Sacred Language, Ordinary People: Dilemmas of Culture and Politics in Egypt, Niloofar Haeri, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. pp184 The title and subtitle of this book promise to introduce the reader to culture and politics in Egypt through an anthropological study of the language situation. At the same time, it suggests that there is a dilemma. No doubt the title is intended to arouse curiosity among readers in the western world, particularly American ones, but in our part of the world it is likely to trigger some alarm bells. However, in fact the book is a good read, sensitively written, drawing a rich tapestry of Egyptian life with its multiplicity of voices, opinions and conflicting views on the language issue. An anthropologist's methodology involves a lot of listening and patient gathering of material, but when it is done in an alien social context and written for a public presumably ignorant of the socio-cultural and historical background, the final picture says as much about the researcher and his/her frame of reference as it does about the subject researched. Niloofar Haeri is no newcomer to the Egyptian scene. A scholar of the Arabic language, and of Arabic in Egypt in particular, with her Iranian- American Muslim background she seems well equipped for such an enterprise. For subjects such as language use and attitudes towards language it is often an advantage to have some distance from the social context because one tends to notice things that are so much taken for granted that they remain occult. To bring hidden motives and unresolved contradictions into the open is one of the merits of this book. Yet, as far as I am concerned the problem is one of basic assumptions -- the ideological baggage the researcher brings to the task -- made explicit in the introduction, the chapter headings and in the terminology used, which necessarily shape the questions asked. The problem Haeri presents can be summarised as follows. Egyptians use two languages side-by-side -- Egyptian Arabic for the purposes of oral communication in all the situations of daily life and Classical Arabic for the purpose of all written communications and in formal public domains. The two languages are related but fundamentally different in sentence structure, in important grammatical features, such as case endings and the way verbs are inflected for person, number and gender, etc., and most noticeably in the area of vocabulary. Classical Arabic is a sacred language due to its perceived origin in the word of God passed down to us through the Qur'an and early religious/legal texts. The concept of sacredness by necessity implies that there can be no change and that this intervenes in efforts at modernisation. Hence, there is a struggle and a dilemma. The author's aim is therefore to explore what Egyptians think and feel about their mother tongue (Egyptian Arabic) vis-�-vis this ancient classical language learnt at school. She also explores what is involved in the process of modernisation, of making this language the formal language of the state, of the written media and of all forms of intellectual and creative pursuits and the consequences of this policy and practice. Her research leads her into all walks of life: the humble folks who have at best primary school education and/or have attended a kuttab, or traditional Qur'anic school, where children are taught the rituals of religious devotion and to recite verses of the Qur'an, as well as to read and write; and people with secondary education and some further professional training, such as librarians, teachers, etc. She uncovers many interesting facts about the process of print production, involving writers, correctors and publishers, the training they receive and the institutions and reference works behind this kind of regulation. Lastly, she tackles issues relating to the development of the written language, for which she has consulted articles on a multiplicity of topics from Al-Ahram ranging over the entire period from the newspaper's inception to the present -- a task that could have occupied one or more independent volumes. She also looks at the way journalists, poets and novelists make use of the coexistence of the two varieties of Arabic. In her interviews with some of these the debate focused on what space should be given to Egyptian Arabic in writing. In reading the book I was particularly struck by Haeri's insistence on the term "Classical Arabic", which has definite associations with the past and is inevitably linked to the religious domain. In linguistic studies the language is usually referred to as Modern Standard Arabic, or al-fusha al-mu'aasira, which has a long history of modernisation particularly since the days of the nahda, the Arab renaissance of the 19th century. Non-specialists in the Arab world tend to use the term al-logha al- 'arabiyya al-fusha, or one of the elements of this compound. In the mind of the lay person there may not be a clear distinction between this language and the language of the Qur'an, but perceptions should not be taken as linguistic facts. There is also the possibility that nowadays, at a time when Political Islam is on the rise, even secular education in Egypt is not actively helping to disambiguate this situation. However, the statement that Classical Arabic is enshrined in the constitution as the official language of Egypt and that it is nobody's mother tongue implies that Egyptians -- and other Arabs -- are stuck in the past and are alienated from their national language. Haeri finds this sense of alienation echoed by the academic Leila Ahmad who, like many of her background, was educated in British schools, received her further education in Britain and migrated to the US. While Ahmed's book on her upbringing is a fascinating work of autobiography it is hardly the experience of every Egyptian, even though the increase of private "language schools" may be working in that direction. One of the issues, or "dilemmas" addressed in this book is the modernity of the language, and another is what sociolinguistic literature has defined as diglossia, namely the coexistence of a "high" and a "low" variety of the same language. Under the heading of diglossia the situation of the Arabic language is lumped together with other situations that are socio-culturally and historically vastly dissimilar. The one feature they have in common is a considerable linguistic gap between the written standard and the modern vernacular. This is the background of Haeri's list of grammatical differences -- important no doubt, but in itself such a list is not sufficient because it leaves out how and why languages in general change. To my knowledge, none of the (Anglo-American) linguists writing on this subject have addressed this