Du français de Dago au nouchi en Côte d’Ivoire : la brève histoire d’un français périphérique

Paulin Toutché

Comme toutes les variétés de français parlées en dehors de la France, le nouchi de Côte d’Ivoire est un français périphérique. La Côte d’Ivoire est un pays de l’Afrique de l’Ouest, situé entre le Liberia et le Ghana, et le nouchi y est parlé par une grande majorité de la jeunesse, qui représente 60% de la population. Dans les lignes suivantes, je vais tenter de montrer comment ce pays est arrivé aujourd’hui au nouchi, en partant du français de Dago à la fin des années 60 à celui de Zézé dans les années 70, et enfin au nouchi, paru dans les années 90, autant de variétés de français illustrées en bandes dessinées.

Le français de Dago a fait irruption sur la scène sociale ivoirienne, notamment à Abidjan, dans le contexte du boum économique à la fin des années 1960. En effet, les populations rurales désertent la campagne pour venir à Abidjan, la capitale ivoirienne. Analphabètes en français, obligés de communiquer dans une ville cosmopolite où seul le français permet aux citadins de communiquer entre eux, le paysan immigré en ville utilise un français approximatif. Le magazine Ivoire Dimanche ou ID de Côte d’Ivoire, publié à Abidjan, se saisit de ce phénomène linguistique, qu’il estampille le français de Dago, et le met en bandes dessinées, sous l’inspiration de Jean Louis Lacombe. Sortie en 1973, la bande dessinée Dago à Abidjan raconte donc les mésaventures abidjanaises d’un jeune paysan fraichement débarqué de sa campagne. Dago à Abidjan devient ainsi le premier album BD publié en Côte d’Ivoire, dont voici une scène. Le villageois Dago débarque à Abidjan, la ville de rêve…Après avoir essayé de répéter sa phrase, qu’il a apprise par cœur : « Moi viens voir mon frère Sopi qui posé Técoubé », il dit à un chauffeur de taxi : « Moi veux voir Sopi »

• Où il habite ?
• Il posé dans Técoubé
• Técoubé ? Mais où ça ?
• Técoubé seulement !
• Voici bus qui va là-bas

Dago va alors faire la connaissance du bus… Avec la bousculade et l’indiscipline des clients, il est basculé dans tous les sens, et s’écrie : « Mon vieux ! » Dans ce désordre, Dago est pris au collet par un passager en costume-cravate, qui lui brandit une carte déclinant sa profession, et l’interpelle sans ménagement : « Pourquoi tu me piétines ? Tu es fou ? »

• Oh ! Laisse-moi
• Tu sais qui je suis ?!
• C’est quoi ça !

Il est alors projeté du bus, aux cris de : « Broussard ! Sors ! Villageois ! »

Voilà une situation de dérision qui met en scène Dago, le campagnard débarqué à Abidjan, confronté à la rude vie d’une cité où règne la loi du plus fort, celle du plus riche que soi. Un rapide examen de son discours montre quelques formes syntaxiques. Ainsi, dans « Moi viens voir mon frère Sopi qui posé Técoubé », nous relevons la formule d’une phrase standard en français, P=SVO. Cette phrase a en effet un sujet, un verbe et un objet. C’est même une entité complexe, puisqu’elle comprend deux phrases reliées par une coordination « qui ». Nous notons aussi en filigrane la faute du double sujet ou décalage à gauche dans « Moi viens » qui pourrait être « Moi, je viens… », et l’emploi du verbe « posé », avec l’omission de l’auxiliaire « est » dans « Sopi qui posé », laissant croire que Sopi est un objet qui est posé à Atiécoubé, un quartier d’Abidjan. La phrase hypercorrecte serait : « Moi, je viens voir mon frère Sopi qui habite Atiécoubé. »

En octobre 1978, une crise économique commence en Côte d’Ivoire et Ivoire Dimanche change le personnage de sa bande dessinée, qui devient Monsieur Zézé. Dans sa parution du 8 février 1981, Zézé décide de retourner au village. Dans la forme syntaxique du français de Zézé dans cette scène, nous notons les mêmes constructions P=SVO, formule de la phrase française standard. Nous retrouvons néanmoins certaines confusions entre des phonèmes français, ce qui semble relever d’une décision éditoriale de commencer à représenter non seulement les particularités syntaxiques et lexicales de cette variété, mais aussi la façon dont sa prononciation diffère du français standard. Ainsi, par exemple nous lisons « Wala » pour « Voilà », l’adjonction de voyelles épenthétiques dans « pineu » au lieu de « pneu », la disparition des sons presque inexistants dans les langues locales, comme « in » dans « vitation », « r » « eu » et « l » dans « tu pati » « on va pati », « …si tu ve i va fai … »

La parution des bandes dessinées de Monsieur Zézé dure quelques années, puisqu’en 1990, le nouchi nait du besoin des jeunes délinquants de communiquer entre eux, nonobstant leurs lacunes en français. L’année 1990 marque en effet l’aggravation de la crise économique commencée à la fin des années 70, qui multiplie le nombre de chômeurs en Côte d’Ivoire. La délinquance juvénile prend donc de l’ampleur, et les jeunes délinquants utilisent le nouchi pour communiquer entre eux afin d’échapper aux traques de la police. Très limités dans leurs connaissances en français, ces jeunes Abidjanais comblent leurs lacunes en vocabulaire français par le recours à leur lague maternelle, comme dans la phrase nouchi suivante : « Les gens ont commencé à décaler, après il est venu dire y a son djê qui a pan… » Ici encore, nous avons des phrases françaises standards, P=SVO. Soulignons l’alternance codique ou l’hybridation dans la phrase « y a son djê qui a pan… », une énonciation complexe comprenant deux mots du lexique local, djê et pan, qui signifient respectivement « argent », « disparu ». Initié au départ par les jeunes délinquants, le nouchi est aujourd’hui sorti des cercles clandestins ou criminels pour être utilisé par toute la jeunesse, qui représente 60% de la population ivoirienne. La police, la justice et les publicistes s’en servent pour communiquer plus aisément avec les jeunes. Même les hommes politiques s’y sont mis pour mieux faire passer leurs messages. Ce recours aux lexiques des langues locales par les locuteurs nouchi mobilise également l’attention des sociolinguistes, aussi bien locaux qu’étrangers, qui multiplient les études sur le phénomène (Lafage 1991, 1998 ; Kouadio 2006, 2007 ; Ahua 2007 ; Konan 2010 ; Khalil 2012 ; N’Guessan, A.C. 2014 ; Boutin et Kouadio 2016 ; Kouakou 2017). Le magazine Gbich ! publie des BD sur ces jeunes nouchi. Des sites web http://www.nouchi.com/ et une radiodiffusion sont également dédiés à cette variété de français d’Abidjan. Un  dictionnaire a été élaboré. La formalisation du nouchi est en cours.

Ouvrages cités

Ahua, Blaise Muchi. «Elaborer un code graphique pour le nouchi: une initiative précoce?» Le français en Afrique, n° 22. Nice: ILF-CNRS (2007): 183-198. Document.

