Yasser S. Khan and Rizwan Ahmad

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The offending dress (Image credit: BBC)

Recently, a woman in Lahore was accused of blasphemy for wearing a dress printed with Arabic calligraphy. The crowd had assumed that the sartorial motifs must be verses from the Qur’an.

In reality, the words on the dress were hayah and hulwah meaning ‘life’ and ‘sweet’ respectively. Islamic scholars had to be called in to verify this to eventually disband the crowd.

How did the misunderstanding come about?

The calligraphic style of the print on the dress loosely resembles the Thuluth style of writing. Thuluth literally means “a third,” referring to its compactness, as this style of writing occupies a third of the space in comparison to other more expansive Arabic calligraphic styles.

The Thuluth style is most notably visible on Kiswah, the black fabric that covers the Kaaba with verses from the Qur’an. The iconicity of the Kaaba, being one of the most well-known symbols within Islam alongside the crescent moon, extends to the black cloth that covers and adorns it in golden inscriptions of Qur’anic verses , which makes the association of the Thuluth form of writing with Qur’anic verse even stronger.

Generally, Muslims in Pakistan and the Subcontinent at large are able to read Quranic Arabic, even as they might not understand it; recognizing the script is distinct from comprehending it. Considering their familiarity with the Quranic script and the iconic visibility of the Kiswah, the crowd in Pakistan recognized the Thuluth form of Arabic writing on the dress, which to them is blasphemous as it is perceived as an irreverent treatment of sacred Qur’anic verses.

For the crowd, it was the form of the writing that evoked the sacredness associated with the Qur’an which they mistakenly associated with the content of the writing. If the dress had been printed with Urdu words (in which case the crowd would have known the content) or even perhaps Arabic words in another font, the misrecognition would not have arisen.

Using the sacred associations evoked by Qur’anic form strategically

Arabic “Do not urinate!” sign in Dhaka (Image credit: Global voices)

While the hapless woman in Lahore likely was unaware of the sacred associations evoked by the print on her dress, authorities in Bangladesh use the form of Qur’anic Arabic more strategically.

In Dhaka, as elsewhere on the subcontinent, it is common practice for men to urinate on the street, due to inadequate public toilets.

In addition to providing better sanitary facilities, the Ministry of Religious Affairs commissioned prohibitive messages against public urination in Arabic.

Why write prohibitive messages against public urination in Arabic instead of Bangla, even though Arabic is a language Bangladeshis recognize mostly in relation to the Qur’an?

For many Bangladeshis, as for Pakistanis, anything written in Arabic in a font associated with the Qur’an seems sacred. While they are unlikely to understand the meaning of the prohibitive messages written in Arabic, the use of the form of Qur’anic Arabic for the prohibition is effective, as people will be fearful to urinate on what they assume to be a sacred Qur’anic verse.

In both cases, it is the form that evokes the association with the sacred text, not the content.

These two episodes demonstrate that in the meaning-making process, there is often a complex negotiation and interaction between form and content of language. Conventionally, we give more precedence to content at the peril of losing the meaning conveyed to us by form. The overlooking of form can lead to misunderstandings, as happened in Lahore, just as the deliberate use of form can become a powerful tool to evoke associations that bypass content and thus shape perceptions. Alongside content, the form of language, script, or font shape and are shaped by the meanings they are supposed to carry. A neglect of form in our everyday perception of language can only lead to a fractured understanding of how meaning is produced and how it is perceived and consumed.

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Yasser Shams Khan is an Assistant Professor of Literature, Department of English Literature and Linguistics, Qatar University. He is the recipient of the 2024 British Association for Romantic Studies President’s Fellowship. His work focuses on the history of theatricality and performance practices, with specific interest in issues of race, Orientalism, and empire in the long eighteenth and early nineteenth century.

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Related content

Ahmad, Rizwan. 2022. Mal Lawwal: Linguistic landscapes of Qatar
Ahmad, Rizwan. 2020. “I regret having named him Sahil”: Urdu names in India
Grey, Alexandra. 2018. Do you ever wear language?
Piller, Ingrid. 2010. Transliterated brand names
Piller, Ingrid. 2013. Linguistic theory in Dubai

Man wearing shalwar kameez in Tooting

A friend of mine wanted me to accompany them to give my verdict about the Pakistani food in Tooting, London. They are non-Pakistani and they wanted an opinion from an insider of the culture to test whether the food was authentic or not. I accepted their invitation.

On the day of our meet-up, I first walked from Tooting underground station towards Tooting Broadway to get a sense of what was new. I was also looking for something that would catch my attention and that I might develop into a research project. When we met, we roamed some more given my obsession with linguistic practices “in the wild.” To work up our appetite, we proceeded to explore material aspects of social and cultural public life in Tooting, which has been made famous by the mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, a well-known native of the area.

Saxons and Romans coming through

The origin of the word “Tooting” is Anglo-Saxon, even if the meaning is disputed. Inhabited since before Anglo-Saxon times, Tooting lies on Stane Street, a 91-km road originally created by the Romans from Londinium (London) to Noviomagus Reginorum (Chichester).

So, Tooting has been at the intersection of “foreign” and “local” for at least two millennia. It is obvious that in relation to places like Tooting the imagined homogenous, monolingual ideal has always been a myth.

Pakistanis moving in

Going back to the topic of our day out in Tooting and the spatial practices we were looking for, the first thing that caught my eye was a young man in a dark green modern-day Pakistani-style “kam” or shalwar kameez walking ahead of us. Is this foreign or is this a local practice now, I wondered. Should wearing a shalwar kameez be considered part of a Tooting identity? And what kind of language practices might the person in shalwar kameez have been involved in before the moment I saw him? Was he coming out of a mosque? It was too early for any mandatory prayer times nor was it a Friday. His clothes were slightly formal, fitting for a Pakistani-style party. Perhaps he was off to a wedding or a milad or something similar?

Anarkali shop front

While shalwar kameez, just as any other form of clothing, can exist outside the realm of practice, linguistic happenings are tied to the communicative spaces and geographies where it appears. I wondered whether his outfit would not invoke Pakophobia (see a biography of the word P*ki  here) by some parts of Tooting’s population? And how does the clothing of this man relate to his class, status, and education?

Indexing “Global Britain” locally

Moving forward, I found some words written on shops that caught my attention: “Anarkali,” the Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) sign, Habib Bank, Nirala, and a couple of other familiar names originating from Pakistan and neighbouring countries. These naming practices are a form of action in a specific place and time within London. These names may not be indigenous to Britain, but they are embedded in this local neighbourhood.

The word Anarkali, for example, has a history bundled in this eight-letter word: the semantic meaning of the word “anarkali” is the bud of pomegranate. The word is also reminiscent of the legend of Anarkali, a courtesan in the Mughal court of Lahore who had a tragic love affair with the Mughal Prince, the famous bazaar in Lahore named after the courtesan, the Indian film Mughal-e-Azam, and last but not least, a popular Pakistani song from 2002 called Supreme Ishq Anarkali. All of these associations came to my mind.

The word Anarkali at the front of the shop was written in Roman rather than in Urdu, making it legible to descendants of South Asians migrants who might have only spoken competence of Urdu, the lingua franca of multilingual Pakistan.

Our delicious lunch at Spice Village, Tooting

We walked past Anarkali and stopped wherever we found something interesting to observe. There is rising gentrification in the neighbourhood, but the processes of relocalization of various intersecting practices are visible in multi-layered, multimodal language practices.

Food and restaurants were central to our conversation. Pointing to the restaurant Lahore Karahi, my friend said: “That’s one of the restaurants Sadiq Khan likes the most. I read heard it in an interview.”

Sharing a Tooting meal

Sadiq Khan also recommends the restaurants Daawat and Spice Village on the Visit London website.

With these endorsements, it was not surprising that Lahore Karahi and Daawat were full. We settled for savoury dishes in Spice Village for our lunch, followed by a very desi dessert in Daawat.

