Yesterday, on the day of his inauguration, Trump made some bold changes to the White House website. Topics such as “LGBT Community”, “Climate Change”, “Civil Rights”, and “Native Americans” are not to be found on Trump’s website. Links that appeared on President Obama’s website such as “Accessibility” and “En Español”, both of which made the site’s content available to a broader range of people, are also now absent. Being a language person, the exclusion of a Spanish language option on the website caught my attention, as this is an issue I’ve often had to address with monolingual English-speaking Americans.
“This is America, speak English!”
This is a sentence we’ve all heard, in some version or another, many times. I’ve overheard it being said to others and had it said to me. It’s a message that is usually conveyed with a lot of contempt, superiority, and conviction. But for an idea with so much fervor behind it, it is incredibly easy to rebut. I always ask the aggravated individual, “So you think people should speak our nation’s official language? What would you say is the official language of the United States?” The answer is inevitably, “English, of course!” At which point I inform them that they are wrong and that the U.S. has no official language designated at the federal level. I’m not saying that this miraculously changes people’s narrow views on language use, but it is fun to see them get frustrated and squirm, and maybe, just maybe, they will reconsider their misinformed opinion for a quick second.
The English-only movement in the U.S. is not new, but in recent years it has become inseparable from anti-immigration sentiment and right-wing politics. Up until now, no legislation has been successful in declaring English the one and only official language of the country, but with the state of our current government, it is something to be concerned about. The problem is not so much about promoting the use of the English language in official contexts – that happens quite naturally. The problem is that the English-only movement is no longer about communication or efficiency at all. It’s about erasing other cultural identities and imposing a cultural standard for how to be a “true American”. It’s about denying people’s right to live in this country and about the assertion of a cultural supremacy (in many cases, white supremacy). By excluding the Spanish language from the White House website, where it once was found, Trump is sending a clear message to the 41 million native speakers of Spanish in the U.S. (yes, that’s 14% of the population): you no longer belong in this country.
This sentiment regularly leads to acts of discrimination and violence. Arabic speakers have been removed from flights for speaking their language, a woman was assaulted in a restaurant in Minnesota for speaking Swahili with her family, and most recently a couple was harassed in a Los Angeles supermarket for speaking Greek with each other. The U.S. is getting to be a country where people hesitate to use languages other than English for the sake of safety. This is not to say that having English as the official national language will automatically increase such attacks, but if English is going to be official, it should be for constructive and inclusive reasons that benefit everyone, not to entertain a vocal minority’s delusions about their authority over this land.
Another thing to consider is that a change in the United States’ relationship to languages other than English could have a positive effect on the levels of tolerance in the country. A recent article speaks about the link between learning languages and increased tolerance. Learning and being exposed to a language other than your own helps in “gaining cross-cultural understanding”, “dealing with the unknown”, and “tolerance for ambiguity”. This all helps people to better navigate unfamiliar situations, feel less anxiety, and have more motivation and confidence. For a society where tensions and intolerance appear to be on the rise, it seems that we would be foolish to limit ourselves even further to just one language.
Thirty-one of the fifty states have already established official state languages. In every case it is English, but in some states indigenous languages have been awarded official status as well. Hawaiian is co-official with English in Hawaii, and in 2014 Alaska’s official language act was amended to include, alongside English, 20 indigenous Alaskan languages: Inupiaq, Siberian Yupik, Central Alaskan Yup’ik, Alutiiq, Unangax, Dena’ina, Deg Xinag, Holikachuk, Koyukon, Upper Kuskokwim, Gwich’in, Tanana, Upper Tanana, Tanacross, Hän, Ahtna, Eyak, Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian.
Official status for a language should not be something to fear, but it must be handled in the spirit of inclusion and not in order to erase the histories and identities of others. If the issue is approached with care and consideration, it could actually be of great help to many communities whose native languages have suffered under conditions of colonization and poverty. On that note, the next time I encounter “You’re in America, speak English!”, I think I’ll simply reply with this:
I protested Trump’s inauguration in D.C. yesterday. I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t just sitting at home doing nothing while the mastermind behind so much intolerance and fear-mongering stepped into the spotlight. Our protest looked like America. People of every colour, gender, religion, and background were present. There were even some Trump supporters wandering around in red “Make America Great Again” hats. People on stage spoke passionately about their concerns for the future. They spoke in English, yes, but also in Tagalog, Lakota, and Spanish, and the experience was all the richer for it. One Trump supporter commented loudly that the Spanish speaker on stage should “learn English” because “this is America”. Well, “En Español” links can be removed from websites, but the people of this country, speaking the countless languages that they speak, are not going anywhere. Eventually that man will have to admit that an English-only America is a limited and obsolete aspiration. He will have to learn that to willingly engage with Spanish or any other language doesn’t threaten you – it makes you a better person.
Last year, when a Trump presidency was just a seemingly unlikely nightmare, I wrote a post about learning Arabic as an act of solidarity. Today I’d like to repeat that message and broaden it to include all languages. One of the U.S.’s greatest assets is the multiplicity of languages and cultures, yet there are those out there (and they’re feeling pretty confident right about now) who want nothing more than to homogenize our society. Speak your languages in public loudly and clearly! Don’t let aggression and intimidation silence you. If you see someone being harassed or attacked because of their language (or race or culture or identity), stand by them and help them to feel safe. Make it known that intolerance serves no one, and make it known in the language of your choice.
In January of 2002, while living in Sichuan, China, I packed my bags and headed south to while away part of the winter. A a change of scenery from monotonous, grey Chengdu was needed. Traveling southbound through Yunnan Province, I noticed a different atmosphere setting in as I headed for Ruili (瑞丽), a town on the border with Myanmar. All I knew of Ruili arriving was that it had the typical reputation of a border town: rough around the edges, multicultural, seedy, isolated, and buzzing with the comings and goings of tourism and trade. Most importantly, though, I was also aware that in Ruili they spoke a language closely related to Thai.
Dehong Dai or Tai Nüa (德宏傣語／傣哪語) is a Southwestern Tai-Kadai language spoken by some 500,000 people of the Dai nationality (傣族) in the Dehong Dai and Jingpo Autonomous Prefecture (德宏傣族景頗族自治州) of southern Yunnan province. Across the border in Myanmar, the language is considered a dialect of Shan and is spoken by roughly another 70,000 people. Elsewhere along China’s southern border, other related Tai languages are spoken by the Dai nationality and are also commonly referred to in Chinese under the umbrella term Dai language (傣語). These Tai languages, however, are distinct and have limited mutual intelligibility. In Myanmar, all varieties of the closely related Shan language combined have about 3 million speakers, and Tai Nüa is in fact also referred to as “Chinese Shan”. For such a sizable group, Tai Nüa and Shan are hardly known to the outside world. In and around Ruili, though, the Dai culture is omnipresent, and the language is thoroughly woven into daily life, alongside Mandarin, Yunnanese, and Burmese.
Stepping off the bus in Ruili, I felt like I had left China. The bus station was humming with activity. Two Bangladeshi children tugged at my shirt asking for money as a pair of pink-clad Buddhist nuns targeted me for the same reason. There were women with large belt-bags and wide-brimmed hats counting enormous wads of Burmese kyats at makeshift currency exchange stands along the street curb. A Pakistani merchant offered to sell me some jewelry. Another one offered opium. The sounds of Mandarin, Yunnanese, Dai, and Burmese mixed with the smells of a more Southeast Asian cuisine wafting over from a row of food vendors. Away from the chaos of the town centre, I realised that Ruili was actually a pretty sleepy place. As I walked around and got my bearings I quickly fell in love with the place.
Jiele Golden Pagoda – 姐勒金塔
getting acquainted with the language
Within the first few days I had a routine which involved starting my mornings off in a nice café that served excellent Burmese tea. They played good music and had comfortable tables and chairs, so it was an ideal spot to sit each morning and study some Burmese and Dai before venturing out to see sites. On one of these mornings after my tea fix, I met a man who went by Lao Feng (老冯). He was a friendly and talkative man who drove a tractor for work, collecting scrap or hauling things that needed to be hauled. He offered to take me around and show me a few temples. I gladly accepted his offer and soon I was hanging on the back of a tractor zipping down sunny country roads with palm trees and rice fields on either side.
We arrived at a small temple in a village on the outskirts of Ruili, and several monks came out to greet us. It is customary for many families to send one of their sons to go live and study at a temple, so most of the monks were quite young, ranging in age from about 8 to 18 or so. I was surprised that Lao Feng spoke to them in fluent Dai. The temple was raised on stilts, in the Dai style, with a wrap-around porch and open windows on all sides. Inside, the hall was empty except for a large altar with flowers and golden statues against the back wall. It was a much simpler aesthetic than in the Chinese Buddhist Temples I was accustomed to. The Dai practice a form of Theravada Buddhism mixed with some Dai folk beliefs. The monks showed me how to bai fo (拜佛 – prostrate to the Buddha) and pay respects to the head monk, and then we all sat down to have a chat.
Most of the conversation was in Dai, and again I was taken aback by how fluent Lao Feng seemed in the language. He had told me that he was Han Chinese, but I had never encountered a Han Chinese person who could speak any of China’s many ethnic minority languages. I tuned out, reflecting on how rare it would be in the U.S. to encounter a non-Native American with any knowledge of Native American languages, let alone the ability to converse in one. Suddenly I was being addressed in Chinese – the head monk had extended an invitation to me.
The proposition was that I would stay at the temple with free room and board for as long as I wanted in exchange for a daily English lesson with the head monk, whose name I now knew was Zawotika. I thought it over and told him I had one month before I had to report back to work in Chengdu. He seemed happy with a month, and he had one of the smaller buildings on the temple grounds opened up to house me for the ensuing weeks.
Kowita fixing his moped. Many of the monks were heavily tattooed.
Zawotika and I spent a couple hours every morning having basic English conversation and breaking down some fundamentals of grammar and common speech patterns. We made due with Mandarin when we had trouble communicating, but I was surprised at how much English he had already picked up through his own study and from the occasional international tourist that came by. I admired his drive.
The rest of the day I was free to do whatever I wanted. I usually ended up in the company of the junior monks or on the back of Lao Feng’s tractor, as he would stop by every couple days to take me on some outing to a pagoda or lake or festival. It was an incredible level of hospitality. I learned that Lao Feng had been married to a Dai woman and that he often transported goods to Dai communities across the border in Myanmar. This is how he learned to speak Dai, as well as Burmese to a lesser degree, purely by immersion. He had only a 2nd grade education and thus had very limited literacy in Chinese, but he was clearly an astute language learner.
On the lazy, quiet days when I would stick around the temple, though, I spent a lot of time with a Dai monk from Myanmar named Osatta. I took the opportunity to try to learn some of the Dai language, and we ended up having really productive language exchange sessions. Osatta helped me to create a small phrase book for my own study. I transcribed the words and phrases he gave me and then asked him to write them out in Dai. Coming from Myanmar, he used the Shan script to write, which wasn’t uncommon on the Chinese side of the border either. When I felt like my head was full, we would switch and do the same thing in reverse, Osatta noting down English words and phrases and transcribing them in his own way. As the month went by we used less and less Mandarin and opted to communicate in an inefficient but very enthusiastic mishmash of broken Dai and broken English.
