Titania Veda

A Whiff of Whimsy: The Language of Love

For a traveler, language is the key to survival. It is also a way to bond with people you meet on the road. The first thing I do upon entering a foreign land is learn the local words for “hello” and “thank you.” My small effort to learn these two words give me an advantage in my interactions with the locals; it shows them my interest in their culture.

Thanks to cyberspace and affordable travel, the modern world is getting smaller. Being multilingual, even with a tiny vocabulary, is an asset.

So the conversation I overheard while waiting to board my flight from Jakarta to New York City surprised me. It occurred between a white man and a young Indonesian boy. The man, trying to converse in Indonesian, was hit by a wall of silence. But when he tried again in English, the boy responded. Although the boy’s parents spoke to each other in Indonesian, their child couldn’t. With so many people striving to add new languages to their skill-set, this incident raises the question of why parents would withhold any language from their children, especially their mother tongue.

Returning home after time away from the country opened my eyes to how playful a language Indonesian is, filled with a warmth and humour that reflects the nation’s jovial, easy-going culture. It shares a similar story to English. Like English in England, Indonesian became a common language that united a nation comprised of hundreds of local dialects and tribes. Like English, many Indonesian words are derived and adapted from other languages, such as Dutch, Arabic, Sanskrit and Portuguese.

Both my brother and I come from a generation that is still bilingual. Although we were raised speaking both Indonesian and English, years abroad have taken their toll on our Indonesian until we are left with only the most basic of communication skills. But we still feel that Indonesian is our mother tongue. But as I walk around the malls of Jakarta, from the modest Taman Anggrek to the upscale Pacific Place, I fear Indonesian is in peril for the generations following us. Hearing English being spoken in its place by one out of two children in malls is now commonplace.

This may be a side effect of the rising number of middle-class families who can afford better education for their children. To some this is seen as a sign of economic progress. To others it is a sign of us losing our cultural identity.

Other Asian nations that have adopted English, or individuals who have immigrated to industrialized countries, have managed to maintain their language. The numerous Indian taxi drivers in New York City speak a minimum of three languages: English, Hindi and a local dialect. The Chinese residing in Chinatown enclaves worldwide stubbornly hold onto their beloved Mandarin. Yet here, in our own backyard, we seem intent on shedding our mother tongue.

Since my youth, I’ve found Indonesians taking more pride in speaking English than in their own language. I was guilty of the same pride. For many of us, English is the language of the West, of progress, of Hollywood and of opportunities. I am grateful that my parents pulled me out of a local Indonesian kindergarten and placed me in an English-speaking one. They considered English to be the passport to a better life and a way to open doors to endless opportunities, and they were right.

English is the language of the world. But does that mean we have to discard our own language and identity?

Our language is an inherent part of who we are. Our language, dialect, accent and word choice is a part of us. It is the heritage of our ancestors. Our past, from the time of the Dutch colonialists and the birth of Islam in Indonesia, is contained in the language. Travelers I meet are often intrigued to hear the language of the Spice Islands.

Indonesia is also one of the world’s most exotic destinations. On my journeys, I’ve met a Venezuelan who frequently travels to Indonesia, a Kenyan with Indonesian friends and a Slovakian who speaks fluent Indonesian.

Perhaps salvation for our language lies not in the locals who put the West on a pedestal but in the foreigners who have fallen in love with this archipelago.

I once saw an African woman at Soekarno-Hatta Airport. She was swathed in colorful native garments of yellow and green, her hair in a turban of the same colors. Clinging to her hand was her little girl, with afro curls twisted into mini ponytails. Though their accents were thick, the language they spoke to each other was unmistakable. It was Indonesian.

Your View

See Result