আসা বাংলাদেশী নারী [Translation: No place in the family upon return: Bangladeshi women returning from Saudi being victim of torture] (4 June 2018).

Erling, Elizabeth J., Chowdhury, Qumrul Hasan, Solly, Mike and Seargeant, Philip (2018). “Successful” migration, (English) language skills and global inequality: The case of Bangladeshi migrants to the Middle East. Multilingua. doi:https://doi.org/10.1515/multi-2018-0021.

Erling, Elizabeth J., Seargeant, Philip, Solly, Mike, Chowdhury, Qumrul H. and Rahman, Sayeedur (2015) English for economic development: A case study of migrant workers from Bangladesh. ELTRP Report, British Council.

Prothom Alo (2018). প্রবাসী নারী শ্রমিকের গল্পটা কেউ শুনবেন? [Translation: Will you listen to the story of the woman migrant worker?] (4 June 2018).

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King Sejong the Great (1397-1450) (Image source: Wikipedia)

Today, South Koreans celebrate Hangul Day. Hangul Day is a national holiday to celebrate the Korean script. I am not aware of any other national holiday anywhere else to celebrate a particular script (except for the North Koreans who also have a national day to celebrate the Korean script but they call it Chosŏn’gŭl Day and celebrate on January 15). What is so special about the Korean script that it gets a national holiday in both Koreas you might ask?

There is actually a good reason: the invention of Hangul is not only a major linguistic achievement but also of significant social importance.

Hangul was invented by King Sejong the Great who lived from 1397 to 1450 CE and was the fourth king of Korea’s Joseon dynasty (1392–1910).

As a small nation, Korea at the time was overshadowed by its powerful Chinese neighbor which was styled as “elder brother”. As is often the case in such relationships, and is still true today, powerful nations not only rule over less powerful ones but they also come to be seen as providing the standard of all fashion, culture and knowledge. As today, subaltern people are apt to misrecognize the language and culture of the powerful as an intrinsic feature of their power. The hegemonic nation comes to be seen as the source of knowledge and local ways are often denigrated and dismissed as lacking value. Same old story back in 14^th-century Korea:

China was considered the source of all culture and learning. The Korean elite therefore thought it natural that becoming literate meant learning the Chinese language: everything worth reading was written in Chinese. (Gnanadesikan 2009, p. 193)

Despite all the Chinese learning, not all was well in the kingdom of Korea; in fact, it was a rather backward place. Unlike many feudals, King Sejong was not content with living the good life at the expense of his subjects. On the contrary, committed to serving the good of his nation, he wanted to improve his country and better the lot of all Koreans. In addition to being the king, he had a lot going for him: he had received an excellent education (through the medium of Chinese, of course), he was bilingual in Korean and Chinese and he was an immensely talented scholar with wide-ranging interests. All his reading and writing obviously was in Chinese but Chinese publications were the only game in town.

One of King Sejong’s interests was related to agriculture, an area with obvious potential to improve the lot of Koreans: the growing population needed food. So, he started numerous scientific and technological projects to help increase agricultural production. However, all the agricultural knowledge of the time was based on Chinese climatic conditions and he realized that existing knowledge could not just be taken holus-bolus from China but needed to be adapted to Korean conditions. He saw the need for localization, if you will. One example of such a localization measure was the development of a specifically Korean agricultural calendar to determine sowing and harvesting times that were ideal for the Korean peninsula.

Another example of his wisdom in adapting Chinese knowledge to the Korean situation related to medicine where he commissioned a medical encyclopedia that focused on native Korean herbs and remedies and described their uses and where to find them.

King Sejong also was interested in jurisprudence:

Throughout his reign he showed a passion for justice, working to improve prison conditions, set fairer sentencing standards, implement proper procedures for autopsies, protect slaves from being lynched, punish corrupt officials, set up an appeals process for capital crimes, and limit torture. Nevertheless, one problem continued to vex the king: the litigation process was carried out in Chinese. Were the accused able to adequately defend themselves in a foreign language? Sejong doubted it. (Gnanadesikan 2009, p. 195)

The basic consonant signs of the Korean alphabet representing their pronunciation (Source: Gnanadesikan 2009, p. 198)

The justice system was not the only area where King Sejong discovered that all his reform attempts continually ran into a language barrier: whether it was agriculture, medicine, law or any other area of life: dissemination of knowledge, development and progress were stymied by the fact that only a tiny minority of Koreans could read. As mentioned above, all writing was in Chinese and Chinese literacy was restricted to a tiny elite. The vast majority of Koreans had no access to all the knowledge that was available. Teaching everyone how to read and write in Chinese was obviously not practical.

King Sejong concluded that, in order to achieve broad dissemination of knowledge, Korean needed a writing system of its own; not one based on Chinese but one that was based on Korean and easy to learn.

He started to look around for ways to develop a script for Korean. In addition to Chinese, he was able to study Japanese, Jurchen and Mongolian scripts. While these syllabary-based scripts provided some inspiration, it must be considered a stroke of genius that he figured out the difference between consonants and vowels – characteristic of alphabetic writing – by himself. In a next step, he divided the consonants into groups according to their place of articulation – another impressive feat in the absence of any phonetic models.