A notice in the old Dehong Dai script
Dehong Dai proved to be a fairly straight forward language with characteristics very typical of other Tai languages. It is an analytic SVO language with no grammatical gender, plural forms, or articles. Measure words are used in counting things, and noun phrases are head-initial. The most difficult thing for English speakers is probably the tones, of which Dehong Dai has six. Tones are lexical and any inaccuracy in tone will greatly impede communication.
Here are a couple examples of Dehong Dai:
Compare the usage of this greeting to the Chinese 你吃飯了嗎？(which translates verbatim) and the Thai กินข้าวหรือยัง, which contains the obvious cognate /kin k̄ĥāw/ – to eat. The Tai Nüa word for you /maə55/ is also a cognate with the Thai มึง /mɯŋ˧/, though the latter is considered vulgar, rude, or archaic, while the former is simply the standard second person singular pronoun.
The above sentence shows that Dehong Dai is head-initial, i.e. the head precedes its complements: “language Dai Dehong” for “Dehong Dai language”.
Dehong Dai is essentially the same language as Standard Shan, though with some lexical and phonological differences. Shan has more loanwords from Burmese and Pali, whereas Dehong Dai has many Chinese loanwords. Shan also has a few added sounds and graphs to accommodate these loanwords, whereas Dehong Dai has a slightly smaller stock of phonemes. Finally, there are some differences in the tone system. For example, Dehong Dai has six lexical tones to Shan’s five. This results in many words that are phonemically identical in the two languages except for their difference in tone.
As for scripts, the situation in Dai is a little bit complicated. There are three scripts that can be used to write Dehong Dai. The first two are the new and old versions of the Tai Nüa script (also known as Tai Le script, /laːi55 tai55 lə35/, or 傣納文). The third is the Shan script (a modified version of the Burmese abugida), also known as /to35 lik54 tai55/, /laːi55 tai55 taə31/ or 傣繃文. All three writing systems are in current use.
The original Tai Nüa script did not indicate tones, but a 1956 spelling reform introduced diacritic tone marks. A further reform in 1988 replaced these diacritics with tone letters added to the end of every syllable (except for the unmarked 1st tone). As a result, older people who are literate in Dehong Dai will tend to still use tone diacritics and a slightly more flowery handwriting style, while younger people will use a more plain style with tone letters. All religious texts still use the old script, while all current materials from Chinese government approved publishers employ the newer Tai Nüa script.
In Myanmar, as Tai Nüa is considered a dialect of Shan, it is written only in the Shan script. This script is also widely used in Ruili, particularly among people who frequently cross the border. Below is a karaoke video of a Dehong Dai song with the lyrics written in both the modern Tai Nüa script and the Shan script.
At the end of the month, I returned to to Chengdu with a strong fondness for Ruili, Dai culture, and Tai Nüa. I was also left with a lot of questions, particularly regarding the language. One of the biggest challenges with encountering China’s minority languages is that it can be difficult to find materials for learning them or even information about them. For those in the target region, who can read Chinese, there are usually books and dictionaries of varying quality that can be found, and of course there are native speakers to talk with. For those seeking to learn from further away, however, it can be more difficult. There might be some videos or print material online, but the scraps of information available are often not enough to properly study the language at hand.
In Ruili I was able to find only three books in or about Dehong Dai: a small Dai-Chinese dictionary, a self-study book for Chinese people to learn Dai, and a book of short stories by a Dai author, mostly in Chinese but with one story written in Dai. Since Ruili, though, resources have been scarce, and even worse, I have yet to meet another speaker of Dehong Dai. There is something satisfying in the challenge of having to piece together a language with few resources, though. After all these years, I’m still interested.
For others interested in this language, I’m compiling my notes from 14 years ago and useful bits of information from these books into a more user-friendly format to share. I will continue to add documents here in the hopes that other people find the information useful. If you are studying Tai Nüa or a related Tai language, please reach out or join the Tai Nüa/Dehong Dai Facebook Group I recently launched. For now, here is a link to an introductory lesson in Dehong Dai:
In the past year I’ve had the pleasure of encountering and learning about two Portuguese-based creoles: Papiamentu and Macanese Patuá, spoken on different sides of the world. Having had no prior exposure to either of them, I never would have guessed how similar they would actually be. If the Portuguese language was going to be put into situations of linguistic crisis, in which people had to figure out some way to communicate with each other, in different parts of the world with completely different linguistic environments, it seems to me that the results would be quite unique. However the more I learned, the more I was surprised at just how many characteristics these two languages share. I was encouraged to speak about creole languages at this year’s Polyglot Gathering in Berlin and decided to take a comparative look at these two languages. Here are some my observations regarding Papiamentu and Patuá.
First of all, there are a number of superfluous Romance language characteristics that have been discarded in both languages, and in fact almost all creoles do away with unnecessarily detailed parent-language characteristics. These include grammatical gender, some aspects of grammatical number, differentiation between subject and object pronouns, and all verb inflections. Here is a brief review of personal pronouns in the two languages:
Verb tenses are indicated by tense-marking particles preceding the infinitive/verb root. Not only this, but these particles share etymological origins, and in modern Papiamentu and Patuá they still resemble each other quite closely – see below. In Patuá the use of tâ is limited to an explicitly present progressive meaning, and in Papiamentu ta is not used with a number of common verbs, but the parallel is nevertheless quite strong. A and já, may have differing origins, a coming from either há, the helping verb used in the Portuguese past perfect tense, or possibly from já (already). Já in Portuguese is the clear origin of the Patuá marker. Lo and lôgo both derive from logo (later).
Finally, the most obvious similarity is that Portuguese is the main original lexifier for both languages (Yes, I know that there are more Spanish-origin words in Papiamentu, but I believe that most of these are decreolizations of originally Portuguese words or much later borrowings), hence they share countless cognates. With an understanding of Portuguese or Spanish and these few basic grammar points, the two creoles quickly become quite transparent. Below are some sentences compared.
For all their similarities, though, they are definitely distinct and unique languages. They have vastly differing secondary lexifiers, Papiamentu taking the rest of its vocabulary from Spanish, Dutch, Arawak, and West-African languages and Patuá taking significant vocabulary from Cantonese, Malay, and a variety of Indian languages. In Patuá it is particularly noticeable that words of Cantonese or Malay origin tend to be used most for foods and common household items, probably a result of much of the early female population being native speakers of these two languages. Likewise, many Papiamentu words having to do with reading and writing originate from Dutch, traditionally the language of education in the ABC islands. The sentences below would scarcely be intelligible to speakers of the other language:
Atâi tâ comê chau-cháu com santám. (The boy is eating stir-fry with coconut milk.)
Amochâi, vôs atirâ sapeca tê lap-sap! (Dear, you throw away your money!, lit. to the trash)
Dúnami un buki òf un korant. (Give me a book or a newspaper.)
Nan no tin pòtlot-nan. (They don’t have pencils.)
Pluralization is also handled differently in each language. Neither language requires plural markers in all instances of plural meaning, but where indicated Patuá employs a pluralization pattern taken from Malay, while Papiamentu uses a pattern found in some Volta-Niger languages.
The Patuá pluralization is simply a reduplication of the noun, commonly found in Malay and to a lesser extent in Chinese languages:
fil0 = son filo filo = sons/children
In Papiamentu, the plural is indicated by adding a plural suffix -nan (also a the third person plural pronoun). This pattern is also found in other Caribbean creoles, such has Haitian Creole.
e buki = the book e buki-nan = the books
Even with extensive lexical differences and some differences in common grammatical patterns, we can see that there is still a considerable degree of mutual intelligibility.
So how is it that both of these languages diverged from standard Portuguese in so many similar ways? The answer to this lies in the instrumental role the Portuguese played in the establishment of the Atlantic slave trade in the 15th and 16th centuries. They occupied the islands of Cape Verde, São Tomé, and Príncipe and used them as trading and “processing” posts for slaves taken from nearby continental Africa. Thus the language had a presence on the islands early on. Those working in the slave trade, however, were not always speakers of standard Portuguese themselves. On the islands of São Tomé and Príncipe there had arisen a ruling class of Afro-Portuguese people who spoke Portuguese-based creole languages. These very similar creoles, as well as other Portuguese-based pidgins were used by those both administrating the trading ports and traders traveling back and forth along the west coast of Africa and as far as the Caribbean and Asia.
Naturally, these creole languages were also used to communicate with slaves. When capturing people in Africa and bringing them to these trading posts, the slave traders were careful to separate linguistic and cultural communities, so as to impede communication (and subsequent revolt) among the captives. Having been stripped of their native languages, slaves in turn had to use Portuguese-based pidgins and creoles to communicate with each other. As the slave trade and the Portuguese trading empire in general grew and spread throughout the world, so did these creole languages. Thus, several interrelated varieties of Portuguese-based creoles were taken all over the Caribbean, the coasts of Africa, India, and East Asia.
In the Caribbean, Papiamentu maintained more influences from West African languages, particularly in the area of phonology but also at the syntactic and lexical levels. Extensive Spanish and Dutch vocabulary and some Arawak vocabulary was incorporated, but even as it developed, Papiamentu retained its Portuguese-based core. In Asia, Portuguese-based creoles sprung up in many areas, including Bombay, South India, Sri Lanka, Kolkata, Malacca, and Macau. In Macau, the local Cantonese language became a source for a large amount of vocabulary, as were Malay and several Indian languages, all languages that had left their mark on Portuguese trade creoles along the route to Macau. Despite these influences, though, Portuguese remained the primary component of the Patuá language.
This interconnectedness might lend itself to the creole origin theory of monogenesis, which states that all creoles are derived from 17th century West African pidgin Portuguese, which in turn stemmed from Mediterranean Lingua Franca. By this theory, languges like Haitian Creole and Jamaican Patois would have been relexified with French and English vocabulary, respectively, while retaining the grammar and syntactic structure of creolized varieties of Portuguese from Africa.
This theory of course can have no bearing on the origins of creole languages that had no contact with the Atlantic slave traders, such as Hawaiian Pidgin English, but perhaps the 17th century Portuguese creoles of West Africa had farther reaching influences on modern day Caribbean creoles than meets the eye. At any rate, for those creoles whose lexicons remained mainly Portuguese the relationship is clear, and the 16th century creoles of São Tomé & Príncipe seem to be the missing link.
There are those, however, that still press for a unifying theory for all creoles, regardless of origin. Bickerton’s language bioprogram theory posits that given the typical social circumstances that lead to a creole language, the generation of children who convert that language from a pidgin to a creole are relying on innate grammar in their brain structure. According to this theory, our brains are actually hard-wired to create, understand, and use grammar. Thus, unrelated creole languages such as Tok Pisin (Papua New Guinea), Nubi (East Africa), and Hezhou (Western China) would have similar structures and characteristics because of the predisposition of the human mind to organise language in certain ways.
