Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages: Educational Projects Pushing Back Against Language Endangerment 9781788926263

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Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

LINGUISTIC DIVERSITY AND LANGUAGE RIGHTS Series Editor: Dr Tove Skutnabb-Kangas, Åbo Akademi University, Finland Consulting Advisory Board: François Grin, Université de Genève, Switzerland Miklós Kontra, Károli Gáspár University, Hungary Robert Phillipson, Copenhagen Business School, Denmark Reetta Toivanen, University of Helsinki, Finland The series seeks to promote multilingualism as a resource, the main­ten­ ance of linguistic diversity, and development of and respect for linguistic human rights worldwide through the dissemination of theoretical and empirical research. The series encourages interdisciplinary approaches to language policy, drawing on sociolinguistics, education, sociology, economics, human rights law, political science, as well as anthropology, psychology, and applied language studies. All books in this series are externally peer-reviewed. Full details of all the books in this series and of all our other publications can be found on https://www.multilingual-matters.com, or by writing to Multilingual Matters, St Nicholas House, 31–34 High Street, Bristol BS1 2AW, UK.

LINGUISTIC DIVERSITY AND LANGUAGE RIGHTS: 18

Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages Educational Projects Pushing Back Against Language Endangerment

Edited by Ari Sherris and Susan D. Penfield

MULTILINGUAL MATTERS Bristol • Blue Ridge Summit

DOI https://doi.org/10.21832/SHERRI6256 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Names: Sherris, Ari, editor. | Penfield, Susan D. – editor. Title: Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages: Educational Projects Pushing Back Against Language Endangerment / Ari Sherris, Susan D. Penfield. Description: 1st. | Blue Ridge Summit: Multilingual Matters, 2019. | Series: Linguistic Diversity and Language Rights: 18 | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “This book explores Indigenous, tribal and minority (ITM) language education in oral and written communication and in the use of new technologies and online resources for pedagogical purposes. It brings together examples of ITM language education that are challenging the forces that flatten ‘languacultures’ into artefacts of history” – Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2019029646 (print) | LCCN 2019029647 (ebook) | ISBN 9781788926256 (hardback) | ISBN 9781788926263 (pdf) | ISBN 9781788926270 (epub) | ISBN 9781788926287 (kindle edition) Subjects: LCSH: Language revival–Case studies. | Endangered languages–Case studies. | Language obsolescence–Case studies. | Sociolinguistics–Case studies. Classification: LCC P40.5.L357 R45 2019 (print) | LCC P40.5.L357 (ebook) | DDC 306.44–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019029646 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019029647 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue entry for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN-13: 978-1-78892-625-6 (hbk) Multilingual Matters UK: St Nicholas House, 31–34 High Street, Bristol BS1 2AW, UK. USA: NBN, Blue Ridge Summit, PA, USA. Website: www.multilingual-matters.com Twitter: Multi_Ling_Mat Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/multilingualmatters Blog: www.channelviewpublications.wordpress.com Copyright © 2020 Ari Sherris, Susan D. Penfield and the authors of individual chapters. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. The policy of Multilingual Matters/Channel View Publications is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products, made from wood grown in sustainable forests. In the manufacturing process of our books, and to further support our policy, preference is given to printers that have FSC and PEFC Chain of Custody certification. The FSC and/ or PEFC logos will appear on those books where full certification has been granted to the printer concerned. Typeset by in Sabon and Futura by R. J. Footring Ltd, Derby, UK. Printed and bound in the UK by the CPI Books Group Ltd. Printed and bound in the US by NBN.

Contents

Contributorsvii Acknowledgements 

xi

Foreword  Gerald Roche

xiii

1 Aspiring to Strength and Possibility for Indigenous, Tribal and Minoritized Languages, Cultures, Bodies and Lands: An Introduction  Ari Sherris and Susan Penfield

1

2 The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia  17 Colleen Alena O’Brien 3 Okea ururoatia (‘Fight Like a Shark’): The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers in Aotearoa New Zealand Tania Ka‘ai

32

4 Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language Through Intensive Adult Education Annika Pasanen

49

5 From Mountains to Megabytes: The Digital Revolution of Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan Douglas McNaught

70

6 ‘Manx? That Was Never a Real Language!’ Robert Teare 7 An Ethno-educational Project with Wichi Communities in Argentina: Acquiring Language-in-Culture Knowledge from Traditional Practices Joan A. Argenter and Virginia Unamuno 8 Place-Based Liberatory Education with Aloha (EA) for an Independent Hawai‘i Kū Kahakalau v

90

106

121

vi Contents

  9 Situated Safaliba Practices in School Literacies that Resist Dominant Discourses in Ghana Ari Sherris 10 Coda. ‘Fight Back and Fight On’ – Reflections on Education Projects for the Continuance of Indigenous, Tribal and Minoritized Languages and Cultures Teresa L. McCarty

135

152

Index162

Contributors

Joan A. Argenter is Emeritus Professor of Linguistics and Socio­linguistics at the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona. Fellow of the Institut d’Estudis Catalans (IEC) – the Catalan Academy of Sciences and Humanities – an institution incumbent on the standardization of Catalan, he presided over the IEC Philology Section. He also holds the UNESCO Chair on Cultural and Linguistic Diversity, which promotes language revitalization projects. He has been visiting professor at UC Berkeley and is honorary member of the Foundation for Endangered Languages. His research fields include linguistics, poetics, language ethnography and Catalan corpus planning. He coedits Manual of Catalan Linguistics (De Gruyter). Tania Ka‘ai, PhD, is Professor in Language Revitalisation and Director of the Te Ipukarea Research Institute and the Te Whare Rongomaurikura Centre for Language Revitalisation at Auckland University of Technology, New Zealand. She is an Indigenous scholar of Māori and Pacific origins. She has been involved in language revitalization interventions for over 30 years through Te Kōhanga Reo, Kura Kaupapa Māori, writing policy in universities that enables students to write their assignments and disserta­ tions in the Māori language, supervising masters and doctoral students writing in the Māori language, and developing digital dictionaries. Her research and publications reflect this work with the community – see http://www.teipukarea.maori.nz/the-team/professor-tania-kaai. Kū Kahakalau, PhD, is a native Hawaiian educator, researcher, cultural practitioner, grassroots activist, composer, expert in Hawaiian language, history and culture, and the first person in the world to earn a PhD in Indigenous education. Over the past 25 years, she has founded and admin­ istered multiple Hawaiian-focused programmes grounded in her Pedagogy of Aloha, including Hawai‘i’s first culturally driven charter school and teacher licensing programme. She is currently developing EA Ecoversity, a hands-on post-secondary programme transitioning Hawaiian youth to culturally grounded, happy, successful adults and responsible global citizens, ready, willing and able to restore Hawaiian independence. Her CV and publications are at https://independent.academia.edu/­KuKahakalau. vii

viii Contributors

Teresa L. McCarty is the G.F. Kneller Chair in Education and Anthropol­ ogy and Faculty in American Indian Studies at the University of California, Los Angeles, USA. A member of the National Academy of Education and a Fellow of the International Centre for Language Revitalisation, her recent books include Ethnography and Language Policy (2011), Language Planning and Policy in Native America (2013), Indigenous Language Revitalization in the Americas (with S.M. Coronel-Molina, 2016) and A World of Indigenous Languages: Politics, Pedagogies and Possibilities for Language Reclamation (with S.E. Nicholas and G. Wigglesworth, 2019). She is Principal Investigator on a US-wide study of Indigenous-language immersion schooling funded by the Spencer Foundation. Douglas McNaught is a doctoral researcher in linguistics at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London, where he recently defended his PhD thesis on the aspectual and modal system of Sakizaya, an endangered Formosan language of Taiwan. He recently completed a teaching qualification in modern foreign languages (Mandarin) at University College London’s Institute of Education, and hopes to combine his linguistics research with his pedagogical knowledge in order to develop more effective strategies and resources to improve Indigenous language education in Taiwan. Colleen Alena O’Brien has a PhD in linguistics from the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. Her dissertation is a grammatical description of Kamsá, a language isolate of southern Colombia, and she has spent over a year and a half in Colombia conducting research. She is presently at a post­ doctoral research position in the Department of Latin American Studies at Freie Universitat in Berlin. She is currently working on a documentary film called Strangers to Peace about the ongoing peace process in Colombia. Annika Pasanen is a postdoctoral researcher who graduated from the Uni­ versity of Helsinki. She is living in Inari-Aanaar, northern Finland, and promoting language rights and language revitalization of the Saami, both in the field of research and in practice. She has been working in Anarâškielâ servi (the Association of the Aanaar Saami Language) and at the Saami Parliament of Finland. Her book Kak i zachem sohranjat jazyki narodov Rossii? with Konstantin Zamyatin and Janne Saarikivi was published in 2012 and her doctoral dissertation ‘Kuávsui já peeivičuovâ. “Sarastus ja päivänvalo”: Inarinsaamen kielen revitalisaatio’ was published in 2015. Susan Penfield received a PhD in linguistic anthropology in 1980 from the University of Arizona, where she was later an instructor in the Second Language Acquisition and Teaching PhD Program (SLAT), and the American Indian Language Development Institute (AILDI). From 2008 to 2011, she directed the Documenting Endangered Languages Program at



Contributors ix

the National Science Foundation (NSF). She was awarded a S­ mithsonian Fellowship for Native American Programs 2012–15. She is currently teaching for the University of Montana Linguistics Program and for the University of Arizona Certificate Program in TESL. She specialises in language documentation, language reclamation and community-based language/linguistic training. Gerald Roche is an anthropologist and currently a Senior Research Fellow at La Trobe University, located on the unceded lands of the Kulin Nation in Australia. His research focuses on the politics of language revitalization, how colonial and racist oppression produce language endangerment, and language and social justice issues more broadly, with an area specializa­ tion in Tibet, China and the Himalayas. He has previously held positions at the University of Melbourne, Uppsala University and Qinghai Normal University, and his recent publications include Indigenous Efflorescence: Beyond Revitalization in Sapmi and Ainu Mosir (edited with Hiroshi Maruyama and Åsa Virdi Kroik) and the Routledge Handbook of Language Revitalization (with Leanne Hinton and Leena Huss). He can be found on Twitter at @GJosephRoche. Ari Sherris is an Associate Professor of Bilingual Education at Texas A&M University – Kingsville. During 2015–16, he was Fulbright Scholar at the University of Education, Winneba, in Ghana. Before that, he was Research Associate at the Center for Applied Linguistics in Washington, DC, and he has held appointments at King Abdullah University of Science and Technology in Saudi Arabia, Teachers College, Columbia University and the University of South Africa. He has coedited Teaching Writing to Children in Indigenous Languages (2019); Making Signs, Translanguaging Ethnographies (2018); and Language Endangerment: Disappearing Metaphors and Shifting Conceptualizations (2015). His CV and publica­ tions are at https://tamuk.academia.edu/AriSherris. Robert Teare has been Manx Language Officer for the Isle of Man Govern­ment’s Department of Education, Culture and Sport since 2010. Before that he was a peripatetic teacher of Manx at schools in the Isle of Man, and prior to that he taught at Kindai University in Osaka, Japan, and at Osaka Institute of Technology. He has translated two works into Manx: Jeih Skeealyn Scaanjoon Liorish Koizumi Yakumo, a selection of short stories by Lafcadio Hearn, and Ecstasy as Skeealyn Elley, a selection of short stories by Ré Ó Laighléis, both published by Yn Çheshaght Ghailckagh. Virginia Unamuno is an independent researcher at the National Council of Science and Technology of Argentina and Professor of Socio­linguistics at the Universidad Nacional de San Martín. She heads a research project

x Contributors

on the transmission of Indigenous languages in the Chaco, ­Corrientes and Santiago del Estero (Argentina). She also co-coordinated the project ‘School knowledge from the Wichi language and culture’ (the Wichi communities live in the Argentine Chaco). She is the author of the books Lenguas, escuela y diversidad sociocultural (Graó, Barcelona, 2003) and Lenguaje y educación (Universidad Nacional de Quilmes, Argentina, 2016), and of papers on the sociolinguistics of native languages in Argentina.

Acknowledgements

Relationships are very important to us, particularly with Indigenous peoples and their allies. We are deeply thankful for the Indigenous peoples and communities whose lived experiences, bodies, lands and langua­cultures are at the core of this book and for whom and with whom we advocate for human rights, which include languages, cultures, lands, economies and education that embrace Indigeneity in equitable and humanizing ways. We deeply appreciate the authors who, Indigenous themselves or allies with Indigenous worlds, have taken the time to narrate the important stories from their field notes, research, scholarship and advocacy to make this book rich and meaningful. Ari met most of the authors who have contributed to this volume at different Cambridge Conferences on Language Endangerment held at the Centre for Research in the Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities at the University of Cambridge in the UK in 2011 and 2016, and at the First International Conference on Revitaliza­ tion of Indigenous and Minoritized Languages, held at the Universitat de Barcelona and the Universitat de Vic in Spain in 2017. Susan and Ari met at the Institute on Collaborative Language Research (CoLang) held at the University of Texas, Arlington, in 2014. We appreciate the care and pro­ fessional ways of Tommi Grover and many others at Multilingual Matters whose friendliness and professionalism helped us. Finally, we thank our Series Editor, the inimitable and deeply loved Tove Skutnabb-Kangas, who tirelessly worked with us, supported us and accepted us – including our weakness – while keeping up her own publication schedules and advocacy efforts.

xi

Foreword

We live in a world characterized by the ongoing loss of linguistic diversity. This continuing crisis, unfolding all around us, is often portrayed as an abstract tragedy for all humanity, but should, more accurately, be con­ sidered a multitude of tragedies, each experienced in a different way by the communities and individuals undergoing the loss of their languages. What unites all these tragedies is not so much their accretion into a singular loss for humanity, but rather their shared embedding in systems of political inequality. ‘Lost’ languages are oppressed languages. The worldwide loss of languages is therefore evidence of the increasingly unequal gains of power being made by some at the expense of others. This book bears witness to the spirit of innovation and resistance which comes to the fore when inequality lessens and oppression lets up, even a little. Many of the chapters chart histories of oppression and aggressive assimilatory policies, followed by a turn – a change in political climate, a move to greater recognition, an easing of assimilation, a gesturing, more or less concrete, towards equality. It is at this crucial historical moment, often the result of long and hard political struggle, that revitalization becomes possible. The chapters in this book explore the great variety of educational and other initiatives that are possible when a little political space is opened up in which communities can exercise self-determination and autonomy. The authors in this book are all at the forefront of global efforts to revital­ ize Indigenous, tribal and minoritized languages. In their contributions, they share and reflect on their first-hand experiences of engaging in the everyday work of language revitalization, as teachers, project managers, language advocates, digital technology developers and so on. The cases presented here are as diverse as the many ways in which Indigenous, tribal and minoritized languages have been suppressed. They remind us that although similar logics of domination and inequality apply everywhere, the routes out of the predicament of oppression and assimila­ tion are, and must be, diverse. This book therefore forms part of a rapidly growing archive of methodological and theoretical tools and concrete case studies that are available to scholars and activists around the world who are engaged in language revitalization. Increasingly, the scholars and activists who are tapping into and building this collective archive are connected to each other through xiii

xiv Foreword

common digital platforms, shared publishing venues, a growing roster of conferences and deepening interpersonal networks. What began as isolated struggles for individual languages are now gathering pace as a global movement. As much as globalization can, and has been, a force for homogenization and the deepening of inequalities, it has also enabled a range of alternative globalizations to emerge. One of those is the global language revitalization movement. It is, however, still too soon to call the movement really global. We must avoid the temptation for ‘global’ to operate as a self-congratulatory synonym for trans-Atlantic, circumPacific, settler colonial, or other less-than-global formations. Globalizing language revitalization practices and theories requires work to translate methods and concepts into and out of localized contexts. It requires us to be attentive to our practices of inclusion, not only to overcome the epistemic laziness that grows wherever inclusion falters, but also to foster the humility and openness that come from persistent encounters with dif­ ference and newness. Drawing on case studies from Europe, North and South America, the Pacific, West Africa and East Asia, this book is demonstrative of the sort of inclusivity that the continued development of language re­ vitalization theory and practice need. Within this book we encounter a variety of political contexts, ranging from ongoing violent conflict, to aid dependencies, Indigenous resurgencies in settler colonial states and the neoliberalizing heartlands of British imperialism. Each context contains its own trajectories of oppression, resistance and revitalization, and each provides evidence of the inexhaustible creativity that Indigenous, tribal and minoritized people bring to their work. Emerging from a series of anti-assimilationist turns which took place in the second half of the 20th century, the case studies in this book all point towards a 21st century in which revitalization will play an increas­ ingly important role. The editors and authors provide us with a gateway into that future, and a glimpse into the challenges and opportunities that language revitalization practitioners and theorists will face as we move into that future. Gerald Roche Senior Research Fellow, La Trobe University, Australia

1 Aspiring to Strength and Possibility for Indigenous, Tribal and Minoritized Languages, Cultures, Bodies and Lands: An Introduction Ari Sherris and Susan Penfield

The political and social realities that support Indigenous, tribal, minority or minoritized (ITM) languages and cultures – or, perhaps, languacultures, as the late Michal Agar (1995, 2008) might say from an anthropological positioning – produce hard-won successes situated in local practices from which they arise. Historical forces and policy within nation-states play on the tensions between individual rights, group rights and linguistic rights (May, 2017; Skutnabb-Kangas & May, 2017) within schools and across public domains and public institutions, shifting media for teaching and learning, governance and society often to dominate languacultures. With dominant languacultures often comes erasure of Indigenous languages, which is the result of many combined components. These include language policies, political and economic exploitation and op­ pression, the slave trade, racism, bigotry, colonialism, postcolonialism and many trends that fall under globalization. Some argue that systemic and institutional hegemonic forces (Gramsci, 1985 [1935]), viewed in their totality, contribute to linguistic genocide (Skutnabb-Kangas, 2000), despite efforts through international conventions and positions to raise the power and status of ITM languacultures. Nevertheless, the purpose of this edited volume is to bring together examples of ITM language education that are challenging the forces that flatten languacultures into artefacts of history and that in the interim, at the very least, prove successful even if their long-term effects are yet to be determined (Hornberger, 2008). The volume draws from the relationalities and entanglements, the ‘skeins’ as Michel Foucault (1967/1984) might say, within a variety of nation-states, each with differing geopolitical realities (i.e. Argentina, Colombia, Finland, Ghana, Isle of Man, New Zealand, Taiwan and 1