Having identified the phonetic characteristics of the sounds of Korean, he devised signs that represent pronunciations. This is in contrast to all other writing systems where signs initially started out as ideograms representing objects. At the danger of overusing the expression “stroke of genius” – that’s precisely what it was!

The new script was published in early October 1446 and the preface, written in Chinese, states:

The speech sounds of our country’s language are different from those of the Middle Kingdom and are not communicable with the Chinese characters. Therefore, when my beloved simple people want to say something, many of them are unable to express their feelings. Feeling compassion for this I have newly designed twenty-eight letters, only wishing to have everyone easily learn and use them conveniently every day. (Quoted from Gnanadesikan 2009, p. 204)

Korean consonant letters. Easy to learn, right? Even if you’ll need to allow for some more time to learn the vowels, too … (Source: Gnanadesikan 2009, p. 198)

Maybe unsurprisingly, the Korean elite hardly welcomed the new script. They probably saw the threat it posed to their monopoly on learning and education. In any case, they did not like it and the script was widely denigrated as “morning script” (because it was so easy it could be learnt in a morning) or even as “women’s script” (because it was so easy even women could learn it …)

Wise King Sejong did not risk a fight and did not impose the exclusive use of Hangul. As a result, Korean elites let the script slip into oblivion after his death and it almost did not survive the Japanese invasions of the 16^th century, which devastated the country.

In fact, history has hardly been kind to Korea; and in 1945, after the ravishes of wars and colonization, the illiteracy rate in the country stood at close to 80 percent. Hangul played a key role in turning these figures around and the illiteracy rate in both Koreas is today close to zero: testament to the continued relevance of the vision of a centuries-old wise ruler intent on serving the common good.

The story of Hangul presents an inspiring case study in the ways in which language arrangements can form obstacles to progress and social justice and the ways in which these can be overcome. For details on the story of Hangul, read Chapter 11 “King Sejong’s One-Man Renaissance” of Gnanadesikan (2009), on whose account I have drawn here. For a general discussion of the relationship between linguistic diversity and social justice, see Piller (2016) – today and tomorrow is your last chance to tweet about #linguisticdiversity and enter our draw for a copy of the book.

References

Gnanadesikan, A. E. (2009). The Writing Revolution: Cuneiform to the Internet. Malden, MA and Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell.
Piller, I. (2016). Linguistic Diversity and Social Justice: An Introduction to Applied Sociolinguistics. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press.

Grade 2 Oral Tetun class

Editor’s note: As the Language on the Move team is busy preparing for the “Bridging Language Barriers” Symposium to be hosted at Macquarie University on March 16, Kerry Taylor-Leech introduces us to a mother-tongue education pilot in East Timor. Mother-tongue-based multilingual education is a key strategy for equitable access to education and Kerry explains how the pilot bridges barriers to learning faced by rural children in the global south.

Registration for the “Bridging Language Barriers” Symposium closes today but if you cannot attend in person, you can still join the conversation with our team of live-tweeters on the day. Our Twitter hashtag will be #LOTM2017. Follow @Lg_on_the_Move

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Hatudu ba malai iha ne’bé ho kámera! (Point to the foreigner with the camera!). Some thirty little faces and fingers swing round in my direction. I am at the back of a classroom observing a Grade 2 Tetun-as-a-second language lesson in a school in Lautém, East Timor. Turning observation on its head, this energetic and charismatic teacher has made use of me in his Total Physical Response (TPR) lesson. The children love it and I too am enjoying myself immensely.

Grade 1 child reading independently

The lesson is taking place in a school participating in a mother-tongue based multilingual education pilot. Known in East Timor as EMBLI (in Tetun: Edukasaun Multilingue Bazia Lian-Inan—Multilingual Education in Mother Tongues), the pilot is overseen by the Timor-Leste National Commission for UNESCO and supported by a network of agencies and organisations known as Repete 13. The lesson observation was part of several visits I was lucky enough to make to the pilot schools in 2016, accompanying EMBLI trainers on their regular monitoring tours. I’ve been visiting East Timor since 2001 for work, consultancy and research. I was making this trip to catch up with the pilot, which I have been following since its inception. I’ve also followed and been involved in the sometimes-heated public debates that preceded it.

Fataluku word recognition

In 2013 the East Timorese Ministry of Education implemented a three-year mother-tongue pilot in three districts with large communities of endogenous language speakers (Galoli in Manatuto District, Fataluku in Lautém District and Baikenu in Oecusse District). Operating from pre-primary to Grade 3 level, the pilot officially ended in 2015 but was extended for a further two years and will include Grade 4 in 2017. Now is a good time to be writing about the pilot because the first results of an Endline Survey have recently been released. Conducted by the well-known assessment specialist Dr Steve Walter, the survey compared children’s performance in EMBLI schools, government schools and Portuguese-immersion schools. Not surprisingly, the results show the benefits of learning in a language a child understands best. EMBLI children showed marked gains compared to the other children, especially in reading. While test results are only part of the picture, they are exciting for EMBLI as they provide quantitative evidence that MTB-MLE is effective. The results are particularly pleasing because the schools are located in remote areas, where children’s performance has traditionally lagged behind that of children in urban schools. One of the most conclusive pieces of evidence from the survey is that EMBLI has produced children who are independent readers by Grade 1 – a remarkable achievement considering the difficult physical conditions in which these children are expected to learn.

