Hey Sara

A memoir regarding language in relation to literature

It all started on a warm, sunny morning in the city of Abu Dhabi. Well, to be fair, every morning is warm, considering the fact that this is a dessert. Besides that, it was a new day. A brand new day, where I was the new student, at a new school, in a new country, with my new uniform and well, you get the point. It was the first day of fifth grade at Abu Dhabi International School (AIS) and I was so terribly nervous. More than that, I was hopeful for the future. I remember being a young eleven-year-old girl finding my class line in the assembly and being so excited at the thought of experiencing new things. Yeah, I was that kid. Anyway, my story starts when my class and I finally made it to the classroom and introductions began.

Having been raised speaking English alone, I felt very adept and confident in my ability to write and communicate in English. I never faced difficulty in any of my school subjects before, especially languages, since I aced French. The conundrum arose as such. If memory serves me right, it was fifth period, also known as Arabic. I was told that I would be placed in ‘special’ Arabic, a class designed for students not exposed to the language. So naturally, I wasn’t so perturbed. However, much to my surprise, this class wasn’t, in fact, for kids not ‘exposed’ to the language. This was class designed for kids who were ‘not exposed to the language and have been learning special Arabic since grade 1.’

The period passed by in a blur. A different alphabet was introduced, coupled with a new pronunciation and to top it all off, a new method of writing, from right to left. To say I was terrified would be an understatement. All the other students understood and could correctly pronounce the words right. Words and names, such as, Sara, Ahmed, the word bird in Arabic, etc. I couldn’t quite command my tongue to twist and enunciate these words correctly. 
Every time I said, “Hey Sara,” or “Hi Ahmed,” they would response with a laugh and say, “It’s not Sara, its Sah-rha,” or “My name is pronounced Akh-med.” 
Furthermore, I found it foolish when some people could not say ‘Pepsi,’ or ‘parking’ with a ‘p’ and when others spoke English using the verb before the subject.  I thought, “Oh how stupid these people are, they cannot even form proper sentences!”

Looking back now, I realize that these factors, I found so imprudent among children who weren’t fluent in English were actually part of their ability to conceptualize their identity. That is, their language related directly to their uniqueness, individuality and being, and I was so quick to diminish that. What defines a person isn’t how ‘broken’ their English is, or they pronounce words. These people embraced their culture and their language, same as me. As a child, I never understood the importance/relevance of language, in relation to identity. What shaped those classmates of mine to speak the way they did originated from their language- Arabic. Now, as I am older, I realize that in Arabic there is no letter ‘p’ and it is spoken with the verb first, then the subject. These linguistic differences with English didn’t mean that these people were foolish, or dumb. It meant they were fluent in their mother tongue and were smart enough to pick up English.

I, a mere fifth grader, neglected the fact that Arabic was a language. In fact, it is the national language of UAE and many more countries and is spoken worldwide by millions. I therefore have come to realize that the concept of identity is closely integrated in language, as the distinctive linguistic markers shape one’s accent and makes them who they are. And I know now, there is nothing wrong with that.