2  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

the United States). Authors in this anthology share educational projects and curricula from Hawaiian (USA), Kamsá (Colombia), Manx (Isle of Man), Māori (New Zealand), Saami (Finland), Safaliba (Ghana), Siraya (Taiwan) and Wichi (Argentina) practices. The volume explores ITM language education for oral and/or written communication as well as the use of online resources and new technologies for pedagogical contexts and purposes where relevant to specific languages. It also examines the economic and material realities of the people who live in and through their languacultures or who aspire to do as much. Take, for instance, Education with Aloha, which is ‘tightly interwoven with the Hawaiian independence movement’ as Kū Kahakalau explains in Chapter 8. She concludes her narrative by proclaiming, ‘In the traditions of my people, no citations will occupy this paper; it is enough that our land is occupied’, pointing to the settler-colonialist realities of the US occupation; as an activist herself, her act entextualizes her protest and becomes herein a powerful symbolic move. As such, Kū Kahakalau’s work resonates with that of Calderon (2004) and Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang (2019) in their examinations of how coloniality is the continuous severance of Indigenous practice, human relationship, language, land, water, time and materiality from anything that resembles socioeconomic wellness for all peoples, their bodies and their langua­cultures. Yet another example of geopolitical entanglements is described by Douglas McNaught in his account of language education in Taiwan (Chapter 5). Colonized by the Dutch, Spanish, Japanese and Chinese at different times, Taiwan – the Republic of China – currently recognizes 16 Indigenous tribes; however, nine others – those which have putatively lost their languages, so the nation-state post-truth would have it – struggle for recognition. McNaught’s work is exemplary for its naked exposure of a nation-state’s entangled relation­ship to Indigeneity in discourses of power and inequality that harm people and their languacultures. ‘From Mountains to Megabytes’ is an apt description of social change through the online and offline realities of learning the languages that a nationstate attempts to erase. Indeed, these realities might even be under­stood through what Michel Foucault (1967/1984) has called heterotopias, where ‘experience of the world … connects points and intersects with its own skein’ (p. 1). While Foucault was not discussing Indigenous digital languacultural ex­perience – he died before the global online and offline realities began shaping experience – his six principles or characteristics of heterotopias resonate, to our thinking, with McNaught’s narrative in the following ways, which we (Ari and Susan) adapt from one of the few texts on heterotopias that we have from Foucault (1967). The online reality of a languaculture, like a heterotopia: (1) embraces varied forms, which shift with each offline resemiotized use in and beyond the confines of a nation-state;



Aspiring to Strength and Possibility  3

(2) brings into society and history an ongoing shift in relations to erasure by the nation-state; (3) brings this shift into offline, online and historically relevant spaces (remembering our mountain life), which reinstates the languaculture otherwise erased by the nation-state; (4) helps a languaculture connect its past with its present and, in turn, shape its future; (5) opens a new chapter for a languaculture from those previously closed by the politics of exclusion; (6) and operates in connection to the history and continued existence of colonial and postcolonial political regimes. In Chapter 9, Ari Sherris reports that, in Ghana, Safaliba goes un­ recognized by postcolonial regimes which set language education policy such that donor money to the tune of 98 million US dollars supports edu­ cational materials and teacher professional development (books, posters, teachers’ guides) in nine Indigenous languages, leaving 64 outside of schooling and literacy revitalization. In Chapter 6, Robert Teare reports that Manx on the Isle of Man began to decline from 1765 under rule by the British Crown with its English-only government administration, the rise of English tourism in the 1830s and the enactment of the ‘1870 West­ minster Elementary Education Act, making primary education through the medium of English compulsory for the island’s children’. By 1974, the last first-language Manx speaker reportedly had died. Joan Argenter and Virginia Unamuno, in their account of the Wichi educational project in Argentina in Chapter 7, relate that following the end of the Argentine dictatorship of 1976–82, Wichi speakers began participating in informal teaching projects at the invitation of state-­ recognized teachers in areas where the Wichi were strong (the provinces of Chaco, Formosa, Salta). This led to the Indigenous Communities Act of 1987, which had provisions supporting a training program for Wichi teaching assistants; 10 years later, this led to a bilingual teacher education program that produced the first recognized Wichi teachers for primary and secondary schools. While these are very positive steps that took place after the end of the Argentine dictatorship, it is still unclear – although, perhaps, not unsurprising – why the Wichi were not supported earlier in colonialist history, given that they are approximately 50,000 strong. Yet another example is with respect to Kamsá languaculture, whose people are valiantly struggling to free themselves from the historic ravages and present effects of Spanish settler colonialism and historic attempts by Christian missionaries to erase Kamsá languaculture from existence in Colombia, as reported by Colleen Alena O’Brien in Chapter 2. Tania Ka‘ai reports in Chapter 3 that Māori immersion homes are challenged with the globalizing flood of English via social and digital media. At the same time, there are attempts to digitize and social mediatize

4  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Māori to create a digital community, with Māori discourses that work the globaliz­ation space in their own ways. Annika Pasanen reports in Chapter 4 that the post-war decades saw the near total loss of Inari and Skolt Saami, but that language nests in the late 1990s and immersion classes and adult immersion in the 2000s gradually revitalized these languages, although at present the jury is still out on their safety. The monograph demonstrates that ITM language education tran­ spires in formal and informal spaces for children or adults and that these spaces are sometimes online, deterritorialized discourses of teaching and learning. All are dynamic and emerging, fluid and rich examples of shifting center–margin dynamics where each is in part a move to embrace if not its own identity-politics, then to recombine in ways that still decenter the dominant discourses, languages and cultures by adding new meanings in ITM languages to the fabric of situated social realities (Sherris & Adami, 2018). Specific online social networking efforts and media (e.g. on Facebook, Twitter and YouTube) on the Isle of Man as well as in New Zealand, Taiwan and Colombia (where Kamsá apps were released in 2017) are examples of strategic deterritorialized moves to preserve ITM languages. Taking whenever possible what globalized dominant languacultures have as digital platform and technological in­ novation and decolonizing the language and content they deliver is an act to take back some means of control in spaces that are potentially a digital commons, never neutral of course, but certainly potentially part of an identity-politics move in the struggle for survival for some Indigenous peoples. The legitimacy of ITM language education is more than just an ungrounded dream or aspiration for the curricular projects in this book, although dreams and aspirations play major roles in the way teachers, students, heritage learners, children and adults work the spaces of their languacultures. Each example is a situated and lived experience of language rights (Skutnabb-Kangas & Phillipson, 2017) with or without language-rights awareness and with or without a fidelity to constitutional acts germane to each nation-state where the educational endeavor tran­ spires. Each is fundamentally about communities standing up and taking control of their fate. Those acts are meritorious, welcoming and affirming for the Indigenous peoples who do the heavy lifting of languaculture empowerment. Through acts of online, offline, formal and informal revitalization, an ITM languaculture as community embraces, as Sandy Grande (2004: 176) writes: ‘An educative process that works to reenchant the universe … and is as much about belief and acquiescence as it is about questioning and empowerment. In so doing, it defines a viable space for tradition, rather than working to “rupture” our connections to it.’ The notions of language revitalization, maintenance, sustainability and total language reclamation are threaded throughout this volume and they link to the discourses on linguistic human rights. We also link these



Aspiring to Strength and Possibility  5

notions to Grande’s poetic terms, ‘an educative process that works to reenchant the universe’. Each chapter presents a slightly different situated context which either contributes to or inhibits efforts at revitalization. With respect to Kamsá, in Colombia, author Colleen O’Brien describes a case where the government supports Indigenous language rights and yet the materials aimed at revitalization are under-utilized. This leads O’Brien to argue that several things contribute to slowing the revitalization process, primarily the shift to Spanish, but also the com­ plexity of the Kamsá language itself. Nevertheless, O’Brien notes that hope for language reclamation is evident through other channels, such as the development of digital applications. Author Tania Ka‘ai, of the Māori people, writes about Te Reo o Te Pā Harakeke, a pilot research project in New Zealand that seeks to understand factors that contribute to the successful intergenerational transmission of the Māori language in the home. This project investigates family practices in and across the introduction of traditional Māori speech. The explora­ tion of these practices also serves to bring families together in forums for discussion and debate. The project aims to use research techniques to gauge attitudes and opinions which shape the maintenance of Māori language in the home. In writing about the Saami of Finland, Annika Pasanen notes the im­ portance of addressing all age groups in language revitalization contexts and also claims that Saami language revitalization has benefited from a long history of ‘intense and sustained’ language activism; this is clearly both a bottom-up and a top-down effort at revitalization. In Taiwan, author Douglas McNaught explores the expanding digital culture as a revitalizing move and a bottom-up reclamation of Formosan languages left out of state policy. The case of Manx, spoken on the Isle of Man, described by Robert Teare, adds strength to the notion that language revitalization is often dependent on the development of new teaching approaches and strategies. With respect to the Wichi language project in Argentina, Joan Argenter and Virginia Unamuno evidence language revitalization that is strongly embedded in the transmission of culture through the continuing use of traditional plants and craft arts. This endorses the belief that language teaching should provide for the use of the traditional language in the modern world in a way that encourages lexical expansion and the cultiva­ tion of a broader repertoire of genres. An innovative approach to revitalizing Hawaiian titled ‘Education with Aloha’ (EA) is described by author Kū Kahakalau as a place-based, Hawaiian-focused way of education and Hawaiian language revitalization which relies on blending ancient and modern approaches. Ari Sherris’s study of Safaliba, a marginalized Ghanaian Indigenous language, describes activists’ instructional practices and approaches to literacy instruction.

6  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Finally, we believe that revitalization and reclamation are the em­ bodiment of fundamental linguistic and cultural human rights. In the next section, we discuss linguistic human rights from a global perspective. Linguistic Human Rights

The discussion of language rights is often included under the umbrella of human rights. They represent the fundamental right of each human being to use their heritage language across multiple domains, schools, institutions, communities, lands and even in deterritorialized spaces such as the internet. This right is ‘particularly relevant in situations of transnational migration, in arenas such as education, employ­ ment, legislation, health – areas where basic human rights may be upheld, or denied, and to which language mediates migrants’ access’ (Lim, 2016: 1). Language rights become particularly sensitive when they concern mar­ ginalized or endangered languages which struggle to exist in the face of more dominant languages (Sherris et al., 2014). Therefore, the issue of minority language rights invites debates about linguistic modernization, linguistic identities and essentialism, language and social mobility, and macro and micro language practices (May, 2018). These debates set the social frameworks for the integration of diverse populations. However, a comprehensive strategy for culturally and linguistically diverse societies should be based on the recognition of these (usually minority, often disempowered) language communities, and provision of services in their community languages. This represents action towards ‘uphold­ing human rights, toward achieving social inclusion of all groups in societies, and ultimately toward fulfilling our global goals for sustainable development’ (Lim, 2016: 1). While there are those who argue against including linguistic rights with basic human rights (see Arzoz, 2009), we take the position that language rights are entailed and implicated in basic human rights. Below, we use as evidence statements from primary documents because, to our thinking, the history of assuring language rights is cemented in these significant public declarations. Indeed, the act or practice of a declaration is its embodiment, its materiality. The approaches within the conventions and declarations from which we quote surely resonate across multiple scales (i.e. individuals, groups, collectives, cooperatives, intentional societies, organizations, institutions and nation-states) and classes (i.e. the class of all humans or the class of all languages). Moreover, five contemporary examples have been documented (Skutnabb-Kangas & May, 2017). Individual language rights are under­ scored in the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child and in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious and Linguistic Minorities, whereas the Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities from



Aspiring to Strength and Possibility  7

the Council of Europe confers rights to minority groups in and across nation-states, as does the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. While all these scales fit within the classification of rights for humans, the European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages confers rights to languages (to the exclusion of sign languages and dialects), a qualitatively different class from individuals and groups. We believe this strengthens the way we think about the importance of Indigenous education in contextually relevant Indigenous languages across multiple ages, on Indigenous lands, across migrant and asylumseeking communities, and even in the deterritorialized digital spaces of the internet – as presented in this book and others (Hornberger, 1997, 2008; Jones, 2014; Jones & Ogilvie, 2013). The assurances of language rights, as documented in the form of public declarations and conventions, give strength to minority language communities worldwide. Some of the key concepts about how linguistic rights are embedded in basic human rights are reflected in the following statements. United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (1990) In those States in which ethnic, religious or linguistic minorities or persons of Indigenous origin exist, a child belonging to such a minority or who is Indigenous shall not be denied the right, in community with other members of his or her group, to enjoy his or her own culture, to profess and practise his or her own religion, or to use his or her own language. (Article 30)

Indeed, this is a strong stance for individual rights for the sustained ex­ pression of languacultures, implying a logic of adults providing Indigen­ous languacultures, no matter the definition of child. United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious and Linguistic Minorities (1992) Persons belonging to national or ethnic, religious and linguistic minorities (hereinafter referred to as persons belonging to minorities) have the right to enjoy their own culture, to profess and practice their own religion, and to use their own language, in private and in public, freely and without interference or any form of discrimination. (Article 2, Section 1)

The rich, operative wording on the individual’s rights includes ‘to enjoy’, ‘to profess’, ‘practice’ and ‘use’, ‘freely’ ‘their own culture’, ‘religion’ and ‘language’. Here there is no age implied (e.g. by the use of the word ‘child’ in the example above) and these individual rights include those of ­minorities Indigenous, or otherwise.

8  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities from the Council of Europe (1995) The Parties shall, where appropriate, take measures in the fields of education and research to foster knowledge of the culture, history, language and religion of their national minorities and of the majority. (Article 12, Section 1)

In addition: In areas inhabited by persons belonging to national minorities tradition­ ally or in substantial numbers, if there is sufficient demand, the Parties shall endeavor to ensure, as far as possible and within the framework of their education systems, that persons belonging to those minorities have adequate opportunities for being taught the minority language or for receiving instruction in this language. (Article 14, Section 2)

This document is extraordinary in its embrace of group rights for ­minorities, their languages, culture, history and religion. It also supports transnational cooperation where a minority might be in two countries when the framework states: The Parties shall endeavor to conclude, where necessary, bilateral and multi­lateral agreements with other States, in particular neighboring States, in order to ensure the protection of persons belonging to the national minorities concerned. Where relevant, the Parties shall take measures to encourage transfrontier co-operation. (Article 18, Sections 1–2) European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages (1992)

The charter reads: Regional or Minority Languages [are] traditionally used within a given territory of a State by nationals of that State who form a group nu­ merically smaller than the rest of the State’s population; and different from the official language(s) of that State; [the term] does not include either dialects of the official language(s) of the State or the languages of migrants; ‘territory in which the regional or minority language is used’ means the geographical area in which the said language is the mode of expression of a number of people justifying the adoption of the various protective and promotional measures … ‘non-territorial languages’ means languages used by nationals of the State which differ from the language or languages used by the rest of the State’s population but which, although traditionally used within the territory of the State, cannot be identified with a particular area thereof. (Article 1)

This is a unique document, for it grants rights to minority languages.



Aspiring to Strength and Possibility  9

United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007) Indigenous peoples have the right to revitalize, use, develop and transmit to future generations their histories, languages, oral traditions, philoso­ phies, writing systems and literatures, and to designate and retain their own names for communities, places and persons. (Article 13) Indigenous peoples have the right to establish and control their educational systems and institutions providing education in their own languages, in a manner appropriate to their cultural methods of teaching and learning. (Article 14: 1) Indigenous peoples have the right to establish their own media in their own languages and to have access to all forms of non-indigenous media without discrimination. (Article 16: 1)’

In sum, ITM individuals, groups and languages have a body of rights that, while not worldwide, nor binding, do indicate an aspirational position that is embodied in the material practices of declarations and conventions that may one day, with broad systemic, institutional and economic change, offer a modicum of hope for the Indigenous languacultures of the world and might inspire legal, social and ethical developments, however small scale, until larger-scale and deep change occurs. We feel the chapters in this book support the fact that basic linguistic rights are front and center in the establishment of multi-scalar educational initiatives for Indigenous languacultures to grow and prosper. These rights represent felicitously worded pronouncements that might be utilized by local and national forces forging bottom-up and top-down policies and generating the conditions for aspirationally driven endeavors that push back on endan­ germent, repression, oppression, erasure and indifference and that directly relate to Indigenous formal education. These same rights also influence how informal education in community contexts is perceived and enacted. Whether formal or informal an educational endeavor, the online–offline digital cultures that embrace revitalization contribute, to our thinking, to the enactments of revitalization as peoples reclaim their languages, cultures, bodies and lands in the future imaginaries of hope, resistance, learning and being. Chapter Summaries

We conclude this introduction with brief summaries of the empirical chapters in this book, keeping in mind that even where left unstated, each chapter embodies multiple enactments of linguistic human rights, revitaliz­ation and aspirations for an Indigenous-friendly world.

10  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia

Bogotá and the Sibundoy Valley of Colombia are home to speakers of Kamsá, which has fewer than 1000 remaining speakers. It is one of 79 Indigenous languages of the country. In this chapter, Colleen O’Brien is quick to point out that Spanish is the official language of Colombia. The languages and dialects of ethnic groups are also official in their territories. The education provided in communities is mandated to be bilingual in order to incorporate local languages. Given this type of national and institutional support, a large educational space is afforded to speakers of Kamsá. Materials and avenues for use abound. These take the form of a series of bilingual schools in Sibundoy, a Kamsá preschool in Bogotá, classes in the Cabildo, an app for phones, a radio station, many websites and books. In Bogotá, Kamsá is used in social media (YouTube, Facebook); there is a government-sponsored cultural center with language and cultural courses for K-12 and adult learners. In the Sibundoy Valley there is a bilingual school system, and primary and secondary school Kamsá education. In both places, there are many written texts for use. There is clearly pride in Indigenous language re­vitaliz­ation. In spite of the avail­ ability of materials, the claim of O’Brien’s chapter is that the materials are under-utilized and not integrated into one organized, long-term project. Educational opportunities are abundant and yet language learning is not thriving. O’Brien explains that the reasons for this are several and include: the shift to Spanish as the primary language of the community; the dif­ ficulty of the language itself; lack of cellphones for use of the apps; and a lack of awareness of where to access the materials and how to use them. Okea ururoatia (Fight Like a Shark): The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers in Aotearoa New Zealand

Māori has long been a model for what can be accomplished in re­ vitaliz­ing a marginalized and endangered language. The Māori began to claim their language rights early on, with the establishment of a language revitalization and regeneration program in 1982. Known as Te Kōhanga Reo, the immersion Māori language ‘nests’ for children aged 0–5 years are underpinned by a philosophy that is focused on whānau (family) develop­ ment through the Māori language (Ka‘ai, 2004). Author Tania Ka‘ai writes about Te Reo o Te Pā Harakeke, a pilot research project that aims to strengthen language learning at home by fostering Wānanga, a residential forum, and hui, a gathering to discuss and debate various issues, which are culturally nuanced and brings up to 30 whānau (families) together. To accomplish the goal of further developing home language learning, a specific curriculum has been developed for the Wānanga, from idioms and colloquialisms, figures of speech, songs, games and technologies to vocabulary relevant to children’s domains. There is a focus on five themes



Aspiring to Strength and Possibility  11

and accompanying strategies. These include vocabulary, familial relation­ ships and language planning, culture and language, external influences and resources. Whānau will be equipped with strategies and resources to support the transmission of the Māori language within the home to their children, thus creating native speakers of the Māori language as part of the future, not just in the past. Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language Through Intensive Adult Education

The Saami culture of Finland, Sweden and Norway is protected by cultural autonomy, parliamentary organs, legislation and international conventions. As early as the 1970s, there were Saami-language radio broadcasts and the establishment of the parliamentary organ of the Saami. Yet Saami languages are everywhere endangered, marginalized and represent a de facto minority language. The Saami people are defined as an Indigenous people in the constitution of Finland and they have been granted partial autonomy in the Saami home area. Finnish political decisions on the country’s national language policy have led to legisla­ tion and financial support for Saami language revitalization. In the 1990s, these legislative changes worked in favor of Saami culture and languages, which led to increasing demand for Saami languages. As Annika Pasanen explains in Chapter 4, these changes have allowed for the development of many elementary factors of language revitalization; one of them has been intensive education in Saami languages for the adult population. Notably, for these adult programs, it is usually the mother of the family who studies a Saami language, even when that mother is a Finn and the father is a Saami. Also, a master–apprentice interaction program has turned out to be quite successful. Tracking the educational developments, the author reports that a year-long intensive education program in a Saami language and culture began in North Saami in 1999, in Inari Saami/Aanaar Saami in 2009 and finally in Skolt Saami in 2012. Although the Saami people have a legal right to the use of their languages in different official domains, these rights are not often implemented in practice. There is still a need for more funding and instruction in schools. Pasanen emphasizes that the Saami languages have also benefited from intense and sustained Saami activism. Combs and Penfield (2012: 471) note that ‘language activism is a continuation of enacted efforts to raise awareness and thus change policy toward a given language at many levels, beginning with the speaking community most often and growing to ever increasing circles of influence’. For the Saami, the efforts of activists and resulting policy changes have helped to repair the damage to the language and culture that resulted from a boardingschool system. To date, Saami educational initiatives have produced 200–250 new speakers of the three Saami languages.