Boutin, Akissi Béatrice & Kouadio N’Guessan, Jérémie. «Le nouchi, c’est notre créole en quelque sorte, qui est parlé par presque toute la Côte d’Ivoire.» HAL archives ouvertes (2016). Document.

Khalil, Cissé Aminata Bouraima. «Le nouchi, parler identitaire des jeunes de Côte d’Ivoire.» Cahiers Ivoiriens de Recherche Linguistique (2012). Document.

Konan, Séraphin Kouakou. «L’intrusion de mots nouchi dans la langue française: création ou désordre?» 4 12 2010. SUDLANGUES http://www.sudlangues.sn/ISSN:08517215 BP: 5005 Dakar-Fann (Senegal). Document. 16 10 2017.

Kouadio, N’Guessan Jérémie. «Le Français en Côte d’Ivoire: de l’imposition à l’appropriation décomplexée d’une langue exogène.» Document pour l’histoire du français langue étrangère ou seconde [en ligne], 40/41|2008, mis en ligne le 17 janvier 2011 16 10 2017. Document.

—. «Le Français: Langue coloniale ou langue ivoirienne?» Hérodote (2007/3 (n° 26)): 69-85. Document.

—. «Le Nouchi et les rapports dioula-francais.» Le français en Afrique (2006): 177-192. Document.

Lafage, Suzanne. «L’argot des jeunes Ivoiriens, marque d’appropriation du français?» Langue française (1991): 95-105. Document.

N’Guessan, Affoué Cécile. «Regard sur la norme endogène du français en Côte d’Ivoire.» Diacronia.ro (2014): 104-113. Document.

S., Lafage. «Hybridation et français des rues à Abidjan.» Alternances codiques et langues parlées en Afrique 1998: 279-291. Document.

http://gbich.com/

http://www.nouchi.com/

http://nouchiradio.com/radiochannel/nouchi-radio/

http://www.editions-harmattan.fr/index.asp?navig=catalogue&obj

Creole Identities

Sabrina Khan

Many of our class discussions have revolved around the effect language has on one’s perception of their own identity in conjunction with the judgement of others. We have discussed the differences in Parisian French, the French of those living in more rural areas of France, and Quebecois French. Scholars and laymen alike hold a certain esteem for Parisian French as the standard, the one that is still taught to students of French in foreign countries, the one that is most “appropriate” for academic, professional , or governmental work. We’ve spoken about the Creole that is spoken in Louisiana and about créolité in the Caribbean in a very general way. However, the reason the way we talk about the language Creole is still problematic is that we speak about it as if it was one uniform language. In Haiti, there are four spoken varieties of Creole and the perception of each one by their own speakers shows what a complicated relationship still exists between French, Creole and identity in Haiti.

• Kreyòl swa (smooth Kreyòl): This Kreyòl is spoken by the bilingual, educated minority. The lexicology of this term is very interesting. It is a term that is primarily used to describe hair. “Swa” hair would be hair that is fine and straight. The fact that this term has been applied to the Kreyòl that is spoken by those who also speak French, the language of Haiti’s colonisers speaks volumes. Haitian society considers these people closer to the civilized French, those that do have smooth, straight hair and apply that beauty standard to their colonies, inhabited by descendants of Africans who have curly, kinky hair. This assertion is supported by the second adjectival use of the word. It is also applied to men who are “well-mannered, educated, emotionally even, and even pleasing to women” (Schieffelin and Doucet, Pg. 429) These are the men who much more closely emulate the “whiteness” of french men.

• Kreyòl rèk (rough Kreyòl): This Kreyòl is spoken by the majority of Haitians. The majority tend to be monolingual. This is considered to be “le niveau ressenti comme le plus rude de la langue” (1979:118) [the level felt to be the roughest of the language] (Schieffelin and Doucet, Pg. 429).

Kreyòl rèk and Kreyòl swa are not necessarily always oppositional, but they are often contested with one another, primarily for orthographic reasons. Markers that distinguish Kreyòl swa are that speakers retain front-rounded vowels and the postvocalic at the end of words. What is interesting is that in modern times those who grew up speaking one of these aim to speak the other. For example politicians will attempt to speak Kreyòl rèk in order to appeal to the masses and seem more relatable or down-to- earth, while those who speak Kreyòl rèk very naturally aim to speak Kreyòl swa in order to sound more educated or sophisticated.

• Kreyòl fransize (Frenchified Kreyòl): This Kreyòl is spoken by educated urban bilinguals. It is the version that most closely resembles French.

• Gwo Kreyòl (Vulgar Kreyòl): This Kreyòl is spoken by uneducated urban people and peasants. They themselves however refer to their language as “bon Kreyòl”, or good Kreyòl. They believe their Kreyòl is the most authentic and is the most successful in moving away from French, the language of their colonizers.

Gwo Kreyòl and Kreyòl fransize are contrasted with other another as well. “Both terms refer not only to the phonology, vocabulary and intonational contours of the speech itself, but also to the nonverbal gestures used by speakers of each variety.” (Schieffelin and Doucet, Pg. 428). The way we conduct ourselves in public is very dependant on what we learned as children to be “polite” or “impolite” even though I’m sure everyone can agree that these words are entirely culture-dependant. Although one set of mannerisms can not be objectively more sophisticated than another, they immediately give away someone’s background. However the national pride of Haiti becomes stronger, Gwo Kreyòl, along with Kreyòl rèk have achieved a higher standing in Haitian society as a more authentics language, tied to the roots of Haiti itself.

            The idea of Kreyòl as the “low” diglossic variety language in Haiti, while French is the “high” variety can be refuted because the majority of the Haitian population is monolingual. The fact that those who speak the Kreyòl don’t speak the same kind further complicates this idea of diglossia in Haiti. Today the issue Haiti still deals with is how Kreyòl should be taught to the next generation (if at all). Should schooling continue traditionally in French? If it is to be taught in Kreyòl and if so which one?

Nonetheless, despite apparent diversity, three main kinds of proposals can be identified: (1) Those who take a pro-etymological or anti-phonemic view; (2) those who support a pro-phonemic approach; (3) those in an intermediary camp, proposing a phonemic orthography but with some concessions to French spelling (Schieffelin and Doucet, Pg. 431)

Those who speak Kreyòl fransize or Kreyòl swa lean towards a pro-etymological approach as it will ressemble French giving the Kreyòl language an established lexical base. However those that speak Kreyòl rèk or Gwo Kreyòl (remember these people are largely monolingual and do not speak French) support a pro-phonemic approach because it will allow them to communicate in writing the same language they have been speaking for generations.Who has the authority to establish a standardized orthography for the entire language?

Bibliography

• Ferguson, C. A. (2009). Diglossia. The New Sociolinguistics Reader,447-456.
• Schieffelin, B. B., & Doucet, R. C. (1994). The “real” Haitian Creole: Ideology, metalinguistics, and orthographic choice. American Ethnologist,21(1), 176-200.

The Language of the American Dream

Josh

Screen capture from a video posted by Facebook user Asian Boss

According to Article XIV of the Philippines’ 1987 Constitution,

Section 6. The national language of the Philippines is Filipino.”