Fataluku reading books

EMBLI’s achievements overall in the last three years have been impressive. EMBLI has adopted the Two-Track Method for literacy teaching, advocated and adapted by the Summer Institute of Linguistics. This highly structured approach is used in many MTB-MLE programs around the world. It is based on a combination of meaning (i.e., understanding whole text) and accuracy (i.e., understanding and using word identification strategies).

The method appears to work well in low-resource settings where children come from pre-literate homes and parents cannot easily support their children’s literacy development. Despite the dilapidated conditions and lack of facilities in East Timorese public schools generally, EMBLI teachers make their classrooms welcoming places where children are exposed to attractive, colourful materials in their home language in the form of pictures, big books, activity books and readers that reflect images from their everyday life and cultural realities. Children’s own work also now brightens up the classroom walls.

Teaching aids made from local materials

In low-resource educational settings, teachers have no choice but to be creative. EMBLI teachers supplement professionally produced material with literacy and numeracy resources made from sticks and pebbles, coconut shells, palm leaves, seeds, cardboard, buttons and plastic bottles. For early writing the pre-school children often use slates, a cheap, sturdy, and easily renewable resource.

In addition to these models of sustainability, one of EMBLI’s greatest achievements in my view is its empowerment of teachers. EMBLI trainers report that since their involvement with the pilot, the teachers are happier, more confident and have a sense of agency. In this video teachers and students can be seen at work (note: the video is in the official languages, Tetun and Portuguese). The slogan on the T-shirts reads “I like learning in my mother tongue.”

The pilot teachers work in tandem with teaching assistants. Although this system is not particularly new in East Timor, previously the teaching assistant’s primary role was to keep order and this was often done by means of the stick rather than the carrot.  EMBLI has encouraged collaborative planning and team teaching as well as approaches to classroom management that respect children’s human rights.

Pre-school teacher helping a child with letter formation using a slate

EMBLI trainers make regular site visits and teachers also benefit from being able to attend mostly local workshops and seminars. Travel from the districts to Dili takes at least a full day and even to reach district centres, teachers often have to leave home before dawn and walk very long distances. EMBLI has shown that on-site teacher training is a viable and cost-effective alternative to training conducted in the capital.

EMBLI is also a model of how to build trust and sustain relationships with communities. Parents are supportive of the pilot as they are more able to interact with school and they see their children are learning to read and write. To date the EMBLI pilot has successfully put into practice three essential principles of MTB-MLE: promoting fluency in community and official languages, creating a supportive environment for literacy, and empowering teachers, learners and parents. As countries of the global South struggle to achieve effective universal primary education the EMBLI pilot provides a model of collaboration and sustainable practice. In its three-year life EMBLI has made a significant difference to children’s learning and the prospects for its future look bright. As they say in Tetun and Portuguese, Parabens! (Congratulations!)

Photos taken with permission by Kerry Taylor-Leech

An East Timorese girl speaking Bunak, Tetum, Fataluku and Portuguese (Source: Wikipedia)

A response to Alexandra Grey, “We do aid, not English”

In my experience English is often promoted by aid organisations as part of a package and served up with very little consultation of recipients and not much concern for the local language ecology or the consequences of promoting English. In East Timor, where I have done a lot of research, monolingual English-speaking aid workers often expect their local counterparts to use English and even select them on the basis of their ability to speak it. Native English-speakers have earned a reputation for insensitivity to the constitutional provisions for language and flout them regularly, e.g., by using the fact that English is a working language as a get-out clause, circulating official documents in English and making no real effort to learn the official languages. Ten years after independence, English-speakers still criticise the decision to officialise  Portuguese and Tetum. These two languages are embedded in East Timorese history, culture and national identity and yet the tedious, ethnocentric, Anglophone narrative about how foolish the Timorese were to officialise these languages persists.  In his witty and critical travelogue Beloved Land, Gordon Peake takes aim at well-meaning foreigners who don’t even trouble to learn the local language and would much rather talk to each other than to the people they are trying to help.

My study of the linguistic landscape in downtown Dili (Taylor-Leech, 2012) showed how English is increasingly visible in the commercial, urban landscape, if not yet in the official one. This process contributes to a kind of double diglossia which also reflects the growing social divide that has sprung up in the wake of the aid industry. There are already Portuguese-speaking elites, a hangover from the country’s days as a Portuguese colony but now there are also English-speaking elites with the linguistic capital to make careers in the aid industry, while those who lack the capital to break out of unemployment or low-paid jobs get little opportunity to progress.

I think aid workers need to show sensitivity to local language situations and be aware of how they can promote the hegemony of English to the detriment of local language(s) and culture. I’d go further and say that if aid workers are paid to do development aid work then that indeed is what they should do. If the outcomes of development aid projects are to outlast the lifetime of the (usually short-term) project, it seems to me doubly important that aid workers build lasting relationships and do so by endeavouring to understand the local linguaculture. Capacity-building, like teaching, is not a one-way street and should build on local skills, traditions and knowledge. How is that done effectively in a dominant foreign language? There are lots of irritations that flow from being an elite foreign worker in a poor country but they are minor compared to the humiliations that aid recipients suffer from high-handed “experts” who don’t speak their language.

