No Apologies Necessary

It saddens and maddens me when I hear speakers making it a point to announce that they will be speaking in Bangla—to a Bangla-speaking audience. Think about it. Have you ever heard a native English speaker announce that he will be speaking in English to an audience that understands English? Granted that some things are better said in one language than another, or shall I say, in one's mother tongue rather than in a second language. But do such announcements not make certain assumptions about the audience? While the speaker may be more comfortable in one language over another, do such declarations not question the intelligence of the audience? Are such announcements really necessary?

My formative years were spent among a community of people who altogether could speak over 525 languages. These people switch and mix languages all the time. It is a natural phenomenon for bilinguals or multilinguals. So language was never something to think about before I spoke. And I, too, learnt to use whatever language came naturally; I still do so. We learn to speak to communicate our ideas and thoughts, our feelings and emotions, our needs and wants. If the language we use to express ourselves is comprehensible to our audience, should it matter which language we use?

I definitely learnt Bangla from my mother—she was the one who read stories and poetry to me every day as she put me to bed—but it was my father who taught me to love the language consciously. I started my schooling in Nigeria, where the official language is English, but where I had to learn two local languages alongside (just don't ask how much I actually picked up!). With my friends and classmates—Nigerians, Ghanaians, Bangladeshis, Indians, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, and Polish—I spoke English. At home, with my parents, and with the Bangladeshi aunties and uncles, I spoke Bangla. I never thought about it. I was never told that I must use one language at home and one language outside. I did it because it came naturally. At home, with my siblings, I spoke a mixed code where we made up our own constructions ("Can you makhano my bhaat?" I would ask my older sister sometimes). It didn't matter because we understood each other, and it happened organically.

We would visit Bangladesh every two years, and when I was in fourth grade, my cousin decided I should learn to read and write Bangla. He bought me a set of the Class 5 Bangla textbooks, taught me the alphabet, and rudimentary reading. I took those books back with me to Nigeria and pored over them on my own. I tried to figure out the words, often mispronouncing them, more often misunderstanding them, but I did not give up. I don't know when I became able to read and write fluently, but by the time I was to sit for my O Level examinations, my father decided Bangla was to be one of my subjects. So, in 1988, I became the only (possibly the first) candidate to sign up for Bangla in Nigeria—the only one because, despite our proud linguistic heritage, no one in the Bangladeshi community there saw the importance of or necessity for formally teaching their children their mother tongue. My exam was scheduled on the same day as the Hindi exam which, in contrast to my situation, had several candidates. I waited alone at one side of the room for my question paper, but the invigilator, after going in and out of the room several times, finally said my question paper hadn't arrived! Somehow the exam authorities had overlooked this single candidate for Bangla. So I had to sit for it the following year with my A Levels. I questioned my father's choices then; why did I have to be the only kid taking the Bangla exam? Why was I burdened with an extra subject? Why did I have to go to the exam hall when my friends were home? My father had always taught my siblings and I that, as Bangladeshis, we must know our language; I realised much later that this was one of the ways he had chosen to teach me to love my mother tongue.

Language, however, became an issue when we returned to Bangladesh and I applied for university. Not having any idea about the admission process, I enrolled in a coaching centre to prepare for the architecture admission test. The instructor began to teach me maths in Bangla, and I came close to screaming, because while I knew enough Bangla to communicate, read, and write, I had no knowledge of Bangla scientific or mathematical terms. Within a few days, advised by wise relatives, I turned my back on thoughts of becoming an engineer or an architect, and set my sights on the English department. Finally, I thought, I wouldn't have to deal with Bangla anymore, because by now, I felt quite antagonistic towards the language. But I was wrong. I soon found that my classmates, during at least the first several weeks, spoke to each other in formal Bangla. My exposure to Bangla had been domestic and I only spoke colloquially. I thought if I spoke Bangla, they would look down on me. But if I spoke English, they would think I was showing off. I became self-conscious and withdrawn until I gained enough confidence to express myself in my own way, when I stopped thinking about the language I used. And I simply spoke.

And I speak. I mix languages. I switch languages as they roll off my tongue. If my listener is capable of comprehending me in multiple languages, I make the best use of that opportunity. If I can express myself in the best possible way in multiple languages, I don't sell myself short or short-change my audience by adhering to one tongue. I make no announcements. To declare that I am about to switch implies that my audience may not be able to follow along. I make no such assumptions. Language is a tool, and a tool is meant to make our lives easier. The tool for communication, therefore, should be fully taken advantage of. So I do not, and will not, apologise for speaking in multiple tongues, because my goal is communication—in comfort—for all.

Arifa Ghani Rahman is associate professor and head of the Department of English and Humanities at the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh (ULAB).