It is true, in most cases, that these other creoles with no historical connection to the Atlantic slave trade, do share many characteristics with Atlantic-based creoles, i.e. lack of grammatical gender, minimal to no verb inflections, tense-marking particles, etc. However, this is not enough evidence to prove a unique cognitive or linguistic relationship between them. The same characteristics show up, for instance, in all varieties of Chinese, a group of languages that have developed slowly over time, completely unlike creoles.
It seems that the label “creole” may not actually have much to do with linguistic structure or categorization, but rather describes a socio-linguistic situation repeated again and again throughout history. Creoles have suffered (and continue to suffer) the stigma of being linguistically “inferior” to their parent languages. They are often referred to as “improper” or “incorrect” versions of another, usually European, prestige language. If this is the case, does the term “creole” actually do a disservice to the languages?
“Creole” may perhaps be more meaningfully used in terms of a people’s culture and socio-linguistic history. It describes a set of circumstances and the ability of a community to innovate for the sake of communication. Though there are many linguistic featured shared by creoles, it seems that these features are not necessarily unique in the scope of human language. Furthermore, history has shown us the dangers of haphazard categorization given the stigma that creoles have collectively faced. Creoles are often dismissed as linguistically “simple”, all the while sharing many traits with many other unrelated languages such as Mandarin Chinese, a very high-prestige world language.
To this day it remains unclear what, if any, purely linguistic significance the term creole carries. Papiamentu and Patuá do share linguistic similarities, but this is to be expected considering their parallel histories and common origins. As for how they relate to other creoles in the world, it seems that shared historical circumstances may be the most striking similarity. The emergence of creoles all over the world shows us that humans have an instinct for verbal communication, and this is perhaps all we can know for now.
In addition to the resources used on previous creole posts, the following set provided much valuable information for this article:
Holm, John. Pidgins and Creoles, Volume I: Theory and Structure. (1988)
Holm, John. Pidgins and Creoles, Volume II: Reference Survey. (1988)
Avid language learners and polyglots often end up in situations where we talk about the details of our lives for the sake of language practice. Whether it is practicing in a conversation class or talking with a language exchange partner on Skype, at some stage in your language learning you’ll have to talk about your actual life, and at this stage you may start to notice that your learning materials have not enabled you to describe your own personal reality. Older materials will lack vocabulary about the technology that we use daily or you may not have the words to talk about your unique hobbies and interests. At any rate, the world of pedagogic dialogues and reading passages does not come close to reflecting the world in which we actually live.
In my own studies, I’ve found this to be particularly true as relates to my own queer identity. This really hit home when I encountered a dialogue in a Swedish language textbook in which a man refers to his boyfriend. I realised that it was the first time I had ever encountered any LGBTQIA+ representation at all in language learning materials – and I have used hundreds of language books and courses. (Actually there was another instance, when I found maricón listed in a Quechua phrasebook under “useful expresions”, but that’s not exactly what I was going for.) It struck me just how invisible I felt in the realm of language learning materials, a realm that has always served as my most treasured personal refuge.
Not long after, another issue arose while I was having a Skype exchange. I can’t recall which language I was practicing, but I remember I was at a loss when I began to talk about a friend who does not identify as male or female. In English I would normally use the singular they (my friend’s preferred pronoun), but the language at hand was grammatically gendered, and I found myself being cornered into making choices about another person’s identity, which made me very uncomfortable. It became clear that having the appropriate language in English was not enough and that I would need to dig a little bit to find information on gender inclusivity in the languages I study as well.
The topic of gender neutral pronouns has received some attention in the U.S. media lately, but it is far from being widely acknowledged or understood. It is even farther from being included in reference materials. Singular “they” was declared 2015’s word of the year by the American Dialect Society, reflecting a growing need for and acceptance of gender neutral language and the inadequacy of a binary-based concept of gender. For some, singular “they” is a practical way to begin to remove gender biases and patriarchy from language. For others it is their preferred pronoun, reflecting the fact that they identify neither as male nor female. It is important to know, however, that “they” is only one of many non-binary gender pronouns used in English. The Gender Neutral Pronoun Blog gives a good rundown of many possible gender neutral pronouns.
2015 was also a big year for the pronoun hen in Sweden. This pronoun was first proposed as a gender neutral alternative to hon (she) and han (he) in the 60’s. It gained popularity in the 90’s and early 2000’s, and in 2015 the Swedish Academy added hen to the 14th edition of their dictionary, Svenska Akademiens Ordlista. I’m not sure how widely it is used, but I am told that it is very widely understood. Even those who do not use it are familiar with it, and it is not a source of confusion, which is sometimes the case for those unfamiliar with singular “they” usage in English.
Luckily for the queer polyglot, there are plenty of languages that have no grammatical gender, and Finnish is one of them. Finnish uses hän (the source of inspiration for Swedish’s hen) in the 3rd person singular and se in the spoken language. Neither bears any information regarding gender. Adjectives will not reflect gender either.
Bengali is similar in this respect. There are no pronouns that indicate gender. In general, there is no grammatical gender either, with the exception of some vestigial words with masculine and feminine versions leftover from Sanskrit. In Bengali, the general 3rd person singular pronoun is সে /še:/. There are also উনি /’uni/ and ইনি /’ini/, which are used as honorific pronouns for any gender.
In Chinese, there is no way to distinguish “he” from “she” as spoken, though there are different characters that are sometimes used. 他 /tā/ is used for both “he” and “she”, though 她 /tā/ is often preferred for “she”, the 女 radical meaning “female”. Interestingly, there is also 牠 /tā/, a pronoun for animals containing the 牛 radical, meaning “cow”. Finally, I recently learned of the less common 祂 /tā/, a respectful pronoun traditionally used for deities that contains the radical 礻, meaning altar or spirit. Personally, I would love to see Chinese-speaking queers adopt this pronoun in written Chinese, as a way to transcend the binary entirely in favour of the pronoun of immortals and nymphs (仙).
These particular languages don’t present much of a challenge, and perhaps the majority of the world’s languages do not have gender distinctions built into them. But what do we do with languages that are heavily gendered at a grammatical and lexical level? Which verb and adjective forms do you use to talk about a person for whom none of the options are appropriate?
Romance languages are probably some of the more commonly studied gendered languages. They will typically reflect gender in their pronouns, adjective endings, and noun endings. That makes for a large portion of the language that has to be navigated with care and creativity in order to remove or neutralize gender signifiers.
In Spanish there are a few very common ways to do this in writing. Typically, masculine words are indicated by an -o ending and feminine words by an -a (there are exceptions), so one will often see an –@ used instead to represent both endings with one symbol. Hence, Hola tod@s would be used to address a group without resorting to the masculine todos as the default pronoun for mixed company, as is done in many languages. One clear problem with this is that it cannot be pronounced. A more important problem is that it still functions within a gender binary and excludes anyone who identifies elsewhere along the gender spectrum. This is often solved with the use of an –x instead of an -o or -a, as in queridxs amigxs, “dear friends”. This, however, brings us back to the problem of pronunciation. Furthermore, neither of the above solutions have any bearing on pronouns.
Elle (plural elles) has been proposed by blogger Sophia Gubb as a gender neutral third person pronoun for Spanish and is probably the most widely used. Along with this pronoun ending come the noun and adjective endings -e (singular) and -es (plural) and the articles le, les, une, and unes. Thus we have les chiques instead of l@s chic@s or lxs chicxs. It is easy to pronounce, very systematic, and easy to use given the willingness to do so. You can watch a good video about this below:
Unfortunately, usage of this type of language is still very limited, and many who are not open to the idea will simply tell you that it is incorrect. There is no recognition of elle or the grammatical forms that accompany it by the Real Academia Española, but people are pushing for this. I even found a petition that you can sign to get RAE to officially recognize elle or some other gender neutral pronoun.
If Spanish presents challenges to de-gendering language, then Hebrew presents near impossibilities. Not only are third person pronouns gendered (masculine and feminine), but so are second person pronouns, all nouns, adjectives, and conjugated verbs. The language is teeming with gender assignment. One thing that is sometimes done, especially in the world of academia, is to always use feminine forms for the default, a choice in solidarity with feminism. However if we are talking about a non-binary individual, not the default concept of a person, what can we do? How will that person speak? Keep in mind that all of their first person verbs will have to be gendered as well. What choices can be made?
First of all, many people will opt to use impersonal grammatical constructions in the place of first person verb forms. One could say נראה לי, “it seems to me”, not reflecting any gender, rather than אני חושב, “I think (masc.)” or אני חושבת, “I think (fem.)”. This kind of approach, which I found mentioned here, is a great way to circumnavigate gender markings, but it is limited. You won’t always have a natural sounding impersonal construction at your fingertips for every given situation. There are not a lot of other options other than to alternate between both masculine and feminine verb forms, even within the same sentence. One might use a first person masculine verb form in the first clause of a sentence and then a first person feminine form in the second clause. Even if this tactic is still based in the gender binary, it definitely throws a wrench into the conventions of it, ultimately queering the language.
Thinking about all these obstacles created by natural languages, I became curious about the concept of gender in Esperanto, a constructed language. Proposed as a utopian world language, it would stand to reason that it should be flexible enough to adapt to changing visions of utopia. Esperanto is actually a fairly gendered language, having separate words for he (li) and she (ŝi), as well as words for females that are based off of a male root word plus the feminine suffix -ino. For example, the word knabo means “boy”, based off the archaic German Knabe, and knabino, with the added suffix, means “girl”. In this case we can use the word infano to simply mean “child”, but what about words like instruisto and instruistino (male and female teacher, respectively)? Is the default form always male? Some people will say that you don’t have to use instruistino and that instruistocan be used for anyone regardless of gender. Others go further and propose that instruisto be used as a gender neutral form and that suffixes be used to indicate a specifically male or female teacher. In this case the male suffix is -iĉo, yielding instruistiĉo, while a female teacher remains an instruistino.
Returning back to the pronouns li (he) and ŝi(she), some people consider li to be gender neutral, though this does not seem to be widely accepted. A third pronoun, ĝi, is gender neutral, however this means “it”, and is not generally used to refer to people. In the absence of a gender neutral animate pronoun, many people use ri or ŝli. The latter comes from the internet use of ŝ/lias a written contraction similar to “s/he”, and therefore it is still binary based, whereas ri is truly neutral. This usage, called “Riism”, is not official, and many Esperanto purists will consider it incorrect, while other Esperantist communities have embraced it.
There is of course much more to say on this subject and many more languages to explore. Some cultures will no doubt have their own concepts of gender and perhaps corresponding preferences about the language used to describe different kinds of people. As language learners our job is to educate ourselves about these preferences. Ultimately, the important thing in any language, is to be respectful and intentional with the words you use. However, gender-inclusive language resources are not always readily available. Being connected to a diverse group of polyglots and language enthusiasts is definitely a big help when it comes to seeking out this kind of information.