When I taught English in Mozambique, Mozambicans would frequently ask me how I could help them obtain status symbols like blue jeans or luxury food items. To them people like me seemed impossibly rich, although I was not on a high salary. I would count informal English lessons as a similar sort of status symbol. And be wary that people are not befriending you for those sorts of reasons, which can lead to heartbreak and cynicism. I say get engaged in local culture and local ways of knowing. Let English take a back seat and a low profile, unless you are an English teacher but even or especially then, tread lightly and carefully though the local language ecology.

A shining example of this approach can be seen in the work of one-time Portuguese teacher and now Tetum-Portuguese interpreter and author João Paulo T. Esperança. The photo above was used as illustration in a Portuguese language course in Tetum; lessons were published weekly in the East Timorese newspaper Lia Foun (New Words). João is also the author of the Tetum version of the much loved children’s story Liurai Oan Ki’ik , known in English as The little Prince.
Taylor-Leech, Kerry (2012). Language choice as an index of identity: Linguistic landscape in Dili, Timor-Leste International Journal of Multilingualism, 9 (1), 15-34 DOI: 10.1080/14790718.2011.583654

Should ‘helping with English’ be part of the brief of humanitarian aid workers? (Source: helpage.org)

Over a few years of involvement in the aid sector in Asia, I became aware that aid workers turn their noses up at ‘English work’. Managers for my Australian government volunteering program encouraged us not to be sucked in to being human dictionaries while on NGO postings. In China, where I was, there was a bristling critique because USA’s Peace Corps volunteers were “only” sent to teach English: ‘How linguistically imperialist!’, we thought.

However, our local colleagues at NGOs and so called ‘development-sector’ government agencies often made requests of us native English speakers: to talk English with them, proofread and draft reports, apply for grants, translate the organisation’s website, help with overseas university applications and tutor their friends’ children. This sparked complaints like ‘I feel like I’m here mostly to translate’ and ‘I’m doing proofreading and admin tasks which I don’t see as capacity building’.

It sure is frustrating to move overseas and find you are expected to provide little but ‘white face time’ in your job. But is English language aid underrated?

Discounting ‘English work’ doesn’t happen because aid workers are haughty. These people have professional training in fields like environmental science or public health and believe they were hired to contribute in those areas. Moreover, many native English speakers recognize that they have no professional language teaching experience. Most aid workers are conscientious global citizens, wary of being language imperialists. But these ‘good reasons’ are misconceived, I argue.

Wrong Skills

Without teacher training, you are a less-than-ideal candidate to teach, no question. But in the regions I’m talking about, learners seldom get to select from a smorgasbord of English-speaking trained teachers and native English-speaking non-teachers. Even the Peace Corps receive some teacher training and teach in impoverished areas where TESOL staff-members are otherwise in short supply. Moreover, when learning a new language, important learning is done beyond the classroom and after childhood: for instance, between aid workers and their adult colleagues. Psychologist Vygotsky showed peer group learning with ‘more knowledgeable others’ was a productive part of language acquisition, with no teacher needed. Modelling grammatical and pragmatically-appropriate language provides useful input for learners. In short, helping colleagues with their English tasks or even just conversing can be valuable for their language learning and is within any English speaker’s ability. 

Imperialism?

In many countries, people see access to a native English speaker as a boon. Why not give communities what they think would assist their upward mobility? The contribution to informal, out-of-classroom English learning these native speakers provide is something their colleagues and communities may find even more valuable than the specific aid project, especially as the expense, scarcity and systemic preference given to children’s classes make formal language learning inaccessible to many adolescents and adults who want it.

As Kamwangamalu (2013, p. 328) notes of Africa – and I’ve found this in China, too – ‘stakeholders reject their own indigenous languages […] because they consider them insignificant and of no practical value in the linguistic marketplace.’ In this, local stakeholders are not wrong; English is indisputably of greatest value in many markets. Many (including me) would say this is evidence of linguistic hegemony and non-native English speakers are complicit in their own linguistic domination by prioritising English, embracing the coloniser’s model of the world. Even so, is it an incoming English speaker’s place to decide to attack hegemony by refusing to help people proofread?

Often, English is the language of power and funding, particularly for international aid, and non-elites may well perceive English as a resource monopolized by elites to preserve their status. For instance, Ghanaians ‘expressed the view that using the vernacular as an instructional medium was a subtle strategy employed by the elite to perpetuate communities’ marginalization from mainstream society’ (Mfum-Mensah 2005, p. 80).

Whether or not we oppose English’s dominance ideologically, it is beneficial to proofread co-workers’ donor reports, make templates for the office and attend events to speak for the organisation or those it assists, in English. The more co-worker inclusion in these activities, the better. That oft-encountered request to help a friend-of-a-friend with a personal English task should likewise be accepted, because language competencies can function as collective resources. Indeed, many linguists now advocate studying ‘actual linguistic, communicative, semiotic resources’ rather than ‘languages’ (Blommaert, 2010, p. 102). English resources can benefit networks rather than merely individuals. In expanding the networks around English resources, inequality and elitism is reduced.   

