“Immigrants should speak English in their own homes to help prevent 'schizophrenic' rifts between generations of their families as almost a third of British Asian speak only their native language”. It is ironic that David Blunkett is demanding immigrants to speak English, yet in my household the language English was not allowed. Despite having a father born and raised in London and a mother who was fluent in multiple languages including English, the presence of English was not in my home. For the first fourteen years of my life my mother only conversed with me in Urdu. Being born and raised in Hampstead, attending a catholic independent school at a young age, had me adopting British English values, perhaps my mother felt scared that I would turn away from my Asian identity and refuse to understand my roots. Her fear was not baseless as a child I used to hate getting asked the question: “Where are you from?” and being told “I think you look more [insert nationality here]”.Due to my mother’s incessant lessons and refusal to acknowledge me if I spoke in English I had mastered the language at a very young age, in order to get my way or at least to find out where the cookies were placed. As a child I did not have an issue with learning Urdu nor speaking it, it was a way for me to communicate with my mother and a way to get my voice heard, it was normal. However, once I started school I realised that despite knowing English yet not speaking it; is unusual and was considered weird behavior.
On my first day of year one instead of speaking English, I would speak Urdu, the teacher would ask me a question in English I would respond in Urdu. After doing this a few times I was taken to the head teacher, where they simply could not understand my “weird alien language” and had demanded my parents to be bought in. It was surprising that they demanded to speak to my father, as they knew he was fluent in English; in the English that does not have a weird accent, but the same English accent they speak in, and disregarded speaking to my mother whom they assumed did not know a word of English.
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Yet it was my mother who arrived, suited and booted, coming from a meeting and the first thing she said “ Sanah aap teek ho?” ( Sanah are you okay ?). My mother a walking contradiction; a woman who was quiet adept in the corporate world, who used English consistently along with other ‘esteemed’ languages, was glared at and looked at in contempt simply because instead of greeting me in English she used her mother tongue. The Headteacher sat my mother down and very slowly (now that I think about it- patronizingly) explained to my mother that I do not know the language of this country and that perhaps I should be referred to a psychologist as a child my age should know how to speak, yet I seem to have supressed issues and probably was not smart enough to pick up the language. I watched as my mother slowly get angry and muttered “Gaddi” (idiot) under her breath, but once her eyes met mine she smiled and in perfect English stated “Sanah I want you to respond to me in English”. My six-year-old self was confused but obeyed my mother’s wishes and responded to whatever she asked me in perfect English, perfect English with a London accent, not a mixed accent. My teacher and head teacher watched in shock, they assumed I was a child who perhaps was slow or mentally challenged simply because I did not speak the same language as them, yet when I spoke their language in their same accent they seemed astonished. It was at that moment I realised that my native language isn’t common, yes it is common in my household but outside my home it does not exist so why did I learn it if I am not going to use it beyond my home?
This question followed me throughout my childhood, why learn Urdu when its considered weird or alien? Its not fancy like French or Spanish, it’s a “freshie” language so why on earth was I pushed to learn it?
It is interesting that I was pushed to learn Urdu and not any other language despite that the fact my family is a melting pot. My Father is half Italian and half Pakistani, whilst my mother is Pakistani. Both are fluent in many languages and growing up I would often hear them speaking to each other in a mix of languages, they would start of in English, delve into Spanish, sprinkle in some Mandarin and end in Urdu; it confused me greatly. But when they conversed with me it was only Urdu (from mum) and English, I never learnt to speak Italian, perhaps by his third child my father was too tired to teach it; but what is greatly confusing is that despite not knowing how to speak it, I can understand it perfectly. How?
Perhaps its due to the yearly family reunions in Milan, where language became our obstacles and we were forced to improvise. Having family that could just speak either Italian or Urdu was hard, how do I converse with my cousin and aunts who only speak Italian despite marrying someone who speaks Urdu too? simple, through hand gestures and broken vocabulary. it was these yearly reunions that allowed me to understand and perhaps work hard to understand what was being said. I look forward to these meetings as year and year on we get better at talking to one and other, conversations got longer and animated (not that they weren’t before, just less charades now). But it was something that made me realise with family there is no barrier, despite the fact we could not understand each other in the beginning and could barley speak without acting out a whole movie, it did not stop us from conversing instead it brought out our own language, a language that mixes Urdu, Italian and English (sometimes a little charades.)
Whilst my relationship with the Italian language grew, my one with Urdu deteriorated.
By year 7, my family and I had relocated to Newham, one of the most deprived boroughs in London, but to my parents it became home, a place where they felt like themselves, as they didn’t have to deal with a lot of racism. They were now in an area where everyone was diverse, where the schools were more secular and a place where their children could at least have some religious ties to their community. One would think moving to a more diverse area, I would start to perhaps embrace my language culture and identity more, but I did not. I refused to speak Urdu to anyone but my mother (I had to speak it to her or else she would’ve just stared at me till I repeated my self in Urdu). Even my maternal grandparents who were not fluent in English, and would speak to me in Urdu always received a response in English.
In my head I thrived without my culture, language and identity, I was a good student, was on the school council and even made it to head girl. Everything that my family should be proud of yet my mother and grandmother always stared at me in pity, not that I understood their looks at that time. It was not until my sixteenth birthday where I was expecting a card with money in it from my grandmother and instead received a book as a gift. I was infuriated inside, everyone else on their sixteenth got cash for their birthday why on earth did I get a book with the words Cracking India on it? I’m not even Indian. Despite this, I smiled politely at my grandmother, thanked her and assured her that I would definitely read it. I was not going to read it.
Fast forward a couple of months and I had just finished my GCSE’S, my grandmother called me to congratulate me for finishing and wishing me luck for results day, she asked me if I read the book and I just pretended that I could not hear her and handed the phone to my mum. I felt guilty. So I read the bloody book. And I am glad I did. As I was reading the book and trying to comprehend young Lennie’s mind I did not even realise that half the book was written in Urdu, I just read it, I got engrossed in it as I would not put it down, it wasn’t until my mother pointed out that I have been given the Urdu copy that I was shocked. I sat there thinking I read this text without struggling without even giving it a second thought, it was English for me. While reading about Lennie’s journey and understanding the context of the country my ethnicity is derived from, I finally began to understand why my mother forced Urdu upon me, why my grandmother gave me this book. It was to highlight that no matter how hard I try to be white and hide my ethnicity and just refuse to acknowledge it, it will always be apart of me.
As I now sit and think about my change from absolutely disregarding my language to embracing it speaking it everyday with my grandparents, with my parents and even in public. I realize that I am glad my mother forced Urdu upon me. Although it may not have the same esteem as French or Spanish, Urdu helped me fit in with my extended family (once I started speaking it regularly) and instead of abandoning my roots I embraced it. Our native language not only allows us to communicate and connect with one another, but it allows us to understand and appreciate the history of our ancestors and our upbringing. It cultivates an appreciation and understanding that is beyond beneficial. All in all, my learning and acceptance of my language has made me what I am today, so David Blunkett may want me to speak more English and abandon the use of my mother tongue, but I would quite rather continue on speaking it whenever I please.
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