Looking back over the history of queer liberation, self-determination has been the driving force behind positive change. As queers with an interest in language, we need the same sense of self-determination to create and use the kind of language that we feel accurately and respectfully describes us. As queer language learners and polyglots, we rely on each other to teach and share information about the words we need in both our native and acquired languages. In that spirit, I’d like to call attention to some resources online that I hope enable you to feel confident and represented in your language learning pursuits.
You hear the call to prayer echo through busy streets of vendors selling samsalar (سلمسالار, cf. samosa), polu (پولۇ, cf. pilaf) and kawaplar (كاۋاپلار, cf. kebab). Many of the women are wearing brightly coloured headscarves and many of the men have beards or moustaches. Signs written in the Arabic script and the sounds of a language not unlike Turkishwould never have you guessing that you’re actually in China. And this isn’t merely a small border region, but a large area encompassing deserts and mountain ranges that have been under Chinese occupation since 1949. The area is referred to in Chinese as Xinjiang (新疆 = new frontier) and covers a sixth of China’s land mass. Many locals would prefer to call it East Turkestan, though this term is officially banned in the region. East Turkestan/Xinjiang is home to a large number of ethnic groups, each with their own identity, language, and culture, but the Uyghurs are the most populous. They number over 10 million, however outside of China they are scarcely known.
Market in Kashgar
Street scene in Kashgar
The Uyghur people (pronounced /ˈwiːɡər/ in English) have received only limited attention in international media regarding the oppression they face by the Chinese government and the subsequent violence that erupts between the two groups. Ilham Tohti is a well-known Uyghur economist and outspoken supporter of autonomy and freedom in Xinjiang who is now serving a life sentence on unfounded charges of separatist activity. He has been lauded in the west for his fight for the freedom of speech of Uyghurs. The wrongful detainment of a group of Uyghurs at Guantánamo Bay, some for over ten years, was reported in the media, but this gave no attention to the problems Uyghurs face in Xinjiang. Very little is ever reported on the systematic sinofication of the Uyghurs’ homeland and the ensuing cultural damage threatening their traditions and language.
Uyghur is a Turkic language spoken by about 10 million people in Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region and in the neighbouring countries of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Russia. There are also diaspora communities in Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Germany, Australia, Canada, and the United States. Small communities of Uyghurs have also migrated for work to cities throughout China. Highly agglutinative in nature, the language resembles other Turkic languages, though with a significant amount of vocabulary borrowed from Chinese. It is written in a modified Arabic script.
Majority Uyghur-speaking areas are shown in red. The pink areas are largely uninhabited but are assumed to be Uyghur-speaking as well.
An Uyghur-language map of East Turkestan/Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. Image: “Uyghur: An Elementary Textbook”, Gulnisa Nazarova & Kurban Niyaz
I haven’t had much contact with Uyghurs since I left China in 2002 – after all, the diaspora communities that exist are quite small and low profile. Two events this month, however, have motivated me to revisit the topic of the Uyghurs and their language. The first is the Chinese government’s strict controls on and surveillance of the Uyghurs’ celebration of the holy month of Ramadan, which began last week.
For several years now the Chinese government has had an official policy of (further) restricting freedom of religion in Xinjiang and even outlawing the observance of Ramadan. Anyone with a government job is forbidden from fasting during Ramadan. The fact that the government pays their salary means that they can withhold payment if any non-compliance is suspected. Young people under the age of 18 are forbidden from participating in any religious activities, including visiting mosques, studying the Qur’an, and fasting. During Ramadan some high school students observing the fast have been forced to eat at school or suffer punishment. Uyghur-owned restaurants must maintain normal business hours and stock food and alcohol during the month of Ramadan or face possible fines and/or harassment. The Uyghurs face discrimination and pressure to assimilate year round, but during this month in particular they are under much closer surveillance and surrounded by a heightened military presence in the region.
The second event this month is International Uyghur Language Day, today June 15th. The annual commemoration was inaugurated by the World Uyghur Congress in 2015 to bring attention to the linguistic plight of the Uyghurs and to defend their right to receive an education in their own language. Since 9/11 the Chinese government has been increasingly pressuring Uyghurs to conform to Han Chinese culture and has adopted assimilationist policies such as the so-called bilingual education. In reality the Bilingual Education Policy is a transition to monolingual Mandarin-medium education aimed at “helping” Uyghur-speaking children adjust by blurring the lines of cultural identity between Uyghurs and Han Chinese. The adoption of Mandarin for the sake of integration comes at the cost of the Uyghur language. The Uyghur population, with its youth exposed exclusively to Mandarin in schools, is naturally worried about the fate of their mother tongue.
In 2015 the Uyghur Human Rights Project in Washington, D.C. released a report on the effects of “bilingual education” on the Uyghur youth of Xinjiang today. The report found that the regional government has set a goal of having nearly the entire Uyghur student population enrolled in “bilingual schools” by the year 2020. As it stands, they have achieved about half of their goal. To accomplish this the government is spending over US$700 million, money which would be more wisely and justly spent improving educational resources through the medium of the Uyghur language. Xinjiang’s Party Secretary Wang Lequan commented in 2002 that minority languages lack the vocabulary for modern science and technology and this renders education in these languages “impossible”. However, if the government is prepared to increase spending on education by hundreds of millions of dollars, I don’t see how more up-to-date educational materials, terminology, and training in Uyghur couldn’t just as easily be provided. The quality of education is clearly not the issue at hand.
The Chinese Communist Party has often equated a distinct Uyghur cultural identity (and language) with an affinity towards terrorism and separatist ideology. Furthermore, opposition to government policies such as bilingual education can get one labeled as a terrorist or separatist. Parents who do decide to send their children to “bilingual” schools are told that their children will have more job opportunities in the future due to their Mandarin language skills. In reality though, these children will still face systemic discrimination in the job market and severe competition from the droves of Han Chinese workers who are brought into Xinjiang from the east specifically to fill job positions. Either parents keep their children from bilingual education and risk being labeled terrorists, or they submit their children to a system that is designed to discriminate against them and distance them from their own language.
In the media, the situation is no better. There is a lack of Uyghur language print materials compared to what is available in Mandarin, and Uyghur language websites are subject to especially heavy censorship (the Chinese internet is already censored in the first place). In July of 2009 demonstrations in Ürümqi against the discrimination of Uyghurs turned into a violent riot. In response, the government shut down the internet in Xinjiang for ten months in order to inhibit communication and the spread of information. In May of the following year when internet service was restored, the vast majority of Uyghur language websites had been taken down, even though most of them did not contain religious or political content.
Two months ago, five web administrators and writers for Uyghur-language websites were detained in anticipation of the politically sensitive time of Ramadan. Some of the detainees have still not been released and have not been allowed any contact with the outside world. Through intimidation, harassment, and imprisonment the amount of platforms for original literature, news, and commentary in Uyghur is steadily decreasing, and the lack of Uyghur language education means that fewer children will master the language enough to create new content in the future. The CCP is doing its best to take away the voice of the Uyghur people.
Id Kah Mosque in Kashgar, Photo: World Policy Blog
I’m writing today to bring attention to the struggle of this language and culture. In the case of the Uyghurs, linguistic freedom is one of the many human rights being denied to them. As we see more languages die every year, it is important to keep in mind that this decline is not something that happens in an instant. It takes years of constant pressure and adversity to bring a whole linguistic community down to its last few speakers. Uyghur still has a strong population of speakers, but with the youngest speakers being strategically targeted, something will need to change soon to stave off the decline of this very old and very beautiful language.
Rebiya Kadeer, President of the World Uyghur Congress and human rights activist has said, “We should be proud of our language, culture and ethnicity. Only by saving our language can we save the Uyghur people and our heritage.” To commemorate International Uyghur Language Day, during the month of Ramadan when so many Uyghurs are subject to even greater persecution, I encourage you to learn about the situation in East Turkestan/Xinjiang, spread the word, and perhaps learn your first words in the Uyghur language:
Yaxšimusiz? (ياخشىمۇسىز؟) – Hello!/How are you?
Qandaq ähwalingiz? (قانداق ئەھۋالىڭىز؟) – How is your health?
Yaxši (ياخشى) – Good/well.
Rähmät (رەھمەت) – Thank you.
Iš ömlüktä, küč birliktä. (.ئىش ئۆملۈكتە، كۈچ بىرلىكتە) – (Proverb) Work should be done with a group, power comes from unity.
Check back in for a more in-depth look at the Uyghur language itself in a future post. Until then, here is a well-known Uyghur folk song:
It’s very difficult to give an answer when asked what my favourite language is. It seems cruel to have to pick one, given the endless beauty and idiosyncrasies of each language…or dialect…or sub-dialect. However, my answer is usually Irish because there is one, clear reason I can readily cite for the inevitable follow-up of “Why?”: the imagery.
Every language uses visuals in descriptive expressions, often in ways that are completely unique. The image of raining cats and dogs is unlikely to turn up in any other language; it is truly an English notion. However there is something about the imagery in Irish that strikes me as particularly special, especially when it comes to describing the natural world.
I must admit that I am motivated by some level of cultural bias, as the names of plants, animals, and herbs abound with vivid imagery referencing perhaps more than a thousand years of folklore, mythology, and oral traditions to which I am personally connected. However, I think that anyone will appreciate this aspect of the Irish language, and perhaps gain some insight into how inseparable the landscape and natural environment is from the Irish culture, language, and psyche.
Below is a collection of some of my favourite nature-related words in Irish and some explanation, where possible, of the origins of these terms.
Let’s start by explaining the title of this post a bit. Smugairle róin is the Irish word for jellyfish. Smugairle literally means “spit” or “snot”, and róin is “of a seal”, hence “seal snot”. I love the image of seals joyfully gliding through the water, hocking loogies and spawning slimy, transparent creatures off the coast of Donegal. It’s absurd and gross and beautiful all at the same time.
Lus an Chromchinn
Daffodils in Irish are called “Herb of the Bowed Head”. Lus is herb and chromchinn comes from crom, “bowed” or “bent”, and ceann or “head”. The name obviously describes the posture of the flower gracefully bowing its head. There is another, much less graceful name for Daffodils, though, and that is Lus an Aisig, more or less “vomit herb” in English. This comes from the fact that daffodils are highly toxic, vomiting being one possible result of a human or an animal accidentally ingesting them. A friend of mine suggested that the second, more graphic name might also be in reference to the posture of someone bending over to vomit, though I think most will prefer the more demure, poised “bowed head”.