Both national politics and international development are ‘Fields’ (Bourdieu 1991). English is both economically and symbolically valuable in these Fields. Native English speakers – especially professionals doing aid volunteering – have an ability to use professional-register English at less expense (a Bourdieuian ‘Habitus’).  So it’s efficient for them to do tasks requiring professional English. Importantly, this is not short term efficiency at the expense of long term efficiency; helping out with English tasks now doesn’t preclude co-workers’ language acquisition in the longer term. Rather, it can play a part in their improvement so the ‘cost’ of professional English for colleagues will decrease over time. English-speaking aid workers, in doing ‘English work’, can improve their hosts’ access to material support and their ability to be heard in international forums.

The benefit of mobility of individuals, of organisations and across community networks is hard to weigh against the detriment of linguistic imperialism, but this weighing up should not be shirked, and nor should the ‘English work’ involved.

References

Blommaert, J. (2010). The Sociolinguistics of Globalization. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

Bourdieu, P. (1991). Language and symbolic power. Cambridge, Polity.

Kamwangamalu, N. M. (2013). Effects of policy on English-medium instruction in Africa. World Englishes, 32 (3), 325-337 DOI: 10.1111/weng.12034

Mfum-Mensah, O. (2005). The impact of colonial and postcolonial Ghanian language policies on vernacular use in two northern Ghanaian communities. Comparative Education 41 (1), 71-85.

The house of the English high school teacher in the village in Sulawesi where Pasassung conducted his fieldwork

In a recent post, I reviewed language policy research that shows how compulsory English in China has given rise to new inequities and is far from being a means to fair development. In that context, compulsory English language learning is problematic for reasons of practical feasibility, allocative effectiveness and distributive justice. That macro language policy perspective is complemented by a school ethnography of English language learning in a small village in Indonesia. The study was conducted by Nicolaus Pasassung in 1999-2000 and has unfortunately never been published but the PhD dissertation it resulted in has now been made available here on Language on the Move.

The thesis titled Teaching English in an “Acquisition-Poor Environment”: An ethnographic example of a remote Indonesian EFL classroom grapples with the question why compulsory English language teaching in Indonesian high schools has been such a failure. That question in itself was not novel even at the time of the research: the World Bank, for instance, had funded the British Council to explore exactly that question a few years earlier and their answer had been that the English language curriculum and the English language teaching methods in Indonesian high schools were inadequate. The solution was relatively simple: the communicative approach was promoted as the panacea to Indonesia’s English language teaching woes.

However, as the researcher found when he spent almost a year in a remote village on the island of Sulawesi, the curricular and methodological problems in the junior high school he observed were part and parcel of a much larger complex that mitigated against the success of English language instruction; this complex also included the status of English, the cultural values of the school and wider society and the material conditions under which English language teaching took place.

To begin with, English and contexts where it was used were entirely alien to the village and there was no place for English in the community outside the classroom. Even in the classroom, the language had a tenuous hold. For instance, the thesis includes a poignant description of a lesson in which students were studying hotel dialogues from the prescribed textbook. Neither the students nor the teacher had any experience of hotels and a number of misunderstandings unfold as the teacher tries to teach and the students try to study vocabulary items in English that they have no concept of in their native language: in a village that does not have electricity, “vacuum cleaner” is one such example where the researcher as participant observer is called upon by the teacher to explain what a “vacuum cleaner” might be.

This is one tiny example of a sheer endless list of obstacles that the students face: inappropriate materials, teachers’ limited proficiency, corruption, efforts to maintain a harmonious society where everyone keeps face, limited resources on every level etc. etc. all conspire to turn the compulsory English lessons in the junior high school under investigation into a meaningless waste of time. Not only does compulsory English study under these conditions not produce any results but it attracts a cost: the opportunity cost to spend the time invested into English lessons in a more productive way.

Like Guangwei Hu and Lubna Alsagoff in their review of compulsory English in Chinese secondary education, Nicolaus Passasung, too, recommends, inter alia, to make English language learning in Indonesian high schools an elective.

Would such a move further entrench the disparities between rural and urban populations and between the rich and the poor, as the proponents of compulsory English argue? In the world described by Pasassung, English simply doesn’t matter. Existing inequities are largely unaffected by English as securing a good education including learning English in itself is not enough to advance in a world where personal advancement depends on connections and even bribery. As one villager explains, without additional financial and social resources, his sons have little to gain from their education:

Why should I be bothered sending my children to university and spend a lot of money? A lot of graduates are unemployed. When someone finishes university, s/he only wants a white-collar job and would prefer being unemployed to working in a garden. I do not have anyone who can help my children find work in a government office, and I do not have enough money to bribe them. (quoted in Pasassung 2003, p. 145)

Pasassung, Nikolaus (2003). Teaching English in an “Acquisition-Poor Environment”: An Ethnographic Example of a Remote Indonesian EFL Classroom Unpublished PhD Dissertation, University of Sydney

Promoting English language learning: billboard for private early English instruction in Wuhan

Knowledge of English has come to be seen as the key talent of the 21^st century, a way to perfect an individual’s character and to modernize societies; a central facet of global development. China, for instance, introduced an ambitious universal English language teaching program in 2001 and English language teaching, including the use of English as a medium of instruction, has since been increasing at an ever faster rate. English has become a gate-keeper at various turns and determines access to good high schools and university entrance (see Zhang Jie’s PhD thesis for a detailed examination of China’s English fever since 2001).