12  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

From Mountains to Megabytes: The Digital Revolution of Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan

In Chapter 5, Douglas McNaught details digital learning against a language rights positioning that at least partially hides the government’s suppression of some Formosan Indigenous languages. However, with a reported 80% of the population using handheld smart devices, as well as new websites encouraging online language learning, McNaught illustrates how advances in digital technology and online education can circumvent policy and government erasure, particularly for unrecognized Plains tribes, such as the Siraya, and holds hope for the future. At the same time, the words of Teresa McCarty and Serafín M. Coronel-Molina in part also resonate in a troubling way with Formosan languages when they write: ‘Status, acquisition, and corpus planning by and for Indigenous peoples faces the daunting challenges of ongoing raciolinguistic discrimination, disjuncts between official policy and local practice, and the hard reality of dwindling numbers of speakers’ (McCarty & Coronel-Molina, 2017: 165). Nevertheless, with respect to Siraya-language online learning, Siraya activists are exploiting the digital know-how of their people and working alongside academics to shape, revitalize and reclaim their language on their own terms. McNaught tells us that better scaffolding of online language materials, a wider variety of multimedia resources, and more digital forums in which language development and revitalization can take place might lead to improved results, and he is hopeful this, too, will be realized. ‘Manx? That Was Never a Real Language!’

The Isle of Man, a self-governing British Crown dependency, is home to the Manx language. Manx, still in use by 1800 speakers, out of 88,000 citizens, is Indigenous to the area, as is the more dominant English. The Isle of Man government officially recognized Manx in 1985. The author, Robert Teare, shares his personal reflections from childhood onward which chronicle his activist/revivalist roots. He then goes on to briefly summarize some of the salient works (e.g. of Douglas Faragher’s 1979 English–Manx Dictionary and Brian Stowell’s audio-cassette course in beginner Manx, 1986). Teare discusses the state of Manx educational services today and notes that there is one Manx-medium primary school and that Manxmedium lessons in two subjects per year are offered at one of the five state-funded secondary schools. In addition, there are lessons available at all state-funded schools and at the University College of Mann. However, Teare also comments that there is no specific teacher training and few, if any places, where Manx is used outside of educational environments. Focusing on the advantages of new curricula which involve ‘systems learning’ rather than memorized set phrases, the author describes how progress is being made. He specifically mentions that this system adds



Aspiring to Strength and Possibility  13

to speakers’ confidence by adding a wider variety of educational tools for new learners to draw on. Lessons typically include new vocabulary, sentence types and controlled practices. New support from the supple­ mental use of flashcard apps, PowerPoint presentations, video stories, games and quizzes, songs and short stories are used to add variety to these lessons, which have been used primarily with eight-year-old students. This new ‘systems learning’ provides a framework to reinvigorate the teaching of Manx using more relevant discourse. An Ethno-educational Project with Wichi Communities in Argentina: Acquiring Language-in-Culture Knowledge from Traditional Practices

Wichi is a strong, though marginalized, Indigenous language of Argentina in that about 94% of the Wichi still speak the language. In this chapter, authors Joan A. Argenter and Virginia Unamuno study activities related to the language socialization of women and girls as they learn the traditional management of natural resources, specifically the chaguar plant. This activity is important, as it involves modeling of the reproduction of crafts and the transmission contexts of Wichi language and knowledge. Basing this activity in a schooling context allowed for the inclusion of boys and has led to the development of a book and other language-learning materials. The authors describe bilingual education experiences in the Province of Chaco, Argentina, where there are now more than 100 Wichi teachers in the schools. Two main school systems have been designed for language revitalization: immersion programs and bilingual education. Current proposals state that Indigenous cultures should be included in education at the national level. This impacts both educational planning and curriculum design, emphasizing true inter­ culturalism, ‘construing it not just as politically correct terminology or as a way of promoting tolerance towards Indigenous peoples’ but also as a ‘possibility to re-imagine and reconstruct the Latin-American nation-state along the lines thought by Indigenous leaders and organizations’ (López, 2008: 61). In the process of establishing educational programs, the Wichi case points to the importance of observing and establishing dialogues between the modes of linguistic and cultural community socialization and the modes of school socialization. Indeed, the process of editing materials for Wichi education has included the community’s control of text and illustrations, thus providing an insider’s view throughout. Place-Based Liberatory Education with Aloha (EA) for an Independent Hawai’i

This chapter details a place-based approach for Hawaiian language education. Called ‘Education with Aloha’ (EA), this educational model

14  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

is grounded in traditional Hawaiian stories and is not state funded or mandated or controlled. EA embraces the rich values of community and family, which author Kū Kahakalau beautifully and poetically illustrates through her story of Aloha (love or affection). Education with Aloha is enacted quite independently of the more well known ’Aha Pūnana Leo, which is state-sponsored Hawaiian language and culture education. EA is described as a ‘mixed methodology’ and is described by the author as ‘liber­atory’ education. This approach combines Indigenous research practices and heuristics and community-designed and controlled action research, driven by a clear social and critical research agenda. The methodology developed has evolved into a uniquely Hawaiian research methodology called Mā’awe Pono, which closely aligns with other decolonizing qualitative methods of inquiry. This in turn aligns with other examples of decolonizing methodologies, as described by Paris and Winn (2014) and Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2012). Moreover, the emphasis on place as a central focus in the curriculum and an ancient Hawaiian form of assessment called hō’ike is utilized. This type of assessment is performance-based for an authentic audience. This approach offers full immersion in the Hawaiian language through story-based instruction, making significant use of oral history and current digital avenues for the development of materials. Situated Safaliba Practices in School Literacies that Resist Dominant Discourses in Ghana

This chapter addresses the Safaliba language, spoken in a rural area of the Northern Region of Ghana in West Africa. Safaliba has about 7000–9000 speakers and is one of 73 Indigenous languages of Ghana. Author Ari Sherris establishes the political context for the language, citing the 1992 constitution of Ghana: ‘The State shall foster the development of Ghanaian languages and pride in Ghanaian culture’ (p. 30). However, in actual practice, the Ghanaian government supports the development of reading and writing in only nine Indigenous languages (11 if you count three varieties of Akan as one language) and English in K-3 schooling, leaving Safaliba and 64 additional Indigenous languages unrecognized for reading and writing instruction, although they all have alphabets. From primary 4 onwards, schooling through university is in English, the only official language of Ghana and its colonial legacy. Nevertheless, Safaliba activists have developed their own materials and approach to literacy instruction in Safaliba, the first language of the children from a rural area. Safaliba teachers have developed reading materials they freely share. The chapter reports that four teachers from two schools met on a weekly basis for three trimesters to develop materials and lesson plans, which became an evolving curriculum that disrupted the mandated language of Gonja in early schooling, enfranchising many more readers as a result.



Aspiring to Strength and Possibility  15

Ten additional teachers met from surrounding communities to weigh in on develop­ment, review materials and try them out too; the curriculum included structured activities (letter formation, phonemic awareness games) and creative activities, which included the development of easyreaders based on children’s accounts of different townspeople, whom they visited on field trips and who talked about what they do in a show-and-tell format (e.g. the blacksmith, the woodcutter, the yam farmer, the hair dresser, the Imam). The readers were bilingual so that older children could use them as they prepared for their state English exams in primary 6. In addition to helping themselves, the primary 6 students also sat with small numbers of younger students in the lower grades in order to help them read Safaliba. Children also drew pictures based on the easy-readers and used pretend writing and pretend spelling as they learned letter formation. The situated nature of this approach and its resistance to the state cur­ riculum align it with decolonizing moves that resist postcolonial state mandates and policies. Teresa McCarty’s Coda, ‘“Fight Back and Fight On” – Reflections on Education Projects for the Continuance of Indigenous, Tribal and Minoritized Languages and Cultures’, concludes our book. It celebrates continuance as dynamic, generative unities of past, present and future that circulate within and across the empirical chapters that comprise the heart of this book and are embodied and instantiated by the situated acts and practices of Indigenous life and lives. Opening with a poignant passage from the poetic voice of Acoma Pueblo author Simon Ortiz when he writes of ‘stone woven together’, McCarty focuses ‘on three thematic strands that weave throughout the book: family and community; cultural knowledges and identities; and rights, reclamation, and self-­ determination’. McCarty’s Coda takes the reader on a journey to ‘imagine radical new possibilities and desired futures’ as she argues for the con­ tinuance, wellness and reclamation of Indigenous peoples, their languages and cultures, identities and possibilities for self-determination. References Agar, M. (1995) Language Shock: Understanding the Culture of Conversation. New York: Wm Morrow. Agar, M. (2008) A linguistics for ethnography: Why not second languaculture learning and translation? Journal of Intercultural Communication, 16 (online only, without page numbers, at https://www.immi.se/intercultural/nr16/agar.htm, accessed 15 July 2019). Arzoz, X. (2009) Language rights as legal norms. In European Public Law (pp. 541–575). Amsterdam: Kluwer Law International. Calderon, D. (2014) Speaking back to manifest destinies: A land education-based approach to critical curriculum inquiry. Environmental Education Research 20 (1), 1–13. Combs, M.C. and Penfield, S.D. (2012) Language activism and language policy. In B. Spolsky (ed.) Cambridge Handbook of Language Policy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Foucault, M. (1967/1984) Of other spaces: Utopias and heterotopias. In Architecture /

16  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Mouvement/ Continuité, at http://web.mit.edu/allanmc/www/foucault1.pdf (accessed 1 August 2019). Gramsci, A. (1985 [1935]) Selections from Cultural Writings. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Grande, S. (2004) Red Pedagogy: Native American Social and Political Thought. New York: Rowman, Littlefield. Hornberger, N.H. (ed.) (1997) Indigenous Literacies in the Americas: Language Planning from the bottom up. New York: Walter de Gruyter. Hornberger, N.H. (2008) Can Schools Save Indigenous Languages: Policy and Practice on Four Continents. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Jones, M.C. (ed.) (2014) Endangered Languages and New Technologies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jones, M.C. and Ogilvie, S. (eds) (2013) Keeping Languages Alive: Documentation, Pedagogy, and Revitalization. New York: Cambridge University Press. Ka‘ai, T. (2004) Te mana o te tangata whenua – Indigenous assertions of sovereignty. In T.M. Ka‘ai, J.C. Moorfield, M.P.J. Reilly and S. Mosley (eds) Ki te Whaiao: An Introduction to Māori Culture and Society. Auckland: Pearson Education. Lim, L. (2016) Migration: Why global language rights matter. South China Morning Post, 7 December, at https://www.scmp.com/magazines/post-magazine/short-reads/ article/2054869/migration-why-global-language-rights-matter (accessed 15 July 2019.). López, L.E. (2008) Topdown and bottomup: Counterpoised visions of bilingual intercultural education in Latin America. In N.H. Hornberger (ed.) Can Schools Save Indigenous Languages? Policy and Practice on Four Continents (pp. 42–65). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. May, S. (2017) Language education, pluralism, and citizenship. In T.L. McCarty and S. May (eds) Encyclopedia of Language and Education, Volume 1: Language Policy and Political Issues in Education (3rd edn) (pp. 31–45). New York: Springer. May, S. (2018) Surveying language rights: Interdisciplinary perspectives. Journal of the Royal Society of New Zealand 48 (2–3), 164–176. McCarty, T. and Coronel-Molina, S.M. (2017) Language education planning and policy by and for Indigenous peoples. In T.L. McCarty and S. May (eds) Encyclopedia of Language and Education, Volume 1: Language Policy and Political Issues in Education (3rd edn) (pp. 155–170). New York: Springer. Paris, D. and Winn, M. (eds) (2014) Decolonizing Qualitative Inquiry with Youth Communities. Los Angeles, CA: Sage. Sherris, A. and Adami, E. (2018) Making Signs, Translanguaging Ethnographies: Exploring Urban, Rural, and Educational Spaces. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Sherris, A., Sulemana, S., Alhasan, A., Abudu, G. and Karim, A. (2014) School for life in Ghana: Promoting literate opportunities for rural youth. Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development 35 (7), 692–708. Skutnabb-Kangas, T. (2000) Linguistic Genocide in Education – Or Worldwide Diversity and Human Rights? Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Skutnabb-Kangas, T. and May, S. (2017) Linguistic human rights in education. In T.L. McCarty and S. May (eds) Encyclopedia of Language and Education, 3rd Edition, Volume 1: Language Policy and Political Issues in Education (pp. 125–141). New York: Springer. Skutnabb-Kangas, T. and Phillipson, R. (2017) Introduction to volume 2. In T. SkutnabbKangas and R. Phillipson (eds) Language Rights, Volume 2 (pp. 1–19). London: Routledge. Smith, L.T. (2012) Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. London: Zen Books. Smith, L.T., Tuck, E. and Yang, K.W. (eds) (2019) Indigenous and Decolonizing Studies in Education: Mapping the Long View. New York: Routledge.

2 The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia Colleen Alena O’Brien

This chapter explores the efforts of the Kamsá of Sibundoy Valley in southern Colombia to preserve their language. The Kamsá language is severely endangered, with fewer than 1000 speakers and interrupted intergenerational transmission. Moreover, the Kamsá see their language as a vital part of their culture, are aware that the language is being lost and are making efforts to revitalize it. They have many material resources at their disposal, including a number of bilingual schools in Sibundoy, a Kamsá preschool in Bogotá, classes in the cabildo, an app for phones, a radio station, many websites and books. There are some promising plans for improving language revitalization, including using more technology and involving children in traditional gardening, but the Kamsá also face many challenges, especially because there are few fluent speakers under the age of 60. Thus, the question is how the Kamsá can best utilize these material resources and enthusiasm to create a viable plan for helping children learn the language. Introduction

This chapter explores the efforts of the Kamsá of Sibundoy Valley in southern Colombia to preserve their language. The Kamsá are in a remarkable position among endangered language communities: despite being a small group, they possess a large number of texts and pedagogical materials. The migrated Kamsá now living in the urban setting of Bogotá have taken a multipronged approach to linguistic and cultural preservation, using social media such as YouTube and Facebook to communicate in the language, hosting cultural events with traditional food, music and rituals, and creating the government-sponsored institute Casa de Pensamiento (literally, ‘house of thought’), where children can learn about the Kamsá language and culture. The educational strategies that the Kamsá employ in the Colombian capital are similar to those of the Kamsá living in their 17

18  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Sibundoy Valley homeland, where there are more fluent Kamsá speakers and Kamsá is taught as a subject in elementary and high school. However, in the Sibundoy Valley, there is a Kamsá–Spanish bilingual school system as well where Kamsá is the medium of instruction. Despite the advantages of Kamsá language instruction in schools and the possibility of interact­ ing with fluent speakers such as older family members, the ethnic Kamsá children of Sibundoy Valley do not appear to be acquiring the language any better than their displaced Bogotá counterparts. Kamsá language revitalization is an interesting case for several reasons. Community members are very aware that the language is not being passed on and are invested in preserving it. In the Kamsá cabildos (Indigenous meeting house), the taitas (spiritual/political leaders) discuss the state of the language and what steps are most important for language and cultural preservation. Moreover, the Kamsá are very proud of their culture: despite a history of colonization and attempts by missionaries to eliminate their language and culture, they have managed to maintain cultural pride and it seems to be growing, with a large part centered on the language. Finally, although many Kamsá have been displaced, the majority still live in Sibundoy, within a relatively small distance from one another, which could make language preservation efforts more effective. I begin this chapter with background on the context of Kamsá, followed by a brief description of my methods and role as an outside linguist. Then I describe the materials and resources in the community, along with their relevance. I also explain the domains in which the (spoken) language is important, even if it is not the primary mode of communication in these contexts. I follow this with a discussion of the plans proposed by some community members for language preservation and of the challenges the community may face. Finally, I provide concluding remarks, including comments on how this case study may be relevant to other language revitaliz­ation efforts around the world. Kamsá Language, Culture and Context

Kamsá is an Indigenous language of southern Colombia with fewer than 1,000 speakers among an ethnically Kamsá population of about 10,000. The traditional Kamsá homeland is the Sibundoy Valley; it lies about 6500 feet (1680 meters) above sea level, between the cities of Pasto and Mocoa in the department (i.e. state) of Putumayo. The Kamsá live alongside the Inga, a larger Indigenous people who speak a Quechuan language. In the past, most Kamsá and Inga spoke each other’s languages, but the growing influence of Spanish has led to Spanish being used as the lingua franca for communication between the communities, resulting in less bilingualism in these two Indigenous languages. The two groups share many cultural traditions, including Bëtsknaté, a version of the Catholic carnival and the most important festival of the year. Inga is less endangered