Lus an Chromchinn (Daffodil)
Méaracáin na mBan Sí (Foxglove)
Lus na mBan Sí
Foxglove, itself a beautiful and fitting plant name in English, has a few versions in Irish, two of which relate to the banshee. The first is simply Lus na mBan Sí, “Banshee Herb”. The other, more in the line of “Foxglove”, is Méaracáin na mBan Sí, meaning “Thimbles of the Banshee”. The purple, thimble-sized flowers are the most obvious feature of this plant, and the reference to the banshee may be a warning of the potentially toxic nature of this plant. It seems that an inordinate amount of plants whose Irish names reference the fairies, banshees or other spirits from the Irish pantheon are poisonous. The fairy folk, or an t-Aos Sí, are powerful and not to be toyed with. So are their plants.
This link between poisons and the fairy world can be seen as well in Caipíní Púca, the Irish name for a kind of psychedelic mushroom, meaning “Little Goblin Caps/Hats”. Ingesting these will certainly bring on aisling-like visions and possibly access to na daoine maithe, “the Good People”.
Irish sometimes has a curious way of using mac (son) in creating words. The word for wolf is mac tíre (son of the country/countryside). Some have thought that this is in reference to old beliefs about the shapeshifting abilities of wolves, who are encountered in human form in many tales.
Another curious usage of mac can be found in the word macalla (echo). This word comes from mac (son) and aille (of the cliff). Thus an echo is the son of a cliff, i.e. a sound being reproduced off of the side of a cliff.
Cumulus clouds in the sky are referred to as “castles” in Irish. Large and imposing, they tower high like castles of ancient lore, clouds and castles incidentally both being fairly common in Ireland. Taking the image one step further, the golden-orange-pink vision of clouds in the sunset is known as caisleáin óir – castles of gold.
Finally, one of my favourites, is actually not a native plant to Ireland. Fuchsia is the result of planted hedges that outgrew their intended confines and is now commonly seen growing wild particularly in the southwest of Ireland. Because of this, there is not any old folklore to be found regarding the plant, yet it has still managed to acquire a very beautiful Irish name: Deora Dé (God’s Tears).
The drooping flowers and stamina are the most graceful of tears, and their electric colour is perhaps their godly quality. I haven’t been able to find information on the origin of the name Deora Dé, but it isn’t surprising to me that the flower found such a striking name in Irish.
The above is just a smattering of the imagery that Irish has to offer. The language casts vivid scenes and stacks layer upon layer of meaning, often onto some of the most simple or common objects or ideas. This is what I miss when I don’t get to speak Irish for an extended period of time. These types of words are the real heart of the language. So the next time someone corners me into answering why Irish is my “favourite” language, I’ll simply reply, “Seal snot and God’s tears.”
Studying Papiamentu and learning about its history has made me think more about the influence of the Portuguese language throughout the world. Not only is Portuguese spoken in several countries across the globe, but the number of creole languages that it has spawned is remarkable. Given the expanse of the Portuguese trading empire, however, this is only natural. Portuguese traders and colonizers encountered many different languages and cultures in their global pursuits, resulting in a variety of Portuguese-based hybrid languages emerging in the Caribbean, West Africa, India, and East Asia.
When visiting Macau last year, the native creole of the former Portuguese colony caught my attention. The language is commonly called Patuá or Maquista Chapado and is often also referred to as Macanese Creole, or in Portuguese as Macaense. I learned of Patuá as a gravely endangered linguistic relic and cultural artifact spoken by less than 50 people in Macau and perhaps by an additional few hundred individuals in the Macanese diaspora. Indeed it was hard to find any traces of Patuá in modern day Macau, but standard Portuguese has certainly left its mark and continues to coexist alongside Cantonese among an active, though very small, lusophone community.
creolization: Papia Cristám di Macau
The Portuguese have had a presence in Macau since the early 16th century. Macau quickly became an important trading hub and linked commerce between other Portuguese trading posts in Goa (India), Malacca (Malaysia), and Nagasaki (Japan). Given the constant migration in and out of Macau, it is only natural that a community of people with mixed heritage was born and that they would develop a language of their own, a creole language no doubt. As I’ve mentioned before, a creole language arises from contact between two or more different language communities, blending all the languages spoken by the population. It starts out as more of a rudimentary code of vocabulary items called a pidgin. Once a generation of children grows up hearing this pidgin as their primary language, they organically develop a grammar and more complete vocabulary, essentially creating a fully functioning language known as a creole. In the case of Macau, this creole language was Patuá and its community the Macanese.
The Macanese people originate from the intermarriage of Portuguese sailors and traders with women from Goa, Ceylon (Sri Lanka), Malacca, and Nagasaki, as well as some Chinese converts to Catholicism and women from local Tanka communities. The community took on many aspects of Portuguese culture and life, including Catholicism, government and legal professions, and a Portuguese education system, but the language they spoke at home better reflected their diverse origins. Macanese creole, like other Portuguese-based creoles, is essentially a grammatically simplified version of Portuguese with vocabulary and influences from Cantonese, Malay, Papia Kristang (Malaccan Portuguese-based creole), Konkani, Marathi, Sinhala, Japanese, Indo-Portuguese, and English. The following are some examples of lexical items in Patuá by language of origin.
The vast majority of lexical items in Patuá are derived directly from Portuguese, sometimes via other Portuguese-based creoles. Below are just a few.
torâ-português (from the Portuguese verb torrar – to roast, to toast): someone who speaks (standard) Portuguese poorly.
papiâ (from the Portuguese verb papear – to chat): to speak. This word is also used in the Papiamentu language and is the source of that language’s name. Incidentally, Papiaçám is another name for the Macanese Creole.
Língu Cristám (from the Portuguese língua cristã – Christian language): Macanese Creole, Patuá. Using the verb mentioned above, papiâ Cristám, “to speak Christian”, can mean to speak either Portuguese or Macanese Creole.
cháli (from the Marathi गल्ली, galli – way, lane, back street): small narrow street, lane.
auábe (from the Japanese 鮑/あわび, awabi): abalone.
bói (from the English boy): child waiter, busboy.
cacai (from the English cock-eyed): one-eyed or cross-eyed.
cacús (from the Dutch kakhuis – shit house): latrine, outhouse.
colonial architecture in the Old Town
blending of Chinese and western elements
a small grammar of Macanese Creole
The grammar of Patua has characteristics typical of other creoles (particularly other Portuguese-based creoles), as well as grammatical elements from Cantonese and Malay. Patuá has no definite articles, no verb conjugation, and only one set of pronouns to indicate subject, object, and possession.
The pronouns are iou (I/me), vôs (you), and êle (he/him, she/her, it), nôs (we, us), vosôtro (you, pl.), ilôtro (they, them). To create the possessive pronouns, the suffix -sa/-sua is added to each pronoun.
Verbs have one basic form, which can be used alone as a present tense verb, an imperative, or an infinitive. Some common verbs, all derived from Portuguese, are sâm (from the 3rd person plural são), têm (to have, to be located), vêm (to come), vai (to go), querê (to want), sabe/sá (to know), pôde (to be able), comê (to eat), lê (to read), olâ (to see, look). Verbs are negated with nôm.
Iou papiâ Cristám. = I speak Macanese Creole.
Ele sâm Macau-filo. = He is a native Macanese. (literally Macau-son)
Ilôtro nôm têm na casa. = They are not at home.
Iou nôm sá / Iou nôm sabe. = I don’t know.
Qui-cuza vôs querê comê? = What do you want to eat?
Verb tenses are usually conveyed by various particles. The particle tâ (from the Portuguese está, to be [doing something]) is used to indicate present progressive. The past tense is created by using the particle já (Portuguese for already), and the future is indicated by lôgo (from logo, later).
Qui-cuza vôs tâ papiâ? = What are you saying?
Úndi vôs tâ vai? = Where are you going?
Já olâ? = Did you see? (i.e. Do you get it?)
Iou já comê hám-chói. = I ate hum choy (pickled vegetables).
Nôs lôgo vai iscôla. = We will go to school.
Pai-mai lôgo vêm sentâ. = My parents will come sit (i.e. visit).
Noun plurals are indicated by reduplication, as in Malay. The same process can also be used to add emphasis to an adjective.
Vôs têm quanto filo-filo? = How many children do you have?
Ilôtro já vêm cedo-cedo. = They came very early.
Finally, one pattern familiar to speakers of any variety of Chinese also made it’s way into Patuá. To ask a yes-no question the following pattern is used: verb + negation + verb.
Vôs querê-nôm-querê? = Do you want it?
Vôs sábe-nôm-sábe papiâ Patuá? = Do you know how to speak Patuá?
You can see that, as with other creoles, not only are the grammar and phonology simplified and influenced by other languages, but the lexicon is also altered to include words that reflect the diversity and history of the language community. It should also be noted that, like most creoles, Patuá has no standardized spelling.
a rather Iberian looking smoked meat display
Patuá quickly became the primary language of the small Macanese community. For centuries it has been the pride of its speakers. Poems and songs extol the sweetness of this Dóci Papiaçám (sweet language), yet another name for the language. Patuá was the language of the home and family, the language dearest to the Macanese people. The rise of Patuá, however, did not mean that Portuguese ceased to be spoken in Macau.
Standard Portuguese remained the language of government and education, and students were taught to speak this “proper” Portuguese at school instead of “broken” Portuguese, i.e. Patuá. As more people arrived from Portugal to work in the government, courts, schools and trade, the importance of the Portuguese language only grew. A command of the language of Portugal remained essential for upward mobility. By the 20th century, Macanese Creole had come to be associated with the lower class and with women, who were generally neither educated nor employed. The pressure to conform to the linguistic standard of Portuguese began to overwhelm Macau’s beloved language. Emigration to Hong Kong and elsewhere then further reduced the number of Patuá speakers in Macau, nearly decimating the creole-speaking community. Leading up to and during this time some writers such as José dos Santos Ferreira began to write poems, short stories, and even novels in Patuá, committing the language to writing for the first time. But it was too late. The numbers of speakers had dropped too low, and transmission of the creole to the youth had essentially stopped.
This is a phenomenon called decreolization, whereby a creole language starts to converge with its parent language due to social and cultural pressures. The influence of the parent language becomes so strong that the creole begins to lose its unique features until it eventually gets absorbed into the more prestigious parent language. Today most Macanese in Macau might know a few Patuá expressions or words, but the language they speak is Portuguese (and/or Cantonese, for that matter).
Today Patuá is still spoken regularly by a only handful of mostly elderly people in Macau, but even the Patuá that has been preserved is said to have undergone a degree of decreolization, ceasing to be the same dócilíngu that it once was. Despite this, younger generations do have a strong appreciation for their community’s creole, even if they are unable to speak it. One of the ways in which the youth have been able to engage with the language is through the Macanese theatre. Blending traditions of popular Portuguese theatre and Chinese folk drama, Macanese theatre is performed in Patuá and satirizes traditional culture and contemporary social issues.