Hu and Alsagoff (2010) explore how China’s compulsory English language learning stands up as a public policy. They identify four key considerations in evaluating language policy: moral justice, practical feasibility, allocative efficiency and distributive justice.

From an idealistic position of moral justice universal English language teaching is a good idea as access to English can be considered a form of instrumental language right: surely, everyone has a right to learn the global power code. However, in the same way that students have a right to learn the global power code, they also have an expressive language right to the full development of their mother tongue and they also have the right to acquire other kinds of useful knowledge. The moral justice argument for English is thus limited to that degree that learning English does not interfere with learning the mother tongue or other subject knowledge.

From a moral justice perspective, the case for English is thus so-so. So, what about practical feasibility? Universal English teaching in China, as elsewhere, is subject to some intractable and incapacitating constraints, which include a severe shortage of qualified teachers, lack of appropriate instructional materials and the non-existence of a sociolinguistic environment in which English is meaningful.

It could be argued that a language policy should not be criticised for implementation problems because these might straighten themselves out over time. On the other hand, they might not; and if policy makers have failed to come up with an implementation plan together with the policy, there is no reason to believe in magical transformation in the future.

The verdict on universal English teaching becomes even more negative when it comes to allocative effectiveness. The costs of teacher training, of hiring expatriate teachers, of developing suitable materials and of creating the necessary infrastructure to teach English are high. At the same time, the available evidence suggests that English language teaching in China, as elsewhere, has, to date not been particularly effective.

Furthermore, addressing the problem of costly and ineffective English language instruction may have made other subjects more costly and less effective, raising the question of distributive justice. Hu and Alsagoff (2010) cite evidence that the promotion of English has benefited only a relatively small number of students in well-resourced urban schools at the expense of the majority of students. Universal English thus benefits an elite group while disadvantaging everyone else:

Because of their privileged position, they [=Chinese elites] are also consuming resources that might otherwise have been allocated to policy options that could benefit the majority, who are not compensated for the losses they suffer as a result of the diversion of these resources. As a consequence, the English medium instruction initiative has not only perpetuated the unequal distribution of power and access but is also creating new forms of inequality. (Hu and Alsagoff 2010, p. 375)

If moral justice, practical feasibility, allocative efficiency and distributive justice are taken into account, the verdict on the universal English learning initiative in China is thus unambiguously negative. Hu and Alsagoff (2010) go on to also assess the English instruction policy not only for the Han majority but also for ethnic minority students and in that context their verdict is even more dire, “an outlandish extravagance” (p. 377).

If universal English instruction is indeed a wrong-headed policy for China’s majority and minorities alike, as the authors conclude, what policy alternatives are there? The authors suggest the provision of English as an enrichment subject rather than as a compulsory subject and the removal of English from high-stakes assessment.

Hu, G., & Alsagoff, L. (2010). A public policy perspective on English medium instruction in China Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development, 31 (4), 365-382 DOI: 10.1080/01434632.2010.489950

Bangladeshi manager speaking English and subtitled in British educational video “How fair is fashion?”

The other day I watched a show about global textile production. How fair is fashion? by British educational media producer Pumpkin TV is an excellent resource explaining the circuits of cheap clothing for consumers in the global North, huge profits for multinational fashion and retail corporations, and the exploitation of textile workers in the global South. The film was shot in Bangladesh and features stories such as those of an 18-year-old woman, who has been working in a textile factory in Dhaka for seven years. Working 100 hours a week, she earns the equivalent of between 40 and 50 USD per month. Together with her husband she lives in a small room in a slum where they share toilet and water facilities with around 10 other families. The mud track leading to the dwelling doubles as an open sewer.

She is one of thousands of workers working for a factory in the Rupashi Group, which has contracts which many well-known clothing brands. On the day the film crew was visiting they were making shirts for Forever 21.

All the workers interviewed for the film spoke Bangla while managers, policy makers and a high-level union official spoke English. The language choices in the film are thus reflective of a well-known divide in Bangladesh: that access to English and proficiency in English is a marker of privilege.

A new wave of thinking about English and development has recently started to argue that English is vital to development and that to improve the lot of people like the 18-year-old garment worker English would be indispensable to her. English in Action, a UK-funded English language teaching program for development in Bangladesh, is an example:

The Programme’s goal is to contribute to the economic growth of the country by providing communicative English language as a tool for better access to the world economy. The purpose of EIA is to significantly increase the number of people who are able to communicate in English, to levels that enable them to participate fully in economic and social activities and opportunities. (English in Action)

Sounds good. However, watching How fair is fashion? revealed one problem with this theory. The problem was that the show treated all Bangladeshi speakers – irrespective of whether they were Bangla-speaking workers or English-speaking elites – as incomprehensible to the British viewer. Both Bangla-speaking and English-speaking Bangladeshis were presented as requiring mediation to become intelligible: Bangla was translated and English was subtitled. The image provides an example: The general manager of Rupashi group says “We are number three now. Our target is to become number two, and then one.” in English at the same time that the subtitles appear in English.

I have blogged about the politics of subtitling English speakers to other English speakers before. As I pointed out there, subtitling some varieties of English but not others to an English-speaking audience serves to mark the subtitled varieties as illegitimate.

