Columnists

Do You Have A Swiss Army Knife?

T. SHER SINGH

DAILY FIX

Friday, May 18, 2012

It all began the very day - in 1970 in Patna - when we made the decision we were emigrating to Canada.

We sat around the table, having just finished lunch.

There was my father, in his early 40s; my mother a few years younger; myself, the eldest child at 20; and my four siblings, ranging all the way down to Artaj, 10 and Sartaj, 6.

Dad asked for our undivided attention, cleared his throat, and threw the bombshell.

“Life’s going to be different in Canada … there won’t be any servants!”

He waited for that to sink in.

“And, to get ready for it, we start today. Each one of us washes his or her own dishes. After each meal. Starting from the moment you get up from this table in a few minutes.”

Once it had sunk in, he added: “And your own undies too. Every morning!”

“Me too?” piped up little Sartaj.

Both Mum and Dad nodded.

Our servants were standing in a huddle by the door to the kitchen, puzzled by this inexplicable edict.

“And there’s more,” went on the head of the household. “Language. Your mother and I have talked it over and decided on the following. She and I will spend an hour each morning and evening helping her learn English. And you are to speak to her in English as often as possible to help her along.”

We giggled. Speak English? With our mother? In front of the servants?

“A-n-d … ,” he paused ominously … , “and, as you know, Canadians speak two languages - English and French. So we’re all going to learn, yes, French!”

We cheered. Most of us already spoke English, Punjabi, Hindi and a bit of Urdu. A new language would be exciting.

The services of a French teacher were promptly retained.

Nany Gerein, a young nurse from Edmonton (Alberta, Canada), was in town working in a local hospital and was daring enough to agree to teach the five of us. Twice a week, 2-hour French classes thereafter became a routine for a while.

I promptly fell in love with our teacher (as I then did with every female whose shadow crossed my path). This, of course, added to my enthusiasm for the new language.

By the time we left for Canada eight months later, the five of us - the siblings - knew enough French to get by in Paris for a few days, en route to our new home.

Of course, once we arrived in Canada, we quickly realized Canadians did not take bilingualism quite as seriously a we had. Having made camp in Toronto - in the heart of “English’ Canada - we had nowhere to practise our minimal French, and eventually lost it all.

In the 41 years since we made Canada our home, we have never, ever felt that we have somehow diluted the idea of multiculturalism by learning, or trying to learn, another language.

When I look back at ourselves in those early days, I marvel at the energy of an immigrant - of all immigrants - and at how it is unequalled by any other. Even greed and ambition cannot match the zeal to build a new life, to survive, to flourish, to be a success in a new land.

Any and all hurdles are willingly tackled and overcome.

Surely, we can somehow tap and channel that very energy in self-improvement.

I simply cannot figure out the umbrage some people take over suggestions that all immigrants be required to have at least a basic knowledge of either official language. How anybody could deem it as “demeaning” or “insulting” to immigrants is beyond me.

Learning a language without which you cannot, in fact, become a full-fledged participant in this society, is a hardship?

Going through life - and there are tens of thousands around today who do so right here in Canada, for example - without any knowledge of either English or French, is a lesser hardship?

Just check out any of the “Chinatowns” that we otherwise enjoy so much. Some coming from the subcontinent and living amongst us haven’t done any better.

I am flabbergasted at our own activists in the diaspora  - many who have been living in the West for several decades now! - the very same who fight for the rights of the “voiceless” in our society, but seem to have difficulty in understanding that inability to communicate properly in the language everyone else speaks, is in itself being voiceless.

Language empowers.

It is a basic tool.

Even more so, it is a Swiss-Army knife of tools!

It has a multiplicity of uses, all good, and at minimal cost

Once in your pocket, it gives you confidence. It makes difficult things simple. It enables you to do so much more.

And like a Swiss knife, its usefulness is not limited to those amongst us who are handy. Everyone should have one. Everyone can have one. Everyone can learn to use one. It's a bargain, no matter how you look at it.

Same with language skills - the ability to speak and write and articulate, to defend, to advocate … for yourself and your loved ones, at the very least. For your community, for the causes you believe in and wish to support.

Doesn’t matter if you are a nuclear scientist or a factory worker, a doctor or a taxi-driver, a computer geek or an entrepreneur, good language tools are a necessity, not a luxury.
 
I can’t think of a single valid excuse from those within our community who have had the good fortune to be able to move to and live in a country of their choice, and yet, decades later, speak and write and read like the proverbial ‘bengali babu’!

Before any of you jump up to defend against the stereotyping expression I have borrowed from the Raj, make sure you yourself have freed yourself from the stereotypes that imprison us. 
 

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