The question then is: how much of local Pakistani languaging practices are considered part of the fabric of the local ecology by the policy makers of modern-day “Global Britain“? And how much can we as educators and researchers make use of all languaging practices in our environment without labelling them under the binaries of minority/majority, local/foreign, indigenous/migrant?

Alia Amir’s grandfather with his three daughters, ca. 1950 (Copyright: Alia Amir)

I admire people, who, on the move, maintain and transfer their heritage languages to the next generations. By “maintain,” I mean the transfer of spoken language or as a boli (Mahboob, 2023).

In our family, our generation has grappled with the challenges of preserving all of our languages, and unfortunately, we have not succeeded in passing down all these languages to the next generation.

Multilingual Kashmiri ancestries

My paternal grandfather Shams-ud-Din was born in Srinagar in Kashmir, and raised in a Kashmiri-speaking family, shortly after the Great Famine of India (1876-1878) under British Crown rule and after Jang-e-Azadi (the War of Independence) (1857), also referred to as “Mutiny” from the British Raj’s and coloniser’s perspective and language.

The Great Famine of India itself, during the Crown rule, not only took the lives of millions of people but also caused mass displacements and internal migrations. This era did not only result in an astounding loss of life, but also came to have long-lasting consequences for health. Recent research shows that the British Raj era heightened the risk of diabetes in South Asians, a testament to the complex and extensive consequences of historical episodes.

Even though my initial childhood years were spent with my grandfather, I am not aware of the extent of his formal education. Vivid in my fond memories of him, however, remain his proficiency in several languages. He was well-versed in writing English, Persian and Urdu, accompanied by the eloquence of his bolis, Kashmiri and Punjabi. A brief part of his life was spent in service of the Empire’s machinery, the British Hindustani Police. Despite that, I recall the fervor in his stories about the resistance against the angrez rulers.

My paternal grandmother, Rehmat, was also a Kashmiri, however, her Kashmiriness manifested slightly differently from my grandfather’s. Her story, and subsequently my story and my linguistic skills, are also entrenched in the environmental, socio-historic events and linguistic ecology of the region. Her family, along with numerous others, were among the migrants from Kashmir to the-then unified Punjab, specifically Lahore, colloquially referred to as the province’s heart, during a famine in the seventeenth century under the Company Raj.

Among these migrant Kashmiris was Allama Iqbal, one of the foremost poets and philosophers of the region. He wrote in Urdu (also called Hindustani at that time), Persian, English, and German, while he was a lecturer of Arabic. Also fluent in Punjabi, one of the major languages of Sialkot city, where his ancestors settled, Allama Iqbal’s second and third generations (as well his predecessors) can be regarded as fully assimilated into Punjabi culture and language. It highlights a poignant contrast – the loss of one language, and the gain of another, a reminder of the pulsating progression of cultural and linguistic identities.

South Asian diglossia

Allama Iqbal and my grandfather’s generation of Kashmiris exemplify how diglossia functioned in multilingual communities. Pakistan and other South Asian nations similarly encapsulate traits of diglossic countries. In the case of South Asia and Pakistan, the notion of one language or one ethnic group is rendered a myth, just as the assumption that one nation necessitates one language. Based on this assumption, in linguistic communities such as the Kashmiris, it remains a challenge to pinpoint a single language that represents all of them. This monoethnic perspective, however, is rooted in Eurocentric global North discourses and epistemologies which does not capture the nuanced realities of bilingual communities (Bagga-Gupta et al., 2017).

Allama Iqbal and my grandfather’s generation of Kashmiris also showcase that the purposes of languages in one’s repertoire can be different, and those uses do not necessarily need to confirm imperial language categorizations. For instance, consider the Punjabi language in present-day Pakistan (and in the context of British Hindustan). Even though it is a written language as well, it has never been used as a medium of instruction or even taught as a compulsory subject in schools. Its absence in primary, secondary and higher education does not mean it is endangered in any form. Take the example of ‘Pasoori,’ a Punjabi song from Pakistan that garnered 696 million views and was the most searched song on Google in 2022. This not only showcases the song’s immense popularity but also underscores the idea that languages can thrive in various forms and modalities.

New bolis in migration

Allama Iqbal and my grandfather’s generation of Kashmiris also exemplify that language shift occurs in diasporic communities when the connection between the homeland and the migrants is weakened. Language shift means that when communities settle in new lands, new varieties will become part of the repertoire.

Fast forward to 2024, I find myself incapable of being able to speak all the bolis of my grandparents. I have lost two of my heritage bolis. Similarly, my children cannot speak all the bolis of their grandparents. Triple migrations and moving from one place to another have left us leaving one language for another; however, we still carry some of the mannerisms of our bolis in other languages – our Kashmiri-Pakistaniness manifests in English, Urdu, Swedish, and a mixture of all the above! We perform our identities through new vehicles, in new mediums, new bolis.

My autoethnographic account, my story, my loss of language is similar to some of those who are on the move and from those whose ancestors are forced to leave whether it is because of colonization, famine, family reunification, forced persecution, or fear.

My deep admiration extends to those who successfully maintain and pass on more than one heritage language in all modalities. I have strived to break free from the confines of limiting language competence within Euro-centric epistemologies and linguistic standardization ideals, recognizing their inherent written language bias (Linell, 2004) and the promotion of the notion of one language for one linguistic community. On the contrary, I argue that linguistic communities transcend beyond the geographical boundaries of nation states, provinces, regions, or clans.

Within the broad landscape of linguistic theories and epistemologies that conceptualize the multilingual competence of communities within the former British Raj, there emerges a pivotal challenge deserving attention: Euro-centric epistemologies and theorization fall short of accurately labelling and describing both individual and societal multilingualism. This challenge becomes vividly apparent in my family’s diglossia, where the interchange between two distinct linguistic varieties mirrors the diverse language practices found in both Pakistani society and its diaspora.

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?

(Image credit: Farooqi & Aftab, 2018)

Editor’s note: As Confucius Institutes are closing in western countries, as Jeffrey Gil analysed recently, Chinese language learning continues to expand across the global South. As an example, Kashif Raza reflects on the linguistic implications of the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) here.

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The China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) is a multimillion dollar project between Pakistan and China through which both countries aim to develop bilateral economic, cultural, social and military ties. However, none of the 68+ Pakistani languages are being used for information creation and dissemination in the operationalization of the project. In its current form, the project only enables participation by speakers of two languages, English and Mandarin Chinese, which have been adopted as official languages for the project. This is a missed opportunity for both countries to benefit their multilingual populations. With proper language policy development and implementation, this project could become an ideal multilingual economic model of South-South cooperation, where a multilingual workforce is engaged, recognized and benefits.

CPEC and Language Use

CPEC has many benefits for both Pakistan and China. However, the project has also posed a serious question for both countries: What languages are people going to use to communicate with each other? In correspondence with an official of the CPEC, I was told that there are three types of scenarios happening at the CPEC:

1. Chinese officials and stakeholders communicating with Chinese workers through Mandarin or other Chinese languages
2. Chinese officials, stakeholders and workers communicating with Pakistani worker through English, Urdu, or through interpreters
3. Pakistani officials, stakeholders and workers communicating with each other using English, Urdu, or any of the other local languages

Although Mandarin is used by the Chinese, and Urdu and other Pakistani languages by Pakistanis, English dominates the operationalization of the CPEC project for policy development and implementation with Mandarin taking the second place. Evidence of this comes from the use of English and, to a lesser degree, Mandarin in the production and dissemination of the information related to the CPEC. The Long Term Plan for China-Pakistan Economic Corridor 2017-2030 states:

This Agreement is copied in duplicate, each of which is written in Chinese and English, and both versions have the same meaning and will have the equal effect. 

Urdu learning in China

Both China and Pakistan are trying to promote each other’s languages at different levels. These language exchange initiatives, some of which started long before the inauguration of the CPEC, are led by governmental agencies (e.g., embassies) and private institutes.

Considering the importance of relations between Pakistan and China, different initiatives have been taken by the Chinese authorities to promote Urdu at multiple levels in China. One of these endeavors is the promotion of Urdu in education through major and minor courses that are mostly taught by Urdu-speaking Pakistani faculty and are offered by multiple universities in China. In an attempt to increase the number of Urdu speakers in China, several works have been translated from Urdu to Mandarin and Urdu language courses are being delivered at different institutions.