Doci Papiaçám di Macau is a drama group, started by Miguel de Senna Fernandes, that performs in Patuá (with surtitles in Portuguese, Chinese, and English), keeping the tradition of Macanese theatre alive in Macau. Some members are older Patuá speakers, but the bulk of the group is comprised of younger Macanese who presumably need to learn the language for their annual performances at the Macao Arts Festival every May. The group has also created a number of videos in Patuá that parody daily life in Macau. Fernandes recognises that Patuá has no hope of ever becoming the daily language of the Macanese community again. The task at hand is rather to showcase and preserve the memory of this language that was the voice of the Macanese people for hundreds of years. Even if Patuá is no longer spoken, Doci Papiaçám di Macau makes the culture of Patuá relevant to the younger generations of Macanese.
Miguel de Senna Fernandes and others talking about Macanese theatre (in Portuguese, Patuá, and Cantonese):
Macau Sâm Assi (This is Macau),parody of the song Lisboa é Assim, performed by Dóci Papiaçám di Macau:
If Patuá is nearly extinct, then what is the fate of the Portuguese language in Macau? There has never been more than a small minority of Portuguese-speakers in the former colony, and today only about 3% of the population speaks Portuguese natively, though about 7% claim fluency. Many predicted that with the return of Macau to China in 1999, Portuguese would slowly become obsolete and cease to have any importance. The numbers of students studying Portuguese began to drop in the 90’s, but in the past decade the language has steadily been gaining popularity in Macau. Portuguese is doing better than ever, and interestingly enough, this growth is not coming from within the Macanese community.
China has realised that the unique cultural heritage of Macau can be used for economic gain and in 2003 designated Macau as the bridge to the lusophone world, particularly Brazil and Portuguese-speaking Africa. Macau is China’s ticket to these growing economies, and students from all over the country are going to Macau to study Portuguese and profit from these cultural ties. In fact, many graduates are finding that their ability to speak Portuguese is getting them head-hunted right out school, earning higher salaries than their counterparts who only studied English. Portuguese is the competitive edge, and recently there are almost as many students studying Portuguese in Macau as there are fluent speakers in the territory.
One of four daily Portuguese-language newspapers in Macau
One of four daily Portuguese-language newspapers in Macau
At the same time, high unemployment rates in Portugal are resulting in many Portuguese moving to Macau to find work. Portuguese-speaking doctors, professors, lawyers, entrepreneurs, and other professionals are in demand and are relocating to the former colony to take jobs they can’t get at home. Brazilians, Angolans, and other lusophones are also taking advantage of these opportunities. All of this, of course, adds to the relevance of Portuguese to modern-day Macau.
Despite Macau’s renewed position in Lusophonia, the already “decreolized” Macanese community faces another very real cultural threat: that of being absorbed by the Chinese-speaking majority. Portuguese in Macau is greatly overshadowed by Cantonese and, increasingly, Mandarin and English. Most signs are bilingual (Portuguese and Chinese), and recorded announcements tend to include Portuguese, but you would be hard-pressed to hear a Portuguese conversation while walking down the street. It’s something that you have to seek out.
On my short visit, I didn’t have any time to waste seeking out lusophone enclaves, so I went straight to the Livraria Portuguesa, the Portuguese Bookstore. I found exactly one Portuguese speaker at the bookstore, from Portugal, not Macau, judging by his accent. The store itself was well stocked, and I ended up getting a book on cultural traditions in Macau and a wonderful dictionary of words and expressions in Patuá, the only book on the subject that is available, I was told. When it came time to pay, the Portuguese speaker had disappeared and I had to conduct the transaction in Cantonese. It seems that even in the Livraria Portuguesa, Portuguese is rare and fleeting.
All of this is not to say that Portuguese heritage isn’t visible. Walking around parts of the old city, you could easily mistake your surroundings for a neighbourhood of Lisbon. The colonial architecture is well preserved, and it is Macau’s most captivating characteristic. Catholicism is also alive and well and remains crucial to the identity of the Macanese. As I wandered the city looking at churches and searching for the best pastéis de nata, the saudade was palapable. Everywhere you look, there is evidence of a world that is trying its best not to fade away.
Outside of the narrow lanes and alleys of the Old Town, a new and more urban Macau is booming. With modern casinos bringing in droves of Mandarin-speaking mainland tourists and business, the pressures of Chinese on the already outnumbered Portuguese-speaking community are greater than ever. If the unique culture of Macau has any future in the long run, it will be because of its relevance to the international lusophone community. The Macanese people exist because of Macau’s place in the international Portuguese trading empire, and their survival will be for the same reason.
In my last post, I wrote a bit about the development of Papiamentu on the island of Curaçao. It’s an interesting language, given the array of sources that contributed to it: Portuguese, Spanish, West-African languages, Arawak, Dutch. Creoles are often a mix of totally unrelated languages, though, so this kind of blending is not particularly unusual. What is unique about Papiamentu, however, is that it was spoken across class boundaries, by all sectors of the population, from very early on in its history. This is in stark contrast to other Caribbean creoles, which have tended to be mistaken for corrupted or unsophisticated versions of the parent language spoken by the upper class.
For example, Haitian Creole, a French-based creole language, was for most of its history considered to be merely “bad French”. The French-speaking elite ignored the fact that Haitian Creole had its own grammar and vocabulary and was a language in its own right. Perhaps because Dutch, the language of the government and education, had no direct relation to Papiamentu (aside from a limited amount of loanwords), Papiamentu could be seen as its own language from the beginning and not merely a corrupted version of the prestige language. At any rate, Papiamentu took hold at all levels of society, and on Curaçao this included a community of Sephardic Jews.
Sephardic Jews started coming to Curaçao in the 1650’s. These families had their roots in Portugal and Spain, but after being driven out by the Inquisition, many sought refuge in Amsterdam. When the Netherlands took control of Curaçao, many Jewish families continued on to this newly acquired trading post. Some Jews had gone first to Brazil, setting up plantations and businesses there, but when the Netherlands ceded Dutch Brazil to Portugal, the Jews were forced to leave and many ended up on nearby Curaçao. By the end of the 17th century, at least ten Sephardic families had moved to the island. They dealt in agriculture, banking, the importation of goods from the Netherlands, and some were involved in the Atlantic slave trade. Since they were mostly (Judeo-)Portuguese and (Judeo-)Spanish speaking, the transition as a community to the use of Papiamentu would not have been a huge shift, and this may in fact have helped contribute to the widespread use of the language over Dutch throughout the island.
The synagogue of this early community still stands today in the center of Willemstad. Mikvé Israel-Emanuel is the oldest synagogue in continuous use in the Americas. The current building dates from 1732 and continues to serve a congregation of about 350 members. The floor is covered in smooth white sand, and this is definitely its characteristic feature. A number of explanations for this are given, beginning with a passage from Genesis (13:16), in which God says to Abraham: “I will multiply your seed as the sands of the seashore and the stars in the heaves.” Another account indicates that the sand is in memory of Conversos, or “secret Jews” in Spain in Portugal who had to practice Judaism covertly until they were able to safely emigrate to the Netherlands. These Conversos would put sand on the floor of the rooms where they worshipped in in order to muffle the sounds of their prayers. A third explanation states that the synagogue was designed to emulate an encampment in the Sinai desert during the time when the Jews were fleeing from slavery in Egypt, a rather ironic sentiment for a community with members that participated in the buying and selling of other humans as slaves, but I digress. This impressive building once housed a flourishing congregation, the descendants of which to this day still carry out some very old and particular customs and traditions. During Shabbat services, there are a few prayers that are still said in Portuguese, the language of the original Jewish colonists, including a prayer for the Dutch royal family.
interior of the Mikvé Israel-Emanuel
prayer for the Dutch Royal Family
Within a generation or two of their initial arrival, the Sephardic population of the island had become solidly Papiamentu-speaking. It is unclear how much Portuguese or Judeo-Spanish was still known or used by the community, but many sources attest that Papiamentu quickly became the daily language for most Jews on Curaçao. While at the synagogue gift shop, I came across a book that caught my attention, as it was one of only a few books in Papiamentu. Ta asina? O ta asana? Abla uzu i kustumber sefardí (Is it like this or like that? Sephardic language, lifestyle and customs) was written by May Henriquez as an expression of her love for her language and culture, and it became her life’s work. She began by asking friends and family for any expressions or vocabulary that they felt were particular to the Papiamentu of Sephardic Jews, and over many years she gathered enough information to compile this wonderful book.
May notes that the Papiamentu of the Jews contained many loanwords from Hebrew, Judeo-Spanish, and French. This is in addition to the Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch, and West African elements already present in the Papiamentu of the general population. There also seems to be a greater prevalence of Portuguese vocabulary in the speech of the Jews, probably due to the language of the original Jewish islanders. Below is a sampling of vocabulary items, with example sentences taken from May Henriquez’ book.
Fica – from the Portuguese ficar, to stay. This word is sometimes used instead of the more standard Papiamentu keda (from Spanish quedar), though with different nuances.
Koïtado– from the Portuguese coitado, pitiful or wretched. Ai, bo no ta mira ku e pober ta un koïtado malu, lagué na pas! (Oy, don’t you see the poor guy is a miserable wretch, leave him in peace!)
Zjanta – from the Portuguese jantar, to dine. Non-Jewish speakers of Papiamentu prefer sena, from the Spanish cenar.No bini lat, nos ta djanta banda di 8 or. (Don’t be late, we’re eating around 8 o’clock.)
Pataka – from the Portuguese pataca, an archaic monetary unit of great value. May mentions that in the synagogue, when members made contributions the amount was announced in patacas, and this tradition continued until the 1960’s. No ta importá mi niun pataka! (It’s not worth a pataka to me! / It doesn’t matter at all!). Incidentally, the pataca is still the currency used today in the former Portuguese colony of Macau.
Znoa – from the Portuguese esnoga and/or the Judeo-Spanish אסנוגה, synagogue. This is the world still used to refer to the Mikvé Israel-Emanuel.
Mansebo – from the archaic Spanish or Judeo-Spanish mancebo/מאנסיבו, youth or servant. In Papiamentu it means a young man or a bachelor. Keda mansebo (to stay single).
Donsea – from the archaic Spanish doncella, maid. Today it is used to refer to an attractive young woman.
Famia – from the Spanish familia, family. Among the Jews in Curaçao this word can take on the extra meaning of “Jewish”. Mi no konosé nan, ma ta visto ku ta famia. (I don’t know them, but they look like they’re Jewish.)
Expulshon – from the Spanish expulsión, expulsion. This is another word used by the general populace but in the Jewish community it takes on an additional shade of meaning. Here, expulshon refers specifically to 1492 and the expulsion of Jews from Spain.
Horban – from the Hebrew חורבן, destruction. In Papiamentu horban means suffering or calamity. Fulano a hinka me den un horban. (So-and-so put me in a bad situation.)
Ganap – from the Hebrew גנב, to steal, thief. El a ganap e buki. (He stole the book.)
Goy – from the Hebrew גוי, used as in English to mean a non-Jew. Famia Cohen ta masha konsterná, nan yu Sarah a namorá un goy. (The Cohen family is appalled, their daughter Sarah has fallen in love with a goy.)