matter. While written languages are relatively rigid all oral languages develop across time, some at a slower pace, some at a faster pace, resulting in more or less radical changes. The direction of development is, strangely enough, always the same: languages with a complex system of case endings become simpler; syntax changes in tandem with the loss of case endings; and the ways of marking the verb for tense, person and gender also become simpler. Here it is of the utmost importance to point out something that is obvious to all linguists but is possibly confused even by intellectuals given to frequently pontificating on language: grammatical complexity is not the same as stylistic finesse, the ability to handle complex thought processes or eloquence. These tend to be developed with use in writing, particularly if there is a long history of literary and intellectual discourse. A language not used in writing will lack some of these stylistic features and may also lack abstract, and, particularly scientific, vocabulary -- features which can be easily acquired, as happened when the European vernaculars started taking over from Latin its role as the language of intellectual discourse during the European Renaissance. The perception of a "big gap" between varieties of Arabic has its source in two very specific circumstances. Children arrive at school, speaking their mother tongue -- Egyptian Arabic -- and at the same time when learning to read and write they are faced with strange words and a new set of grammatical rules that have to be mastered. On the other hand, many students of Arabic who have studied abroad arrive in Egypt only to find that their many years of study have not in any way prepared them for the linguistic reality on the ground. Often their attitude is one of dismay that nobody in the street "speaks Arabic", and I guess that this must have been Haeri's first experience too. Though this is merely of anecdotal value, I would like to add that I pursued the opposite course: I learnt the Egyptian dialect first, or rather I learnt a certain amount of what was necessary for survival in the new linguistic community in which I found myself. It was only after some time had passed that I approached the formal study of what was termed "Modern Standard Arabic", and this gave me a wider appreciation of the basic structures of grammar and the incredible wealth provided by the Arabic system of derivation. I came to appreciate precisely what was commented upon recently in the pages of Al-Ahram Weekly in an article by the late Edward Said: the fascinating beauty and mathematical precision of Arabic. Contrary to what is usually claimed, it made me see the connections and continuity between this and the spoken dialect, as well as the fact that the spoken language of any but uneducated Egyptians relies heavily on the resources of the written standard. As mentioned earlier, the author in her book has set herself the task of examining the pages of Al- Ahram in order to locate grammatical changes, more precisely changes in syntax and the way speech is reported. This was a conscious choice as a result of the many statements she encountered in her research to the effect that while loan words can be accepted into Arabic so long as they are adapted ( mu'arrab ), the basic structure of the language was not negotiable. According to her, the syntax of Classical Arabic follows a rigid "canonical" rule: sentences start with the verb, this is followed by the subject and then the object (in linguistic shorthand: VSO), and of course this pattern is made possible by the presence of case endings. Haeri observed an increased occurrence of the SVO order familiar from English in the Arabic she read, but her conclusion is that this is as a result of the influence of Egyptian Arabic on the written language. In Egyptian Arabic this is the default word order since there is no other way of indicating which is the subject and which is the object of the sentence. However, this word order (SVO) can also be found in older forms of standard Arabic, particularly for stylistic reasons, such as emphasis. I would suggest that there is in fact an in-built principle of flexibility in the language, according to stylistic needs, and that it is this that makes room for such a development. It may say something about the influence of the spoken language, but there is no definite proof. More to the point are Haeri's examples of reports in the newspapers of what others have said in the spoken language. There is an amusing and quite revealing anecdote that Haeri tells in this context. At a press conference with the president, which she personally attended, the questions were formulated in Standard Arabic, but the answers were given in Egyptian Arabic. Nevertheless, the written report uniformly used Standard Arabic. On the other hand, journalists frequently quote famous people (film stars) using phrases in Egyptian Arabic in print, and the explanation offered is that a translation into the Standard would lose the feel of the original. In my opinion, this differential treatment only goes to show how much the written language has in fact been "naturalised": the conscious permissiveness of journalists and language regulators (editors, etc.) is evidence that the stylistically appropriate use of the dialect is not considered a threat to the authority of the standard language, in which case we are moving closer to the coexistence between dialects and standard found in other language situations. Yet, Haeri puts her finger on an important point: the natural dichotomy between formal and informal language use becomes enhanced where there is a considerable linguistic gap between the spoken and the written word. For one thing, it leaves little space for informality in writing, and in the domains of the spoken language formality needs to resort to the written language -- hence the impression that some people "speak like a book", to borrow a phrase from Edward Said. The question I would have liked her to explore with her subjects is: what do they do when writing personal letters? Instead, the debate frequently got onto the wrong track, with questions and answers seemingly being at cross-purposes. Is anyone suggesting that Egyptian Arabic replace the standard language in education and in intellectual life? In answer to questions of this sort Haeri's subjects were at an obvious loss: the vocabulary of Egyptian Arabic is not adapted to intellectual discourse, and we cannot do without the resources of Standard Arabic. Contexts such as the discussion of history, politics, philosophy, etc., do in fact require a formal treatment. But that in modern life there are many occasions where people do feel the need for informal ways of self-expression in writing (not just poetry