Peking University, in particular, has undertaken considerable work in this regard where efforts are being made to increase resources for Mandarin and Urdu language learners. After establishing the first Urdu Department in 1950 to offer basic Urdu language courses and translating multiple works from Urdu to Mandarin, the institute developed the first ever Mandarin-Urdu dictionary in the 1980s.  Similarly, Beijing Foreign Studies University (BFSU) has been teaching Urdu language courses since 2007. In order to provide an interactive Urdu language acquisition atmosphere, BFSU has been organizing various competitions in calligraphy and speech to familiarize Chinese students with Pakistani culture and history. Recently, Urdu Departments were established at Xi’an International Studies University and Guangdong University of Foreign Studies. We also see a lot of videos circulating on social media like Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp etc. where Chinese speakers of Urdu share their views in Urdu on contemporary topics like COVID-19, Pakistani culture and cuisine, tourism in Pakistan, and the Sino-Pak friendship in general.

Tea ceremony at Confucius Institute Islamabad (Image Credit: Xinhuanet)

The two main reasons for the popularity of Urdu in China since the CPEC inauguration are economic and cultural benefits. In terms of economy, many Urdu learners see either employment opportunities or chances of starting their own businesses. Since Chinese companies doing businesses with Pakistani counterparts need people that can help in communication between the two parties, learning Urdu can provide job opportunities for many as translators, Urdu language teachers, bilingual contract writers, and managers. Similarly, knowing Urdu can also help run businesses like import/export, manufacturing, and educational institutions (similar considerations with regard to Arabic in China are discussed here). On the other hand, attraction towards Pakistani culture, its tourist and religious destinations, food, and people are other reasons for the popularity of Urdu in China.

Chinese learning in Pakistan

As Chinese are learning Urdu, Mandarin Chinese is becoming popular among Pakistanis. We see governmental institutes as well as private entities involved in the promotion of Mandarin in Pakistan. A few examples of governmental support are the Chinese Embassy in Pakistan, Confucius Institutes, Pakistan Television, Sindh government memorandum of understanding with Chinese Education Department, Pakistan Senate Resolution in favor of teaching Mandarin in Pakistan and scholarships for Pakistani students and teachers who wish to develop Mandarin learning and teaching skills. Private institutes are also playing pivotal roles in promoting Mandarin.

As far as the benefits for Pakistanis learning Mandarin are concerned, the biggest incentive is the economic opportunities. Since CPEC is attracting a lot of Chinese businessmen and workers, Pakistani students of Mandarin find it as an opportunity to secure work as bilingual translators, interpreters, lawyers as well as supervisors. Similarly, there are educational, political and social factors that are encouraging Pakistanis to master Mandarin as a foreign language.

Economic Approach to Language Development for CPEC

As CPEC is a long-term economic project and has multiple advantages for both Pakistan and China, its success requires a deeper understanding and cooperation between Pakistan and China at social, cultural, educational, defense, economic as well as linguistic levels. A pragmatic approach that can guarantee the achievement of the objectives of this project is decision making through discussion and dialogue on all of the issues that both countries face. Language as a medium of communication is one of these issues that needs to be discussed and negotiated from both sides. This is not only important for increased communication between the two sides but also mandatory for strengthening other areas of cooperation.

Since Sino-Pak relations have a long history, both countries have been trying to promote each other’s languages through different means to strengthen multi-layered relationships between the two governments as well as its people. Nevertheless, language exchange has never been as critical as it is now. This calls for a proper language policy development that can resolve the medium of communication issue between the two neighbors and can pave the way for smooth people-to-people relationship development.

There are a lot of debates and discussions on the economic and military benefits of the CPEC project for both Pakistan and China. Although a few voices are also heard discussing the language issue related to CPEC, most of these articles portray the imposition of Chinese languages and the suppression of Urdu. None of the work done in this area looks at language issues through the lens of economic benefits for both countries in terms of increasing employment, enhancing people-to-people relations, developing cultural exchanges and promoting each other’s languages.

It is time to rethink multilingual language policies beyond established truths.

Welcome message to the Aga Khan IV inscribed into the mountain, Pasu, Upper Hunza, Pakistan

Transnationalism is a notion that is both presumed to be clear whilst also recognised as in need of explanation. Perhaps we can talk about it as a keyword, in the sense of Williams (1976, 14) – as a term that is used in “interesting or difficult ways”. Transnationalism has been defined from myriad perspectives. For Levitt (2001, 196), it is “used to describe everything under the sun”; a fact “which seriously diminishes its explanatory power”. At the same time, it tends to take on the meaning of “another form of migration” (Wimmer and Glick Schiller 2002, 322), such that transnationalism is presumed to be the result of migration. Transnationalism is, from this vantage point, created through migration from one nation-state to another.

This emphasis on migration has accompanied the concept since it became popular in the social sciences in the 1990s, with scholars using “transnationalism” to describe the fact that immigrants “live their lives across borders and maintain their ties to home, even when their countries of origin and settlements are geographically distant” (Glick Schiller, Basch and Blanc-Szanton 1992, ix). In connection with a widely shared understanding that the world has globalised, the term tends to be used to draw attention to movements, flows and interconnections across nation-state boundaries. And these resultant ties and networks are recognised as having implications for all kinds of social practice, including language.

However, without denying the potential relevance of migration, in practice there is no necessary tie between migration and transnationalism. A person can migrate yet not maintain transnational networks. On the reverse, someone can have transnational ties yet not have migrated themselves. This means that someone can also feel and believe that they are transnational in the absence of migration. This is an argument Dahinden (2009) makes on the basis of research carried out in the Swiss city of Neuchâtel. And her research leads her to argue for the importance of including non-migrants in studies of transnationalism.

Sign describing renovation of traditional house by the Aga Khan Cultural Service Pakistan, Altit Fort, Central Hunza, Pakistan

Such a view also has implications for how we might think about language and transnationalism. As Blommaert (2010, 6) reminds us, movement is never across empty space. Through movement people come into contact with one another, and in doing so, their ways of speaking come into contact, too. Whilst these different ways of speaking co-exist in new environments, their co-existence is stratified. This means that languages are typically used and evaluated in relation to one another, such that hierarchies of use and perception emerge. However, if we follow Dahinden’s (2009) approach to transnationalism, the ways people use and orient towards particular languages can be influenced by “connection[s] (elsewhere)” (Clifford 1994, 322) even in the absence of migration. This is the case for many Ismaili Muslims with whom I spent time in a village in Hunza in northern Pakistan and the city of Khorog in eastern Tajikistan. Part of a community who are dispersed in over 25 countries around the world, many Ismailis in Hunza and Khorog are not mobile themselves. Yet, we can still think about them as transnational and this is relevant for understanding their attitudes towards English.

In a 2011 interview given with the Lebanese Broadcasting Corporation, the community’s spiritual, social and political leader since 1957, the Aga Khan IV, refers to an explicit “language policy” which made English the community’s official “second language”. Implemented in the 1960s and 1970s, the language policy is said to have been put in place in an attempt to enhance the “development potential” of Ismailis. During fieldwork amongst Ismailis in Hunza and Khorog, I explored how Ismailis appropriate English and whether their attitudes towards and views on English match those suggested in official discourse. Whilst it was readily apparent that English tends not to have second but rather third (in Central Hunza, after Burushaski and Urdu) or fourth (amongst ethnic Pamiris in Khorog, after Shughni, Russian and Tajik) language status, I found a shared stance on English. In both Hunza and Khorog, my interlocutors underscored the key role played by the Aga Khan for their attempts to learn English. The Aga Khan orders Ismailis to learn English. A 1960 farman (‘edict’) issued during his first visit to Hunza in 1960, for instance, calls upon his followers to “Think in English, speak in English and dream in English”; a message which has been rendered durable, by being printed onto physical signs which hang in classrooms in the broader region. However, it is also the fact that the Aga Khan uses English himself which is deemed important. Ismailis describe themselves as trying to learn English to understand what he tells his followers and to gain “direct access”. In using English and ordering Ismailis to learn English, the Aga Khan gives the language status as a potentially valuable economic resource, and my interlocutors share this perspective on its value. However, English also becomes entangled with issues of identity and with what we might label transnational “consciousness” (Vertovec 1999) or “subjectivity” (Dahinden 2009). As put by an elderly authority in Hunza, Zafar, English has “almost become a matter of faith for every Ismaili around the world”. Its ready adoption can, as he explained it to me, be associated with the Ismailis’ “intellectual faith”, which emphasises “process” not “product”. Or as suggested by Salma, a young woman from Hunza, whilst non-Ismailis are recognising the importance of English, “our community has left other communities far behind in this race of learning”.

