Languages and Love

Language is power. Language is knowledge. Language being a source of all these things is a well accepted concept. Language is a tool. But, Language is also love, after all, aren’t words of affirmation one of the 5 Love Languages? However, when you can’t speak the language of your own heritage, to your own family, how do you then feel and display love? Not only love to those family members, but also love to your own culture and self. Of course there are many ways to communicate without the spoken word. Although language is such a key part of identity and when you come from a mixed heritage, identity can already be a complicated concept.

Being from a mixed background provides a myriad of intricacies: the careful balancing of often opposing cultures, the constant journey to a ‘whole’ sense of self, and unpicking what ‘whole’ even means. But, a common sentiment I have found with others whose mixed heritage echoes mine (British/Arab), is the difficulty surrounding language.

Too many times as a young child I sat around my Azeza’s (Grandma’s) matarba with cousins watching as they all laughed and joked. Meanwhile, I was left to fiddle with my cushion and shly wonder what was so funny. Or, smiling politely as I had my cheeks squeezed by adoring Aunties whilst being berated for not knowing their mother tongue, my own tongue! Of course, for some it is not even an issue – being taught both parents’ dialects as an infant and never needing to go through the grueling task of trawling through Duolingo to redeem oneself.

I have a Moroccan and British background meaning my parents languages are English (my navite tongue) and Arabic – specifically Darija. I don’t know how many of you have tried to learn Arabic, but it is no easy feat. To start with, there are more dialects than imaginable, ‘Arabic’ itself exists in the form of Modern Standard Arabic, but the lived reality is that most regions, countries and areas speak their own dialect, which are extremely different. Therefore, with the main goal being to communicate with my own family, learning their dialect was a priority. Unfortunately, identifying the best resources to learn an underrepresented language is complicated. There is no ‘Darija’ on Duolingo. One way I began learning was through music, finding as many Moroccan artists as possible and learning through their songs to familiarize myself with the sounds, before reading subtitles for the translation. My vocab at the beginning was very poetic and romantic (for example, ‘you are the lungs I need for air’), not exactly the conversational phrases I hoped to use with my Grandma. Of course, getting a teacher and having classes is an option, but financially that isn’t possible for everyone.

Not being able to afford lessons wasn’t the only reason I was hesitant to openly ask for help and seek a teacher. Something that isn’t heavily spoken about, is the shame that comes with not knowing what should be your own language. I felt embarrassed to admit, yes I am half Moroccan, however I can barely order a drink in Arabic. This just began to fuel the imposter syndrome I spent years trying to fight off. Objectively it sounds clearly too critical, how can you measure how much of something you are through a tangible skill. Of course I am ‘Moroccan’, regardless of my fluency, or lack thereof, in Darija. But feeling a sense of belonging, identity, and self is so much more. I was afraid to admit my shortcomings and as such, afraid to ask for help. This also explains why asking my family as an adult came as a difficulty, – it meant being surrounded by the reminder that I hadn’t learnt as a child. I didn’t want to be confronted with the shame that only now did I want to learn. So, when I first started learning, I did so in secret.

After months consuming films, music, and awkward reading and pronunciation from various online sources, I began to feel confident enough to practice my skills. Going to shops and restaurants I knew were Moroccan-run, I tried to purchase items and order in Darija. I learnt to push through the embarrassment, deal with blushing bright red and the familiar feeling of my throat closing as I had to repeat the same sentence over and over.

After painstaking months, I admitted to myself that maybe I wasn’t capable of doing it alone and transforming into a fluent linguistic butterfly overnight. I elicited the help of a teacher I found online and began one on one lessons in grammar. At first I felt top of the class (a class of one), my basic knowledge was praised and I felt like this was achievable. But, anyone who has learnt a language knows, the more you learn the more you realise there is to learn. Once we got into tenses I realised this was not going to be quick, and that I would have to dedicate myself to this. And I did. And I am so grateful I did.

6 months later I went back to visit my family and decided to test out my skills. Filled with nervous excitement, I remember the first time I met my cousins at the airport, and in my overly rehearsed Arabic, greeted them and announced that I had been learning Arabic and wanted to continue to do so. I remember waiting for their laughter, for their scolding for taking so long, or for any reaction that confirmed the doubts that had played in my mind. Instead – I was met with a hug I will never stop feeling.

I am of course continuing to learn, and still have times when I am overwhelmed by how much more there is ahead of me. However, when I look back at where I was a year ago, I feel proud. And it’s true, I do feel more ‘Moroccan’. I feel more in touch with my culture and heritage because of my growing knowledge of its language, not just as a direct translation, but my understanding of phrases and words explains so much more to me than I could imagine. However, this is not the only reason I feel more in touch with my sense of self. It is also because I have learnt that my own identity isn’t a scale I need to measure against certain tangible achievements. I have always been half Moroccan, when I was sitting on that matarba having my cheeks squeezed only understanding the simple ‘salam’, to now being able to tell basic knock knock jokes and more nuanced expressions. Spending time with family, consuming art, learning histories; all of this was the cake (being Moroccan also means eating a lot of cake) of being who I am, however learning the language has certainly been the cherry (or in Darija: hablimluk) on top.