The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia  19

than Kamsá and has about 22,000 speakers according to the 21st edition of Ethnologue (Simons & Fennig, 2018), although other sources say as few as 8000. Most Kamsá live in the towns of Sibundoy and San Francisco and their surrounding veredas (rural areas around a town or village). Kamsá is a language isolate – that is, it is not known to be related to any other language in the world. There are 25 consonantal phonemes, including non-native phonemes (from Spanish), and four vowel phonemes. The language has a large number of fricatives, affricates and retroflexes. It is polysynthetic: verbal prefixes and suffixes signal person, number, tense, aspect, mood and evidentiality, and nouns and adjectives also have a number of bound morphemes. Nouns belong to a variety of (mostly semantically motivated) classes, with which other parts of speech agree; they may also be marked for a variety of oblique cases. The order of basic constituents (basic word order) is relatively free, but is primarily SOV (subject–object–verb). The language has singular, dual and plural number, all of which are shown by bound morphemes attached to nouns, pronouns, adjectives and verbs. These characteristics, fascinating to linguists, can in­ timidate Spanish speakers; the consonants may seem especially daunting and are the most salient features to a non-speaker. The culture of the Kamsá has many similarities to other Andean cultures. The cabildo is the center of political and social life, and each year the Kamsá elect a governor. Taitas are culturally influential, guiding members of the community, offering wisdom and advice, making decisions and often negotiating with the Colombian government for more resources for the community. Traditionally, the Kamsá, like other Andean groups, sustained themselves with their chagras, traditional gardens with various fruits, vegetables and herbs. Chicha (an alcoholic drink made from maize) is commonly drunk, and when one enters the house of a Kamsá one is always offered a glass of chicha. The Kamsá also ritually consume yage, a traditional hallucinogenic drink (a.k.a. ayahuasca, a brew made of the Banisteriopsis caapi vine and other ingredients). This is always done under the supervision of a taita and provides physical and spiritual healing. At the Bëtsknaté festival carnival-goers drink chicha, sing and dance in colorful costumes with beads and feathers, and play traditional songs on flutes and drums. During carnival time, there are special songs, chants and methods of storytelling that the Kamsá use only then. The traditional religion of the Kamsá can still be seen in some rituals, but now most Kamsá are either Catholic or evangelical Christians, and many of the customs and beliefs are disappearing, in part due to Christianity. Colombia has one of the highest rates of internal displacement in the world, due to its devastating programs of mineral and oil extraction as well as decades of armed domestic conflict. Putumayo, where Sibundoy is located, is troubled. It is one of the top three coca-producing regions in Colombia (a country that has reclaimed its position as the top cocaineproducing country in the world). In addition, the FARC (Fuerzas Armadas

20  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Revolucionarias de Colombia), Colombia’s largest guerrilla group, once controlled much of Putumayo. Since the peace agreement between the FARC and the Colombian government in 2016, other armed groups have begun fighting for control of the area. Although the Sibundoy Valley has remained relatively untouched compared with other parts of Putumayo, many Kamsá have either been displaced to larger cities or have voluntarily left to seek better work and education opportunities elsewhere. In Bogotá, many of the Kamsá families live in very poor, dangerous neighborhoods, where they are constantly confronted with violence but often meet in cabildos to support one another in adjusting to urban life. Many of the Kamsá who live in Bogotá and other cities visit Sibundoy, especially for holidays. The Kamsá cabildo in Bogotá, for example, hires a bus to bring Kamsá people from Bogotá to Sibundoy for Bëtsknaté. Thus, even though they are displaced or voluntarily live elsewhere, they still maintain strong connections to their home community. The country is now at a turning point where the government is finally recognizing the rights of Indigenous peoples and will possibly grant land, funding and other resources to groups who can prove they are Indig­ enous. Moreover, the 2016 peace agreement offers new opportunities for Indigenous communities to reclaim their rights. There is also a growing movement of Indigenous pride throughout the country – perhaps the strongest such movement in history – and many groups are prioritizing linguistic and cultural preservation. Whereas indio was (and still is) a derogatory term, indígena is now becoming a source of pride. Although there are no official statistics on speakers of the language, in my observations only people older than 60 speak the language fluently. Many people younger than 60 understand the language, at least partially. Most people use Spanish with each other, regardless of age. If Kamsá is used, it usually involves one of several types of conversation dynamics. If two older people are alone with each other, then the conversation can be mainly in Kamsá. If, however, an older person is speaking to a younger person (say 40 years old), the conversation will likely consist of mostly Kamsá from the older person, but a mix of Kamsá and Spanish from the younger person, usually with Spanish as the matrix language. If the younger person is considerably younger (say 20 years old), though, then he or she will typically respond only in Spanish (even if he or she under­ stands some or all of the Kamsá being used). For the most part, the older people who speak the language fluently cannot read or write it, whereas the younger people who have attended schools can read and write to some degree in Kamsá but cannot necessarily speak Kamsá fluently. As far as I know, there are no monolingual Kamsá speakers. Attitudes toward the language are generally positive, but most Kamsá recognize that the language is slowly being lost. Many younger Kamsá are interested in the language at some level, whether hoping to understand it better so as to communicate with their elders in Kamsá, or feeling that it



The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia  21

is an important element of the culture. Some Kamsá have told me that in order to be Kamsá you must be able to speak the language. Ironically, some of the people who have said this do not (by most gauges of proficiency) speak the language well at all. Most people in the community refer to Kamsá as their lengua materna (mother tongue) even if they do not speak it natively or even fluently. Skutnabb-Kangas puts forward the following definitions of mother tongue (see Kontra et al., 2016): (1) origin – the language(s) one learns first; (2a) internal identification – the language(s) one identifies with; (2b) external identification – the language(s) one is identified as a speaker of by others; (3) competence – the language(s) one knows best; (4) function – the language(s) one uses most. Kamsá meets only one definition of mother tongue for younger speakers: internal identification. They often feel a greater emotional connection to Kamsá than to Spanish, the language they speak most, despite not having learned Kamsá as their first language, knowing it best, or using it the most. Despite being of particular linguistic interest as a morphologically complex isolate, there is very little linguistic documentation of Kamsá, perhaps due to security issues. SIL (Summer Institute of Linguistics) was present in the region for almost 30 years, but few publications resulted from this. Linda Howard of SIL published two articles in English (and subsequently published them in Spanish) on the language in the late 1960s: a brief description of the phonology (Howard, 1967, 1972) and an attempt at explaining verbal inflection from a Tagmemic framework (popular among SIL linguists in the 1970s) (Howard, 1977a, 1977b). SIL also translated some books of the Bible. In the early 1990s, John McDowell, a folklorist at the University of Indiana, published a book of traditional stories in Kamsá, all translated into English, with extensive commentary (McDowell, 1994). Although an impressive book, it does not attempt to describe the morphology or syntax of the language nor is there interlinear glossing. There is a master’s thesis by a French student about the phonology of the language (Garsault, 2013), as well as another MA thesis by an ethnic Kamsá student at the University of the Andes in Bogotá on the verbal structure (Jamioy Muchavisoy, 1989). Another linguistic publication on Kamsá was by Alain Fabre (2002), a South Americanist linguist with a typological orientation. He gives a brief description of some features of the language, using other people’s data but with his own interpretations; he primarily attempts to describe agent and patient marking on verbs and noun classifiers. Although Fabre’s is probably the best linguistic description of the language, the article is less than 30 pages long. There will be a bachelor’s thesis by Leidy Sophia Sandoval Camargo from the National University in Bogotá about noun classifiers (2018). One

22  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

community member has recently compiled a Spanish/Kamsá dictionary, which is not yet available but might be published soon. Finally, I recently completed a reference grammar of the language as my dissertation. It includes a description of Kamsá’s phonology, morphology and syntax and some short texts (O’Brien, 2018). Although there is not yet a very comprehensive linguistic analysis of the language, there is a plethora of other Kamsá language materials. There are several books of stories in the language, as well as books about the culture, including two books of traditional Kamsá stories and ritual language, both by Juajiboy Chindoy (1989, 2008), a member of the community, who recorded stories of his father, as well as the book of stories by McDowell (1994), and additional stories that he has archived at the Archive of the Indigenous Languages of Latin America (AILLA), hosted by the University of Texas at Austin. There are also many pedagogi­ cal materials designed for children, mainly booklets. Many of them were created by the Kamsá community along with some members of SIL and include lessons for learning vocabulary, grammar and practicing reading short, simple stories. These are generally photocopied by someone who has a copy and shared with others. Methodology

My training is in documentary and descriptive linguistics and I have been studying Kamsá as a field linguist for approximately two years, spending time both with speakers in Sibundoy Valley and with displaced Kamsá families living in Bogotá. Although I do not speak the language well myself, I have decent comprehension skills. I have been recording the language, both in the form of elicited sentences (to help explicate aspects of the grammar) and in the form of conversations and stories from elder members of the community. Whereas previous studies of the Kamsá mostly focused on male speakers, I tend to work more with women, who exhibit different types of linguistic knowledge. Historically, Kamsá women were not socialized to tell traditional stories. Therefore, I have instead been recording more personal narratives of their lives and their views on how the culture is changing. Although my primary objective has been to write a grammatical description of the language, I have also spoken with people about their attitudes toward the language and culture, and observed the ways in which the language is (or is not) being passed on to younger generations. It was initially difficult for me to locate fluent speakers because many of the people who were suggested by other members of the community were not in fact very fluent. Often, women would tell me that certain men spoke the language but, after speaking with them for a few minutes, it became clear that they had only the same basic vocabulary that most Kamsá members have. Although I have not constructed any quantifiable



The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia  23

rubric, I define ‘fluency’ to be, roughly, the ability to hold a conversation on a range of topics. Most of the people I met in Sibundoy fell neatly into one of two categories – those who were completely fluent (meaning they had acquired the language natively as children) and those who were uncontroversially not fluent. Complicating matters, however, were a few (mostly middle-aged) people who had learned some of the language as children or later as adults and thus fell somewhere in the middle. I use the terms ‘preservation’ and ‘revitalization’ to refer to intentional processes aimed at inducing younger people to speak the language, people who would otherwise likely not learn the language. This chapter takes for granted that the goal of a language revitalization/preservation program is for people to become fluent speakers of the language and be able to pass it on to the next generation. Thus, when evaluating efforts of the Kamsá to teach the language to children, I discuss whether or not the children are learning to speak the language, rather than discussing other outcomes like being able to say traditional expressions, achieving better grades in other subjects or having higher self-esteem, which could also be results of these programs. It is important to note that the Kamsá are not unified in their views: there are many different opinions among the Kamsá about whether the language should, could or will be preserved, and how best to do it. Symbolic power plays a role in language learning (Bourdieu, 2004). The associations between language and power create complexities for the language learner: whereas being a ‘native’ speaker of Spanish can lead to more economic power, having Kamsá as one’s mother tongue provides more cultural capital. The Kamsá often mention being fluent in the language as one of the identifying qualities of being Kamsá, and those who speak the language can have more local prestige. Resources and Revitalization Efforts

The Kamsá have many resources at their disposal for linguistic and cultural preservation and have begun several projects to maintain their language. These include a series of bilingual schools in Sibundoy, a Kamsá preschool in Bogotá, classes in the cabildo, an app for phones, a radio station, many websites and books. Sibundoy has its own bilingual school system, called the Sibundoy Institución Etnoeducativa Rural Bilingüe Artesanal Kamentsá, run by Kamsá community members and consisting of a preschool, elementary school and high school; thus, a child can, in principle, attend the bilingual school for the entirety of his or her education. Any child can attend, whether ethnically Kamsá or not. I have not been inside the school myself, but according to people in the community, most of the instruction is in Spanish with some lessons about Kamsá culture and some instruction of vocabulary. Thus, these are not bilingual schools according to the classical

24  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

definition, which demands that there be instruction using two languages as teaching languages in subjects other than the languages themselves. Rather, the Kamsá school focuses more on culture, having cultural workshops where children can learn to make traditional Kamsá items, such as bracelets, with some instruction of Kamsá language as a subject. A thesis project was done in 2016 by Agreda España, a pedagogy student at the Universidad Distrital in Bogotá, to implement knowledge of the jajañ (traditional Kamsá garden) into the daily school system. The school seems interested in continuing projects that involve the students with the community and in the future may start a documentation project where the students record elders speaking Kamsá as a way to engage them while at the same time recording knowledge before it may be lost. In Bogotá, there is a preschool for children called the Casa de Pensamiento Shinÿak. It is one of several preschools for Indigenous ­ children in Colombia’s capital, and, like the school in Sibundoy, it is open to all. Here children learn about traditional plants and other elements of Kamsá culture. The coordinator of the school is half Inga and half Kamsá, and although he does not speak Kamsá, he is very knowledgeable about the culture. Classes are conducted by an older Kamsá batá (aunt). At the time of this writing, there were five Kamsá children in the program and 40 non-Kamsá children. Some non-Kamsá parents believe that having their children learn the philosophy of an Indigenous culture (even if not their own) will help them to become better people, have more respect for friends and family, and be more connected to nature, especially in the chaotic urban environment of Bogotá. The presence of this preschool in Bogotá is important because it offers the Kamsá a community in the country’s capital. Although the majority of Kamsá live in Sibundoy, there is still a significant number in Bogotá. There are no reliable census figures, but I estimate that there are approxi­ mately 100 Kamsá families living in Bogotá. In some of these families, the members of the grandparents’ generation are either no longer living or have not moved to Bogotá, usually meaning that the children have no opportunity for exposure to spoken Kamsá outside an institution like the Casa de Pensamiento. In addition to helping with language learning, the preschool is helpful because the attendance of non-Kamsá children may also improve the confidence of the Kamsá children attending because they see non-Indigenous Colombians and children from other Indigenous groups who value their language and culture. A group of Kamsá university students has been collaborating to make Kamsá language learning apps. The first of these, Juatsjinÿam Kamentsá (Practicing Kamsá), was released in November 2017. Its purpose is to help children learn vocabulary, particularly related to the chagra, clothing terms and colors. One of the students who helped make the app told me that she learned a lot more about the Kamsá language by working on this project. She is not a speaker herself, but by dedicating much of her time



The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia  25

for over a year working on this project, thinking about how best to teach vocabulary to children, she became more interested in the language and in learning it herself. The group is trying to have the app be used in the bilingual school. As mentioned, there are many materials in Kamsá, including books, websites, apps and a radio station. There are the traditional stories mentioned above, collected by Alberto Juajiboy Chindoy and John McDowell. Some of the Bible has been translated into Kamsá and there’s even a free Kamsá Bible app, making it accessible for anyone who has a smartphone. There are many resources for listening to and watching Kamsá on the internet, including websites dedicated to Kamsá. There is also a radio station that uses Kamsá, at least one band that sings songs in Kamsá, and there are songs on YouTube, many of which are children’s songs. Several younger Kamsá people are active in a network of digital activists in Latin America called Lenguas Indigenas. One of these activists wrote software called Cabëngbesoy Juastjinÿam, in 2015, but I have not been able to locate it. The cabildo in Sibundoy sometimes offers language classes for community members. Anyone can attend these and they can be used to supplement classes from bilingual schools. Although not directly part of an effort at language preservation, there is a system whereby Kamsá students may receive university scholarships if they are able to prove knowledge of the language. The process includes an interview with a respected community member and a test of culturally important vocabulary. In addition to organized efforts in the Kamsá community, there are individual people and families who try to maintain the Kamsá language in various ways. One Kamsá man I know has taught himself the language by using the available materials and spending time with older people. He began this project in his 30s and had learned much of the language over the course of 10 years. Although he does not consider himself fluent, he can hold conversations in the language and understands much of what people are saying. A Kamsá woman who is a fluent speaker offers to help anyone learn the language who wants to. She makes herself readily available to anyone who wants to come to her home and study the language with her. Although she has not had any long-term students, many younger Kamsá have come to her over the years to learn about the Kamsá language and pensamiento (thinking) from her. These individual efforts may be even more effective for language learning than the schools and classes at the cabildos, especially when they are very similar to the mentor relationships (also called the ‘master–apprentice’ approach) that a number of language groups have found effective (Hinton, 2002). The Kamsá community possesses a remarkable number of linguistic resources. Several Kamsá scholars have worked on the language individu­ ally or with foreign SIL linguists. The Colombian government offers limited financial support to Indigenous communities, and at various points the

26  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Kamsá cabildo has managed to take advantage of these resources. The 1991 Colombian constitution protects ethnic and cultural diversity and gives ‘official status’ to all minority languages in the territories where they are spoken. More recently, Colombian Law 1381 of 2010 guarantees the right to teach minority languages (alongside Spanish) within the com­ munities who traditionally use them, and offers support for communities who wish to create revitalization programs, even for languages that are no longer spoken. Thus, on paper at least, all minority language speakers in Colombia should have access to resources. The Kamsá preschool in Bogotá, for example, is at least partially funded by the Secretaría de Integración Social (District Department of Social Integration) and is one of 10 Indigenous preschools in the capital. Furthermore, it seems that as mestizo Colombians become more interested in Indigenous groups (rather than discriminatory toward them), cultural initiatives could grow. The situation in Colombia is thus rather different from that in places such as Peru, where speaking Quechua is highly stigmatized. Thus, the pride that many Kamsá feel, the government resources available and the private initiative of many Kamsá community members and scholars have all contributed to the language’s wealth of resources. Domains of Use

There are many semantic domains where the Kamsá language is used or discussed by people who are otherwise mostly Spanish-speaking. Kamsá is used ritualistically at festivals and other cultural events. Kamsá vocabulary is central to thoughts on the philosophy of the culture, such as the relationship of words to one another. People use Kamsá for culturally important items and concepts, such as food, clothing, crafts (artesania) and things related to the chagra (garden plots). Finally, the language is used on a daily basis for greetings and expressing thanks. This section shows the importance of the language culturally, and the interest people have in what they consider their mother language. Perhaps the most important time when Kamsá is used is Bëtsknaté (mentioned above) which perhaps means ‘Big Day’ (the etymology is unclear) and is the Kamsá’s largest celebration. It is held each year at the same time as the Catholic pre-Lenten celebration, and illustrates a syncretism of Kamsá and Catholic practices. The speeches are conducted in Kamsá and people greet one another in Kamsá during this time, more so than in daily life. One of the purposes of this festival is to ask forgive­ ness from one’s community and this is often done (at least in part) in the Kamsá language. This festival is an important domain for language and even people who do not speak much Kamsá use some of the language during these days. Many Kamsá are interested in what they consider to be the philosophy of the culture, which is thought to be embodied in the language, much of



The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia  27

which involves assumed etymology of words, and the connections between these words. Taitas in the community teach other Kamsá this philosophy. One example is the connection between jowenán (listen) and other words. (Note that all verbs in Kamsá start with j-.) Some Kamsá consider jowenán to be related to wenan (slow), meaning that when you listen to someone, you should do it slowly and carefully. Sometimes they also say that jowenán is related to jená (sower) and jenán (seed), showing that when you listen to someone you are letting them plant a seed of thought. Similarly, the Kamsá see a connection between the word betie (tree) and betiá (a type of traditional clothing for women) as well as between bejay (water) and bejatá (placenta). Even Kamsá who are not fluent speakers seem interested in these types of connections between different words in the language. Kamsá vocabulary is also used for culturally important semantic domains like food, dress and handicraft practices. Even ethnically Kamsá individuals who do not ever speak the language know many of these terms. There are many traditional food items that are called by their Kamsá names rather than their Spanish ones, such as bishana (a soup made with collard greens), wameshne (a stage of processing corn, often used for soup) and bokoy (chicha). Kamsá is often used for greetings, which consist of basti in the morning and bwajtan in the afternoon, both of which require nde as the response. The Kamsá also use the language for terms of respect when addressing each other, especially batá (aunt), taita (father) and bakó (uncle). The use of Kamsá for these semantic domains hint at a certain vitality of the language, even if it is not being used for conversations. Future of Kamsá

The Kamsá have been creative in their ideas to get younger people more involved in the culture and language and hopefully, with time, these younger people will continue to implement these programs. One sug­ gestion is to create a program where children learn more about the jajañ (traditional garden). The idea is that about 30 families participate, each family with at least one young child and at least one grandparent who speaks Kamsá. The children will spend time after school each day with some family members learning how to grow fruits, vegetables and herbs in the jajañ and the language of learning will mainly be Kamsá, with the grandparents. Furthermore, the family will agree to use Kamsá more in the household. Many Kamsás have embraced technology as a way to teach the language to children. ‘We have to look for ways to get the attention of the newer generations’, one developer of a Kamsá app told me. There are many ongoing projects and plans for creating digital tools for language learning, such as apps, videos, games and software.