Photos displayed in Altit Fort of the Aga Khan IV with Prince Charles, during their visit in 2006

Writing about diaspora, Clifford (1994, 322) underscores the importance not simply of connections elsewhere, but more specifically that it is “the connection (elsewhere) that makes a difference (here).” Yet, this is not particular to diaspora. It is possible for meaningful situated local differences to be forged through connections with an elsewhere. In this case, with the Aga Khan; with Ismailis who have migrated and returned, or with whom one communicates online; and with texts and documents that circulate across space and time. This is not to deny the relevance of mobility. And it is probable that Ismailis who are mobile will engage in language practices (e.g., language learning) in an attempt to facilitate their mobility and that they will, in turn, be linguistically affected by their mobility. However, having a particular orientation towards a language – English in this case – which surpasses the utilitarian and becomes entangled with identity as a result of connections elsewhere is not the result of migration. Transnationalism in the sense of migration should perhaps not then be used as a starting point for thinking about language; or if it is, we need to be aware of the fact that it might not be the relevant starting point for our interlocutors. It might thus not be the most relevant frame to explore language on the move, and on the reverse, Ismailis’ languages might be on the move even in the absence of migration.

References

Blommaert, J. 2010. The Sociolinguistics of Globalization. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Clifford, J. 1994. Diasporas. Cultural Anthropology 9, 302–338.
Dahinden, J. 2009. Are we all transnationals now? Network transnationalism and transnational subjectivity: The differing impacts of globalization on the inhabitants of a small Swiss city. Ethnic and Racial Studies 32.8, 1365–1386.
Glick Schiller, N., L. Basch and C. Blanc-Szanton. 1992. Towards a definition of transnationalism. Introductory remarks and research questions. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences 645, ix–xiv.
Levitt, P. 2001. Transnational migration: Taking stock and future directions. Global Networks 1.3, 195–216.
Vertovec, S. 1999. Conceiving and researching transnationalism. Ethnic and Racial Studies 22.2, 447–462.
Williams, R. 1976. Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

After we completed our fieldwork, we were fortunate to obtain additional funding; first, to travel to New York to share our findings at the United Nations; and second, to bring together our findings in the first book to be published on this topic: The Legal Protection of Refugees with Disabilities has just been published.

For me personally, this project was a unique opportunity as a young researcher – I was able to gain invaluable experience designing, coordinating and carrying out fieldwork across six different countries, with a variety of people, in a variety of languages. I learned many valuable lessons which have hopefully helped me grow as a researcher and contributed to my capabilities as a PhD candidate.

But what does this project, which centres around international human rights law, have to do with language or sociolinguistics? While this research is officially within a very different field, I have still identified so many points of crossover, or ways of thinking, that have really helped each of my research fields.

Article 1 of the CRPD states:

Persons with disabilities include those who have long-term physical, mental, intellectual or sensory impairments which in interaction with various barriers may hinder their full and effective participation in society on an equal basis with others.

Laura during fieldwork in Nakivale Refugee Settlement, Uganda, 2013

Instead of placing the focus on the individual, the CRPD, both in Article 1 and throughout the remainder of its provisions, places the onus on societies. It forces us to think about the way our physical, social and legal structures differentially impact the various individuals who come into contact with them. For me, this critical reflection is also key to my growth as a sociolinguistics researcher.

For example, it may be easy to blame migrants for the various challenges they face: not being able to get a high-paying job, or having difficulty at school. But is this really about their individual ‘flaws’, or not trying hard enough, or does it have more to do with the legal, social, political and linguistic structures in our societies, which impact us all differently, advantaging some more than others?

In Chapter 6 of our book, for example, we discuss how a lack of work rights in many displacement settings greatly increased the risk of acquiring a disability, as refugees may be forced into exploitative and unregulated work.

Aside from legal status issues, language barriers played a significant role in access to a range of services – including gaining the knowledge that services existed in the first place. A comparison between the Syrian refugee populations in Turkey and Jordan provides an apt example: most Syrians in Jordan were able to communicate directly with locals, and even those who used Sign Language were more likely to find someone with whom they could communicate – Jordanian and Syrian Sign Language are mutually intelligible, and those literate in Arabic could also use written text to communicate. This obviously facilitated service provision, and access to work and education. By contrast, in Turkey, despite the government making very clear and concerted efforts to assist the Syrians there, language barriers created significant challenges in every aspect of life and access to services.

A refugee-run business in Za’atari Refugee Camp, Jordan, 2014

In places like Malaysia and Indonesia, although there were local disability rights organisations doing important work to advocate for greater inclusion, the invisibility of refugees living in their community, along with language barriers, meant that refugees largely missed out on benefiting from these groups. When we interviewed participants from Myanmar, the interpreters (themselves refugees) explained that they could not even translate ‘human rights’ as it was a completely unfamiliar concept – and we soon gave up asking. This contrasted with the situation in Uganda, where many of the refugees we met with had participated in programmes aimed at improving their rights, and when we spoke with them they were well versed in the ‘language’ of the CRPD and the concepts and rights it promotes.

Prolonged displacement situations are pertinent examples of how these types of linguistic barriers can play out quite differently over time depending on the particular structures in place in the host country. For example, in Malaysia, where young refugees have no access to the education system, their development of literacy and language skills is limited to what is offered by refugee volunteers. These classes are usually conducted in the language of the refugee group, and a range of barriers exist for children with disabilities, given the location of these ‘schools’ – in high-rise apartments, up narrow staircases – and the types of facilities they have – volunteer teachers with limited training, no assistance for those who need extra help, limited access to basic assistive technology like glasses or hearing aids. This understandably limits integration within the host society, and in any future country of resettlement, and the likelihood of being able to participate in the workforce in the future.

In contrast, in Uganda, where refugees are officially welcomed and permitted to settle permanently in the country, refugee children have the right to access local schools, and, in the case of a number of children who were deaf or hard of hearing who we met in camps in the south of the country, they may even be able to access specialised education, where needed.

In each setting, age-based policies that limited specific types of assistance to children (under 18 years) meant that those who had had disruptions due to their experiences as refugees or living through conflict situations may simply age out of opportunities that locals would have been able to access as soon as the need arose, following a ‘normal’ timeline.

It is unsurprising that these different levels of access would lead to different opportunities to participate in the host society, in both the short and long term, and very different experiences of what it means to have a disability. These experiences have reinforced for me the fundamental importance for social justice that we continue to question the way social, political and legal structures – and the beliefs and attitudes that underlie them – can impact on participation for the diverse individuals who make up our communities.

Reference

Crock, Mary, Laura Smith-Khan, Ron McCallum, and Ben Saul. 2017. The Legal Protection of Refugees with Disabilities: Forgotten and Invisible? Cheltenham, UK and Northampton, MA: Edward Elgar. Access the eBook and read the first chapter for free.

Images copyright of Mary Crock/University of Sydney.

A locutorio shop front in Barcelona (Source: El Periodico)

There is now a well-established body of work exploring the language work provided by service workers in call centres and tourist businesses. By contrast, the multilingual language work provided by migrants for migrants in multiethnic service enterprises has rarely been the focus of sociolinguistic attention. A recent book by Maria Sabaté i Dalmau, Migrant Communication Enterprises published by Multilingual Matters, fills this gap with an ethnographic inquiry into the language practices in a locutorio, a call shop, in Barcelona. A locutorio offers all kinds of telecommunication services such as billed calls in booths, the sale of top-ups for mobiles, fax services, internet access and international money transfers.