Panim – from the Hebrew פנים, face. Mi n’ gusta su panim. (I don’t like his face, i.e. I don’t trust him.)
In addition to the many Hebrew words used colloquially, there is also a treasure of religiously themed Hebrew words for objects or concepts of spiritual significance. Anyone familiar with Judaism will recognise mezuzá, menorá, kadish, hupá, kabala, kasher, kipá, talmud, sedaká, seder, sefer torá, shofar, to name a few.
Finally there are also a number of French loanwords found in this Jewish variety of Papiamentu, the traces left by a smaller number of Jews who came to the island from France.
Fasòn – from the French façon, way or manner. Ami ta hasié na mi fasòn, abo ta hasié na di bo. (I’ll do it in my way, you do it in yours.)
Pèl-mèl– from the French pêle-mêle, chaotically or at random. E festa a resultá un pèl-mèl, kompletamente desorganisá. (The party was chaos, totally disorganized.)
The extent of May Henriquez’ work brings up an important question: could this be considered a Jewish language unto itself? I wrote a post recently that discusses the definition of a Jewish language, or rather the characteristics that all Jewish languages seem to share. Jewish languages are based on already existing non-Jewish languages, and they contain a significant amount of vocabulary originating from Hebrew. In addition, many (but not all) are written using the Hebrew alphabet, and due to the migration of their speakers they tend to preserve archaic characteristics or vocabulary of the parent language. I have found no evidence of Papiamentu ever having been written with the Hebrew alphabet, but all of the other characteristics definitely apply.
Searches for the term Judeo-Papiamentu (or the alternative spelling Judeo-Papiamento) reveal nothing, but I propose that such a language indeed exists, and that the work of May Henriquez has already documented a significant amount of its vocabulary and usage. After all, nothing could be more Jewish than to migrate across the world, adopt the local language, and turn it into something uniquely Jewish by modifying the lexicon to fit the needs and experiences of the community. Though it is true that Judeo-Papiamentu does not differ from non-Jewish Papiamentu to nearly the extent that Yiddish differs from German, I believe it could still be considered to be a Jewish language in the vein of Judeo-Marathi or some varities of Judeo-Arabic. That is, it is not unique in its structure, but rather in the Jewish vocabulary and usage of the language.
Another thing worth mentioning is that May states that many of the entries in her book are from different time periods and do not necessarily represent current or even recent parlance. The current state of Judeo-Papiamentu or the extent of the Jewishness of the Papiamentu in today’s Curaçaoan Sephardic community is unknown. More research will need to be done to find this information, but I hope that acknowledging the existence of Judeo-Papiamentu is a first step towards learning more.
I recently had the pleasure of visiting the island nation of Curaçao. The amazing climate and beaches are obvious reasons to visit this small country in the dead of winter, but the linguistic landscape was the real selling point for me. Most people are able to speak pretty comfortably in Papiamentu, Dutch, English, and Spanish, and those that don’t speak all four languages usually speak at least two or three of them. Polyglot paradise. Papiamentu is the primary language of the vast majority of Curaçaoans, and its DNA begins to hint a bit at the reasons behind the multilingual nature of the island.
Papiamentu (also spelled Papiamento) is a creole language spoken on the ABC Islands: Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao. Creole languages originate as pidgins, simplified languages usually made up of lexical elements from various existing languages, used as a rough means of communication between different groups when a common language is absent. Pidgins have generally arisen as a result of international trade. When a generation of children grow up exposed to a pidgin, they will essentially “fill in the gaps” of the rudimentary pidgin and develop a more complex and comprehensive grammar and vocabulary in a process called creolization. The end result is a creole language, which in contrast to its parent pidgin(s), is a complete and fully functional community language. The creolization process is often used as an argument to demonstrate the presence of an innate linguistic framework in the human brain.
Portuguese- or Spanish-based?
Papiamentu is generally considered by its speakers on Curaçao to be a Portuguese-based creole with Dutch, Spanish, West African and Arawakan influences on it. However in the linguistic community, there has been an on-going, century-long debate over whether it is in fact a Portuguese-based creole which received Spanish lexical influences or a Spanish-based creole that received Portuguese lexical influences. Given the closeness of Spanish and Portuguese, much of Papiamentu could be argued to come from either source, and various theories have been proposed over the years.
Two of these theories support the Portuguese-based creole stance. One purports the existence of an Afro-Portuguese proto-creole that arose from the slave trade on the coast and islands of West Africa and is the source of other Atlantic creoles, through a process of relexification. In the case of Papiamentu, the language would have been born in Africa and, after its arrival in the Caribbean, taken on Spanish, Dutch, and some Arawakan vocabulary, with a small core of Portuguese vocabulary remaining. The other Portuguese-based theory proposes that Papiamentu came from the presence of Portuguese-speaking Sephardic Jews on Curaçao, starting around the 1650’s, with Dutch and Spanish elements being added later. A third theory proposes that Papiamentu is a Spanish-based creole, dating back to the time when the ABC islands were controlled by Spain (1499-1634), with Portuguese contributions made by contact with Portuguese-speaking Sephardic Jews and slave traders.
“Lift your head, live your culture”
Museum Kurá Hulanda, Willemstad
Personally, when I first heard Papiamentu, my initial reaction was that it was obviously more related to Spanish, as it is mostly made up of clearly Spanish lexical items and has a lot of phonological similarities to Caribbean varieties of Spanish. However, after I read a bit more I began to subscribe to the Portuguese-based camp. In 1634, when the Dutch took Curaçao from the Spanish, they deported almost everyone from the island. It seems unlikely that any of the Spanish originally spoken on the island could have remained. Furthermore, the Portuguese-derived elements of Papiamentu, tend to be a part of the core vocabulary – pronouns, question words, basic verbs, etc. It is unlikely that these would have been later borrowings.
Finally, Papiamentu has been shown to share striking similarities with Cape Verdean Creole and Upper Guinea Creole (spoken in Guinea-Bissau), two other Portuguese-based creole languages that have their origins in the colonization and slave trade of West Africa. This suggests that the language, or at least its parent pidgin, had already taken some form before crossing the Atlantic. However, there are those that claim that the Dutch on Curaçao did not want their slaves to understand Dutch and instead chose to use whatever Portuguese they knew from trade to speak to them. This usage of Portuguese would have been reinforced by the presence of a Portuguese-speaking Jewish community on the island, and voilà, a generation or two later, we have Papiamentu.
There are plenty of details and viewpoints that I am leaving out in the interest of brevity, but the above will give you a general idea of the theories surrounding the origins of Papiamentu. At any rate, the jury is still out, and many opt to avoid the whole controversy by simply calling Papiamentu an Iberian-based creole, which, despite its lack of precision, is not an untrue statement. Specifics aside, Papiamentu arose from contact between very different peoples and under brutal circumstances.
the other ingredients…
What is unique about Papiamentu as a creole language is how thoroughly it pervaded Curaçaoan society at all class levels. It was not restricted to slaves or the lower classes but was also spoken by the colonizing and land-owning classes as their home language. By the beginning of the 19th century, Papiamentu was the primary language of most families of Dutch lineage, and it had already established itself as the main language of the Sephardic community during the previous century. In the 1800’s, in reaction to the lack of Dutch being used on the island, the government implemented a policy requiring the use of the Dutch language in education and administration. Starting with this increase in the use of Dutch on Curaçao, a significant amount of Dutch vocabulary found its way into the Papiamentu of today.
The Spanish elements can be accounted for by the presence of Spanish-speaking missionaries and their schools on the ABC islands, as well as the wide-spread use of Spanish in neighbouring South America and the Caribbean in general. Spanish is by far the largest source of vocabulary in Papiamentu, and its influence on the language continues to grow due to the proximity of Venzuela and the continual influx of Spanish-speakers to the island. West African characteristics are thought to remain in both phonological patterns (reduction of many consonant clusters and a complex interface of stress and tone), as well as in some patterns of syntax. As for the Arawakan vocabulary in Papiamentu, there isn’t much information readily available, but it seems to center around the names of local flora and fauna. (Incidentally there is a book on the topic, Stemmen uit her verleden; Indiaanse woorden in het Papiamentu, but I wasn’t able to track it down.)
So what does this combination actually look like? Here are a few sample sentences:
Mi tin hopi kos pa hasi. = I have many things to do.
Bo ainda no ta kla? = You’re still not ready?
Mi no tin asina tantu plaka manera bo. = I don’t have as much money as you.
Mi ta papia Papiamentu. = I speak Papiamentu.
You’ll recognise the first and second person pronouns from Spanish/Portuguese mi/mim and vos/você. In Papiamentu there is no distinction between subject or object pronouns. There is also no conjugation of verbs, one form sufficing for all persons. Above you’ll see tin and ta, taken from Spanish/Portuguese tiene/tem and está. Hopi in the phrase hopi kos, means “many” or “very” and comes from the Dutch word hoop (and possibly its diminutive hoopje), meaning “pile” or “heap”, and figuratively “a lot”. Kos is from Spanish/Portuguese cosa/coisa, thus hopi kos = “many things”. A few other origins: hasi is derived from hacer in Spanish, ainda is taken from Portuguese, kla is from the Dutch klaar. Papia means “to speak” and comes from the Portuguese papear, “to chat”. All in all, it’s a fairly easy language to begin to understand if you know either Spanish or Portuguese. If you know Dutch as well, all the better.
“Love Curaçao, and keep it clean.”
“Jesus is coming. Are you ready?”
“Time for change…Stop crime…choose freedom.”
Tin hende riba kaya. = There are people on the street.
Pushi i kachó ta animalnan bunita. = Cats and dogs are pretty animals.
Dunami un buki òf un korant. = Give me a book or a newspaper.
Above, pushi is from the Dutch poesje, meaning “kitten”, and kachó, is from the word cachorro, meaning “dog” in Portuguese or “puppy” in Spanish. In animalnan we can easily recognise the first part of the word, but the ending -nan has its origins in third person plural pronouns of Atlantic-Congo languages in West Africa. In Papiamentu, nan serves as both the third person plural pronoun as well as a plural marker that can be added onto nouns. The last sentence is basically half Spanish and half Dutch. Buki, òf, and korant are from the Dutch boek, of, and krant respectively.
Finally it’s worth mentioning the word dushi, as it is an important part of the Curaçaoan identity. Anything that is good, nice, delicious, enjoyable, beautiful, darling, or pleasant can be described as dushi. The word is derived from the Portuguese/Spanish doce/dulce, meaning “sweet”, and it describes very well the synergy of all the different elements that make up Papiamentu.
Papiamentu ta un hopi dushi lenga = Papiamentu is a very lovely language.