Section 7. For purposes of communication and instruction, the official languages of the Philippines are Filipino and, until otherwise provided by law, English. (Belvez, 2015).

Since the establishment of the Philippines as a bilingual nation, English has surpassed its intended role of “communication and instruction.” With growing pressure from society and the government to strengthen its use, English has become the language of controlling domains over the years (Borlongan, 2009). The video above simply highlights how English is no longer only used by Filipinos in formal contexts and that it has penetrated society, to the point where many Filipinos (at least those from the mainland) are no longer able to speak “pure Filipino.”

As a Filipino immigrant, I’m interested in examining how the nation’s history of being colonized by the United States has affected how Filipinos living in the Philippines use and perceive these languages. Furthermore, I want to look at how these attitudes affect Filipinos who migrate to the U.S. and influence the formation of their first-generation US-born offspring’s Filipino identities.

How Does the Philippines View the English Language and American Culture?

In a video that went viral in the Philippines, which was taken from TLC’s show “90-day Engagement,” we meet a girl from Urdaneta City, Philippines. My interest is not on her engagement but more on the public response to the her English-speaking skills. More specifically, I was fascinated by the way people criticized her in the comments.

Screen capture from TLC’s 90-day Engagement

Facebook reactions to the video

Her mispronunciation of the sentence “you’re rude” to “you’re ROAD” became a sudden Internet meme. Interestingly, the majority of the people mocking her English were Filipino natives, all of who are well aware of the quality of the English curricula in many poor provincial schools. For some reason, there’s this mentality among Filipinos that speaking English with even the slightest accent, no matter how proper one’s grammar might be, equals to being poor or uneducated and thus deserving of ridicule.

This video was of specific interest to me because it reflected the insecurity Filipino immigrants have with regards to their cultural identity, finding comfort in their efforts to achieve “American-ness.”  Being previously occupied by the United States, the affection towards western culture and/or Eurocentric ideologies favors a hierarchical distinction between the Filipino and the English languages, with Filipino being the inferior. Influenced by our past as a colonized nation, many Filipinos see the English language as a tool that they could use to advance their social status in the Philippines.  History places them/us under the impression that the mastery of the English language is equivalent to social and economic mobility. In my interview with Sam Ng about her experience as a child of an immigrant, she claims that maintaining this sort of mindset “ is extremely detrimental to a Filipinx’s use of native tongue and ancestral identity because we internalize our community’s oppression! And by denouncing your native tongue, you are only silencing your voice as a Filipinx/Asian American.”

  

Filipino Migration and Chasing the American Dream

The history of Filipino migration to the United States traces all the way to the late 19^th century and has fluctuated ever since. The United States first saw a huge influx of Filipino immigrants after the country annexed the Philippines in 1899. The Filipino people would remain under American rule up until 1946, which is when the country was finally granted it’s full independence. During this period of American imperialism, many Filipinos travelled to the United States to either study or work (Figure 1).

The valorization of the English language is only one of the ways by which the Filipino desire to be “American” is reflected. The United States has always been seen as a symbol of hope and opportunity for the Philippines. Today, many people move to the U.S. in hopes of pursuing the “American Dream,” a mentality that is heavily rooted in the country’s once dependence on the U.S. As many Filipino parents will learn, however, moving might open up opportunities for their children but with it comes an insecure sense of detachment from their Filipino identity as a function of so-called “language barriers.”

 

Figure 1. Growth of Filipino population in the United States from 1980-2016 (Zong, Zong & Batalova, 2018)

 

The Language Barrier and The Reluctance of Parents to Teach Children Their Native Tongue

Taking a close look at the present Filipino and Filipino-American cultures can provide deep insight into the long lasting effects of American colonialism on the Filipino identity.

In an interview for KQED News, Dominic Lim, a first-generation Filipino-American, talks about how growing up surrounded by Filipino food, music & other aspects of the culture, but not knowing how to speak the language left him feeling like his Filipino identity was incomplete (Guevarra, 2016).

“I always thought that the language component [of one’s own racial identity] was sort of the one piece that I was lacking.” -Dominic Lim (KQED News, 2016).

            In my personal research, I asked some friends who were born here in the U.S. but whose parents migrated from the Philippines about their experiences growing up.  My focus was to understand whether this feeling of personal detachment constructed by the language barrier from their Filipino-speaking families is shared among many first generation Filipino-Americans.  True enough; many of them expressed how challenging it was trying to communicate with their parents and with their extended family members during family gatherings. One of my friends explains that the reason her parents never taught her Tagalog (a Filipino dialect) was the fear that developing an accent would only attract discrimination.

“My parents never raised me to speak Tagalog, yet they always spoke to each other in [it]. When I asked my mom why she never taught me a second language, she said she did not want me to get bullied in school if I had an accent since I went to private, predominantly white schools.” -Tala

David Lim’s mother, Consuelo Tokita, was quoted giving the same reasoning for her hesitation to impart her language to her son.  Her unwillingness, however, was more personal, as it stemmed from her own experience struggling to find a job in the United States because of her accent.  Their testimonies provide evidence to the reluctance that many Filipino immigrant parents have when it comes to teaching their children their native language. By choosing to teach English over the language they themselves grew up with, immigrant parents not only permit sociopolitical and state structures to further oppress and marginalize native tongues, but they also further perpetuate the denial of their own language as a whole.

References

Belvez, P. M. (2015, April 29). Development of Filipino, The National Language of the

Philippines. Retrieved from http://ncca.gov.ph/subcommissions/subcommission-on-cultural-disseminationscd/language-and-translation/development-of-filipino-the-national-language-of-the-philippines/

Borlongan, A. M. (2009). A Survey on Language Use, Attitudes, and Identity in Relation to Philippine English among Young Generation Filipinos: An Initial Sample from a Private University. Online Submission, 3, 74-107.

Guevarra, E. (2016, February 27). For Some Filipino-Americans, Language BarriersLeave Culture Lost in Translation. Retrieved April 19, 2018, from https://www.kqed.org/news/10746111

Zong, J., Zong, J. B., & Batalova, J. (2018, March 29). Filipino Immigrants in the United States. Retrieved April 19, 2018, from https://www.migrationpolicy.org/article/filipino-immigrants-united-states

Une histoire sombre et tellement réelle – les efforts d’avancer

Arielle Hanoch‘s full post, on the history of residential schools in Canada, the abuses that happened there, and their suppression of First Nations languages and cultures,   is published on her personal blog here.

Pale Kreyol: Politique du mouvement Créolité

Anonyme

La créolité est un mouvement littéraire qui a apparu dans les années 1980. L’idée fut conçue par des écrivains martiniquais Patrick Chamoiseau, Jean Bernabé et Raphaël Confiant et cémentée par le livre Eloge de la créolité comme réponse au mouvement de la négritude. Ensemble, leur but est de renverser la dominance de la langue française dans la caraïbe francophone comme langue de culture et de littérature et de mettre en valeur l’usage du créole antillais dans les contextes littéraires, culturels et académiques. La mission en elle-même est ironique car les écrivains qui prêchent la valeur du créole s’expriment en français pour prouver leurs points.