The locutorio the research is based on also served as meeting point for working class Spaniards and migrants, both documented and undocumented, from a variety of countries of origin. Beyond the sale of telecommunication services, the locutorio thus provided access to information, a place to hang out and it even served as the ‘public’ toilet for homeless people in the neighbourhood, mostly undocumented men from West Africa.

The locutorio was part of a chain of similar call shops owned by a Pakistani venture capitalist whose aim was to make a profit rather than provide social services for Barcelona’s marginalized. It was his employee Naeem, who was in charge of running the locutorio, who ended up caught between more than one rock and more than one hard place. Naeem was a fellow Pakistani hired by the owner in Pakistan two years before the fieldwork began. Naeem’s position was legal as a temporary resident but in order to achieve permanent residency in Spain he needed another two years of proven work, which left him vulnerable to exploitation by the owner. He worked twelve hours per day, seven days a week, for a meagre salary of less than Euro 800 per month. Naeem’s job consisted of opening the locutorio in the morning and closing it at night. He would start with booting up the computers and getting all the equipment to run. During the day, his duties consisted of assisting and charging customers, and making various phone calls (to his boss; to call card distributors; to the money transfer agency etc.). Additionally, he was in charge of maintaining the premises, including sweeping the floors, removing garbage and cleaning the toilets.

Much of this work is obviously language work and Naeem had to operate in a complex sociolinguistic environment. In addition to a range of varieties of Spanish – from Standard Peninsular Spanish via various Latin American varieties to a range of second language varieties – this included Catalan, English, Urdu, Punjabi, and Moroccan Arabic in various spoken and written constellations and used by clients with variable levels of proficiencies, including proficiencies in the use of telecommunication services. In this highly diverse environment, communication was rigidly regimented by the meters on the machine where communication was paid for by the minute.

Unsurprisingly, misunderstandings and communication break-downs were common. On top of all that, Naeem had to deal with customers who tried to cheat him (the balance of each financial irregularity was deducted from his meagre salary) and who abused and insulted him. Working in a highly constrained yet super-diverse environment left little room for personal autonomy and, only in his late twenties, Naeem was suffering from eating disorders, compulsive smoking, chronic fatigue and anxiety attacks.

The researcher concludes that locutorio language workers constitute “a voiceless army of multilingual mediators” (p. 170) whose multilingualism is not only a site of language work but also a site of linguistic exploitation.

Migrant Communication Enterprises offers a rich migrant-centred ethnographic account of a prototypical enterprise of the 21^st century. If this blog post has piqued your interest and this is your area of research expertise, you might want to review the book for Multilingua. If so, please get in touch with a short description of your expertise.

Maria Sabaté i Dalmau (2014). Migrant Communication Enterprises: Regimentation and Resistance Multilingual Matters

Excerpt from “The Haunted Lotus” by Australian-Hazara artist Khadim Ali (Source: Milani Gallery)

An objection that is commonly raised against Esperanto and other auxiliary languages is that they are “invented.” Somehow, being “invented” is assumed to give Esperanto a shady character: it’s just not natural. The problem with this view is that – in being invented – Esperanto is not unique. And I don’t just mean that there is also Klingon and Volapük. In fact, each and every language with a name is an invention. We may not always be able to identify the inventors – in fact the trick of the inventors of English, Chinese, German, Spanish and all the others – has been not to let themselves be identified as language inventors. Instead, they pose as teachers, priests, bureaucrats, academics, poets or scientists. The invention of major national languages such as these gets obscured by time (although Standard German with its origins in the 19^th century is not much older than Esperanto), and it is a rare opportunity to see a language invented before our own eyes.

Such an opportunity currently unfolds in Australia with the invention of the Hazaragi language. Late last year I was invited to attend the 2013 NSW Fair Trading Think Smart Multicultural Conference. Among the many important things I learnt at that conference was the discovery of a multilingual resource for renters in New South Wales. The video “Renting a home: a tenant’s guide to rights and responsibilities” is an excellent educational resource and it is available not only in English but, additionally, in 17 other community languages. What struck me was that three of these 17 languages were the same, as far as I am concerned: there is “Dari,” “Farsi” and “Hazaragi.” Isn’t it all Persian, I thought? I was aware that “Farsi” is often used for “Iranian Persian” and “Dari” for “Afghan Persian” but I had never encountered “Hazaragi” listed as a separate language before; it is usually treated as the Persian dialect spoken by the Hazara of Afghanistan. The Hazara are Shia Muslims of Mongol ancestry whose traditional homeland are the high mountains of central Afghanistan (Farr 2007).

So, I did some research and discovered that Hazaragi is a language that is currently being invented in Australia and linguists from around the world might wish to pay close attention how this process unfolds.

To begin with, it’s imperative to identify speaker numbers because you can’t have a “natural” language without a community of speakers – and remember I’m talking about concealed invention; not something as straightforward as Ludwik Zamenhof saying “an international auxiliary language is a great idea and I’m going to create one.” In order to achieve speaker numbers, the categories of the Australian national census had to be adapted a bit over the years, as a comparison of the category for “Persian” over five consecutive censuses shows: the 1991 Census had no category for Persian nor related varieties and they were all subsumed under “Asian Languages, not elsewhere included.” Reflecting growing immigration from Iran, by the next census in 1996, “Persian” had its own category, which remained unchanged in 2001. The 2006 Census saw a significant change to the category when the language label was changed to “Iranic languages” with three distinct subcategories: “Persian (excluding Dari),” “Dari” and “Other.” “Other” was defined to comprise “Iranic, not further defined,” “Kurdish,” “Pashto,” “Balochi” and “Iranic, not elsewhere classified.” (There is no need to write in and ask what the difference between “Iranic, not further defined” and “Iranic, not elsewhere classified” might be. I don’t know.) It was not until the 2011 Census that “Hazaragi” made its debut, when it was included in the “Iranic Languages, Other” category for the first time. The table visualizes the changes in category.

Another important aspect of instituting Hazaragi as a language in Australia is through the credentialing of interpreters. NAATI, the National Accreditation Authority for Translators and Interpreters, credentials Hazaragi paraprofessional interpreters through testing. On inquiry, I have learnt that NAATI decisions about recognizing a variety as a language are based on Australian Bureau of Statistics data (see above) and “voices from the community about the designations that they use for themselves.” In fact, it seems quite impossible to find out how the decision to accord language status to Hazaragi was made. Even so, NAATI has clear guidelines as to what is correct and incorrect Hazaragi in a testing situation:

NAATI acknowledges that there are regional variations/dialects of the Hazaragi language. However, due to strong cultural and identity connections there is a high level of mutual understandability between these regional dialects.

For the purposes of NAATI testing, a candidate will not be penalised for the dialect spoken as long as what is being said would be understood by an average Hazara person living in Hazaristan.

Candidates need to be aware that the Hazaragi language spoken by Hazaras in some locations, including the major cities in Afghanistan, has been heavily influenced by other languages of those cities and areas. Any use of ‘none’ [sic] Hazargai’ [sic] words when interpreting would be penalised. (NAATI Information Booklet)

This statement is a crucial step in the invention of the Hazaragi language. After the language has been given a name, it is being codified. Again, the process of invention is dissimulated: the language spoken in the mythical place of origin, Hazaristan (incidentally, there is also a little identity war going on over whether that region should be called “Hazarajat” or “Hazaristan,” the latter supposedly being “more modern”) is normalised whereas language use that shows traces of the influence by other locations, particularly cities, is penalized, presumably because someone got it into their head that such influence is “incorrect.”

