Across Borders and Senses III
Bordering Identities
Einav Grushka
As I sit here in Tel Aviv, my birthplace, so far from Cambridge yet simultaneously so immersed in Cambridge life, I can’t help but wonder how bilingualism and growing up with another culture has affected my own identity. Having an insight into different cultures and social psyches can be magical, yet also oddly isolating and confusing. This insight is the factor that drove me to pursue a degree in Modern Languages, and that has allowed me to hypothesise about the role of language on forging identities that are divided across borders.
My friends and family here in Israel often like to poke fun, calling me ‘the Londoner’ or ‘the foreigner’. They laugh at the fact that I was educated in a Catholic school, attending Chapel weekly until the age of 14. If they only knew that I could recite the words of Catholic hymns by memory to this day, I’d most definitely be subject to endless jeers. So, yes, it is undeniable that part of my identity is British, and the passport confirms it. But I have never felt British, so to speak. This is a concept that people often struggle with and any debate on the matter often ends in the blunt statement, “well, you are British. Full stop.”
Throughout my childhood, I would argue with my friends over the pronunciation of English words, sure that you pronounced the ‘l’ in ‘salmon’ as you do in Hebrew, only to be proved wrong time and again. At the time, I felt as if I were at a loss because I didn’t know anything about British history, or the meaning of the word ‘settee’, which to me seemed oddly posh. However, being able to slyly speak Hebrew with my twin brother in the school corridors gave us some sense of power. We came to learn that languages are tools of great social advantage.
My twin brother and I in the Israeli scouts in London
It is difficult to explain that even within my London bubble, my sense of belonging was very much split in two. On the one hand, the notion of ‘British values’ was drilled into my mind every morning at school, and I gained the gift of native English, one that my parents never enjoyed. On the other hand, outside of the school gates, I was surrounded by a purely Israeli community; I ate typically Israeli food at home (that my school friends would often either marvel at or look suspiciously upon), celebrated Jewish traditions, followed Israeli news and politics, and most importantly, spoke only Hebrew. My parents never helped me with my English homework, my essays or my personal statement for that matter. Those elements of my upbringing were reserved for my British persona alone.
When learning Modern Languages, in my case French and Spanish, we are encouraged to note idiomatic expressions, listen to foreign news, read foreign literature, and learn foreign history, politics, art, economics, jurisdiction…the list goes on. It is through this rigorous linguistic and cultural endeavour that we aim to obtain both linguistic ‘mastery’ and cultural assimilation. In other words, we are effectively trying to construct an alter-ego or secondary identity in line with the respective languages, aiming to create the illusion that we have grown up surrounded by a specific culture, coming to understand it as native would. The Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis on linguistic relativity proposes that the language you speak influences the way you view the world around you, and I can only support this from personal experience. I have often been told that I seem like two completely different people, depending on which language I am speaking, and not only that, I feel like two different people. When I speak Hebrew, I feel more open, willing to be slightly louder and bolder; however, speaking English, I tend to be more timid and over-apologetic. Both equally characterise me, but emerge separately, depending on the language I speak. Just like that, language carries us across social barriers, changes the way we speak, think, and interact with others.
In some ways, when acquiring a new language, you gain a disguise that grants you an entrance ticket into a new society, one that guarantees acceptance and understanding. The year abroad of an MML degree is designed to encourage linguistic and cultural integration. And yes, you may know the most up-to-date slang, be able to analyse the standings for the upcoming French elections, and even be able discuss medieval literature with local intellectuals, but will you not always be seen as ‘the foreigner’, donning a mask that allows you to toy but not fully delve into that society? There is, as I see it, a guilty sense of intrusion that trails behind attaining a new language, as if you are unjustly appropriating it. I suppose that having people question my identity early on, I have always felt rather protective of my Israeli side, constantly feeling the need to justify it to others. Whereas with an attained language, there is arguably no basis for such justification.
Celebrating our 4th birthday with my sister in a Sunday School for Israeli children, where we would study in Hebrew.
If we strive for full immersion, can we uphold a dual identity? Or should we bury one deep in order to allow the other to flourish? Do we need to stay in character both on and off stage? I think a lot about the year abroad, and particularly about the current political climate in Europe. I have been told time and again that when in Paris, I should not speak English if I wish to be socially accepted, and have been warned not to speak Hebrew in public for political and security reasons. With the current surge of antisemitism across Europe, I’d be lying if I were to say that I intend to present my exposed true identity, whatever that means.
I am lucky in that I can pick and choose; in which context will I be the British student from Cambridge, and in which will I be the Israeli girl with cabinets stacked full of Tahini and home baked cookies? Because, yes to passing connaissances, we’d all hope to come across as native, but in reality we aren’t, and the linguistic disguise that Cambridge decorates so elaborately will only protect us to an extent. So in a certain manner, language learning helps you peer over the boundaries between one culture and another, with a subtle smug smile of acknowledgement that you hold some form of upper hand regarding perspectives. However, in a more sinister manner, already coming from a dual cultural background splits your identity, fragmenting it into little pieces, all respectively useful but threatening to merge and intertwine. In certain situations, then, you could be superficially accepted knowing full well that the embodiment of another one of your defining identities could cost you integration.
The common questions: Which language do you dream in? Which language do you prefer? are redundant to me. The far more interesting questions are: Who are you when you speak x? How do you behave when you speak y? I look forward to being able to ask these questions one day in relation to French and Spanish, and am excited to see what kind of person emerges from my own persona, and to experience not only the dormant identities within myself that these languages will undoubtedly unlock, but the psychology of new societies. Who knows - maybe in a new country in which I am not labelled as a citizen, I’ll be able to find some stability, not unjustly being labelled a ‘foreigner’.