28  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Another plan the Kamsá have is to try to document cultural knowledge before it is lost. Some domains they wish to preserve are knowledge of ancient words, medicinal plants, traditional stories, and handicrafts (artesania). By documenting these types of knowledge, they hope to preserve their language and culture. Challenges

The Kamsá community has many resources for language preservation, but there are many challenges as well. Perhaps the greatest challenge is that hardly anyone of child-bearing age is a fluent speaker of the language; thus, the task of transmitting the language rests on the shoulders of the grandparents. That is, because Kamsá is not spoken by younger people, children cannot learn Kamsá from their parents. This is problematic for many reasons. Phonology is harder to acquire later in life and Kamsá phonology is difficult for Spanish speakers, with the set of six sibilants and abundant consonant clusters, and if the children aren’t exposed to it while still young enough, they may struggle to differentiate between the sounds. For example, I have observed that many younger Kamsá confuse the retroflex fricative and affricate with the palato-alveolar fricative and affricate. Even if children learn Kamsá in school, they have no one to practice with when they go home. And given that the exposure in the school is maybe a few hours a week (if that), it is not sufficient for learning the language fully. Although children do spend time with their grand­ parents, who often are native speakers, most families use Spanish with the children, not Kamsá. Although many Kamsá observe that children do not speak the language, others do not exactly recognize that this means the language will disappear. Often, I would ask people if children spoke the language, and they would tell me no. Next, I would ask if they thought the language would be still be spoken in 50 years, and they would tell me yes. For example, one Kamsá woman told me that the Kamsá language would never be lost because it is in their blood. This attitude, although somewhat positive, is dangerous for survival of the language because if everyone believes the language is ‘safe’, they will not do anything to save it. Another potential obstacle for creating fluent young speakers of the language is ineffective teaching methods. To become fluent speakers, children need to practice holding conversations in the language, not just learn vocabulary. Traditional methods of teaching, such as dictating sentences while children copy them, are not effective. Implementing teaching methods that can achieve fluency might be met with resistance. On the other hand, people can go too far in the opposite direction, such as saying that an ‘Indigenous’ language cannot be taught like other languages, or that it lacks rules. Although belief in the uniqueness of Kamsá may increase its cultural value, it also runs the risk of overly



The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia  29

exoticizing it as a daunting spiritual language that cannot be learned like English or French can be. A common problem for language learning programs is lack of financial resources. In order to create an effective program that involves more of the Kamsá community, more resources are needed. For example, there needs to be money to compensate the older people for teaching the language in schools or preschools, and maybe even financial incentives for families who enroll their children in Kamsá language programs. Also, even if many resources exist (books, recordings, websites and so on), people may not have access to them. Some of the books published on Kamsá do not even exist within Colombia, or they lack Spanish transla­ tions. For example, I bought a copy of Juajiboy Chindoy’s book Relatos ancestrales del folclor camentsa on Amazon in the United States and took it to Colombia with me. Many Kamsá told me they had never seen or even heard of the book and were very interested in reading it. Furthermore, John McDowell recorded and transcribed many traditional stories and translated them into English (McDowell, 1994). Since there is no Spanish translation for these, however, most Kamsá are not able to use this potential resource. Likewise, people might not have cell phones to use the apps that exist. Thus, more money is needed in order for the community to have access to the materials that exist and to make the existing materials more accessible to them. In Bogotá, the resources need to be expanded, as well. One problem is that there are no schools teaching through the medium of Kamsá in Bogotá after preschool, so the exposure to Kamsá ends when the children start elementary school. In both Bogotá and Sibundoy, there are not many programs outside of the preschool and schools (respectively) for children to use the language. Another challenge not often addressed when discussing language revitalization programs is the structural complexity of the language. Although any healthy child can acquire any language as a first language, a grammatically complex language is presumably more difficult to learn as a second language. Because of language shift, children are learning Kamsá as an L2, not as an L1. In addition to the phonemes mentioned above that can be difficult for Spanish speakers to master, Kamsá has extremely complex verbal and nominal morphology, representing many gram­matical categories (e.g. evidentiality, dual number) that do not exist in Spanish. Teaching second-language learners the proper use of classifiers, noun cases and complicated tense–aspect–mood markers is challenging. The grammatical complexity of the language (as well as its stark structural differences from Spanish) could thus make it harder for teachers who are not fluent speakers to teach, and more frustrating for children to learn. One surprising barrier for Kamsá learning the language is the lack of a standardized writing system. The reason it is surprising is that there are many resources about the language, many things written in the language and, for the most part, the Kamsá orthographies are almost the same. There

30  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

are a few letters, however, that are written differently in different sources, and many Kamsá say they cannot read the different orthographies. For example, some writers use for the voiceless velar stop, while others use . The retroflex is written with in some materials and with in others. There is no community consensus on which orthography to use, and people tend to have allegiance to the system they learned. One difficulty in teaching Kamsá is that speakers are often focused on correcting what they see as mistakes. This can be a distraction for those trying to learn it, and can also be discouraging. Even younger people who do not speak the language focus on trying to ‘correct’ Spanish-influenced words (by replacing them with more natively Kamsá equivalents), rather than focusing on becoming fluent speakers. One further challenge is that elders who are fluent Kamsá speakers often do not feel comfortable speaking Kamsá to people who do not under­stand the language well. When I began studying Kamsá, I would ask older people to tell me stories in the language, and they always responded, ‘But you won’t understand it.’ No matter how much I explained that I wanted to record the stories to preserve them, they still wanted me to understand, which often ended with a mix of Kamsá and Spanish. Even with great self-motivation, Kamsá learners within the community may find themselves in the same position that I was in, with elders not wanting to use the language with them. A final barrier to language preservation is a lack of organized, long-term effort. Many Kamsá community members have started programs but these have mostly been separate and short-term. Thus, the students of one program may not also participate in another program. Furthermore, many separate revitalization efforts have not been integrated. For example, the apps that were created by one group of university students are not used in the bilingual schools or in the programs hosted by the cabildo. A more unified community effort would be helpful both for using resources more effectively and also for providing a richer l­inguistic environment for children to practice using the language. Conclusion

The Kamsá language is severely endangered, with fewer than 1000 speakers and interrupted intergenerational transmission. Because only older people speak the language, children are not learning it. The community recognizes the urgency of the situation, however, and there are many ongoing projects to attempt to reverse the language shift before it is too late. The community has many resources at its disposal, including a bilingual school system, pedagogical materials and digital materials. Figuring out how best to use these resources is a challenge the Kamsá must face in order to help children learn the language.



The Challenges of Kamsá Language Revitalization in Colombia  31

References Bourdieu, P. (2004) Gender and symbolic violence. In N. Scheper-Hughes and P. Bourgois (eds) Violence in War and Peace: An Anthology (pp. 1–27). Oxford: Blackwell. Fabre, A. (2002) Algunos rasgos tipológicos del Kamsá visitos desde una perspectiva areal. In M. Crevels, S. van De Kerke, S. Meira and H. van der Voort (eds) Current Studies on South American Languages (pp. 169–198). Leiden: Research School of Asian, African, and Amerindian Studies. Garsault, C. (2013) Éléments de sociolinguistique et de phonologie du kamsá, langue isolée du sudouest Colombien. Master’s thesis, University of Lyon. Hinton, L. (2002) How to Keep Your Language Alive: A Commonsense Approach to Oneon-One Language Learning. Berkeley, CA: Heyday Books. Howard, L. (1967) Camsa phonology. In V.G. Waterhous (ed.) Phonemic Systems of Colombian Languages (pp. 73–87). Norman, OK: Summer Institute of Linguistics of the University of Oklahoma. Howard, L. (1972) Fonología del camsá. In V.G. Waterhouse (ed.) Sistemas fonológicos de idiomas colombianos 1 (pp. 77–92). Lomalinda:Instituto Lingüístico de Verano and Ministerio de Gobierno – República de Colombia. Howard, L. (1977a) Camsa: Certain features of verb inflection as related to paragraph types. In R.E. Longacre and F. Woods (eds) Discourse Grammar: Studies in languages of Colombia, Panama, and Ecuador, Part 2 (pp. 273–296). Summer Institute of Lin­ guistics Publications in Linguistics and Related Fields 52(2). Dallas: Summer Institute of Linguistics. Howard, L. (1977b) Esquema de los tipos de párrafo en camsá. In C. Heinze (ed.) Estudios en camsá y catío (pp. 1–67). Serie Sintáctica 4. Bogota: Ministerio de Gobierno. Jamioy Muchavisoy, J.N. (1989) Estructura verbal Kamentsa. Thesis, CCELA, Santafé de Bogotá. Juajibioy Chindoy A. (1989) Relatos ancestrales del folclor camëntsá. Pasto: Funadación Interamericana. Juajibioy Chindoy, A. (2008) Lenguaje ceremonial y narraciones tradicionales de la cultura kamëntšá. Bogotá: Fondo de Cultura Económica, Fundación de Investigaciones Arque­ ológicas Nacionales del Banco de la República. Kontra, M., Lewis, P. and Skutnabb-Kangas, T. (2016) Afterword: Disendangering languages. In J. Laakso, A. Sarhimaa, S.S. Åkermark and R. Toivanen (eds) Multilingualism Beyond Rhetorics: Towards Openly Multilingual Policies and Practices in Europe (pp. 217–233). Bristol: Multilingual Matters. McDowell, J.H. (1994) ‘So Wise Were Our Elders’: Mythic Narratives of the Kamsa. Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press. O’Brien, C.A. (2018) A grammatical description of Kamsá: A language isolate of Colombia. Doctoral dissertation, University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. Simons, G.F. and Fennig, C.D. (2018) Ethnologue: Languages of the World (21st edn). Dallas, TX: SIL International. Available online at https://www.ethnologue.com (accessed 15 July 2019).

3 Okea ururoatia (‘Fight Like a Shark’): The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers in Aotearoa New Zealand Tania Ka‘ai

The study of Māori language and culture in schools and communities has been a burgeoning source of inspiration for Indigenous communities worldwide. Much has been shared, explored and adapted as this important work goes forward. This study looks behind and within the movement that has changed the lives of so many through the identification of whānau (family) practices among participants committed to raising their children in te reo Māori. Up to 30 whānau from throughout New Zealand, all with highly proficient caregivers, are participating in a pilot project, including whānau from three iwi (tribes) who have enlisted up to five whānau each to help grow leadership within their tribes to strengthen language regeneration. Data will be collected by observation, survey, evaluation and participant feedback. With few resources but a strong commitment to the language, the families in this pilot project will attempt to resuscitate the language by raising their children in the Māori language so that their community may once again thrive with Māori as the first language. They are to be celebrated not simply as parents but as language activists and language warriors fighting against language endangerment. The chapter concludes with suggestions on how to support families who choose interventions based on the practices identified in this study. Language Revitalization in Aotearoa New Zealand

Historically, Māori in Aotearoa New Zealand have led a number of language revitalization initiatives, some of which have been adopted and adapted by other endangered language speech communities around the 32



The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers  33

world. One example of this is Te Kōhanga Reo, the immersion Māori language nests for children aged 0–5 years that are underpinned by a phil­ osophy that is focused on whānau (family) development through the Māori language (Ka‘ai, 2004). Te Kōhanga Reo were established in 1982 and have been heralded as a model of language revitalization and re­generation. Hawai’ians have adopted the Kōhanga Reo model and introduced a similar model in 1984 customized to the Hawai’ian language and culture for their children aged 0–5 years called Pūnana Leo. Many of the graduates of Te Kōhanga Reo continued their schooling in what is called Māori-medium education, choosing an immersion Māori language pathway such as Kura Kaupapa Māori (immersion Māori language primary schools) and Wharekura (immersion Māori language secondary schools). Established in 1985, the first wave of graduates from Kura Kaupapa Māori are now adults and many of them are also parents. Some of them have chosen to raise their children in the Māori language and have had careers in which they can use the Māori language, for instance in Māori broadcasting, Māori journalism, Māori language teaching and immersion education, Māori film-making, Māori music, and as Māori academics. Some of these parents have partners who also have the language, but others do not. Te Reo o Te Pā Harakeke is a research project that seeks to understand the factors that contribute to successful intergenerational transmission of the Māori language in the home. The first three years is a pilot project with a cohort of up to 30 couples who have a high degree of proficiency in te reo Māori (the Māori language).1 Background of the Project

Te Reo o Te Pā Harakeke plays on a Māori metaphor, namely the harakeke – the flax plant (Figures 3.1 and 3.2). The rito (center shoot) represents a baby or a child. The two blades on either side of the rito symbolize the parents or the grandparents and extended whānau (family). These are often described as the awhi rito or mātua as they support the rito and its development. Collectively, they all support the continual growth of the pā harakeke – a collection of harakeke plants that are often reflected as the hapū (clan of whanau). For this reason, the rito is never cut. This is the tikanga (customary lore behind this practice). Te Reo o Te Pā Harakeke literally means ‘the language of the clan of families’. This research project is the first of its kind in Aotearoa New Zealand in that its primary focus is to support and understand the challenges of parents who have a high degree of proficiency in te reo Māori as they boldly raise their children in the home in the Māori language. The home includes related environments that families function in such as the super­ market, beach, park and swimming pool. The distinctive element of this project is the focus on the most effective strategies, methods and resources in establishing the Māori language as the first language in the home and

34  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Figure 3.1  Te rito o te harakeke. (Source: Gloria Taituha private collection, 2015)

Figure 3.2  Te Pā Harakeke. (Source: Gloria Taituha private collection, 2015)

providing empirical evidence on the various challenges and barriers that exist while ensuring that the Māori language retains its prominent place in the homes of Māori-speaking parents. The project has engaged speakers of te reo Māori from across a wide-range of iwi, providing a strategy and tools for solidifying the use of the Māori language as the primary language of the home. Three iwi have committed up to five families each to the project. This project builds on other initiatives in the field, including: Facebook networks such as Hei Reo Whānau, and He Tamariki Kōrero Māori; community initiatives such as Māori4kids and Māori4grownups; current research such as Te Ahu o te Reo with the New Zealand Council for Educational Research and Te Ātaarangi (community-based language program using the Silent Way method developed by Caleb Gattegno, which utilizes Cuisenaire rods and spoken language, and which incor­ porates Māori language and customs) research projects such as Kāinga Kōrerorero and He Kura Whānau Reo; and academic research theses such as masterates and doctorates. Synergies with Te Kōhanga Reo must also be acknowledged given the focus on 0–5 years and strengthening te reo Māori amongst whānau in homes. All of this research along with internationally benchmarked research and initiatives have been considered in this project. Rationale for the Project

Rationales for revitalizing Indigenous endangered languages range from the maintenance of Indigenous cultures and the importance of linguistic diversity to issues of social justice (Fishman, 1991; Krauss, 1992). The loss of these languages includes the loss of the specific cultural knowledge inherent in them (Crawford, 1995; Krauss, 1992). The impor­ tance of these languages speaks directly to cultural wellbeing, continuity



The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers  35

and development. Worldwide, Indigenous communities are engaged in revitalization efforts to preserve and maintain their unique languages (Hinton & Hale, 2001). The Māori language is at the heart of Māori development. Those involved in the revitalization of the Māori language are committed to under­taking research and related revitalization projects to ensure that te reo Māori survives. We have come to understand over time that educational initiatives, such as Kura Kaupapa Māori and Te Kōhanga Reo, can be suc­ cessful only if the language is reinforced in the home. While schools have an important part to play in the maintenance and survival of In­digen­ous languages, Fishman (1991) has pointed out that the revival of threatened languages requires the reinstatement of the language firmly in the home through transmission from parent(s) to child. This view is supported by Leanne Hinton, who states, ‘if the parent is fluent, then that must be the language of communication between the parent and child, either at all times or during a significant amount of time’ (Hinton, 2008: 13). If the home is a stronghold of the Māori language, then those children will not have to go to school to learn te reo Māori; rather, the school will reinforce and extend what the child receives at home. Hinton (2008) suggests: when a revitalization program results in a large and growing percentage of families using their ancestral language as their home language, so that children are learning it as their first language, then it is time to celebrate and take it off the ‘endangered’ list. (Hinton, 2008: 12)

This project is unique for Māori and its importance is reflected in the following quote from Hinton: Many of us would say that the most important locus of language revitaliz­ ation is not in the schools, but rather the home, the last bastion from which the language was lost, and the primary place where first language acquisi­ tion occurs. Those who dream of language revitalization ultimately desire the natural transmission of the language from parent to child and its use in daily life. Most communities have not paid much attention to language in the home; or to be fair, they are now only beginning to do so. Even teachers of heritage might not use them with their own children. True ‘reversal of language shift’ cannot be successful in the long run unless families make it their own process. It may be the lead generation of parent activists, who in many cases have had to learn their heritage languages as second languages, who initiate the return to using them at home. Or it may be the children of the activists, who have learned the language at school, and as adults bring the language to their home so that their own children will learn it as a first language. Either way, it is that step – of actually using the language in daily life at home – that is essential for true language revitalization. (Hinton, 2013: xiv)

36  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Therefore, it is argued that as the best time to learn a language is when one is a child. Then it follows that the revival, survival and regeneration of a language is within the home. So it is important to seek strategies to address this challenge if the Māori language is to flourish. This project is one such strategy. Enhancing and Using Te Reo Māori

As the first language of Aotearoa New Zealand, te reo Māori has an important role to play in the cultural wellbeing of an increasingly multi­ cultural population, but is most important for the identity and wellbeing of Māori (Houkamau & Sibley, 2010). The project has the potential to foster a stronger sense of awareness of the prevailing conditions and circumstances that constitute language endangerment in Aotearoa New Zealand. It will provide an impetus to promote the use of Māori as an everyday language used in a wide range of contexts. As previously discussed, the importance of promoting the use of Māori in the home cannot be overstressed. This research project is an informed and strategic response to the findings of the Waitangi Tribunal (2010).2 The Māori language has a specific place in the nation because it is the Indigenous language of the country and it is embedded in Te Tiriti o Waitangi (the Treaty of Waitangi) under Article 2 and the concept of taonga (treasure) (Orange, 2004).3 Despite Māori language revitalization efforts over the past 30 years, te reo Māori continues to be included on the list of vanishing languages. Therefore, investment in research and building capacity to support language revitalization needs to continue. This has gained renewed cogency after the Waitangi Tribunal (2010) reported that the health of the Māori language was approaching a crisis point and required urgent and far-reaching efforts to save it. Any research on Māori language revitaliza­ tion is situated in a context relating to the current status of the language, which has been described as a ‘faltering revival’ (Waitangi Tribunal, 2010). This is a critical time for the Māori language community to be strategic about the future. This community features a diminishing cohort of native speakers and a small cohort of second-language (L2) learners of te reo Māori based in organizations such as Te Ātaarangi and Te Wānanga (these are tertiary institutions that are peers of universities and polytechnics and are characterized by teaching and research that advance and disseminate knowledge of Māori tradition according to Māori custom), polytechnics and universities and, indeed, in isolated but culturally fragile Māori com­ munities and whānau. People need proficiency in their own language(s) for important social and cultural reasons such as intergenerational communication and security of personal identity (Royal Society of New Zealand, 2013). Research has documented the importance of language revitalization to communities’