This particular invention – Hazaragi as the language of rural Hazaristan – is rather baffling: from an Australian perspective, the language spoken by “an average Hazara person living in Hazaristan” is entirely irrelevant because even if such persons were to exist in Afghanistan, they do not in Australia. The past three decades or more have been an unmitigated disaster for Afghanistan and have produced the world’s largest refugee population. Contemporary Hazara society is characterised by constant migration:

Like most Afghan groups, the Hazāras fled in large numbers after the coup of April 1978 and the Soviet intervention in 1979. Most of them went to one of the neighboring countries of Afghanistan. Migrants and refugees have thus come to overlap and can hardly be distinguished from each other. Their movements follow various patterns: thousands of farmers from the Hazārajāt migrate every winter to work in coal mines near Quetta for a few months, while young men migrate for longer periods to Iran to take on menial jobs. During the last two decades, the Hazāras have formed very efficient migratory and economic networks, based on the dispersion of relatives in Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. (Encyclopaedia Iranica)

Hazaragi has always been a contact variety – its main claim to distinction from Persian is the relatively higher number of Mongol loan words – and, in all likelihood, will continue to be a contact variety for a long time to come. It’s hard to see how inventing boundaries and a standard for this variety will do any good to anyone. Peter Mühlhäusler (2000) has an apt term for this kind of linguistics: segregational linguistics.

Farr, Grant. (2007). The Hazaras of Central Afghanistan. In B. Brower & B. R. Johnston (Eds.), Disappearing Peoples?: Indigenous Groups and Ethnic Minorities in South and Central Asia (pp. 153-168). Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press.
Mühlhäusler, Peter (2000). Language Planning and Language Ecology Current issues in language planning, 1 (3), 306-362 DOI: 10.1080/14664200008668011

Aga Khan University Institute for Educational Development presents global research seminar about language-in-education policy in Pakistan

The Aga Khan University Institute for Educational Development presents a global research seminar:

Topic: Social Meanings of language policy and practices: A critical linguistic ethnographic study of four schools in Pakistan

Presenter: Muhammad Ali Khan

Date: Friday, March 22, 2013
Time: 2:00 pm, West Asia Time (Islamabad, GMT+05:00)

Abstract: I investigate the language-in-education policy and practices of Pakistan in four schools, using an interdisciplinary approach combining methods and perspectives from post-structuralist theory, critical ethnographic sociolinguistics and sociolinguistics. My study theorizes the ways in which everyday language practices in schools contribute to the reproduction or contestation of linguistic ideologies, language hierarchies and social relations. Data was gathered using a number of different methods, mainly observation, audio-recording, note-taking, interviews, photography and administering a questionnaire.

The findings suggest that languages on display in schools are an important resource for investigating the language policy, linguistic ideologies, hierarchies and power relations at micro, meso and macro levels. They constitute a sociolinguistic order in which standard varieties of English and Urdu dominate the public space. The orthographic aspects of languages on display reconstitute the socio-political and economic struggles embedded in the history of asymmetrical power relations. At the policy level, they show a clear contradiction between the spoken language practices observed in schools and the clearly defined boundaries between languages shown in the display. At the policy level, they misrepresent the multilingual makeup of Pakistani society by only displaying the officially-mandated languages.

In sum, this seminar engages with the field of language policy and bilingual education by showing how the study of languages on display can be used to investigate policy, and also the socio-political relations across time and space. It also contributes to bilingual education by illustrating the complexity involved at the implementation site of bilingual education, showing the agency of the actors in appropriating, negotiating, resisting or rejecting policy at micro levels.

Presenter: Muhammad Ali Khan is a doctoral researcher at Lancaster University and senior instructor in the Center of English Language at Aga Khan University.

How to join online:

Date: Friday, March 22, 2013
Time: 2:00 pm, West Asia Time (Islamabad, GMT+05:00)
Meeting Number: 627 529 273
Meeting Password: 12345

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Pakistani flour mill workers recovering from a near-fatal lung infection due to poor occupational health and safety conditions, West Ham Hospital, 1960s (Source: Qureshi 2012, p. 7)

To be transnational has become rather fashionable: never before in human history have so many people been on the move, airfares have never been so cheap, new communication technologies have never been so, well, new, and space and time have never been so compressed. As a result, migrants are no longer just ‘migrants’ but have become ‘transnationals’ maintaining links between their country of origin, their current country, and, not unusually, other countries where they have spent time.

The cool imagery of the new transnationalism is sometimes ruptured by analysts pointing out how class and race constrain or enable different forms of transnationalism. However, even critical accounts such as these are usually based in generic embodiments of ‘black’ vs. ‘white’ or ‘Asian’ vs. ‘Western.’ By contrast, few commentators – whether academic or not – bother to look at actual bodies on the move.

A fascinating ethnography with chronically ill working-class men from Pakistan in London (Qureshi 2012) is an excellent attempt to correct this situation. Qureshi starts with the observation that, according to the literature, Pakistanis in Britain have

developed a ‘transnational ethnic world’ that is continually reproduced through longdistance phone calls, frequent return visits and holidays, the consumption of circulating goods and media products, exchanges of gifts, philanthropic investments in schools, hospitals and humanitarian projects in Pakistan and so forth (Qureshi 2012, p. 2).

Descriptions of a British-Pakistani transnational world such as these are based on normalized assumptions of healthy, materially secure migrants whose first priority is their cultural and ethnic identity. The chronically ill men the researcher encountered in East London told a different story, a story where their ailing bodies tied them to London.

The post-war manufacturing boom in Britain was to a considerable degree made possible by the labour of commonwealth migrants. After 15-20 years of hard ‘back-breaking’ manual labour, many of these men found their health deteriorating at exactly the time when the manufacturing base started to disappear in the 1980s. With their bodies no longer able to do hard manual labour and their education insufficient for ‘light’ office jobs, many of them have been unemployed ever since.

Benefits-dependent, these men have for more than two decades been made to feel superfluous and useless. The fact that their labour (migration) cost them their health has ironically meant that they are neither here nor there. Their lack of financial resources has tied them to London and has made practices of transnationalism difficult: for instance, ‘cheap’ airfares are not ‘cheap’ to them but involve years of budgeting ahead and borrowing; their disability coupled with the fact that Pakistanis back home see them as ‘rich’ and expect bribes and presents at every turn, makes movement in Pakistan difficult and unpleasant for them; and, phone cards, the so-called ‘social glue’ of transnationalism, have to be carefully rationed.

Not only do they find it difficult to maintain transnational ties with Pakistan. Sometimes, actually severing those ties is their only way to stay afloat: for many of them, selling ancestral land titles in Pakistan or houses they might have built there during better times is their way to cope with unexpected larger expenses such as home renovations.

Qureshi’s interlocutors are predictably bitter about their experiences: they feel they had given their youth and health to Britain, that Britain had aged them prematurely but does not allow them to age well. One man said:

I used to keep very well you know, I was doing a good job. You can’t even imagine. I have a younger brother here, he was younger than me by 13 years but when we sat together, people used to think I was the younger one. Before I came to this country, from ’75 to ’90 I never used to go to the doctor, never ever to the hospital. But now I’m just a big mareez [patient]. (Qureshi 2012, p. 13)

It is not only their failing health and financial precariousness that they feel bitter about but also the way in which they have been treated by ‘the system’: the legal-medical apparatus through which they continually have to prove their disability and ill-health in order to be entitled to benefits while simultaneously finding that the same system has been slow to attend to their medical needs and has often exacerbated their condition through long waiting times or malpractice.

Interestingly, they do not attribute the ‘miscommunication’ they experienced in their encounters with medical practitioners to language difficulties or cultural differences, as is often assumed in the literature on intercultural health communication, but to racial and class discrimination. They see doctors taking sides with the state and with employers rather than with patients and feel that doctors’ priorities often are to save money rather than to heal.

The people we meet in Qureshi’s work are not cool transnationals belonging to two places but bitter patients who are alienated from two places. As such,

the men’s life histories serve to critique scholarly accounts of ‘space–time compression’ that privilege migrants’ cross-border mobility and exclude the slower paced and more localized lives of migrants who might be bound by material circumstance to one place, or to a stretching out of time in the present. (Qureshi 2012, p. 16f.)

*With a tip of the hat to Said, whose title ‘Wo ich sterbe ist meine Fremde’ I have been trying to translate/imitate.