and dialogue) should be recognised, and it should be possible to do this in the appropriate style, namely in Egyptian Arabic. Could this be done through conscious language policy? Is it necessary, as the author suggests, to express in the country's constitution that Egyptian Arabic is an officially recognised language beside Standard Arabic? The absurdity of such a proposal has its roots in making false analogies. To repeat: Egyptian Arabic and Modern Standard Arabic are not two different languages. Egyptian Arabic is not the only dialect that finds itself at odds with the written standard language, nor the only one that arouses ambivalent feelings. Many of the aspects of this situation are or were common to other languages and other countries at some stage of their linguistic/national development. The standardisation of language is first and foremost a political process involving attempts at regulation, domination and struggle, and it too results, given sufficient time, in various forms of "diglossia". A revaluation of local dialects is a sign of our times. But, as far as I am aware, in most countries with a standardised formal language there are no hard-and-fast rules as to how much dialect is allowed to appear in print. Anyone writing on the stylistic aspects of modern Arabic usage would have to conclude that a degree of mixing of the standard and vernacular languages is becoming more acceptable, for the simple reason that in daily life the boundaries between formal and informal usage are becoming more fluid. A common standard language is often an expression of a common culture -- as, for instance, in Germany, Austria and Switzerland, where, despite long-established national borders and the existence of internal dialect variations the same standard language is used for writing, alongside a dialect- flavoured spoken standard for formal purposes. What is more, this example shows that dialect diversity can be not so much supplanted as bridged and modified through the written language, until first tolerance and comprehension and then convergence set in. With respect to Arabic this process seems to have started, as the popularity of Egyptian films and the success of satellite TV stations like Al-Jazeera demonstrate. Although broadcasts of Al-Jazeera generally conform to the rules of modern standard Arabic, a minimum of dialect features and simplifications are considered acceptable in discussions. Given enough time, it is likely that an accepted standard spoken form will emerge, even if the written standard (as everywhere) remains more conservative. Acceptance of change in the written language is always more problematic, because it affects the interests of the power structure behind the "national language". Haeri is aware that one of the pillars of Standard Arabic is the ideology of Pan-Arabism and the fear that giving more space to dialects would mean compromising the commonality of language use across the Arab world. However, to reduce Pan- Arabism to the support of "a language which nobody speaks" is a gross misrepresentation. The ambivalent situation in which the peoples of the Arab world find themselves is rooted in colonial territorial divisions, but awareness of a common history and similar cultural traditions despite the multiplicity of customs is widespread, and the common standard language is one expression of this. The fact that this is not a spoken form in no way detracts from its unifying capacities, even when one considers that its lingua franca function in face-to- face contacts has gained a new competitor in Egyptian Arabic, which has gained wide acceptance across the Arab world due to the popularity of Egyptian films and soap operas. Nevertheless, I would agree with Haeri (and with Leila Ahmad and Edward Said) that the way in which the Arabic language is taught in Egyptian schools constitutes a dilemma -- its real dilemma, due to antiquated teaching methods, boring and badly written books and the reliance on rote learning. The result is not only the costly failure of the education process, but also the fact that many of those who do succeed tend to be put off culture and reading for pleasure for the rest of their lives, particularly when there are so many other competitors for filling leisure time. The author concludes that apart from the problem of having to learn Arabic grammar at an early stage, there are also problems due to the medium of education. The arguments in favour of teaching in the mother tongue are well known, and here I am sure Egyptian teachers cannot be faulted. If there is any explanation going on at all in the class room it is likely to be carried out in Egyptian Arabic, but whether teachers are capable of translating scientific facts into a language accessible to students is perhaps more related to their training, motivation and dedication than to the language as such. Finally, I want to come back to the concept of a "sacred" language, introduced in the title of the book, and the curious notion of "property rights" to language. What the author means to say is that in order for people to make a language their own it has to be adapted to current needs (call it simplification or modernisation), but that such changes go against the idea that Arabic is pure and sacred. The arguments usually advanced against grammatical modification of Standard Arabic are of the ideological kind -- that it would endanger the continuity of culture, or that it would threaten any prospect of Arab unity if handled unilaterally, even, as one of Haeri's interlocutors puts it, that "it would put the Qur'an into a museum". As in so many other countries one meets a certain amount of linguistic chauvinism -- Arabic is the most beautiful language, the most logical, etc. -- and it is the language in which the Qur'an was revealed. But does this mean that Arabs consider their language itself to be sacred? Would that not imply that only religious topics can be expressed in it? If such beliefs really were current then the cultural and intellectual achievements of the last 150 years, and those of the golden era of Arab culture and science, would have to be scrapped. Perhaps Arabs simply resist modification to the written language because "this is the way it has always been, and if we had to learn it then our children can be expected to make the same effort". This is not a good argument, but leaving things as they are is always easier than changing them. We need only think of the very modest spelling reforms introduced in American English, which many of us resist, even though these leave the bulk of English orthography untouched, illogical and far from the spoken standard though it is. Many an English- speaking child has to do battle with this system, and many never master it. By Gerda Mansour