Les fondateurs du mouvement créolité affirment que leur but n’est pas de réglementer ou juger les oeuvres mais plutôt redéfinir l’identité créole “Ni Européens, Ni Africains, Ni Asiatiques, nous nous proclamons créoles” ( Eloge de la créolité, p.22). Eloge de la créolité étant une réponse au mouvement de la négritude diffère grandement de ce mouvement commencé par Aimé Césaire dont le but était de regarder vers l’Afrique pour pouvoir forger une identité propre alors que la créolité se concentre sur le créole comme langue littéraire. Edouard Glissant, à son tour, crée son propre mouvement, l’Antillanité, où il proclame que les Antillais sont trop détachés de l’Afrique pour se définir comme tant, alors il déclare la culture antillaise séparée de celle de l’Afrique. Ces mouvements furent fondés l’une comme réponse à l’autre. Contrairement a la Négritude qui promouvait la relation entre l’Afrique et les Antilles, l’Antillanité et la Créolité se concentrent sur la Caraïbes comme une culture ayant une identité propre.

L’ironie du mouvement repose sur le fait que le manifeste Eloge de la créolité, un testament de loyauté à la langue créole, soit écrit en français. La Martinique étant bilingue, certainement pourrait comprendre aussi bien le créole que le français. Aussi bien que le succès du manifeste fusse évident lors de son apparition, les autres écrivains, dont notamment Maryse Condé, furent prêts à le critiquer. Dans “Penser la créolité” Condé accuse les créolistes de vivre toujours dans le temps colonial et de continuer “à haïr le blanc et à le rendre responsable pour ses maux“ (P.308). En un mot Condé simplement traite les créolistes d’avoir l’esprit étroit car selon elle le temps a changé et les idées avec lui. Il est donc évident que Condé est pour une culture créole globalisée et plus inclusive au lieu de la contenir seulement dans la caraïbe. Sans doute, les idées de Condé furent influencées par ses voyages, ayant vécu dans de nombreux pays tels que les Etats Unis et l’Afrique. Elle est plus ouverte dans sa définition de l’identité créole et la preuve que vivre dans une culture différente que celle qu’on est né peut faire du bien pour l’esprit et elle critique les créolistes de vouloir contenir la culture créole dans les Antilles. Condé a fortement raison : si on ne voyage pas et n’échange pas une conversation avec ceux differents de notre culture, l’esprit reste ferme et se concentre sur une seule chose au lieu d’avoir de différentes perspectives. Il existe donc un grand désaccord entre Condé et les créolistes et ceci n’est pas un secret dans le monde littéraire. Condé attaque et les créolistes refusent de se laire par les critiques. Les créolistes semblent reprocher à Condé son identité qui n’est pas assez “créole” parce qu’elle a vécu beaucoup trop de temps en dehors de la Guadeloupe, alors elle ne possède pas la même métrisation de la langue créole que ceux qui ont vécu en Guadeloupe et pour eux cela est très clair dans ses oeuvres quand elle utilise des mots creoles.

Dans son analyse de Maryse Condé “ Traversée de la Mangrove” Chamoiseau critique l’emploi de certains mots que Condé utilise dans son oeuvre. Il appelle l’attention sur l’interchangeabilité de ces mots dans le roman, par exemple il commente que le mot île n’est pas utilisé dans la culture créole. Il en conclut que Condé ne s’adresse pas à eux, mais plutôt aux “ autres”, bien qu’il ne le dise pas directement, c’est juste d’assumer qu’il se référait aux Français. Il condamne aussi les notes de bas de page dans le roman et avise Condé de laisser cette partie aux éditeurs ou traducteurs. Dans quelques oeuvres telles que “Un Papillon dans la cité” de Gisèle Pineau et “Victoire la saveur et les mots” de Maryse Condé, l’inscription des mots créoles tentent de promouvoir la langue et la culture créole qui contrairement au but du mouvement utilise plus un créole “francophone” que le créole propre.

L’usage des notes de bas de page, quoique utiles pour le lecteur étranger, ne fournissent pas assez de contexte dans le cadre culturel. Chamoiseau reproche a Condé le fait qu’elle essaie d’atteindre une autre culture à travers son livre au lieu de se concentrer sur bâtir la littérature créole.

Au fond, il paraît qu’ils veulent promouvoir la culture créole. La différence est que les créolistes veulent accomplir cela dans leur pays alors que Condé espère inclure les autres qui viennent de ces pays mais qui vivent à l’étranger. Elle ne rejette pas pourtant la mission de la créolité, qui est construire une littérature créole, elle reproche l’absence de la globalisation dans ce but. La culture créole ne peut pas être limitée à ceux qui vivent dans les pays antillais ; être “créole” est une identité et cela dit, on ne peut pas contenir une identité dans une place géographique. Dans l’ère de la mondialisation, les gens quittent leur pays d’origine et s’installent dans un autre mais ils apportent aussi avec eux leur propre culture. C’est possible que ces immigrés ne peuvent plus communiquer dans leur langue natal mais cela ne change pas leur connaissance de la culture qu’ils peuvent exprimer aussi bien dans leur nouvelle langue. Par exemple, Edwige Danticat qui est une écrivaine Haïtienne ne peut plus comprendre le français mais elle peut encore transmettre la culture haïtienne à travers l’anglais.

 

Works Cited

Jatoe-Kaleo, Baba Abraham. “La différence conceptuelle entre la négritude, l’Antillanité et la Créolité.” European Scientific Journal, vol. 9, no. 5, 2013, p. 244+. Academic OneFile, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A348452877/AONE?u=bingul&sid=AONE&xid=5096a925. Accessed 7 May 2018.

Chamoiseau, Patrick, and Kathleen M. Balutansky. “Reflections on Maryse Condé’s Traversée De La Mangrove.” Callaloo, vol. 14, no. 2, 1991, pp. 389–395. JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/2931638.

Nottingham French Studies, Volume 56 Issue 1, Page 67-81, ISSN 0029-4586 Available Online Feb 2017

 

 

Rihanna’s Code Switching

Raaga V. Rajagopala

 

Robyn Rihanna Fenty is nothing short of a contemporary celebrity icon. Not only does she transcend industries, countries and societally imposed confines on women of color, she also transcends linguistic landscapes. So, when she released ANTI, a sexual exploration of womanhood, relationships, success and general themes of loneliness, it was expected that her album would be met with great critical acclaim. However, the incorporation of her Bajan ancestry proved to be too unfamiliar for her white audiences and they invariably responded to her code switching with ignorance.

Source: http://www.dazeddigital.com/music/article/30102/1/rihanna-s-patois-and-your-misinformed-memes (reposted from @fuckjerry on Instagram)

This is a meme, attempting to mock her use of Jamaican Patois in the album’s lead single Work. Her use of an entirely different language which was unintelligible to Anglophone members of her audience caused them to think she was speaking nonsense. We see how Rihanna’s ancestry and the context of her music, coupled with certain linguistic elements (phonetic, syntactic and lexical) serve a deliberate musical function as well as an indexing of her identity. Within the context of this song, we can see common sociolinguistic phenomena, both from the perspective of her viewers and the parties they represent as well as the perspective of the artist.