QURESHI, KAVERI (2012). Pakistani labour migration and masculinity: industrial working life, the body and transnationalism Global networks DOI: 10.1111/j.1471-0374.2012.00362.x

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?

Pakistan Swat Valley 2009

Ingrid briefly mentioned Zubeida Mustafa’s new book Tyranny of Language in Education: The Problem and its solution recently. Since then, we’ve had numerous enquiries about the book here on Language-on-the-Move, and I’m pleased to offer a review and more information about language education in Pakistan today. Zubeida Mustafa is well-known in Pakistan as a veteran English language journalist and Tyranny of Language in Education is her first book. It has multiple focuses around language and power, bilingualism, language learning, equity in education, globalization, and, of course, language-in-education policy. Here, the readers of this review need to understand that the author has written this book not for academics but for the general public and policy makers of Pakistan. The book’s central argument is as follows:

The child begins life with an advantage in a certain language, namely his mother tongue or his first language, which he uses to communicate and when learning is imposed on him in another language, he is robbed of this natural advantage … . He is additionally burdened with the handicap of a linguistic barrier that he has to surmount when he goes to school. (p. 6)

It’s hard to argue with this point in Pakistan where the national language Urdu could be said to have been imposed on a hugely multilingual society. Parents and pupils are not usually given a choice to have formal education made available in local languages. Furthermore, the author points out the unsound and unjust language education policies and practices in Pakistan, which she argues have been developed and are being sustained by a small elite class:

Polices should be made for the greatest good of the greatest number and not for a small elite class which formulates state policies and thus ensures that its privileged position is not undermined. (p. 6)

By way of background to Zubeida’s work, let me provide you with further information about languages, education and poverty in Pakistan. Ethnologue lists 72 languages for Pakistan. Out of these, 14 languages have more than 1 million first language speakers. The number of speakers and their percentage of the population differs significantly: Western Punjabi, for instance, has 60.6 million speakers and is spoken by 38.3% of the population but there are also languages which have only a few hundred speakers such as Aer, Bhaya or Domaaki. Overall, 85% of the population speak 14 languages and the remaining 58 languages are spoken by 15% of the population. The key point is that Pakistan’s population is a highly multilingual one.

This multilingual population, however, is not served by an equally multilingual language-in-education policy. As a matter of fact, Pakistan’s language-in-education policy is not explicitly stated. While the policy maintains that comprehensive school language policies should be developed in consultation with provincial and area governments, it does not seem to realize the importance of community, school management and teachers and pupils in the development, sustenance and implementation of a policy. Like all other previous language policies the approach adopted seems to be top-down. The current language-in-education policy of the country maintains that Urdu is the medium of instruction in government schools and English is introduced from Class 1 onwards. Most private schools in the country have English as medium of instruction.

Whether as a result of the policy or other factors, education outcomes are dismal: the literacy rate is 57.7%. For males it is 69.5% and for females 45.2%, and urban populations with 73.2% are more literate than rural populations with 49.2%. Furthermore, most people only receive elementary education. Only 18% of girls and 24% of boys are in secondary schools and only 5% of the population of tertiary age are in tertiary education.

While monolingual language-in-education policies for a multilingual population are certainly one aspect of the failure of education in Pakistan, the linguistic facts only go so far by way of explanation, as I’ve argued before. In my view, the material conditions of deep, widespread and entrenched poverty in Pakistan probably go a much longer way to explain the failure of education in Pakistan. For instance, let me tell you about the actual buildings and spaces of schooling in this country: 32.7% of elementary schools are without boundary walls; 36.6% without drinking water; 35.4% without toilet facilities; and 60% without electricity. These statistics help us understand at a surface level why only 10% children out of roughly 70% enrolled in schools manage to finish their secondary education.

Some more statistics: 23% of Pakistan’s population live below the poverty line of USD1.25 per day. The 2010 Human Development Index has Pakistan in 125th position – out of a total of 169 countries. Shocking inequalities manifest in every sphere of life, the poorest 10% of the population have access to 3.9% of the total national income while the richest 10% access 26.5%. The state of the country can also be measured by the fact that perhaps the cheapest thing in Pakistan is human life. People are killed on an everyday basis. Since 2006, 35,000 civilians and 3,500 security personnel have been killed in a “war on terror” that terrorizes our people.

Coming back to Zubeida’s book, I would say that the author at some places in her work makes attempts to connect language-in-education policy with societal power relations, inequalities and the material conditions in the country, such as chapter 7 titled “Ground Realities,” where the accounts are based on her personal visits to a less-privileged area of Karachi. In these account, the reader can easily hear the fresh voice of the author, which in other chapters sometimes gets lost in the scholarly sources tracing the development and explaining language policy in pre- and post-colonial Pakistan. To me, the key achievement of the book then is that it stimulates debate and puts educational disadvantage in Pakistan back on the table of public debate. However, with much of the work the author draws on, the book also shares particular weaknesses in positing particular interpretations of colonial language policy. These often give inadequate empirical evidence and tend to make straightforward links between past and present. It would not be incorrect to maintain that scholarship produced in this country has largely been overly deterministic in such matters without engaging with the material base of education in Pakistan and exploring what actually goes on in schools in Pakistan. Unfortunately, to date the country does not have one single study that could describe and explain the everyday language practices in specific institutions and explore the interlinked micro and macro levels of language in education in Pakistan. My ongoing PhD work is designed to partly fill that lacuna.

In Pakistan, as elsewhere, scholars all too often take refuge in political constructs and partial historical narratives without attending to empirical grounding and depth. If education in Pakistan is embedded in the power structures of the society, giving rise to inequalities and polarization, we would like to know how such dominance, inequalities and polarization is developed, maintained and implemented.

همکار ما در کراچی، محمد علی خان، مرا از وجود کتابی که به نظر بسیار جذاب می‌رسد آگاه کرده است، کتابی با عنوان «ظلم زبان در آموزش» نوشتۀ زبیده مصطفی و منتشرشده توسط اوشبا بوکس. با اینکه خیلی دوست دارم کتاب را بخوانم، سعی در سفارش دادن آن به آزمونِ راستی‌آزماییِ جهانی شدن بدل شد: مأموریت غیرممکن! به همین خاطر مجبورم خود را با خلاصه‌ای از کتاب که در وب‌نوشت نویسندۀ آن موجود است راضی کنم. ظاهراً بحث اصلی کتاب این است که گزینش زبان برای آموزش و پرورش در پاکستان، چه آن زبان زبانِ مادری باشد، چه زبان ملی و چه انگلیسی، بار ایدئولوژیک دارد و اگر نگوییم اصلاً، چندان به ملاحظات آموزشی مربوط نیست. بدین ترتیب، گزینش‌های زبان در آموزش و پرورش پاکستان به مانعی بر راه بهبود آموزش بدل شده‌اند.

بی آنکه کتاب را خوانده باشم و بی آنکه بافت جامعۀ پاکستان را به‌خوبی بشناسم، می‌توانم ادعا کنم که استدلال پیش‌گفته به نظرم بسیار ملموس می‌آید. من و همکارم، کیمیه تاکاهاشی، که اخیراً شمارۀ ویژۀ مجلۀ بین‌المللی آموزش دوزبانه و دوزبانگی، که به گونه‌گونی زبانی و پذیرش اجتماعی اختصاص یافته، را مشترکاً ویراستاری کردیم، در مدت انجام کار بارها از ستمی که بر اثر انتخاب‌های اجباری زبان در بافت‌های چندزبانه روا داشته می‌شود، در شگفت شدیم. بدین ترتیب، شمارۀ ویژۀ ما در حالی به پایان رسید که بیش از آن که دربرگیرندۀ مواردی از پذیرش اجتماعی باشد، حاوی طرد اجتماعی بود و نهایتاً اینکه پذیرنده‌ترین فضاها، آنهایی بودند که کمترین جزم‌اندیشی زبانی را بروز می‌دادند.