The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers  37

wellbeing, continuity and development. For example, research demon­ strates that significant gains occur in academic performance when children receive linguistically and culturally relevant education (Demmert, 2001; Demmert & Towner, 2003). Research has long documented the cognitive and academic benefits of bilingualism and bilingual education (Adesope et al., 2010; Baker, 1993; Bialystok, 1991; Gonzalez, 1999). In 2007, the New Zealand Human Rights Commission published a paper to promote discussion on language policy. Importantly, the paper advocates that: Languages are an important national resource in terms of our cultural identities, cultural diversity and international connectedness. They are vitally important for individuals and communities, bringing educational, social, cultural and economic benefits. They contribute to all three national priorities of national identity, economic transformation and families young and old. (New Zealand Human Rights Commission, 2007)

The expected impact from this project relates to the potential to provide more information about what works in supporting parents with ability to pass their knowledge and skills to their tamariki (children). While it is easy to assume that this would naturally happen, history shows otherwise. Since 2001, all age groups (with the exception of those aged 25–34 years) have experienced declines in the rate of Māori who can speak te reo Māori. The thread of intergenerational transmission within whānau appears at present to be diminishing. While it is well accepted that whānau are at the center of the language revitalization effort, relatively little research or policy thinking has been dedicated to supporting fluent parents, even though this group can make a vital contribution to the ongoing survival and levels of fluency in te reo. Design and Methodology

This project aims to develop a comprehensive program complete with a plan and set of resources including a documentary, which can be adopted by communities, whānau, hapū and iwi committed to the inter­ generational transmission of the Māori language and arresting language decline in their rohe (region). This program is not designed to teach the language; it is designed for parents who, though they may not have been raised in a home where their first language was Māori, have gone on to become proficient te reo Māori speakers themselves. Their next task is to ensure that their children are raised in te reo Māori in the modern world. They need support to ensure that the language journey they have embarked upon becomes a life journey for their whānau and for subsequent generations. The project involves the research team, a group of mentors who have expertise in the intergenerational transmission of the Māori language,

38  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

and a group of participants who are dedicated to raising their children as first-language Māori speakers. The research team

Building relevant research capability and capacity by cultivating a cohort of skilled researchers will provide important human capital to give depth to New Zealand’s existing expertise and leadership in reversing language shift and promoting language revitalization. The research team is a combination of experienced and emerging researchers in the field of Māori language revitalization working collaboratively in a tuakana–teina relationship (in this context, experienced researchers mentoring new and emerging researchers), thus modeling Māori pedagogy. Mentors and participants

Mentors and participants for this project are selected from a national Māori language speech community and, in particular, from networks asso­ ciated with Te Ipukarea (the Te Ipukarea Research Institute), including its language revitalization initiatives Te Panekiretanga o te Reo (the Institute of Māori Language Excellence) and Kura Reo (a language learning school – usually held over several days with the purpose of speaking and learning the language). The mentors through their workshops will provide practical advice regarding raising children in the Māori language across family environments. The criteria for selecting the mentors include: • highly proficient te reo Māori speaker; • ability to teach and facilitate workshops; • advanced knowledge of home domains (te reo and tikanga [lore] aspects); • have raised or have been raising their children in te reo (preferred); • an understanding of the objectives of the research project and a desire to aid in the achievement of those objectives. The project involves research and engagement aspects that inform each other (see Figure 3.3). Indigenous research methodologies have been used in this study. Wānanga (residential forums) and hui (gatherings to discuss and debate various issues) which are culturally nuanced bring the whānau together. Wānanga allow for the use of marae (a traditional Māori complex of buildings where rituals of encounter are held as well as other Māori hui) over a weekend where participants and their whānau can sleep, eat and workshop collectively with the other whānau involved in the project. Childcare provision where the kaiako (teachers) are proficient in te reo Māori provides great support and the children are looked after to allow their parents to attend the scheduled workshops with the other participants.



The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers  39

Research

Engagement

Qualitative Interviews Questionnaires Observations

Wānanga Participants Mentors

Quantitative Surveys

Digital community Website/app Social media

Figure 3.3  The correlation between research and engagement. Ka‘ai-Mahuta (2016)

Participants are extremely grateful that this service is provided not only because they would not be able to participate in the project without this support, but because the service engages Māori-speaking kaiako and this supports their efforts in raising their children in the language. These Wānanga are held twice a year and are run entirely in te reo Māori. The curriculum designed for the Wānanga to be considered by the mentors to help parents with raising their children in the Māori language is outlined in Table 3.1. Table 3.1  Curriculum for the workshops Māori term/concept

English translation

kīrehu and kīwaha

idioms and colloquialisms

kupu whakarite

metaphors or figures of speech

waiata

song

karakia

Christian prayer or ritual chant

whanonga

behavior

tākaro

games

hangarau

technology

ngā rauemi

resources

ngā rautaki

strategies

ngā tikanga kei te kāinga cultural lores in the home ngā mahi tiaki tamariki

child-rearing practices

ngā kupu

vocabulary relevant to children’s domains, including: grocery shopping, gardening, preparing food, housekeeping (tidying a bedroom, laundry, washing dishes), playing with toys, going to get the mail from the letterbox, brushing teeth, breastfeeding, bathing, going to the toilet, learning to walk, write, tie shoe laces, etc., drawing/art and crafts, sport, feeding the ducks, whānau outings (beach, park, zoo, visiting people), swimming pool, supermarket, petrol station, doctors, café, library, the mall, movies, farm, concerts

40  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

By engaging with mentors, participants will be armed with strategies and language to support the transmission of the Māori language within the home across different domains. Mentors involved in this project share their knowledge and experience in raising their children in te reo Māori in the home, resulting in the creation of a larger cohort of people also committed to raising their children as Māori speakers. In addition, participants will expand their knowledge and usage of te reo Māori, by implementing the knowledge and usage with their children in the home. These Wānanga also provide an opportunity for participants to connect with other like-minded Māori speakers, thereby fostering a sense of col­ legiality and a network of support. This support network is reinforced through the Te Reo o Te Pā Harakeke Facebook page for participants and adaptive research technologies (ARTs), which are a tool designed to store data for academic research projects. The Te Reo o Te Pā Harakeke research program is based on a cofunding model. The Te Ipukarea research team received some funding from Ngā Pae o te Māramatanga Māori Centre of Research Excellence. Unfortunately, because efforts to attract co-funding from places such as the Ministry of Education, Te Puni Kōkiri (Ministry of Māori Develop­ ment) and the Māori Language Commission have been unsuccessful, the study has had to be scaled back in terms of the methodology employed. Provision of fully qualified teachers to care for the children of the par­ ticipants is an important feature of the Wānanga because it illustrates how the research project is located in a Kaupapa Māori paradigm providing wrap-around support to manaaki (care and support) the whānau (partici­ pants and their children) within a Māori context, such as the marae, where Māori values are respected and observed. Methods

Kaupapa Māori underpins this study as an ideological framework which allows for an analysis of Māori knowledge from a Māori world view. It is a culturally safe and relevant research approach that is located within the Māori world view and that recognizes the importance of te reo me ngā tikanga Māori (Māori language and culture) (Smith, 1997). It is informed by a set of culturally appropriate principles that advise and guide the research team on the suitable process for engagement with Māori whānau. The study also adopts an insider–outsider approach as researchers are involved in the research as speakers of te reo Māori. The research methods involve the participant-observer method, carried out at each of the Wānanga. Ethical approval was sought prior to the commence­ ment of the research. Through this qualitative approach the research team is gauging attitudes and opinions about the different domains where language is used, access to resources and obstacles to maintaining language in the home.



The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers  41

The qualitative data will be structured for general inductive thematic analysis. The general inductive approach will be used to identify themes in the text data that relate to the research objectives. The themes and objectives will frame the overall findings. During analysis, any comments relevant to the objectives or theme areas will be grouped together, and specific themes identified within these objectives captured as core messages reported by participants. During data analysis, suitable narrative accounts (personal stories) that exemplify specific factors, barriers or themes will be identified. Extracts from these narrative accounts will be prepared for inclusion in the research report as illustrations of particular themes or processes relevant to the research objectives. Data saturation will be sought to ensure any unique themes for specific subgroups/regions or whānau types can be identified and verified; however, there are some constraints, given the nature of the project and size of the sample. Table 3.2  Example questions Year of project

Examples of questions for participants and mentors

Year 1

What resources help Māori-speaking parents establish Māori as the family language? What domains can be identified as important language domains for the home environment? What do mentors and participants in the project consider to be the key factors in successfully raising Māori-speaking children? Are there barriers to maintaining te reo Māori in the home as the first language? What are they? What have been the obstacles and difficulties the mentors and participants face in the goal of raising Māori-speaking children as first-language speakers?

Year 2

What language domains persist in the home? What domains do children gravitate towards more than others? Does Māori become the preferred language of the children brought up in families where the parents use only Māori with their children? Are there obstacles that persist to maintaining te reo Māori in the home as the first language? What are they?

Year 3

How can parents maintain momentum in keeping the language in the home? Are there obstacles that continue to impact on maintaining te reo Māori in the home as the first language? What are some of the strategies and/or resources parents are using to support the home being a totally te reo Māori environment? What evidence is there that the strategies used in the research project are effective in establishing Māori-speaking families? Does using people who have brought up or are successfully bringing up their children as speakers of Māori as mentors for couples endeavoring to do the same enable te reo Māori to flourish in the home?

42  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

From the data over the three years we will have information on demo­ graphics, opinions and attitudes of parents about language maintenance in the home. In-depth data analysis will commence in year 3 and the presentation of findings (including the draft plan and resources) to partici­ pants and community will occur early in year 4. Some example questions for participants in each year of the project are listed in Table 3.2. These questions help inform the discussions in each workshop at the Wānanga. Planned Outcomes of the Project

While it is recognized that Māori have been front-runners for In­ digen­ous language revitalization efforts in Aotearoa New Zealand since the 1970s, and have served as inspiration to many other Indigenous com­ munities worldwide, we also know that a research-informed and piloted language-in-the-homes project has never been undertaken before in Aotearoa New Zealand, and the development of a resource for families seeking to raise their children in the home in using te reo Māori will be an important outcome of this project. This comprehensive manual and set of resources will help provide other parents and families with the inspiration to raise their children in the home in te reo Māori. The results of this research project will inform future Māori language strategies and plans, influence an entire generation of, mostly secondlanguage, proficient Māori-speaking parents, and aid in the revitalization of the Māori language as a language learnt through intergenerational language transmission. It will foster the regeneration of native speakers in our homes and communities so we can see native speakers of te reo Māori as part of our future, not just our past. This research project supports transformation and positive change by increasing the number of homes and families speaking Māori as their first language. The research also provides leaders in communities who can lead out this program with the right sort of support, and to run the program within their own communities, thus contributing to Māorimedium education for children aged 0–5 years at a quality standard. The production of a documentary and a manual will be two integral resources to empower these language leaders in running the program in their rohe (area). Some Interim Findings of the Research: Themes and Strategies

While the research project was only in its second year at the time of writing, some interim findings have emerged from the Wānanga. These focus on five themes: vocabulary; familial relationships and language planning; culture and language; external influences; and resources. The themes and strategies were discussed and proposed by the participants and the mentors collectively.



The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers  43

Theme 1: Vocabulary

Vocabulary is a real challenge for the participants. Knowing the vocabu­lary for different contexts in order to be able to describe the world of the child is a constant challenge. Problem areas include the words for new technology and media, all of the items in the supermarket, describing the growth of a tree and processes such as photosynthesis, the process for building a sand castle, instructions for washing your hair and describing what happens during puberty or other bodily functions. Strategy 1: Vocabulary

Strategies to increase the use of appropriate vocabulary were discussed in the workshop: • Anticipate and prepare for the language that children will need at each stage of their development so that there is a plan to hand for how to describe certain things such as puberty. • Research new words together as a family and involve the children in looking up words in the dictionary from a young age so you are modeling ‘best practice’ for finding a word they do not know. • If there is a planned outing such as going to the zoo, research and prepare new vocabulary beforehand. Theme 2: Familial relationships and language planning

Language planning for the family and the home is complex as it is not ‘one size fits all’. It is critical to ensure that the child is hearing language from multiple sources, so creating a community of speakers around the children is important. It is important also to understand that the language of connection becomes the default language of the relationships the children form and is quite difficult to change. Strategy 2: Familial relationships and language planning

The strategies discussed in the workshop in relation to language planning included: • Develop a language plan for the family as you are more likely to stick to a plan if you have one mapped out and you know where you are going – do not tempt fate. • Think about the situation and context of the family and what is needed at each stage of development. • Assign language roles to those in the family based on their knowledge of te reo Māori.

44  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

• Take children along to every hui the parents attend, in order for them to gain experiential education in a number of different contexts. • Establish a Māori language play group with like-minded parents. • Where one of the parents is still learning the language, be empathetic to their situation and encouraging. Find tasks or contexts where the language is repetitive, to make it easier. Theme 3: Culture and language

Language and culture are inextricably intertwined. Therefore it is important to ensure that the language is imparted in a way that is consist­ ent with a Māori world view. Whakaaro Māori, which means a Māori way of thinking, and wairua Māori, which relates to Māori spirituality, are both critical in language transmission in that the language does not represent a translation of an English-language process. It is also important that tikanga Māori (cultural lore) is integrated along with the language so that children are fully immersed in a Māori world view. This means that the language is seen by children as the medium of communication to transmit knowledge and, importantly, to express feelings of love and affection. Children will then develop a healthy association with the language and understand the appropriate behaviors implicit in tikanga Māori. Strategy 3: Culture and language

In the workshop, strategies to ensure the language is connected to the culture were discussed: • Think of ways to link what is being said in the conversation to a Māori world view. • Incorporate aspects of culture, history and tradition with language transmission so that the communication becomes more Māori. • Utilize creative language and the traditions of kīwaha and whakataukī (proverbs) to describe things such as emotions. This could be achieved by playing games encouraging creative thinking informed by a Māori world view. • Parents are encouraged to compose their own whakataukī to explain things in the child’s world and impart cultural knowledge (tuku tikanga), to provide deep meaning (whakamārama), to warn (whakatūpato) and to encourage (akiaki). Theme 4: External influences

Managing external influences on the language and language choices of the child can be a constant and recurring issue as children grow up. There are times when parents must deal with opposing opinions and comments



The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers  45

from others regarding the choice to raise Māori-speaking children – those within the family, friends, colleagues and even strangers. Another issue is that while parents have some control over the language of the home and specifically the quality of the language, the language that children pick up at school often challenges this. Strategy 4: External influences

Strategies were discussed in the workshop that would help parents when confronted with others who may show negativity toward them raising children in te reo: • Have your arguments ready, in order to make a rebuttal when you encounter a person with differing opinions; include knowing a few language facts that can help make your case. But be prepared that some people will never get it. • Acknowledge and praise people that you encounter using te reo Māori as a way of positively reinforcing the ‘normalization’ of the language especially in front of the children. • Become involved with the children’s school and offer a helping hand with regard to language activities. • Exemplify correct language with the children and keep repeating the correct way to say something so as to redress the bad habits they may have picked up at school. Theme 5: Resources

There is an imbalance of resources available for promoting and re­ inforcing te reo Māori in the lives of children. For example, there are a number of books in te reo Māori for younger children but a dearth of novels for pre-teens and adolescents. Further to this, resources like books are often expensive and this can pose a huge challenge for those families who struggle financially. Strategy 5: Resources

Strategies were discussed in the workshop to provide parents with ideas to counteract the limited resources available in te reo Māori: • With regard to some resources, parents are left with little option other than to buy the English versions and translate them themselves. • Make use of all the free digital Māori-language resources available. Be proactive and constantly search for resources for children using the internet and your various networks. Both print and digital resources should be considered.

46  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Okea ururoatia

An important feature of these interim findings is that despite the high language proficiency levels of the participants, they experience similar challenges to learners of the language (beginners to middle-learners). However, the defining point of difference between the participants in this pilot project and learners is that the participants are able to sustain language flow in the home without resorting to English and, importantly, they are engaged in creating native speakers of the language, thus in­ creasing the number of speakers of the language. This means that these whānau are actively engaged in Māori language revitalization and, im­ portantly, maintaining the quality of the language. These whānau are to be commended for their commitment and their endurance to raising their children in the Māori language and for the regeneration of native Māori language speakers. They reflect the Māori concept of ‘Okea ururoatia’, of fighting like a shark, and being relentless in their pursuit of raising their children in te reo Māori despite the obstacles and barriers. For these reasons, it is really important that this group of proficient speakers is not overlooked or remains invisible in terms of investment of funding; let us not forget these speakers for the contribution they are making to Māori language revitalization. This is a strong rationale to have a more even spread of funding and resources across all levels of language speakers. Conclusion

The expected impact of this project relates to the potential to provide more information about what works in supporting parents with high Māori language competency to pass their knowledge and skills on to their tamariki. While it is easy to assume that this would naturally happen, history shows otherwise. Since 2001, all age groups (with the exception of those aged 25–34 years) have experienced declines in the percentage of Māori who can speak te reo Māori. The thread of intergenerational transmission within whānau appears at present to be diminishing. While it is well accepted that whānau are at the center of the language revitaliza­ tion effort, relatively little research or policy thinking has been dedicated to supporting fluent parents, even though this group can make a vital contribution to the ongoing survival and levels of fluency in te reo. This research project is unique for any endangered language (PerezBaez, personal communication). It is evidence-based and it will be monitored and researched carefully with a view to providing a success­ ful model for raising children in the home in te reo Māori for whānau, hapū (sub-tribe) and iwi Māori. It will demonstrate excellence through language documentation, as it will include the production of two critical resources to aid in the preservation of the Māori language to increase the number of families using Māori in homes in the future. This has been one



The Regeneration of Native Māori Language Speakers  47

of the most significant concerns of language activists involved in language endangerment and revitalization. It will also provide a template for other minoritized and endangered languages globally seeking to find models and programs of success to help parents and families maintain their native language in the home. The results of this research project will inform future Māori language strategies and plans, influence an entire generation of Māori-speaking parents, and aid in the revitalization of the Māori language as a language learnt through intergenerational language transmission. It will foster the regeneration of native speakers in our homes and communities so we can see native speakers of te reo Māori as part of our future, not just our past. Notes (1) Te reo Māori, or te reo, are the Māori language terms for ‘the Māori language’, or ‘the language’. (2) The Waitangi Tribunal is a standing commission of inquiry. It makes recommendations on claims brought by Māori related to legislation, policies, actions or omissions of the Crown that are alleged to breach the promises made in the Treaty of Waitangi. Under the Treaty of Waitangi Act 1975, any Māori can take a claim to the Tribunal that they have been disadvantaged by any legislation, policy or practice of the Crown since 1840. The Tribunal does not enforce the law, but has the power to make recommendations to the government (Waitangi Tribunal, 2018). (3) Te Tiriti o Waitangi (the Treaty of Waitangi) was signed on 6 February 1840. It was meant to establish a partnership between the British Crown and Māori as the Indigenous people of Aotearoa/New Zealand. However, since its signing, it has been the focus of controversy and scrutiny, mostly because two versions of Te Tiriti were produced (Ka’ai-Mahuta, 2010: 134).