Rihanna has always attempted to incorporate her Bajan ancestry into her music, whether it be the presence of her Jamaican accent or the incorporation of Caribbean English Creole (CEC) syntactic elements, or even styles of reggae that are native to Jamaica. Rihanna “introduces herself as a Caribbean artist” according to Lisa Jansen, with the song Pon de Replay, released in 2007, whose name features two distinct CEC elements, namely the word “Pon” which translates to “on” as well as the TH- stopping in the word “de.” Eleven years later, with Work, she displays her linguistic versatility with frequent codeswitching.

Below are specific examples illustrating the code switching, and their lexical significance, looking specifically at the hook:

Work, work, work, work, work, work

he se me hafi

Translation: He said I have to

CEC Elements: use of personal pronouns “he” and “me” instead of subject pronouns, presence of a modal auxiliary “hafi”

work, work, work, work, work, work

he see me do me

Translation: he saw me doing my

CEC Elements: use of personal pronoun “me” instead of possessive pronoun “my”

dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt

ah so mi better

Translation: so I better

CEC Elements: use of personal pronoun “me” instead of subject pronoun I, use of “ah” to indicate future

work, work, work, work, work, work

when you ah go

Translation: When are you going to

CEC Elements: Tense marker “ah” to indicate future instead of the conjugated “going”

learn, learn, learn, learn, learn, learn

Meh no care if him

Translation: I don’t care if he’s

CEC Elements: Me and him are personal pronouns used as subject pronouns

Hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt

 

In terms of her accent, there are a number of markers that distinctly index her linguistic capacity in CEC.

Dry! …Me a desert him

Nuh time to have you lurking

Him ah go act like he nuh like it                          (deletion of h)

You know I dealt with you the nicest                (deal, nices, deletion of consonant cluster)

Nuh body touch me you nuh righteous

Nuh badda, text me in a crisis                            (tex, deletion of consonant cluster)

I believed all of your dreams, adoration         (monophthongization of second “a”)

You took my heart and my keys and my patience         (monophthongization of first “a”)

You took my heart on my sleeve for decoration            (monophthongization of first “a”)

You mistake my love I brought for you for foundation    (monophthongization of “a”)

All that I wanted from you was to give me

Something that I never had

Something that you’ve never seen

Something that you’ve never been!

Mmmmm!

But I wake up and act like nothing’s wrong

Just get ready fi…

Presence of Standard American English features:

Syntactic

You took my heart on my sleeve for decoration

I mean who am I to hold your past against you

Phonetic

I believed all of your dreams, adoration (retention of consonant cluster)

Here we can see the assertion of her strong Caribbean linguistic influence as well as her ability to effortlessly code switch between Bajan Creole and Standard American English. She, in fact, uses this linguistic diversity to incorporate certain rhymes (adoration rhymes with patience, nicest with crisis, work now rhymes with dirt and hurt). Her pronunciation of the “t” at the end of “desert” lends itself to form a phonetic rhythm with the fricative “k” in “lurking.”

Additionally, there is a correspondence between her usage of Standard American English v. CEC and the themes she explores. She mostly incorporates SAE into the last two verses, which explicitly reference her romantic relationships and insecurity (for example: “baby don’t you leave, don’t leave me stuck here in the streets”) whereas earlier on when she incorporates more CEC, the meaning of her lyrics is more ambiguous and there is greater room for interpretation on her allusions to her work as well as her necessity of having had to navigate through whiteness in her professional life (for example: “Nuh body touch me you nuh righteous,” “All that I wanted from you was to give me, something that I never had” and “But I wake up and act like nothing’s wrong.”)

Rihanna’s incredible linguistic versatility, however, was either deliberately mocked, as I explained above, or erased. British YouTube singer Samantha Harvey attempts to cover Work but, in the name of artistic individuality, sings a version that she created after having spent “a while translating.” A fellow YouTuber responds with the comment “the lyrics are actually good now.”

Source: http://www.papermag.com/white-people-are-loving-this-anglicized-cover-of-rihannas-work-1621925801.html

This exchange unfortunately reflects a great history of marginalization, wherein languages such as Jamaican Patois and other Caribbean Creoles come out of situations of oppression and Eurocentric dominance. White audience’s perception of Rihanna’s perfectly legitimate use of a perfectly legitimate, developed language as being nonsensical or gibberish parallels long standing assumptions about Creole languages as being illegitimate and their speakers being linguistically incompetent. Frantz Fanon, a Caribbean philosopher and psychologist refers to the perception of Creole as a “halfway house between pidgin-n*gger and French” by descendants of white French colonizers. Here, the failure of a British artist to respect the original Jamaican lyrics just goes to show that white audiences are willing to accept black artistry and black culture but must either criticize it or appropriate it in ways that are palatable to them and conform to their expectations of whiteness and linguistic hegemony.

SOURCES:

http://www.papermag.com/white-people-are-loving-this-anglicized-cover-of-rihannas-work-1621925801.html

https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/english-today/article/rihanna-works-her-multivocal-pop-persona-a-morphosyntactic-and-accent-analysis-of-rihannas-singing-style/38E62910167A86F253384150950CE117/core-reader

https://www.theguardian.com/music/2016/feb/04/talk-that-talk-rihanna-the-cunning-linguist

Girls of Riyadh (Banat Alriyadh) and Ethics of Difference

by Nora

Girls of Riyadh, original edition

One of the controversial novels that was published in 2005 is the Saudi novel Girls of Riyadh, or in Arabic, Banat Alriyadh. It is written by the Saudi author Rajaa Alsanea who talks about some aspects of women’s life in Saudi Arabia. She narrates the story in a series of emails, which are sent to subscribers. The narrator describes the personal lives of four high-class young Saudi women. The author begins the novel with a provocative opening where she announces to readers that she is about to reveal scandals that are happening around them.

The book created a controversy in Saudi society. The astonishment was a result of both its title and content. It was the first time one could be courageous enough to talk about some aspects of women’s life in Saudi Arabia. The title gained its popularity as it was specified to girls of Riyadh city, the capital of Saudi Arabia. The story navigates the four girls’ “university life, personal relationships, family pressures and career aspirations” (Booth 198). The author Alsanea mentioned that her story is true but she changed the characters’s names and some details to protect their privacy. Ordinary people, thinkers, university professors, writers, and religious scholars debated about the book. The book was negatively criticized by the majority, and few writers praised it. Girls of Riyadh was banned from publication in Saudi Arabia as it was published in Beirut by the publisher Dar Al Saqi. The reason for banning the book is that it discussed some taboos in society, such as, relationships between men and women and drinking alcohol.

The censorship of the book in Saudi Arabia in the form of banning the book from circulation did not impact its success. Once the book was published in Beirut, I remembered everyone wanted to get a copy of it. Many photocopies were made and distributed on the black market. The book was one of the top sellers in Dubai, Lebanon and Egypt and throughout the Middle East. One year after its publication, the Saudi Ministry of Culture announced that the book could be sold in its markets, due to the ministry’s new strategies in censorship and its objectives to encourage writers to innovate. Banat Alriyadh was translated into almost forty languages. The English translation was published by Penguin in 2006 (Girls of Riyadh) and translated by the American translator, Marilyn Booth.