پذیرنده‌تر از هر فضای اجتماعی توصیف‌شدۀ دیگری در کُلّ صفحات آن شمارۀ ویژه، کلیسایی تبشیری در کانادا بود که عمدتاً در اختیار مهاجران چینی قرار داشت. آن گونه که پژوهشگر، هوامی هان، بافت آنجا را شرح می‌دهد، انتخاب زبان اصولاً مسأله‌ای محسوب نمی‌شد. در شرایطی که در سایر بافت‌های اجتماعی، آن گونه که از پژوهش‌های انجام‌شده در سراسر جهان بر می‌آید، مهاجران به علت آشنایی اندک با گونۀ زبانی قدرتمند که اکیداً نیز توصیه می‌شود خود را محکوم به سکوت می‌بینند، اعضاء کلیسای نامبرده در مواجهه با مسألۀ انتخاب زبان بسیار عملگرا رفتار می‌کردند. فرض بر این بود که انتخاب زبان در برابر هدف اصلی، که همانا خدمت به خداوند بود، امری بود ثانویه و فعالیت‌های کلیسا که پذیرندۀ زبان‌های گوناگون بودند، تا جایی که هدف مشترک مد نظر باشد، شامل رمزگردانی می‌شدند و همۀ گونه‌های زبانی را مجاز میشمردند. اعضاء کلیسا هر یک، نه بر اساس قابلیت‌های زبانی، بلکه بر اساس این واقعیت که مسیحی خوبی بود در سخن گفتن سهمی می‌یافت. تمامی فعالیت‌های کلیسا بر اساس یک ایدئولوژی زبانی عملگرا شکل گرفته بودند که در آن اهداف مشترک یعنی روحانیت مسیحی و خدمت به خداوند اهمیت می‌یافتند و همین امر باعث می‌شد تازه‌واردان علاوه بر اینکه حس پذیرفته شدن داشته باشند، فرصت‌های خوبی نیز برای بهبود زبان‌آموزیشان به دست آورند.

کلیسای توصیف‌شده توسط هان، به مانند مورد دیگری از ایدئولوژی‌های زبانی در یک محیط اجتماعی پذیرندۀ دیگر یعنی کتابخانۀ مرکزی وین (که پیش‌تر در وبگاه زبان در حرکت بدان پرداختیم)، نشان می‌دهد که می‌توان از ظلم زبانی در محیط‌های چندزبانه پرهیز کرد. مسأله این است که جامعۀ مدنی چگونه می‌تواند به مانند کلیسای نامبرده که مسیحیت را برجسته می‌ساخت، اهداف مشترک را بر ایدئولوژی‌های زبانیِ دست‌وپاگیر رجحان دهد.

Reference

Han, Huamei (2011). Social inclusion through multilingual ideologies, policies and practices: a case study of a minority church International Journal of Bilingual Education and Bilingualism, 14 (4), 383-398

Condemned to silence

Our contributor in Karachi, Md. Ali Khan, has alerted me to what seems to be a fascinating book: The Tyranny of Language in Education by Zubeida Mustafa published by Ushba Books. I’d love to read the book but trying to order it here in Australia has been a reality check on globalization: mission impossible! So, I’ve had to content myself with the summary of the book that is available on the author’s blog. The book’s central argument seems to be that language choice in education in Pakistan – be it the choice of the mother tongue, the national language, or English – is ideologically laden and not primarily, or not at all, driven by educational considerations. Language choices in education have thus become an obstacle to improving education in Pakistan.

Without having read the book and without knowing the Pakistan context well, the argument certainly makes a lot of sense to me. Having just co-edited a special issue of the International Journal of Bilingual Education and Bilingualism devoted to “Linguistic Diversity and Social Inclusion,” my co-editor, Kimie Takahashi, and I were continuously struck by the tyranny exerted by prescriptive language choices in multilingual contexts. As such, our special issue ended up documenting more exclusion than inclusion. And the most inclusive spaces were those that were linguistically least dogmatic.

By far the most inclusive space described in the pages of that special issue is an evangelical church in Canada catering mostly to Chinese migrants. As the researcher, Huamei Han, describes it, language choice was a non-issue in that context. Where migrants in other contexts, well-documented in research from around the globe, often find themselves condemned to silence because of their lack of familiarity with a narrowly prescribed “power code,” the members of that church are extremely pragmatic when it comes to language choice. Based on the assumption that language choice is secondary to the overall aim of serving god, the church’s inclusive linguistic practices include ample code-switching and the legitimization of all codes as long as they serve the common purpose. Fellows were assigned speaking roles not on the basis of their proficiency but on the basis of the fact that they were good Christians. All these practices which draw on a language ideology of pragmatism where it is not language that matters but the common goals of Christian ministry and service made newcomers not only feel included but also provided them with valuable practice opportunities that supported their language learning, too.

Similarly to the language ideologies operating in another highly inclusive space we’ve featured on Language-on-the-Move before, the Central Library in Vienna, the church described by Han demonstrates that it is possible to escape the tyranny of language in linguistically diverse contexts. The question is how civil society can prioritize common causes over a focus on restrictive language ideologies in a way that is similar to the prioritisation of Christianity in this church?

Han, Huamei (2011). Social inclusion through multilingual ideologies, policies and practices: a case study of a minority church International Journal of Bilingual Education and Bilingualism, 14 (4), 383-398

Private school in Machar, Karachi

Last year the British Council initiated a dialogue about language policy and particularly language-in-education policy in Pakistan, and their report was recently published. The introduction includes the following two statements:

The report […] is the result of two visits made by Hywel [=British education consultant Hywel Coleman] to Pakistan in March and July 2010 taking him to Sindh, Punjab and Azad Kashmir, as well as over six months of desk-based research. (p. 4)

This document is a report on a consultancy visit to Pakistan between 4^th and 17^th March 2010. (p. 3)

While these quotes from the report are inconclusive as to whether the consultant was in Pakistan once or twice, he comes to some sweeping and far-reaching conclusions. The report argues that Pakistan has a language crisis in its schools and calls particularly for the promotion of indigenous languages through making them a medium of instruction in Pakistan.

In principle the idea of promoting students’ home languages is appealing. It certainly touches the heart; less so the intellect, considering the practical, social and political constraints prevalent in the country. The report argues that in contemporary Pakistan, Urdu and English are being imposed on speakers of other languages. This may or may not be the case. The fact is that Pakistanis of all stripes and colors want to learn both Urdu and English from as early as possible because they understand the social and financial implications, and teaching through indigenous languages is a very low priority.

In order to understand language policy and education in Pakistan, and the global South more generally, I think people must experience what it means to live in Pakistan in the present circumstances. In Pakistan the central issue is not the language crisis but poverty. Pakistan is a country where 23% of the population live below the poverty line of USD1.25 per day. The 2010 Human Development Index has Pakistan in 125^th position – out of a total of 169 countries. Pakistan is a country where water is more precious than human lives. People are killed every day, no one bothers. The media report loss of human lives in numbers only. “So and so many people have been killed in this bomb blast, and so and so many people in that suicide attack.” Humanity has simply been numbered in this part of the world: 30 killed, 40 killed etc.

The salary of a private sector university lecturer in Karachi is less than GBP1,200 per year; even so, this is considered a very good salary by local standards. At the same time, it is not enough to put the fees of a good school for their children within the reach even of university lecturers, not to mention the vast majority of the population.

Power cuts for four hours a day are routine in city areas and in villages they exceeds eight hours every day. Imagine living without electricity every day for eight hours! Who gives a thought that the severed heads of the suicide bombers are often the young ones of their family? What makes them go to this extent? Do they have anything in their lives to live for or to look forward to?

Anyone talking about the promotion of indigenous languages among the poverty-stricken multitudes of Pakistan cannot be but alien to the realities of our lives. Why should we care about maintaining indigenous languages in the face of such bitter life experiences? Common ordinary Pakistanis want to have access to socio-economically powerful languages. They know very well that multilingualism is strength and they want to teach their children local, national and global languages at the same time.

Language death, language preservation, language revitalization and mother tongue education are for those who haven’t walked in our shoes. The way I see it they are nothing but distracters from the real issues of grinding poverty, suicide bombings and the energy crisis.