Words by Naomi Clarke-Myers
The cliches are true – my first couple of months studying abroad in Fes, Morocco have turned my life upside down and inside out. I’ve accepted that by the end of the year I’ll be unironically claiming to have ‘found my life’s purpose’ hidden in a mouthful of Tajine or buried under a sand dune in the Sahara. But, despite the day-to-day adventures, in and amongst the meeting incredible people and crossing off bucket list experiences is a whole lot of academic anxiety and existential guilt about my languages degree.
For context, I am a third year Arabic and French student. I will be studying Arabic at an international school for the remainder for the academic year before an eight-week summer placement in France. I’m more than excited about my booked and busy calendar but equally, I’m hyper-aware that this year, solely dedicated to language immersion, isn’t coming around again anytime soon. Perhaps this is why my stomach drops to my toes every time I mispronounce a word or use the wrong tense in a sentence. It’s bizarre how quickly I convince myself that I’m a complete fraud with no right to claim I can speak or understand these languages that I have been studying for years. I thought increased teacher-contact hours and everyday practice would boost my linguistic ego to the size of Morocco itself but, so far, feelings of self-doubt and insecurity are ruining all chances of any hope for multilingual confidence.
Are these insecurities irrational? Of course. But just because I can chalk them up to unnecessary overthinking doesn’t mean there aren’t other factors at play here. And apologies Fes – this isn’t your fault at all. The language institute I’m studying at has been nothing but warm and welcoming. Instead, I’m pointing the finger at the seminar rooms and lecture theatres of British universities and the student cultures that fill them. I know I’m not alone in finding a lot of these spaces intimidating and unnecessarily competitive.
For me at least, the term ‘imposter syndrome’ didn’t enter my vocabulary until I reached the halls of higher education. When I first arrived, questions from peers about exam results instantly felt like interrogations and group discussions (particularly in humanities subjects) felt more like a lesson in ‘proving yourself intellectually’ than a judgement free process of learning.
After two years of study at Manchester, I thought I’d gotten over the initial intimidation of university education, but third year has proven otherwise. As much as I’d like to be focusing on the here and now, a part of me is forever worried about the position I’ll be in by the time fourth year rolls around. Will I have progressed enough? And will I be able to ‘prove myself’ the way I’ve been taught too?
Again, I’m aware that these thoughts are largely ridiculous and probably speak to a blown out of proportion self-importance on my part. No one else truly cares about whether I reach fluency in French or Arabic in the same way I care, and such a perfectionist approach to learning any skill is bound to end in tears. Perhaps this is why another emotional loop of this academic anxiety spiral is frustration. Whilst the self-comparison to other Arabic students leaves me feeling irritated (at myself more than anyone else), sizing up my language skills against those of Moroccans simply leaves me feeling uncomfortable about my status as a British passport holder who has English as their first language.
Frustration at myself suddenly turns into frustration with the rest of the world. One of my favourite parts of the year abroad so far has been the opportunities we’ve been given to interact and form friendships with Moroccans. Prior to coming to Morocco, myself and others feared that we’d be in an international, un-integrated bubble, but thankfully the opposite has been true. From living with Moroccan families whilst we settled ourselves in, to the language partner programme where you get assigned a young person studying English to practice speaking with, you can’t move for chances to form genuine connections with locals. Whilst the variety in ages, beliefs and personalities of the people I’ve met is unsurprisingly huge, one thing that I’m always struck by is Moroccans ability to speak and switch between so many languages at once.
The linguistic landscape here is complicated to say the least. The two official languages are Modern Standard Arabic (MSA) and Amazigh. Not everyone can speak Amazigh, as it’s the language of the indigenous people of North Africa, who mostly live in rural areas. Modern Standard Arabic, the language I’m studying, is taught in schools, used in writing and by the media, but rarely spoken in the streets. Most Moroccans speak Darija day-to-day, a dialect of MSA that sounds far from it. But the Darija spoken often varies from region to region too. Nearly all Moroccans can speak French and colonial legacies live on as most scientific and maths-based subjects in school are still taught in French. In the North however, the French equivalent sides of menus and street signs tend to be in Spanish. Most Moroccans can speak English, but now a lot of Moroccan young people have taken up German, largely due to Germany currently being the easiest country for them to migrate to within the EU.
A fourteen-year-old boy that was in my host family is one of these young people looking to move to Germany to pursue an engineering degree. He therefore must take extra French classes, outside of already very demanding school hours, to keep up with science lessons in his second or third language. During my stay with them, if ever there was a miscommunication my host dad would explain everything to me in French, even though he hasn’t studied it for more than thirty years. My host mum had just started learning English from her daughter’s schoolbooks despite her 7 days a week work schedule and familial responsibilities. At an event hosted by the language school, a young Moroccan woman shared her frustrations with me about the high cost of most visas for Moroccans to travel, especially to European countries. This woman could speak five languages fluently and was considering immigrating elsewhere, despite the huge administrative barriers, because of the lack of job opportunities in Morocco (currently she is a manager in a warehouse).
Many English language students work in call centres for British companies like John Lewis. Their English is miles better than my Arabic and because of their exposure to the customer complaints of the British public, some have even got their impressions of regional accents and use of classic British slang down to a T. Britain’s language learning abilities obviously pale in comparison. Because of this my choice of degree is perhaps held in higher esteem than it deserves to be. By the end of the year, I’m hoping to have achieved the exact same skillset that so many Moroccans acquired in their early teens. When asked what our plans for after university include, British language students get to say things like: ‘Maybe diplomacy but I also love the idea of journalism’. Or ‘translation could be good for a couple of years, but I think I’ll end up doing a law conversion long-term’.
Personally, I’m clueless as to what I want to do and don’t get me wrong, the promised post-grad job-search slog only fills me with dread, especially given the state of Britain’s own struggling employment market. Equally, it just is not fair that my ability to speak English, Arabic, and French affords me the chance to even consider such jobs, when people with these exact same skills are given a fraction of the opportunities.
Worse still, unlike in Britain where being monolingual has no real consequences, here not being able to speak English or French means not being able to complete school, and not being able to complete school inevitably leads to lower-paid and undervalued work, in a country where the minimum wage is £1.22 an hour.
Claiming I have ‘imposter syndrome’ about my languages degree therefore feels disingenuous and somewhat laughable when I think about my position here as an international student in Morocco. What I can say is that I was foolish to fall victim to the insufferable competitiveness that certain university environments thrive on, and I plan on doing everything I can to lock that mindset up and throw away the key – hopefully soon, but definitely by September.
In the meantime, there’s not much that little old me can do about the wider injustices of linguistic imperialism here in Morocco and
beyond but I’ll be looking to the Moroccans around me for language learning inspiration, nonetheless. There’s certainly a balance to be struck between self-encouragement and pride in my Arabic or French and the delusional idea that I’m somehow more deserving or important than the millions of people whose economic survival depends on their ability to speak European languages.