As omnipresent as Papiamentu is, Curaçaoans are definitely used to speaking other languages, and you hear quite a bit of Dutch, Spanish, and English on the island. Boats from Venezuela dock to form a floating market selling fruits and vegetables in Willemstad, and the language of the market is definitely Spanish. In many other instances, people approached me speaking either Spanish or English, I suppose identifying me as a tourist, but probably not a Dutch tourist. At any rate, it was either fluent English or flawless Spanish. If I switched to Papiamentu, people were generally very surprised and very happy to help me practice. Further, anyone I addressed in Dutch responded without hesitation in fluent Dutch, sometimes with a thick accent and sometimes crystal clear.
When I made the obligatory trip to a bookstore to get Papiamentu learning materials, I spoke with the cashier in Dutch at first. When she noticed what I was buying, we switched to Papiamentu. I told her I was learning, and she asked how I could already speak it if I had just arrived in Curaçao. I told her I spoke Spanish and that that made it easy to learn quickly, and then we moved on to speaking in Spanish. She eventually asked where I was from, and when I said I was from New York we switched into English for a moment before wrapping up the transaction. It was so much fun.
Code switching seemed to be quite common in Curaçao, especially between Dutch and Papiamentu. I attended a documentary premiere in Willemstad which included a panel discussion afterwards with the director, who was from the Netherlands, and a few other guests, all from Curaçao. The opening and closing words of cordial greeting and farewell were in Papiamentu, and audience members mostly spoke Papiamentu amongst themselves, but the rest of the event – the more formal discussion – was entirely in Dutch. Audience members and panel members were all fluent enough to discuss politics and social issues without the slightest difficulty. Incidentally, the film was in Dutch, English, and some Papiamentu, and the only subtitles provided were in English.
I believe the situation among younger people may be quite different though. In more recent years, Dutch has ceased to be the medium of education in most primary schools in Curaçao, with the exception of a few Dutch-medium schools which are in high demand. Instead it is introduced as a subject in higher grades and used to some degree as the medium of instruction in secondary education. A problem with the reliance on Papiamentu in schools is the sheer lack of resources in the language. There simply aren’t enough books in Papiamentu to support a national education system. This often leads to text books being in Dutch, while instruction is in Papiamentu. There is no chance to attend University in Papiamentu, so Dutch becomes inevitable for higher education, but is less present in the schools. Problems like this have resulted in increased drop-out rates, and many people blame Papiamentu itself for the problems with education in Curaçao. Some even consider it to be too simple a language and not capable of teaching children to think as well as Dutch or English could.
It simply is not true, though, that some languages are inferior and others are superior, or that one language promotes better thinking than another. This is colonialist ideology persisting today. To me, the problem is mainly that there are not enough materials and resources available in Papiamentu and not enough academic possibilities to keep students motivated. In the well-stocked and reputable bookstore that I sought out, there were hardly any books in Papiamentu, but plenty of books in Dutch, English, and Spanish. How can a student understand the joy of learning when they are hard-pressed to find a novel in their language? (In that bookstore, I couldn’t find one.)
Students need to feel proud of and skilled in their mother tongue, but I don’t think that taking Dutch away before adequate resources are available in Papiamentu is the answer. The multilingual nature of Curaçao is a great asset and opens up opportunities for Curaçaoans all over the world. What is missing, though, are higher educational opportunities locally through the medium of Papiamentu. Students should feel that they can enter the world confidently on an international level, but they should also feel that they don’t have to – that they have options at home as well.
from Papiamentu to Papiamundu
The subject of education came up when I visited Gerda Dunk, a Papiamentu language teacher and activist with deep roots in Curaçao. Gerda is the founder of Papiamundu (mundu means world) and has created and patented a method for teaching Papiamentu without the use of grammatical terms and rules and things that generally put students to sleep. Colour-coded origami dice help prompt you to put words in the right order, so that you can start making sentences right away, interact with the language on a physical level, and learn through repetition. Gerda sees value in the simplicity of Papiamentu’s grammar, as it makes the language easy to learn. She proposes the use of Papiamentu far beyond the confines of the ABC islands as a world language and neutral mode of communication to be used in the workplace or wherever people face language barriers. In this model, Papiamentu would stay true to its creole roots and serve as a sort of natural language Esperanto.
Origami language learning dice from Papiamundu
Though I’m not sure the world is ready for Papiamundu, the existence of Papiamentu itself is a testament to the human need to communicate. Born out of a linguistic crisis, it is a language that displays it layers of history and continues to add new layers as its world changes. I hope Curaçao remains multilingual, but I also hope Papiamentu remains strong and continues to gain the recognition and support it deserves as a beautiful and valuable, fully functional world language.
The following resources have been indispensable in writing this article:
Goilo, ER. Papiamentu Textbook. 1972.
Henriquez, May. Ta asina o ta asana?. 1988.
Jacobs, Bart. Origins of a Creole: the history of Papiamentu and its African ties. 2012.
Kinney, Lucretia. Origins and Development of Papiamento. 1970.
Martinus, Prof. Dr. Frank E. Un lingwístika di situashon o un modèl nobo di lingwístika general. 2009.
Lately on social media there has been a lot of talk about learning Arabic. The fact that World Arabic Language Day just passed certainly contributes to that, but it has been a frequent topic of discussion for a while now. “Top ten”-style lists abound, extolling the reasons why Arabic is the language you should be learning. It has close to 300 million native speakers, it is an official language in 25 different countries, it opens up many lucrative job opportunities, etc. These are the typical reasons we’re given as motivation to learn a language. The media likes to identify the “next big language” or the “language of the future” every now and then, and typically this has more to do with economics and business than anything else. You won’t find articles encouraging the study of Telugu or Javanese (though they each have close to 100 million native speakers) because they just don’t carry financial incentives. We’ve seen it with Spanish and Chinese as well – different languages, same rhetoric. Speakers of large languages are seen as untapped markets, or worse, sources of cheap labour, that become more accessible when you learn to speak their language. Notions of learning about a new culture, connecting with people, and expanding your worldview are all too often glossed over. What matters at the end of the day is the money.
Though this type of thinking does a great injustice to the value of languages in general, I feel that it falls extremely short of conveying the importance of learning Arabic, particularly in our world today.
In the U.S., particularly in the past month since the Paris attacks, anti-Muslim and anti-Arab rhetoric and acts are on the rise. In November, two men were temporarily stopped from boarding a flight from Chicago to Philadelphia because they were speaking Arabic, and it made another passenger “uncomfortable”. A self-defense class for Muslim women is started in New York after increasing reports of harassment targeting women wearing hijabs. Irving Texas has seen the arrest of 9th grader Ahmed Mohamed for making a homemade clock that was assumed to be a bomb, as well as an armed protest outside a local mosque, staged by people who are against the purported “Islamization of America”.
An article from a right wing news website states that Arabic is the fastest growing language in the U.S., citing a 29% increase between 2010 and 2014. The article warns of the high percentages of people in the U.S. that speak a language other than English at home. These numbers are seen as a threat to the English language itself, which is referred to in the article as the “glue that holds our country together”. This rhetoric feeds the myth of the “Islamization of America”, when in reality this 29% increase only brings the number of Arabic speakers in the U.S. up to about 860,000, or roughly .003% of the population. Not exactly a large enough sector to warrant fear on a national level. Nevertheless, anti-Muslim sentiment in the country grows. A school district was shut down due to threats it received after a homework assignment featured Arabic calligraphy. People are scared of what this language supposedly represents, and despite the fact that many Arabic speakers are not Muslim and many Muslims do not speak Arabic, the Arabic language is perceived as a part of that so-called “threat” of Islam.
With hate speech and fear-based Trumpisms flying around at an alarming rate, it seems to me that the biggest reason to learn Arabic nowadays, is the need to support communities of Arabic speakers. Polyglot and language learner communities are uniquely equipped to help turn the tide of intolerance through their study and use of different languages (emphasis on the “use”). People tend to fear the unknown, but our skills enable us to help shed light on the Arabic language, and by proxy the people that speak it. One of the “reasons to learn Arabic” lists I came across puts it very clearly:
“By studying Arabic and learning about the culture, you will gain a deeper and more nuanced perspective of the Arabic-speaking world than the typical themes found in U.S. mass media. As you share a more balanced perspective with your family, friends, and peers, you will encourage a greater understanding of Arab culture in U.S. society and more trusting attitudes towards Arab Americans and Arabs living in the U.S.” (American Councils for International Education, Seven reasons why now is the time to learn Arabic )
In Israel this sentiment has recently been put towards a law mandating the study of Arabic in Jewish schools, starting in the first grade. The idea is that language serves as a vehicle towards cultural understanding and the humanization of the “other”.
It’s also important to keep in mind that when practicing your new language skills with Arabic speakers, you’re giving direct support to the language community. You’re allowing the other person to feel pride in their language and identity. You begin to chip away at the dynamic that keeps those who are marginalized from freely and safely displaying their culture, speaking their language, or just being themselves.
Needless to say, I have already jumped on the bandwagon and begun to learn Arabic as well. It’s one of the “big languages”, so it was only a matter of time before I got around to studying it, but now it’s also a matter of urgency and importance.
The first decision every student of Arabic will encounter is whether to study Modern Standard Arabic (MSA), the literary language based on the language of the Qur’an, or one of the many regional dialects of Arabic. Benny Lewis has a good article hashing out this question on Fluent in 3 Months, so I won’t delve into the pros and cons here. In the end I’ve decided to lean heavily towards dialects and just periodically check in with MSA as I progress. I’m mainly using audio materials, as the regional dialects are not generally written, and am focusing on Levantine Arabic (because of the political situations in the region) and Egyptian Arabic (because of the vast amount of media available in this dialect). At this early stage, there isn’t much confusion between the two dialects, but I imagine there might be as I progress, at which point I’ll just pick one dialect to focus on.
As for Modern Standard Arabic, I decided I would get some very simple workbooks to start to get the basics of the written language. I have used modified versions of the Arabic alphabet in studying Urdu and Uyghur, but it’s my first time seeing how the writing system functions in the original language (but that’s a whole other article unto itself). So with Syrian Arabic dialogues playing in my headphones, I walked over to a section of Atlantic Avenue in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, where there are a couple of Arabic language bookstores.
Maktaba Dar-Us-Salam has a great selection of beginner level books for MSA – I picked up a reader and a few workbooks. Though I was eager to try speaking Arabic in the store, I actually just ended up practicing Urdu. I think this brings up an important point though. Arabic speakers are not the only ones feeling the brunt of anti-Muslim sentiment in the U.S. Learning Bengali or Farsi or Urdu can make just as much of a statement. The key question is what signal do your linguistic pursuits send out to the world around you?
As I left the bookstore I was stopped by a reporter who asked me if I was buying books on Islam and if I was Muslim. She said she was interviewing people to find out about any anti-Muslim behaviour experienced in the wake of the Paris attacks. It was a nice reminder of my original motivation for coming to this store. It’s easy to get caught up in the excitement of glossy new books and beautiful scripts, but it’s essential to remember that the extremely rewarding study of languages can have far-reaching positive effects with the right intention and practice. If you are a student of Arabic, or if you decide to become one, I hope that you will keep this in mind.