"But you speak English so well!" (part of Schema Magazine's Mo-Canada column)

Have you ever been at a dinner, a party, or any social gathering with Canadians where the topic of being a newcomer comes up? Since moving to Vancouver, I’ve noticed that people will often say something that leaves me feeling uncomfortable.

Here’s an example of a conversation I had with a stranger at a a dinner gathering. We exchanged small talk—I was Egyptian Bahraini, she was Canadian. Then, the inevitable.

Stranger: “No way! Seriously? You must have studied in the States before though?”

Me: “Nope, this is actually my first time in North America or even outside the Middle East really.”

Stranger: “Are you kidding me? But you speak English so well! Are you sure?”

Me: “Uh, yes. I’m sure.”

Stranger: “But you don’t have an accent!”

Me: “Oh really? Well I guess I don’t.”

Stranger: “I mean, like, how did you learn to speak like this?”

Me: “Well, uh, school, I guess. I’m educated?”

Stranger: “But like, you have no accent! Wow, you must have studied in an American school?”

Me: “Well, I did have some American and British teachers yes.”

Stranger: “Wow, that’s crazy! I can’t believe you haven’t been here before and you have no accent. Do other people there also speak English so well?”

I don’t know how to respond to the statement, “But you speak English so well!” I don’t really know, I just do. My accent just happened. It took me a while to get to where I’m at, for sure.

In Bahrain I was in an Indian school until grade four, then I moved to another school with an American curriculum school for a year, followed by a British school and then another American school (all in Bahrain).

Believe me, at one point my accent was a hodgepodge of all the above and it was not pretty.

But I never actively tried to perfect my English. Just ask me to say the word ‘Wednesday’ or a word with multiple ‘T’s in it, like ‘tattletale’. Apparently, these words give me away. I am also definitely not an anomaly; most of my friends back home speak English like me, and some speak it even better.

So when people say, “But you speak English so well!” and expect me to justify my speaking ability, I don’t really know what to say other than, “Yes, I know. I learned it at school.”

This answer usually doesn’t satisfy the person asking. Perhaps they were hoping that I had a cool story, like I was part of a C.I.A ‘Arab de-accenting’ experiment. That might explain why I don’t fit their stereotype of Arabs speaking English, with rolling ‘R’s and guttural sounds. Unfortunately, the truth is I just paid more attention in English class because I was saving my zoning-out energy for math.

Has someone ever said “But you speak English so well!” to you? How did it make you feel?

Voices from amidst the silence

Sometimes I wondered if it was all worth it. The battle between my inherent nature against the hate I hear around me and that has tried to ingrain itself into my soul since childhood. No, I wasn't born fighting for the liberty of others, or even my own. I wasn't taught to love whoever is different. I learned that myself. Largely because I myself do not fit into the solid parallel lines that people call culture. To me these lines have always been blurred.

Trying to fit in is not an easy task for any youth whatever their religion, ethnicity or nationality is. We all struggle at one point or the other to find who we are and what type of people we feel wholesome with. For a period of my life all I could hear around me was the voice of what I believed to be a majority. The people who preferred themselves over others due to an aspect in them that they were sure was superior. Whether it be that God chose them, that their genes make them worthier or that their culture is truly the only right way to live.

Inside me something thought differently. I wasn't convinced that I was worthier than everyone else because of such prejudiced factors. If anything makes a person worthier than the other, in my mind, it was their intentions, their actions and most importantly their compassion towards anyone and anything that shares this life with us. But for the longest most regretted time I lost my voice and could not stand up for what I believe. Mainly because I was afraid that I alone had these thoughts. That I alone would bear the burden of compassionate thinking while everyone else sneered at me. 

But then I grew up. I understood why stereotypes exist. I realized that prejudice is not only hateful but a defense mechanism. That it is so much more than people just not knowing the other. Sometimes they don't want to know. I found myself cringing and my eyes tearing up while watching news about war and terrorism. While people cheered because "their side had a victory", I was busy imagining how a child who doesn't even know what an ideology is becomes scarred for life. I did not care whose "side he/she was on".

Slowly and steadily I found my voice. I learned, I read and I observed. I transformed from a child into a man a long time before turning the legal age of 21. I objected to people who in their minds turned Jews into monsters. Who want to burn seculars or atheists at a stake. People who would rather point a machine-gun at a Muslim than shake his hand. The misguided who believe Christians should be treated inferiorly. Who laugh at the rituals of other religions and other cultures. Who disrespected their maids and called them barbarians. Who abused their drivers and chefs because they were intellectually inferior. My soul screamed 'enough' and out of my mouth came an argument. Have you forgotten that 'they' are humans too? That everyone believes, hopes, dreams, loves, loses and grieves? Shame on you.

And then I was a university student. For the first time Christians, Jews and people of other nationalities became not only an idea I was defending but an inseparable reality in my life. They became friends. They became family. They became people I talk to. In them I found the same struggle. Some of them like me, have been fighting for my rights as "the other". Some of them felt alone while fighting for a minority. Here we were, initially two strangers, who fought for each others' rights. Now we love each other and we fight even harder than the nail and tooth battle we had previously thrown ourselves into. We fight for each other and for countless faces who want to love but find themselves faced with a brick wall of inequality. Little by little I discovered I was not alone. I met many people who think similarly. They could come from the same background as me or be raised in a different culture with a different ideology. What I previously thought was only me, suddenly started gaining numbers. My life was flooded with people who want to and do stand up for what they believe is right. I was not a lone wolf but a part of a pack.

I had initially wondered if it was worth it. When in my mind I see the faces of friends: Sandra a Christian, Ali a Shi'ite, Jake a Jew and Khaled an atheist, when i see the faces of random people who could belong to any denomination, when I see a person screaming in pain due to a terrorist act, I do not wonder anymore. I know it is more than just worth it. It is a way of life that might sometimes be a struggle but that nonetheless brings me so much closer to my own humanity, to my own beliefs and to my own roots. That allows me to drop the facade of being just another person living with ideas that were unfairly fed to me. Through what we all share, I find what is unique in myself. And I yell in battle for those who's voices are silenced.