References Adesope, O., Lavin, T., Thompson, T. and Ungerleider, C. (2010) Systematic review and meta-analysis of the cognitive correlates of bilingualism. Review of Education Research 80 (2), 207–245. Baker, C. (1993) Foundations of Bilingual Education and Bilingualism. Clevedon: Multi­ lingual Matters. Bialystok, E. (1991) Language Processing in Bilingual Children. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Crawford, J. (1995) Endangered Native American languages: What is to be done, and why? Bilingual Research Journal 19 (1), 17–38. Demmert, W.G., Jr (2001) Improving Academic Performance Among Native American Students: A Review of the Research Literature (ED99CO0027). Washington, DC: Education Resources Information Center (ERIC). Demmert, W.G., Jr and Towner, J.C. (2003) A Review of the Research Literature on the Influences of Culturally Based Education on the Academic Performance of Native American Students. Portland, OR: Northwest Regional Educational Lab. Fishman, J.A. (1991) Reversing Language Shift: Theoretical and Empirical Foundations of Assistance to Threatened Languages. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Gonzalez, V. (1999) Language and Cognitive Development in Second Language Learning: Educational Implications for Children and Adults. Boston, MA: Allyn and Bacon.

48  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Hinton, L. (2008) Language revitalization: An overview. In L. Hinton and K. Hale (eds) The Green Book of Language Revitalization in Practice (3rd edn) (pp. 3–18). Bingley: Emerald Group. Hinton, L. (2013) Bringing Our Language Home: Language Revitalization for Families. Berkeley, CA: Heyday. Hinton, L. and Hale, K. (2001) The Green Book of Language Revitalization in Practice. San Diego, CA: Brill. Houkamau, C. and Sibley, C. (2010) The multi-dimensional model of Māori identity and cultural engagement. New Zealand Journal of Psychology 39 (1), 8–28. Ka‘ai, T. (2004) Te mana o te tangata whenua – Indigenous assertions of sovereignty. In T.M. Ka‘ai, J.C. Moorfield, M.P.J. Reilly and S. Mosley (eds) Ki te Whaiao: An Introduction to Māori Culture and Society. Auckland: Pearson Education. Ka‘ai-Mahuta, R. Te A. (2010) He kupu tuku iho mō tēnei reanga: A critical analysis of Waiata and Haka as commentaries and archives of Māori political history. PhD thesis, Auckland University of Technology. Ka‘ai-Mahuta, R. Te A. (2016) Te Reo o te Pā Harakeke – Project overview. Unpublished paper. Krauss, M. (1992) The world’s languages in crisis. Language 68 (1), 4–10. New Zealand Human Rights Commission (2007) Urgent agent required to halt decline in Pacific languages use, at from http://www.hrc.co.nz/2007/urgent-action-required-tohalt-decline-in-pacific-languages-use (accessed 28 October 2013). Perez-Baez, G. (2017) Recovering Voices Project, personal communication. Orange, C. (2004) An Illustrated History of the Treaty of Waitangi. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books. Royal Society of New Zealand (2013) Languages in Aotearoa New Zealand, at https:// royalsociety.org.nz/what-we-do/our-expert-advice/all-expert-advice-papers/languagesin-aotearoa-new-zealand (accessed 15 July 2019). Smith, G. (1997) Kaupapa Maori: Theory and praxis. Doctoral thesis, University of Auckland. Waitangi Tribunal (2010) Te Taumata Tuatahi: Te Reo Māori. Pre-publication Waitangi Tribunal Report 262. Wellington: Waitangi Tribunal. Available at https://www. waitangitribunal.govt.nz/publications-and-resources/waitangi-tribunal-reports (accessed 15 July 2019). Waitangi Tribunal (2018) About the Waitangi Tribunal, at https://www.waitangitribunal. govt.nz/about-waitangi-tribunal (accessed 15 July 2019).

4 Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language Through Intensive Adult Education Annika Pasanen

Out of the nine Saami languages still in use, three are spoken in Finland: Skolt Saami, Inari Saami (also called Aanaar Saami) and North Saami. They have different linguistic characteristics and socio­linguistic backgrounds, and are endangered languages struggling to recover from generations of loss. Active revitalization of Saami languages has been ongoing since the 1990s. One of these revitaliz­ation efforts has been a fulltime, year-long adult language course. It consisted of classroom language studies, workplace language instruction, culture studies and a master–­ apprentice interaction with elder native speakers. This chapter provides an analysis of becoming a new speaker of a Saami language. The analysis is based on responses to survey and interview data from adult learners and their teachers, with a view to answering three research questions. (1) What are the backgrounds and motivations of the Saami language learners? (2) What examples do they report that signify use of Saami languages in domains of work, family and social networks? (3) How do adult Saami language learners (re)present their identification with L1 Saami speakers? Já tom mun lam aaibâs vuossâmui peeivij rääjist ettâm sijjân: et tast šadda tehálumos ihe tuu elimist, taat nubástit tuu loppâeellim. [And that’s what I have told them from day one: that this will become the most important year of your life, this will change the rest of your life.]

This is how Anna Morottaja, a teacher of the Aanaar Saami language,1 prepares her students to meet the challenge of language learning: a year-long intensive language course, an academic year which potentially produces Saami-language speakers. This chapter presents an analysis of this challenge, its motivations and results. Saami languages form a continuum of closely related languages from central Fennoscandia all the way to the east coast of the Kola 49

50  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Peninsula. Out of the nine Saami languages still in use, three are spoken in Finland: Skolt Saami, Aanaar Saami and North Saami. They are all separate languages with very different linguistic characteristics and socio­linguistic backgrounds. All are endangered. The revitalization of endangered languages challenges former concepts and categories con­ cerning authenticity and ownership of languages. For instance, language immersion and language education for adults have strengthened the need to describe language identities and learning processes that are not linked to learning the language at home as L1. The phenomenon of new speakers has received attention, especially in the research on emancipat­ ing and reviving some of the minority languages of Europe (O’Rourke et al., 2015). Saami languages spoken in Northern Fennoscandia are being actively revitalized, and a reversal of language shift is taking place in many Saami areas. In the research on new speakers, Saami languages have so far been considered only in a few publications (e.g. Jonsson & Rosenfors, 2017). This chapter explores survey and interview data that were collected from adult learners and teachers of North Saami, Aanaar Saami and Skolt Saami in Finland. My position as a researcher is based on the fact that I am a Finnish specialist in Finno-Ugrian languages, speaking Finnish as my mother tongue. I have concentrated on northern multilingualism, endangerment and revitalization of Indigenous and minoritized languages, and I have been dealing with these issues in grassroots revitalization projects and community-based activities. I have been living in Aanaar, a municipality in the Saami region of Finland, for many years, and I have learned two Saami languages, North Saami and Aanaar Saami. Also, my Finnish children have acquired the Aanaar Saami language since their early childhood, first in a language nest and later in a school, through Aanaar Saami-medium education. This makes me both an outsider and an insider in relation to the Saami languages and communities I’m researching. I proceed with a short overview of the historical and sociological contexts of the Saami people and languages. This is followed by a focus on the goals, methodology, data and my theoretical framework for the research. After that, I report on the backgrounds of new speakers and their language-learning process. Then I focus on the use of Saami languages after schooling, and especially the language choices of new speakers with their own children. Following this, I look at new speakers’ representations of their identification with native speakers, and finally I discuss my findings in relation to a global context, raising questions for future research. Saami People and Saami Languages

The Saami people are an arctic Indigenous people living in Finland, Sweden, Norway and the Murmansk region of the Russian Federation. The Saami languages belong to the Uralic language group, and nine Saami



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  51

languages are spoken today. The similarities and differences between these languages go hand in hand with the geographic distance: speakers of neighbouring Saami languages often understand each other’s language to some extent, but mutual understanding between more distant languages is more difficult. Among all Saami languages, North Saami is by far the largest, with approximately 20,000–30,000 speakers in Norway, Sweden and Finland. The smallest Saami languages, like Pite Saami in Sweden and Ter Saami in Kola Peninsula, have at most a couple of dozen speakers. All the Saami languages are endangered, according to UNESCO’s Atlas of the World’s Languages in Danger (UNESCO, 2010), three of them critic­ ally, five of them severely and one definitely endangered. Most of the Saami languages are currently being revitalized and strengthened, for instance through language immersion, bilingual or mother-tongue-medium education, language education for adults, Saami-language media and various language campaigns (see AikioPuoskari, 2016; Huss, 1999). In the global context, Saami groups living in Nordic countries have rather good possibilities for language revitaliz­ ation. Saami culture in Finland, Sweden and Norway is protected by cultural autonomy, parliamentary organs, legislation and international conventions. The legal status of the Saami in the Russian Federation is considerably weaker, which adversely influences language revitalization (see Scheller, 2011). Wide assimilation and language shift from Saami languages to Finnish is the result of various historical phases and processes, for example the Second World War, general modernization and change in the way of life of the Saami, a growing Finnish-speaking population in Saami areas, and Finnish politics concerning education. Through the boarding school system, Saami children were in many areas either directly or indirectly deprived of their own language and culture. The process and ideolo­ gies behind the deprivations of boarding school systems for Indigenous children are known throughout the world of Indigenous and minoritized peoples, and so are the results. A considerable proportion of the Saami who have gone through this system have chosen Finnish as the home language of their own children (Rasmus, 2008: 117). Prerequisites of language revitalization often go hand in hand with political power, or at least political recognition. In Finland, that happened for the Saami gradually from the 1960s on. The first achievements were the instruction of Saami languages in some schools, Saami-language radio broadcasts and the establishment of the parliamentary organ of the Saami in the 1970s. In the 1990s there were legislative changes that worked in favour of Saami culture and languages which led to increasing demand for Saami languages. This positive development enabled many of the fundamental factors of language revitalization. One of them was intensive education in Saami languages for the adult population. A year-long intensive course on Saami

52  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

language and culture began in North Saami in 1999, in Aanaar Saami in 2009 and finally in Skolt Saami in 2012. These educational initiatives have produced 200–250 new speakers of these three Saami languages. While political decisions in Finland have led to legislation and financial support for Saami language revitalization, the struggles and heavy lifting of Saami activists, Saami politicians, ordinary Saami speakers and their descend­ ants is of fundamental importance in the history of Saami revitaliz­ation. Nothing has happened without intense and sustained Saami activism (Pasanen, 2015; Seurujärvi-Kari, 2012). Finnish national language policy is defined by the existence of two national languages in Finland: Finnish and Swedish. Their status is ­theoretically equal throughout the country, but in practice Finnish is dominant, although Swedish has a strong foothold in particular areas. Of the 5.5 million inhabitants, about 88% speak Finnish as a mother tongue and about 5% Swedish. The Saami people are defined as an Indigenous people in the constitution of Finland.2 The Saami have partial autonomy in the Saami home area, which consists of the three northernmost munici­ palities of Finland – Enontekiö, Utsjoki and Aanaar – and a part of the municipality of Sodankylä. In this area, the Saami have a legal right to use their languages in different official domains; however, these rights are often not implemented in practice. Another problem is that already over 60% of the Saami are living outside the official Saami areas, and their linguistic rights are rather weak there. For instance, instruction in a Saami language may be very hard to get, even for children with Saami as their mother tongue. There are approximately 10,000 Saami in Finland, and about 2000 of them have reported Saami (or one of the Saami languages) as their official mother tongue. Statistics are not very reliable in relation to the real multilingual situation among the Saami. However, current estimations of the number of speakers of different Saami languages suggest about 450 speakers of Aanaar Saami, about 300 speakers of Skolt Saami and in Finland about 1500 speakers of North Saami. There is no universal definition of Indigeneity, but one is given in the Inter­ national Labour Organization’s Convention No. 169 (1989), according to which Indigenous peoples: (1) descend from populations who inhabited the country or geographical region at the time of conquest, colonization or establishment of present state boundaries; and (2) retain some or all of their own social, economic, cultural and political institu­ tions, irrespective of their legal status.3 From this point of view, the Saami people should not be treated as a linguistic minority. However, Saami languages are everywhere endangered, marginalized and de facto minority languages. Terms like ‘language of an Indigenous people’ or ‘Indigenous language’ do not convey the sociological situation and power relations. That’s why I use the term ‘minority language’ from this practical point of view, so as not to under-rate the Indigenousness of the Saami.



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  53

Goals, Methods and Data

The new speakers’ role in terms of the vitality and intergenerational transmission of Saami languages is essential to the continuation of all Saami groups of Finland, but especially for the communities of Skolt and Aanaar Saami. It is therefore necessary to understand the individual process of becoming a new speaker and taking Saami language into use in different domains. In the best case, research might respond to the needs of speech communities by helping to develop intensive language education, and to support new Saami speakers in their learning process, identity and language use. My study contributes most of all to the work done by Olthuis, Kivelä and Skutnabb-Kangas (2013), who studied the first intensive adult education course in the Aanaar Saami language (in a project called CASLE; Olthuis et al., 2013). Also, for instance, Jonsson and Rosenfors (2017) considered the issue of new speakers in their article about the language repertoire, identity and learning of a young Saami woman called Elle. Sarivaara (2012) has paid attention to this in her dissertation concerning so called non-status Saami people, who have taken a Saami language into use in their lives as a result of an individual reversing language shift. My research questions are as follows: • RQ1: What are the backgrounds and motivations of Saami language learners? • RQ2: What examples do they report that signify use of Saami languages in domains of labour, family and social networks? • RQ3: How do adult Saami language learners (re)present their identifi­ cation with L1 Sami speakers? The quantitative part of my data consists of responses to a survey and the qualitative part consists of semi-structured thematic interviews. The electronic survey resulted altogether in 85 responses from people who had studied Aanaar Saami, North Saami or Skolt Saami in a year-long intensive language course between 2009 and 2016. Of the 85 responses, 40 came from students of Aanaar Saami, 31 from students of North Saami and 14 from the students of Skolt Saami. The percentage of responses from the target group (altogether 133 students) was 64%. The role of the survey was to determine: (1) the backgrounds of the students and their motivations for language learning; (2) the students’ experiences of the education year and language learning process; and (3) the impact of language learning, use of Saami language in different domains, and identification with the speech community. After the survey in spring 2017, I interviewed the teachers who taught these intensive courses. There were four at that time, of whom two were sharing the instruction of North Saami, whereas Skolt and Aanaar Saami had one teacher each. I also interviewed some of the survey respondents.

54  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

This chapter draws on the data from teachers’ interviews, as well as the data from the interviews of five new speakers. The new speakers had all started to use a Saami language with their children. Three of them had learned Aanaar Saami, one was a speaker of North Saami and one a speaker of Skolt Saami. The language of the interviews was Aanaar Saami, North Saami or Finnish, depending on the language repertoire of interviewed people and my own (in which Skolt Saami is excluded) and depending on the wishes of the interviewees. For the sake of anonymity, I refer to interviewees only as teachers or students/new speakers, not mentioning which Saami language they represent. For the same reason, I won’t quote the informants in their original language but present only the English translations. One exception to this are citations of the teachers at the beginning and the end of the chapter. I also reference gender ambigu­ ously via the use of ‘(s)he’ because this is natural for speakers of Saami and Finnish: both languages have one pronoun for females and males. Who Wants to Learn a Saami Language and Why?

Who are the new speakers of Saami languages in Finland? Where do they come from, and what has led them to use a whole year of their life to learn Saami? Of the 85 respondents to the survey, 35% were born in the 1980s, 20% in the 1970s, 18% in the 1990s, 15% in the 1960s and 12% in the 1950s (Figure 4.1), and 85% were women, 15% men (Figure 4.2). This reflects the actual situation in the fields of learning, revitalization

35 30 25 20

1950s 1960s 1970s

15 10 5 0

Figure 4.1  Numbers of respondents by birth decade

1980s 1990s



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  55

Female Male

Figure 4.2  Respondents by gender

and language planning of Saami languages: women form a large majority. There are some practical explanations for this. Many male Saami work full-time as reindeer herders, and some others for instance as builders commuting from Finland to Norway. Reindeer herders can’t take a year off for language studies. Women often spend more time at home, or working in public services for example, which makes it much easier for them to attend a language course. However, there are other reasons for this too, linked to the history, values and ideologies of each community. Aikio pointed out as early as 1988 that quite often it is the mother of the family who studies a Saami language, even when that mother is a Finn and the father is a Saami. According to Aikio, it seems to be much easier for a person coming initially from outside the community to study and use the language, because of the lack of ‘an innate load of a taboo prohibiting Saami language’ (Aikio, 1988: 312). In most cases, participating in a year-long intensive language course requires arrangements to be made, economic sacrifices and hard work. There are several forms of financial support for full-time study in Finland, but in the case of adults, often with family, this support is not enough to live on, so many students need savings, loans or extra work. The Saami Language Act 2003 in theory enables studies of a Saami language with full salary for people working in public services, but the annual budget for this purpose is meagre, and only some get this opportunity.4 One of my interviewees described his/her preparations for an economically tight study year: I had quite a good salary [when living] in the south, and I tried to save like a thousand euros per month so that I would manage. And then I sold all my shares that I had ever bought, everything like that I sold.

56  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Another reported how during the first half of the year (s)he had to work evenings and weekends to manage financially. In the school until 2 pm, working from 3 pm to 9 pm, a couple of hours with homework assignments and in the morning to the school. In the end (s)he couldn’t cope like that, but with some new apartment arrangements (s)he could stop working and concentrate on studying. All the teachers I interviewed emphasized that only people with a strong motivation attended the course. Not everybody is capable for it. One teacher summed it up: If you are going to spend a whole year studying as an adult, you have to make some kind of arrangements for it. It shows motivation. I hear a lot of excuses like one is not ready and not admitting the thought that there’s a piece of me missing. Because at the point when you come to take your language back, you have admitted to yourself that you’re not whole, you’re not like complete, a complete person.

Not all the participants on these courses, however, were taking back their own or heritage language; a remarkable proportion of the students were Finnish. Of the 85 respondents 38 reported Finnish as their primary ethnic identification, whereas 32 identified as primarily Saami. The remaining 15 did not want to define their identification and were unwilling to answer or reported an alternative ethnic identity. This number may partly reflect a heated debate which has been going on lately in Finland, about how and by whom Saaminess should be defined, and the fact that ethnic boundaries are always ambiguous, in Saami lands as in the rest of the world (see for instance Sarivaara et al., 2013). Nevertheless, the proportion of Finns among new speakers of Saami languages must be considered substantial. My study on revitalization of the Aanaar Saami language (Pasanen, 2015) shows that during the approximately 20 years of revitalization, Aanaar Saami has become a prestige language at the local level, among both Aanaar Saami themselves and others. The most often mentioned motivation for language learning in my data was, however, reclamation of one’s own language or heritage language. The next most often chosen alternatives were a widening of labour market prospects, a general interest in language and the wish to support Saamispeaking communities. The revitalization and language development policies in Finland have reached a stage that many Indigenous peoples and minorities around the world can only dream of: knowing Saami language is a great advantage in the labour market. This of course is relevant mostly only in the Saami area, and even there definitely not for all professions. For instance, in the fields of media, health care, early childhood education and basic education, there are better perspectives for employees with Saami language skills, not to mention jobs directly linked to language and language planning, like making teaching materials.