The language of the novel is considered to be distinctive and takes a new way of writing literature that surpasses what is traditional and conventional at least in the Arab world according to Booth. The author uses cyber forms and hybrid languages (English and Arabic) that have associations with globalization and dominancy of English language. For example, using the Roman alphabet articles for Arabic phonemes, using English numbers to represent Arabic phonemes that are not in English, and transliteration, which is popular in the Internet world among younger generations. The novel talks about everyday life and its social anxieties, so its style is light, confessional and chatty in form of a series of emails sent to subscribers weekly. The author utilizes several Arabic vernaculars (Saudi, Egyptian, Lebanese) as well as Saudi Arabian regional dialects that highlight the diglossic situation in the Arab World in which what is spoken is different from place to place as well as from learned or literary language. The language of the novel challenges the notion of “pure language” that is still debatable between some elites of Arabs and Muslims. The novel has some references to Quran verses and Hadith (Prophet Mohammed sayings and acts) that emphasize the nature of the religious society, which evaluates such texts and follows its orders. The novel is full of idioms that also illustrate the different languages that circulate in the Arab world today. Booth mentioned that she had to work with a novel that has a variety of registers “from very colloquial to formal and authoritative” and from Arabic to Saudi bourgeois English, represented hilariously when English loan words and phrases pop up, spelled phonetically in Arabic script according to Saudi pronunciation” (204). It is also clear in how the characters incorporate some English words and phrases transliterated into Arabic and the effect of localizing English to make it a part of the Arabic vernacular. The author uses English language phrases within Arabic text in some of the dialogues between the characters. This has a function that describes the status of these characters as they belong to highly socially and economically position in the Saudi society. It is important to remember that English is a second language in Saudi Arabia and its acquisition is necessary to elevate one’s economic status. In the country, almost all high positions and well-paid positions require proficiency in English language.

In translating the novel, Booth wrote two journal articles that describe her experience in translating Banat Alriyadh to Girls of Riyadh. She explains in her article “the Muslim Women” that the translation that was published differed from the one she submitted to Penguin as a sole translator. Booth asserted the marginal status of the literary translator in the cultural economy of Western modernity. She states, “my role in the English text’s production was rejected by the author and the publisher and has been minimized by the author’s public statements” (150). Booth demonstrated that her name appeared in the title page as a co-translator with the original author. She mentioned that one of the press profiles expressed her minor role in translation claiming that Alsanea received Booth’s assistance in translating the novel.
Asanea stated that “my English is not perfect,” but in another conversation, expressed herself with no trace of accent (Wisby 2). Booth argued that the text has been domesticated to an Anglophone audience “through erasure of many cultural and linguistic specificities” (153). She elaborated that the translation is an ethnographic account and its differences are easily digested according to North American cultural and linguistic norms. Dismissing some of her translation and rewriting the translation created an effect that depoliticized the narrative and tamed the differences within. Besides, the English translation silenced main elements in the story such as the questions about gender privilege, which was in the Arabic text.

Islamic impact on women’s life and the Saudi cultural system as well as the employment of Quranic and Hadith (Prophet Mohammed’s sayings and acts) instructions was one of the themes that was clarified in the Arabic text but less present in the English one. Booth explained that the translation normalizes the foreignness, “homogenizing it into an Anglophone pop-lit lingua franca”(210). The text presented privileged Saudi girls who consume Western luxury items, so there was a use of language that blended the Arabic and English in specific patterns such as in the use of brand names and song lyrics, as well as in the use of English adjectives. Booth used transliteration as a tool to demonstrate that for example; sheez soo kiyirvy (“ she’s so curvy”), tuu matsh is (too much) and ewww …so falguur becomes ( Eww…so vulgar). In the revised version they were altogether deleted (204).

In the “Author’s Note” to the translation, Alsanea mentioned that she omitted some details that were in the original because that they would not “make sense to the non-Arab reader” (vii-viii). Booth commented that translation of fiction should open these challenges to the readers, instead of silencing their thematic significance within literature.

This case of translating literature brings into consideration Venuti’s theory of foreignization and ethics of difference. Venuti illustrates in his book Scandals of translation: Toward an ethics of difference that for translation to be ethical, it needs to be read with respect to linguistic and cultural difference. Venuti believes that translation should illuminate the foreignness and the difference of the source text. This might create a complex and difficult text for the readers, but they will appreciate it, because it will enhance their understanding of the foreign language and culture. Translation plays a significant role in constructing and reconstructing cultural identities through ethical practices.

I believe that through ethical translation, as Venuti defines it, one might be open to other cultures and be able to understand each other and eventually be able to resolve the conflicts between languages and cultures. It is possible to expose these differences in one’s language and culture and through translation and interaction between cultures. Moreover, to accept that “difference” in one’s language or culture does not mean superior or inferior but that all languages and cultures are created distinctively, and that is what makes them fruitful and meaningful.

References

Alsanea, Rajaa. Girls of Riyadh. Penguin UK, 2008.

Al-Sanea, Rajaa. Banat al-Riyadh. Al Saqi, 2009.

Booth, Marilyn. “Translator v. author (2007) Girls of Riyadh go to New York.” Translation Studies 1.2 (2008): 197-211.

Booth, Marilyn. “‘The Muslim Woman’ as Celebrity Author and the Politics of Translating Arabic: Girls of Riyadh Go on the Road.” Journal of Middle East Women’s Studies 6.3 (2010): 149-182.

Venuti, Lawrence. The Scandals of Translation: Towards an Ethics of Difference. London ; New York: Routledge, 1998. Print.

 

Senegal: Education Inequality en scène

Gaya Morris

The set is a sandy clearing right outside the preschool where a semi-circle of thirty or so plastic chairs has been arranged. We are in a residential area of Sebikotane, an urbanized village in the region of Dakar, Senegal. Due to limited space inside the preschool’s two rented rooms, the end of the year showcase is taking place in the street.

The crowd spills both into and out of the delineated space. Mostly women occupy the chairs—mothers, godmothers and aunts—and many of them are well dressed, which in Senegal means personally tailored outfits of patterned and brightly colored fabric, embroidered, frilled and complete with headscarves, matching handbags and bejeweled shoes. I can’t help but notice that the group of kids kneeling on the audience side is more than three times the size of the group on stage. Others have gathered on the roof terrace of a nearby house and peer down from their perch with mild interest, arms and legs dangling lazily over the concrete ledge. In Senegal, where only K-12 is mandatory and paid for by the state, going to preschool is a privilege.

One by one the preschoolers are called up to the microphone to demonstrate what they have learned this year. A teacher prompts them with questions, which they respond to as though reciting a script, as they would have in class, shouting at the top of their lungs. For example:

Teacher: Bonjour, Alimata Gueye.

Alimata: BON-ZOUR TON-TON!

Teacher: Comment ça va?

Alimata: ÇA-VA BIEN MER-CI.