The subtitling of educated Bangladesh English constitutes a perfect example of everything that is wrong with the assumption that being able to communicate in English has anything much to do with development. To assume that being able to communicate in English will enable Bangladeshis – or anyone else in the global South – “to participate fully in economic and social activities and opportunities” fails to recognize that language is never just about communication.

Linguistic exchange is always also an economic exchange, as Bourdieu explains:

[U]tterances are not only […] signs to be understood and deciphered; they are also signs of wealth, intended to be evaluated and appreciated, and signs of authority, intended to be believed and obeyed. (Bourdieu 1991, p. 66)

Subtitled speech is a sign of lack of wealth and authority. Only Bangladeshis who speak English can be rendered illegitimate in this way as the translation of Bangla is simply a marker of linguistic difference rather than a linguistic hierarchy.

The elite Bangladeshis featured in the film are competent speakers of English (you can listen to the excerpt with the General Manager of Rupashi Group and judge for yourself). However, linguistic competence does not necessarily translate into legitimate competence:

The competence adequate to produce sentences that are likely to be understood may be quite inadequate to produce sentences that are likely to be listened to, likely to be recognized as acceptable in all the situations in which there is occasion to speak. (Bourdieu 1991, p. 55)

If the English of competent elite Bangladeshi speakers of English is not acceptable on the global stage (however valuable it may be in the local linguistic market), what likelihood is there that English teaching will turn ordinary impoverished Bangladeshis into global players? Hamid’s (2010) analysis of the gap between policy discourses about the promise of English and the reality of the implementation of English language teaching in Bangladesh paints a gloomy picture of high expectations, inadequate resource investment, and poor outcomes. Essentially, he finds that the current policy of “English for everyone” doesn’t produce much competence in English because it is severely under-resourced, and, where donor-funded, unsustainable and poorly integrated with the local environment.

If I were a cynic, I’d argue that the whole point of universal English language teaching is not actually the acquisition of linguistic competence but the recognition of the legitimate language; not to learn how to speak English but to learn how to recognize legitimate – “metropolitan” or “global” – English; to learn one’s place in the linguistic hierarchy and thus to accept one’s inferior position as a natural and incontestable fact. I am not a cynic and I follow Bourdieu in seeing the disparity between knowledge of the legitimate language (always a limited resource) and recognition of the legitimate language (always much more widespread) as a function of the linguistic market.

While proponents of universal English language teaching for development may not intend to collude in linguistic domination, they fail to achieve any of their well-intentioned aims because they ignore the fact that language is not only about communication but also about legitimacy – an error Bourdieu (1991, p. 53) calls “the naïvety par excellence of the scholarly relativism which forgets that the naïve gaze is not relativist.”

While I’m pessimistic about English for development, How fair is fashion? ends on an optimistic note by featuring a cooperative in rural Bangladesh producing for People Tree, a fair trade fashion label. The garment worker interviewed there earns about the same as her Dhaka-based counterpart. However, in contrast to the factory workers in Dhaka, she has fixed hours and works from 5-9; she has a proper contract and the cooperative also provides childcare and schooling for her children; above all, more autonomous and diverse, there is dignity in her work.

Bourdieu, Pierre (1991). Language and Symbolic Power. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Hamid, M. Obaidul (2010). Globalisation, English for everyone and English teacher capacity: language policy discourses and realities in Bangladesh Current Issues in Language Planning, 11 (4), 289-310 DOI: 10.1080/14664208.2011.532621

Pompei Restaurant, Karachi (Source: fcpakistan.com)

A few days ago I had an Alice-in-Wonderland experience. Having lived all my life in Karachi, I had until then never heard of the Pompei Restaurant. I was invited there by a visiting British academic, who declined my invitation to have dinner at our house and wanted to meet me at the Pompei instead. He seemed very surprised that I had never heard of the Pompei, which he seemed to know well.

Armed with the Google map directions, I still managed to lose my way but arrived a few minutes before my host.  Stepping into the restaurant was like going down the rabbit hole: I left Karachi behind and entered Europe.

The furniture, the wall hangings, the light music, and the candle lit tables all made me feel as if I had been transported to Italy. I was greeted very politely by the valet and the gentleman at the reception and was taken to the table my host had booked for us. I sat down and looked around. The bar with impressive brass levers to pour beer caught my attention. I asked the waiter for a glass of wine in Urdu but my eagerness was met with a thin smile and the English response: ‘Sir, wine is not served here.’

At that moment, my host arrived. Before sitting down, he handed a bag to the waiter. The waiter took the bag and returned with two menu cards. The menu card was in English only but, despite the fact that English is the main language I use in my professional life, I did not recognize the name of single dish on the menu except for pizza.

My host graciously helped me with the selection of starters and the main course when he realized my ignorance of Italian cuisine. Before the starters were served, my host’s bag was brought back to him and a bottle of wine emerged. The waiter apologized to my host and said he wasn’t allowed to pour the wine for him. My host smiled back in the manner of a man of the world who understands cross-cultural differences and filled our glasses himself.

While savouring the novelty of eating Italian food and drinking alcohol, I did not omit to look around me and take note of the people who had by now filled the place. The majority were foreigners but there were also a fair number of locals. Nearly everyone was drinking alcohol and smoking. English was the only language I heard.

Feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the novelty of it all, it was good my host kept the conversation going by telling me about his interactions with Pakistani scholars, who he had been visiting as a UN ambassador in the previous weeks. His role was to provide consultancy on improving academic standards. ‘You guys don’t know how to write,’ he observed casually. In my mind, I was busy adding all the other things I had discovered in the last hour only that we didn’t know.

When we finished the meal, I of course tried to pay my share. However, I have to admit I was grateful to my host that he wouldn’t allow me. I also have to admit that I tried my best not to stare when he put his hand in his pocket and pulled it back out with a fist full of currency notes. The bunch of currency notes was so thick that he had a bit of a problem picking out 7,000 Pakistani rupee notes out of this thick wad of US dollars. He gave those 7,000 rupees (ca. 70 Australian dollars) in the same manner as if they were worth 70 rupees. We had just spent around 7% of the average annual per capita income in Pakistan on a meal!

I thanked my host for his generosity and we parted ways.

Walking back to my car, I kept on thinking about my experience: I had just stepped out of Pakistan for a few hours without ever leaving Karachi. The material difference between the Pompei Restaurant and its surroundings was spinning in my head. I also thought about the role of language in this world of mirrors. Pompei exists in Karachi because of the development industry and the foreigners who come here as part of international institutions, which are supposed to help our poor economy. But are they really helping by creating islands of opulence that are unrecognizable to the average citizen? For me Pompei seems like a new sovereign state maintained by international money that has come to us from the World Bank, the IMF and other international bodies – ostensibly to reduce the deep and pervasive poverty in Pakistan but practically to be enjoyed by whom?

I was also musing on the intercultural nature of this encounter: a British and a Pakistani academic meeting in an Italy-themed space in globalized Karachi sounds very cool and postmodern and like a coming together in some global, hyprid, even ‘metrolingual’ space. But is that what had happened? To me, the encounter felt as one that accentuated difference and increased distance between people of different cultures. Had this encounter not turned me into someone utterly deficient: an academic who doesn’t know how to write? A customer who doesn’t know how to order? A local who doesn’t belong?

My last thought was about resistance: who is going to resist this new economy and its language? How can we truly achieve meaning in intercultural communication in a grossly unequal world?

Because I know all of this, I was not surprised to learn (in Clayton 2008) that the good people of Cambodia, too, want to learn English; nor was I surprised that the good people of the West are doing their best to help them to exert that choice. In the mid-1990s, for instance, one British and two Australian aid agencies alone devoted around USD12 million to provide English language teaching aid for Cambodia so as to enable Cambodians to exert the choice for English.

But then I saw another figure and was surprised: during the same period the funds devoted by ALL external aid agencies to support basic literacy in Cambodia were USD5 million. Seeing that two thirds of the adult Cambodian population are functionally illiterate, USD12mio for English teaching from only three agencies against USD5mio for literacy from all external agencies is an interesting difference in spending priorities. It is this conundrum that is at the heart of Stephen Clayton’s exploration of the meaning of “choice” when it comes to language policy and, specifically, English language spread in Cambodia.

Clayton’s central argument is that “choice” is not free and that the demand for English in Cambodia has been constructed by international aid agencies, including those operating in refugee camps and the United Nations Transitional Authority. All these set up English as a way to lead Cambodia out of international isolation (an isolation which was, incidentally, forced upon Cambodia by the UN in its 1979 decision not to recognize the Heng Samrin government), as a way to access international aid, and thus the means for reconstruction and development. The need for English in Cambodia has thus been largely constructed by external agencies and is based on an external orientation to development.

Does it matter how a particular choice was structured and created in evaluating the choice? It could be argued that, no matter how, why and by who the demand for English was created, now it’s there and Cambodians need English to be able to access aid, to participate in the emerging tourist economy, to develop and to become integrated into the global economy. If all Cambodians today had an equal chance to become fluent in English and to access all those supposed or real benefits, one would have to agree. However, the external orientation (to aid, tourism, the global) inscribed into English benefits only a tiny Cambodian elite. Those with proficiency in English can access external aid agencies and the model of externally driven “development” becomes entrenched.

At the same time, the external development model has been failing the majority of Cambodians, the rural and urban poor. Additionally, for all the rhetoric of choice, English is out of their reach. For instance, in the export trade, on an average garment worker’s wage of USD45 per month, even English lessons at 2cents per hour as provided by some aid agencies are unaffordable. Not to mention that these workers probably have little time and energy left for English study. The vast majority of Cambodians are mired in poverty to such a degree that learning English is not a feasible choice for them – an impossible dream maybe. What is more, the development model of “free” global markets into which English is inscribed has actually removed another choice from the reach of most of these people: the choice to become literate in their own language.

Choice is a marker of privilege. For all the neoliberal cult of personal responsibility, choice is only for those who are beyond the constraints of economic necessity. As Clayton shows, the choice of English in Cambodia was structured on the basis of external and internal socio-economic inequalities in the first place and the privileging of English within the free market model further widened those inequalities as an effect of the restructuring of local labour markets.

If “everyone” wants to learn English, it is not because English is so wonderful but because too many of us have no other choice.

Clayton, S. (2008). The problem of ‘choice’ and the construction of the demand for English in Cambodia Language Policy, 7 (2), 143-164 DOI: 10.1007/s10993-008-9084-9