Teacher: Comment t’appelles-tu?

Alimata: JE M’APPELLE…

When asked what their names were, many of the preschoolers faltered. A few said another child’s name. One said tonton. There was scattered laughter at what seemed to be a bunch of children forgetting their names, although the reality of the situation, everyone knew, was that those who faltered probably had no idea what they were saying. To be fair, it would have been hard to rehearse the name part in class, as in most cases they would have practiced shouting in unison, in a game of call and response with the teacher. They had learned their first few words of French as a pattern of sound, which they could only ever have to produce correctly or incorrectly, in a single volume and tone.

The women in the plastic chairs sat rigidly; a couple seemed nervous. For on display was each woman’s lifework: these children with their hair newly braided and beaded, their dresses and pants freshly ironed and shoes polished. Those shoes in particular would have required an extra bit of cash. The performance of their children’s achievements was in a sense a performance of their status.

What I saw, however, in this display of the achievement of a privileged few, from where I stood somewhere in the back of the crowd with my host-sister Yama, was the problem baring its teeth for all to see: the first module of the Senegalese primary school curriculum. For these children were indeed a few steps ahead of their peers having learned what it would take the others at least the first two months of first grade to solidify. In Sebikotane, most children enter the first grade without ever having held a pencil, or spoken a word of French, and must somehow learn to read and write in this language that they don’t understand. Teachers are advised to avoid speaking their mother tongue—Wolof, Pulaar or Sereer in this part of Senegal—in class, in order to facilitate complete immersion. As a foreigner coming from a different experience of public education, I had asked myself the question before: what kind of an education system is it that establishes as the most essential building blocks of its curriculum, learning the basics of a foreign language? It was there in those moments of applause, celebrating the preschoolers’ competence, that I considered its broader significance, and another question. What kind of a society is it in which an important marker of “being educated” is the ability to express oneself in a particular language?

To the first question: the Senegalese education system is an artifact of the colonial era. Following Senegal’s independence from France in 1960, President Léopold Senghor worked with French diplomats to model the Senegalese education system after the French system. One could say that Senghor’s personal ideological attachment to the French language translated to his policies, and that today the Senegalese have him to thank for the continued diglossia that has subjugated their first languages to the status of the vernacular. French is Senegal’s official language, and besides its dominance in education, it is the language of government, the court, and much of the professional sphere. Mapped onto these “higher places,” the ability to speak French, and speak it well, has become an important differentiating marker in Senegalese society—of class, status, and authority

The result is a crippled education system, both ideologically and practically. When children begin their formal schooling they will not say merely that they have started going to school, but that they have started l’école français. And indeed the French language permeates their education experience as a barrier. Already teachers face the challenges of limited resources, poor facilities and student to teacher ratios of at least forty to one. Having to teach children in a language they don’t understand is one of the first filters—most significantly for those students who have less help at home. The reality found in Sebikotane is that, regardless of the growing presence of preschools, roughly only 60% who enter the first grade will make it past the elementary level to the “lycée.”

What would it mean for Senegalese children to go to a school that would just be called school, and not “French school”? What would it mean for them to learn in their first language? Save for text messaging, Facebook, and the odd children’s book or pamphlet, the vernaculars of Senegal are not written languages, which opens a whole other can of worms. For it’s harder to break from our essential understanding of education, a universal right for all, as imparting literary knowledge: liberation through literacy. What would a preschool showcase look like, in this imaginary Senegalese education system? Would the children in the audience be less bored? The mothers more at ease? Would there have been fewer children in the audience and more on stage?

The preschool showcase that day was never completed. The imbalance suspended in this performance, between the children on stage and the growing crowd of others offstage, could only last so long. The young audience fidgeted, starting to look bored. It is impossible to know what had prompted the first, but all it took was one kid to decide there was something he or she desired on the other side of the line in the sand, for the entire group to storm the stage. The teacher did his best to allow the final few preschoolers in line to have their chance at the microphone, but they had become engulfed in a mob, their voices drowned in the chaos: children shouting, crying, pushing and shoving, screaming gleefully as they evaded the headmistress’s stick, sheep braying, mothers calling out.

Yama emerged from the throng and seized my hand, indicating that it was time to go home. Dafa yaq, was the word on the street as the crowd dispersed, meaning in Wolof: “it had been broken.” Some women shook their heads and clicked their tongues in disapproval; others seemed relieved. Few lingered for a resolution, some final stamp of recognition for their efforts here displayed. Instead mothers and children took the nearest routes of escape, down their respective sanded alleyways, and into the sanctuaries of walled-in spaces.

Note from the author: I am a student of anthropology at Princeton and I recorded the above story in my field notes this summer. I was in Senegal for two months researching economic transactions and gift exchange for my senior thesis, but generally would take notes on anything that struck my interest. Two years previously I had spent six months living in the same community in Senegal, and during that time I was a volunteer at a local elementary school. 

Insurgency in Southern Thailand: The Dangers of Language Oppression

Anonymous

Protests and civil unrest in Thailand are often in the news, especially in the most recent weeks. While the protests in Bangkok command much of the international attention, there is a perhaps more important, long-running dispute in the South of the country. The three southernmost provinces, Pattani, Yala, and Narathiwat, have been struggling to secede from the Thai central government ever since they were annexed in the early 20^th century in order to create their own Muslim, Malay-speaking state. In the most recent years this struggle has become increasingly violent. Between the years of 2004 and 2013, violence in the provinces have led to 5,300 deaths and over 9,000 people injured, as reported by CNN. While this struggle is an ethno-religious conflict, the Thai government has turned towards language suppression to quell the violence because this approach is seen as more humane than targeting religious or ethnic groups although the outcome is the same.

            Historically, the three provinces and the central government have had a tumultuous relationship. Thai historical records claim the Sultanate was always a loosely governed part of the state whereas other accounts view the sultanate as a tributary or separate kingdom. The Sultanate had been established in the early 15^th century but it was not until the reign of Sultana Hijau (1584-1616) that historical records show evidence of a tributary relationship between the Sultanate and the Tai state. Siam conquered Patani in 1786 but the victory was soon overcome by a series of rebellions. For the following century, the sultanate was ruled by a series of Tai-appointed, local, Malay Rajas. Many of these Rajas continued the rebellion against the central Tai government. The Anglo-Siam treaty was the final move to quell rebellions and formally annex the Sultanate into the Kingdom of Siam. The 1909 Anglo-Siam treaty broke up the Malay Sultanate of Patani and annexed the northernmost states to Siam. However, the treaty did little to pacify the relationship between Patani and Siam. Throughout the 20^th and into the beginning of the 21^st century, this treaty has caused a conflict between the Muslim Thai-Malays in the Patani provinces and the Buddhist central government in Bangkok.

The Thai government embarked on a campaign of educational and linguistic suppression in order to integrate the Malay provinces and further calm rebellious tendencies. Street signs and government documents were issued in Thai. In 1913, the government mandated that everyone take Thai surnames². In a culture unused to surnames, such a law undermined their Malay heritage. In this way, the Yawi language became more than just a spoken dialect but a symbol of the Patani religion and culture.  The government passed the 1921 Compulsory Education Act, forcing the Malays to attend at least four years of Thai primary school². Under this law, Thai was the only language of education and until very recently, Yawi was not even offered as a second language option. This was a particularly strong order, as traditionally the Malays had sent their children to a pondok, the religious school. The few religious schools that remained were forced to speak Thai, undermining their religious significance. Many Malays chose to drop out of school. Until 1996, Yawi-language media was banned. In 1996, the government relaxed legislation to allow one hour of Yawi television per day. This was also the year of the first Yawi newspaper in the region.

The government’s suppression of Yawi has caused the Thai-Malay population to be educationally, economically and politically disadvantaged compared to their Thai-speaking peers. Seventy percent of the Thai-Malays in the region have only received a primary school education compared to 50% of the ethnic Thais in the same area. This statistic shows that the ethnic Malays in the southernmost provinces are less likely to reach higher education than their Thai-speaking peers. Low levels of Thai language proficiency have led the Thai-Malay population to be underrepresented in politics and higher employment. While 20% of Thai-speakers in the region work for the government, only 2.5% of Thai-Malays are employed in local politics. The suppression of Yawi has also distanced them from their Islamic religion by disallowing them to attend religious schools and overriding traditional religious language with Thai.

            As Thailand is a popular tourist destination, I assume that its officials are particularly concerned with preserving the country’s international reputation as safe and friendly. There are plenty of news articles on religious persecutions and ethnic genocides, yet language oppression is a topic often overlooked by the international news media. The Human Rights Watch does not even cite it as a topic on their website. It is a way of targeting the Thai-Malay population that, while it can be oppressive, does not have the same violent and inhumane connotations as do other human rights breaches. Language planning can be understood as a good thing for a country, as an effort towards unification and fortification.  For these reasons, language oppression is seen as an acceptable form of oppression. However, the criminalization of a group’s language can lead to the unraveling of other aspects of their culture. As seen in Thailand, the oppression of Yawi had a similar effect to ethnic or religious persecution as it targeted the ethnic and religious minority in a way that threatened their right to religion, education and political voice.

            While language manipulation may not be as blatant a human rights breach as many other forms of discrimination, it is not one we should overlook. Language is not just a form of communication, but often encompasses historical, religious or other cultural factors. By targeting a group’s language, you target the most obvious symbol of their culture. The oppression of minority cultures is important as it can lead to the dearth and death of unique, significant, and remarkable groups. As seen in Thailand, the oppression of minority culture can also lead to violence, insurgency, and separatism. The laws set out by the Thai government did not only threaten the language of the Thai-Malays but also their religion and cultural identity.

The Role of Francophone Africa in the Maintenance of a true Francophonie

Christopher McIlwaine

It is hardly a point of contention that French is a language that has passed its peak insofar as its influence in the modern world.  Then, much to the chagrin of l’Académie française and French language purists, the future of the French language does not lie primarily in France but rather, increasingly with those living in francophone Africa.  This is hardly a matter of contention, either – this is simply a matter of demographics and economic growth – whereas the French population and economy have largely plateaued, much of francophone Africa is experiencing tremendous growth in these areas.  In a study carried out by ERUDIT in 2013, the demographic evolution of French speakers will tilt heavily to speakers in Africa by 2050, see the figure below:

 
Source: ERUDIT 2003

The Scénario A1 refers to the population of those living in countries with French as the official language, whereas Scénario A2 refers to the population of French speakers generally.  That is to say, A1 but not A2 would include a non-French speaker in Ivory Coast, whereas A2 but not A1 would include a French speaker in China.  Obviously, the trend is very clear, with nearly 60%  of francophones expected to live in Africa by 2050.   This brings up quite a number of questions, not only about the shift of the primary “pole” of the economic and cultural influence of the French language, but also about one the compromises to be made between the authorities of the French language and the people actually speaking French. 

Indeed, the dedication of l’Académie française to a uniform French language in the modern world will no longer work in a world in which English is increasingly the second language of choice – indeed, many francophone countries are making the movement to English and French bilingualism, as noted the Figaro in 2010.  Though Africa is truly the future of French, the desire to speak English as well must be accommodated rather than suppressed.  In the suppression of the desire to move towards a bilingual norm, it is more likely that the more practical rather than the more historically relevant language will be selected, and thus French would continue to move by the wayside, while the nearly unencumbered English language would continue to gain power.

Even taking a look at la Francophonie’s 2010 annual report, it is evident that French language advocates are becoming increasingly concerned, or better, focused on the development of a French in places in which French is not a native language but rather an official and oftentimes administrative language.  To consider the fast-approaching situation, that the majority of French speakers will be those who speak it neither natively nor culturally, is interesting as it is a situation that occurs very rarely.  Regardless of measures to prevent the continuation of changes to language, when the situation occurs that the vast majority of speakers of a language speak other languages as well, oftentimes speaking the other language more frequently, the inclusion of structures and words from outside influences will occur rapidly.

To illustrate this, one must look at the French spoken in Abidjan, in the Côte d’Ivoire.   Abidjan provides a unique look into what a primarily African francophonie might look like, as increasingly in the city the local variety of French is beginning to act as a “mother tongue” to its residents, no longer acting simply as a dialect.  This in particular opens a door to a change in the relationship between French purists and the French spoken in Africa, as the situation is no longer one that can be dismissed as poor attempts to master French.  As rare as it may be, it is increasingly the case that this regionalized form of French is being spoken natively, and unlike the past in which the French government could simply enforce the usage of Parisian French on speakers of regionalized forms in France, the development of both a greater number of regionalized forms of French as well as more significant deviations from metropolitan French will become common. 

Naturally, one might ask whether the outright assumption of currently francophone African countries remaining exclusively francophone in the future is a bit foolish, especially considering both the degree to which the French language is said to be “threatened” by her defenders as well as the relative lack of flexibility of French when compared to its competitors, namely English.  The current cultural standard in matters francophone, especially in Africa, is quasi-diglossic – metropolitan or “standard” French is considered necessary for any sort of business transactions or other official affairs, despite the fact that local forms are spoken by a wider local audience.  Unlike English  where there exist many relatively equal standards of the language (e.g. UK English, US English, Australian English, etc.), the establishment of an equally accepted form of French in a professional context (barring the example of Quebec French), is non-existent.  The sustainability of such a situation is tenuous at best, and with the availability of a more “open” language especially in francophone states that have particularly close relations with Anglophone neighbors, it remains an obvious threat to those committed to the maintenance of a proper future for French.

The future of francophonie, though it may indeed lie with the growth of francophone Africa, is hardly assured by said growth.  At present, the use of the French language in its many forms provides a significant form of connection on the regional level, especially in Africa, and the removal of these connections would both reduce the relevance of the French language on the global stage as well as the dynamism of francophone Africa.  To put it plainly, if francophone Africa cannot make the French language their own, all bets are off.  The onus lies with changes within the culture of la francophonie, because the assurance of a French speaking Africa tomorrow requires the increased acceptance of the nuances of African French today, lest the movement begin to another language that will provide said acceptance.