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  57

Students on the courses were quite heterogeneous in relation to education, age, ethnic identification and motivation, but typically new speakers were youngish women. A lack of the men in the fields of learning and reviving Saami languages is well known, and usually commented on with humour (‘Well yeah, women rule as usual’). Not even the teachers I interviewed could find good explanations for the phenomenon they all recognized. This is a very sensitive issue to discuss, linked to history, livelihoods, gender roles and expectations, attitudes toward educational institutions and so on. One of my female interviewees said, when discuss­ ing the roles of the parents in terms of the Saami language: I do feel tired of being just such an endless source; like, I have to carry everything, even a foreign language.

According to my data, there were roughly two main types of motiva­ tion for attending the year-long intensive language course: reclamation of the heritage language; and ‘other reasons’. All the interviewed teachers saw the variety of motivations in the classroom positively. They also viewed as favourable the presence of Saami and non-Saami students in the same group. Diversity made the groups interesting and challenging, and it was healthy for everybody to share thoughts and feelings of their classmates from different backgrounds. The students also taught each other, about the language, about the history and emotions behind it, and they definitely taught the teacher as well. According to the teachers, Saami speakers are needed nowadays in so many fields that there’s room for very different people. A rational motivation, like widening labour market prospects, was totally acceptable, as was learning the language of a great-grandmother without any concrete plans to do anything with the language. Life with a New Language

In the survey data, 42% of the respondents reported the daily, active use of Saami language in their life, while 38% selected the alternative referring to active but not daily use of the language, 16% reported that they used Saami seldom, and 4% not at all (Figure 4.3). There were differ­ ences between different groups of respondents. New speakers of Aanaar Saami more often reported active daily use than new speakers of the other two Saami languages. Respondents identifying primarily as Saami reported active, daily use more often than respondents with other ethnic identifications. How widely have new speakers been able to take a Saami language into use in their work (Figure 4.4)? Sixty-six of the 85 respondents answered indicated that they were able to define their work history rather clearly after the course year. Fifty-three percent responded that they had started a new job in which they could use Saami language. Twenty-three percent

58  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

40 35 30 25

Actively, daily Actively but not daily

20

Seldom

15

Not at all

10 5 0

Figure 4.3  Frequency of use of the Saami language at the time of the survey: Numbers of respondents

Started a new job, using Saami

Started a new job, not using Saami Continued in the previous job, started to use Saami Continued in the previous job, in which had been using Saami already before the studies Continued in the previous job, not using Saami 0

10

20

30

40

Figure 4.4  Employment and language after Saami language studies: Numbers of respondents

had continued in their previous work but had started using Saami language there. Others continued in their previous work without the possi­bility to use a Saami language, or had started a new job without a Saami language, or had continued in the work in which they had been speaking a Saami language before they took the course. Over the years, these courses had seen a couple of native speakers, or people with previous language skills,



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  59

willing to become literate, so the last option also exists. Among the new speakers of all three Saami languages, the most often chosen alternative was beginning a new job with a Saami language. Out of 66 respondents to this question, in 50 cases the course in a Saami language had resulted in a job in which a Saami language was used. This must be considered a very encouraging sign of the impact of intensive courses in Saami languages in the domain of labour. The vast majority of working-age speakers of Aanaar and Skolt Saami are new speakers, which means that they are found in all professions in which Skolt or Aanaar Saami languages are used. This is not quite the situation in the case of North Saami, but there are also many profession­ als who have learned North Saami through this course. In my doctoral thesis (Pasanen, 2015: 168–169) I listed about 30 employees using Aanaar Saami as the main language or one of the main languages in their work, of whom only a few had learned Aanaar Saami in their childhood. They were working as employees in language nests, in the Saami Parliament, at primary and secondary schools in the municipality of Aanaar, on Saami radio, at the Siida Saami Museum and in the Nature Centre, Saami Education Institute in Aanaar, as well as at the Giellagas Institute of the University of Oulu. There are also some new speakers of Saami languages in dental and elder care, as well as in other public services. However, it must be mentioned that these services, sanctioned by the Saami Language Act, are not organized in the three Saami languages in all the munici­palities, and generally there are many difficulties in implementation (Pasanen,

No influence, doesn't use Saami No influence, uses Saami as much as before the studies Some influence, speaking more Saami Remarkable influence, speaking much more Saami

Figure 4.5  Influence of the Saami language studies on the use of a Saami language in social networks

60  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

2016). This is often stated as one main argument for the year-long language course: implementation of the legal linguistic rights of the Saami will not proceed without instruction of new speakers. Next I turn to the use of a Saami language in social networks, that is, language use with friends and neighbours, and so on (Figure 4.5). Fortyeight percent of the respondents reported that they had started to speak a Saami language more often in their social networks. Thirty-four per cent reported a considerable increase in using Saami language. The rest, according to their responses, were using Saami as much as or as little as before their studies, or were not using it at all. More respondents with a Saami identity reported greater use in their networks, as did new speakers of Aanaar Saami relative to speakers of the other two Saami languages. Intergenerational transmission of Aanaar and Skolt Saami was interrupted almost totally during the post-war decades. Transmission restarted with the language nest activities at the end of the 1990s, and then gradually in some families in which Saami language was chosen as the home language by parents who often had just learned the language themselves. At that time, it was, however, a conscious choice of a couple of individuals. Intensive full-time language education was a huge step forward in the revitalization of both languages, and that is what enabled relinguification of the homes (Fishman, 1991: 26), at least in theory, on a wider scale. Therefore, the following question is essential: to what extent have new speakers of Saami languages started to use a Saami language with their children? In the history of North Saami there is no similar inter­ ruption of language transmission, and in many areas the language has been transferred to the children through generations. In some other areas, though, North Saami has vanished or become seriously endangered, and in Finland this is the case in the southernmost speech area, village of Vuotso and its surroundings (see Aikio, 1988). Given that intensive adult education in Aanaar Saami started in 2009 and education in Skolt Saami in 2012, it is still too early to draw strong conclusions about the impact of language education on the relinguifica­ tion of homes. More must be done to find ways to support families of new speakers. Sustainability needs research. Fifty-one respondents out of the 85 had children, and 57% of them reported that learning a Saami language had increased their use of it at home to some extent, while 20% reported about a considerable increase: Saami had become a home language for the family. With respect to the remainder, learning Saami language had not influenced the situation at home, either because Saami had already been spoken or because it still wasn’t spoken at all (Figure 4.6). There were no clear differences linked to ethnic identification or the Saami language selected for study. Out of the 10 respondents who reported taking the Saami language into use as a home language, five had studied Aanaar Saami, four North Saami and one Skolt Saami.



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  61

No influence, doesn't use Saami No influence, had been using Saami already before the studies Some influence, started to use more Saami Remarkable influence, started to use Saami as the home language

Figure 4.6  Influence of the Saami language studies on the use of the Saami language with the children

My results can be viewed from different perspectives. On the one hand, it is very promising that three-quarters of the respondents with children had increased the use of the Saami language with their children. On the other hand, the alternative ‘Affected to some extent. I started speaking more Saami with my children than before’, could cover very diverse situations. In some cases, it could mean that occasional use of Saami had increased and was established as a permanent part of the family life. In some cases, it could mean that a parent who hadn’t spoken Saami to his/ her children at all had started to use it occasionally, at the level of single phrases for example. I interviewed five of the respondents who had reported the largest impact of the language learning: having taken a Saami language into use as a home language. Four of them had started to speak exclusively one of the Saami languages to their children, and one had ended up using both Saami and Finnish with the children. Some of them were already parents during the language course, while others had become parents a couple of years after the course. Their situations varied widely in relation to the possible Saami language skills of the spouse, and to the process of taking a Saami language into use. It had been a self-evident, gradual process for some, and a result of very conscious, even painful decisions for others. Attitudes of outsiders had varied between positive and supportive, neutral and critical. One new speaker spoke of critical comments heard while she was pregnant:

62  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

It was actually quite clear in the beginning, already when I applied for the course, I had the idea that some day – when I have my own children, I could speak Saami to them. And when I got pregnant, I thought of course that I would speak Saami, and I had thought it already before that. But then during my pregnancy it was a little questioned, like, you know, the issue of the language of emotions, which is discussed a lot, that you should speak the language of your emotions or the language that you learned as your first language.

This informant hadn’t given up her decision, though. As one supportive factor for the decision she mentioned university lectures I gave on language endangerment and revitalization. During these lectures, examples of similar situations around the world were presented and there was dis­ cussion of how new speakers of very small or even sleeping languages, have taken their heritage language into use with their children (Hinton, 2013). Yeah, it really helped a lot – so I got even more, maybe the kind of support that you can get like this, that I won’t ruin the child totally, or ruin my own relationship with her/him.

At the time of the interview, this person had been speaking exclusively a Saami language to her child for approximately one year. She was happy with her choice and was determined to continue speaking only Saami. She felt she was doing the right thing for her child. What I also thought was, what would [the child] think as an adult, if (s)he knew that mother has worked with the Saami language all the time and spoken and used it, would have been able to speak it, ‘why didn’t she then speak it to me?’

According to my data, Saami languages seem to access more widely the domains of labour and social networks than the domain of family. However, these domains are incomparable in many ways, since the amount and depth of linguistic contacts in a family and everywhere outside a family are at very different levels. Speaking the language to other adults and transmitting the language to one’s own children also demand very unequal resources and efforts. On the basis of my survey, it seems that a majority of the new speakers with children had increased speaking Saami with them, but only some of them had taken Saami into use as a regular home language. Every word of Saami spoken to a child is a step forward in the current situation. Then again, occasional and symbolic use of a Saami language isn’t enough for language acquisition of a child, at least if (s)he doesn’t have strong lin­guistic support from elsewhere: early childhood education in Saami, language nests, education through the Saami language or other adults speaking the Saami language to the child regularly. It is not



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  63

always under­stood by the parents that radical efforts and changes are necessary to reverse language shift. According to Fishman (1991: 236–239, 368–380), parents tend to have expectations of schooling that are far too optimistic when it comes to language acquisition of the children and the revitalization of an en­dangered language. As far as I can see, language choices with one’s children or spouse are not widely discussed in Saami communities. It is the most private choice of individuals, easily loaded with guilt and disappointment in the context of assimilation and re­ vitalization. As Dauenhauer and Dauenhauer (1998: 97) point out, ‘the paradox of revitaliz­ation is that it requires consciousness and planning, and the language lives and is chosen in privacy’. New Speakers and Old Speakers

Curricula for the different Saami languages are similar, but there are some differences between them. One of these is connected to the contact between new speakers and native speakers of a Saami language. By native speakers, in this case I mean people who have acquired a Saami language in their early childhood at home. In education in Aanaar and Skolt Saami, an essential role is played by master–apprentice interaction. That inter­ action means individual contact with (usually) an elder person, who is a first-language speaker of the language in question, and willing to speak the language with the learner or in some cases a couple of learners at the same time. Couples or groups can do whatever they like – traditional activities or shopping in the nearest town are both fine – but it has to be done in the Saami language, with Finnish excluded totally. In the Saami area, this model has been applied to the needs of the first adult education in Aanaar Saami, in 2009–10 (the CASLE project, mentioned above), inspired by the Californian Master–Apprentice Language Learning Program (see Hinton, 2002). A similar method was adapted to become one part of the year-long adult Saami course. However, unlike in California, where the learners meet their language masters at the beginning of their learning process, Saami learners start their journey with the language masters after a couple of months of study, with varying levels of communicative language skills (Olthuis et al., 2013: 40–46, 79–94; Pasanen, 2015: 251–324). The CASLE project had shown master–apprentice interaction to be a success. Indeed, it became the most important and most liked part of the course according to the feedback from students (Pasanen, 2015: 277–280). Through this instructional approach, students accessed knowledge about language, culture and history, and much more, that would have been impossible to transmit to them in the classroom. Data from the open questions of the survey and the interview material in my postdoctoral research indicate the importance of language masters for the adult learners of Saami languages.

64  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

However, master–apprentice interaction hasn’t been included in the education of North Saami. This difference is obviously reflected in the responses of new speakers to the question about how the learners had experienced the attitudes of native speakers during the course. Responses refer generally to positive attitudes. Among all 85 respondents, 39% had experienced very supportive attitudes, and 35% mainly supportive. Twenty-five percent of the respondents had chosen the alternative ‘Varying between different people’, and a single respondent had experienced very negative and critical attitudes; the alternative ‘Mainly negative or critical’ was chosen by none of the respondents. Interestingly, responses of the students of different Saami languages differed considerably. While 73% of the students of Aanaar Saami had experienced very supportive attitudes. Skolt Saami students had chosen most often the alternative ‘Varying between different people’, and among the students of North Saami the most common response was ‘Mainly supportive’. Also, interestingly, there was no difference worth mentioning between those who identified as primarily Saami and those who identified as primarily Finnish. According to the interview data from the language masters of the CASLE project, these elder speakers of the Aanaar Saami language have the same positive attitude toward learners of the language no matter their ethnicity (Pasanen, 2015: 294–297, 307–309). When the interviewer asked about the language masters’ thoughts concerning new speakers of Aanaar Saami, two language masters made the following responses: Language master 1: Well, it is terribly important. There are so few speakers of Aanaar Saami that any amount of new speakers doesn’t hurt. Language master 2: [It was] amazing and nice that nowadays also Finns want to know and learn a Saami language.

Then the interviewer asked whether the masters found it at all weird that nowadays also Finns want to learn a Saami language. Language master 1: No, not at all, since Finnish people want to learn also English and Russian and so on, which is exactly the same. At least I think so. Language master 2: Not so weird, when you have been used to it, but back in the 1960s or 1970s it would have been a stranger thought.

The interview material for my unpublished postdoctoral research is in line with these findings. Even if the attitudes of Skolt and North Saami L1 speakers seem to be widely positive towards language learners, there are some factors which may lead to diffidence among the new speakers. In the Skolt Saami community there are native speakers who criticize in public the standardization of the language as not authentic, as well as



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  65

the competence in the language of new speakers who study a standard­ ized form. For instance, some new speakers working as radio journalists have faced very critical feedback about their language competence. (On the attitudes of the Skolt Saami community and so-called transference of the burden, see Laihi, 2017: 85–95, 125–136.) Then again, in the speech community of the North Saami language, there are still plenty of native speakers, also among younger generations. Therefore, there is no such acute need for new speakers as there is in the case of Aanaar and Skolt Saami, and native speakers and new speakers don’t necessarily end up in close contact with each other. This concerns especially those new speakers who do not have Saami relatives (i.e. Finnish speakers of North Saami). Lack of master–apprentice interaction in the curriculum of North Saami education seems to reinforce this problem. Another question in the survey, referring to the relationship between new and native speakers, was about the identification of the new speakers with the speech community: whether they felt themselves to be active members or outsiders in the community. Of the respondents, 21% reported that they identify themselves as active members of the community, and 52% responded that they feel they belong to the community to some extent, while 15% felt themselves clearly outsiders in the community, and 12% did not answer the question (Figure 4.7). There was quite a clear difference by ethnic identity: respondents with Saami identity felt themselves much more often active members of the

Identify as an active member Identify to some extent Identify as an outsider Did not answer

Figure 4.7  Identification of the respondents with the speech community of the Saami language

66  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

community in comparison with the respondents with Finnish identity. Differences in Saami language study were, however, even clearer: new speakers of Aanaar Saami identified much more often as active members of the community than new speakers of the two other languages. Belonging to the community is of course a very subjective ex­perience, greatly depending on one’s personality and values. Not everybody has a goal of becoming an active member of a speech community when learning a new language. Staying outside or at the doorstep may be the most natural and positive position for a new speaker. These differences reflect particular differences between the linguistic cultures of the Aanaar Saami and North Saami speakers. If we see linguistic culture as does Schiffman (1996), as an entity with historical, geographic, demographic, social, ideological features and so on behind a certain speech community and situation of a language, the first obvious difference is that North Saami has a lot more speakers than Aanaar or Skolt Saami. It doesn’t face such an obvious and acute danger of disappearing. Speakers of North Saami also live in a much wider area, so there is no one particular, concrete speech community as in the cases of Skolt and Aanaar Saami, which are spoken mostly in Aanaar. The fact that there are a lot of young North Saami speakers may counter the fact that a huge part of the people of North Saami origin do not speak the language and that there are not enough speakers in relation to growing needs. As one teacher analysed attitudes of the North Saami speech community: There isn’t the same thought yet that we have to work to get new North Saami speakers. Like, on the Aanaar Saami side and Skolt Saami side, it’s totally clear, that, hey, something has to be done.… The perspective is very different in the case of emergency. And maybe speakers of North Saami don’t think yet that it’s an emergency.

The attitudes of the native North Saami speakers towards new speakers has been referred to in some previous studies. Jonsson and Rosenfors (2017: 57–58) analyse how a North Saami learner brings up experiences of the unwillingness of native speakers to speak Saami to a new speaker. Similar experiences appear in my data. One new speaker described the situation as follows: Interviewee: After all, there were a couple of, a few people I know, in my close circles, who wanted to speak Saami, or they made the choice that they spoke to me, and then it was easy for me to speak to them. AP: Were there other choices, then, people who didn’t want to? Interviewee: Oh yes, yes, yes, yes. AP: Which of them are more? Interviewee: There are more of those who don’t want to shift to Saami.



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  67

The interviewee continued to ponder that those who had chosen to speak Saami to her/him were usually people who had themselves struggled in their lives with language revitalization and therefore had a wider per­ spective on these issues. Discussion

Language practices of the new speakers play an essential role in the future of Saami languages. In the global context of Saami languages, revitaliz­ation might be compared to Māori and Hawai’ian revitalizations. All three revitalization projects share a common history of assimilation, with similar sociolinguistic starting points for revitalization, as well as similar methods and forms of revitalization. All three languages can be learned outside home, in the language nest, mother-tongue-medium education and through intensive language education for adult people. New speakers also form a significant proportion of all speakers of these languages. In the cases of Māori and Hawai’ian, the phenomenon of new speakers has a decades-old history, which means a lot of experience and evidence about impacts of the revitalization compared with Saami languages. The ultimate question is whether the new speakers have started to transmit the language to their own children. How widely have the homes been re­linguified? The research on new Saami speakers has only just begun. I am continu­ ing to collect data through interviews and continuing to study the issue in the framework of global research about new speakers, to better under­ stand the processes involved in reversing language shift. As my questions continue to evolve and change with data, the following are important at this juncture: • Who are those who don’t take their language back or try to learn the language of their new home area? Why haven’t they considered learning the Saami language necessary or possible for them? How do the men who don’t personally participate in learning and reviving Saami languages experience these issues? • Are there ways to promote a relinguification of homes? What kind of support do the new speakers need to speak Saami to their children? • What kind of features lie behind different results of different Saami languages? What are the attitudes of native speakers of the North and Skolt Saami languages towards learners and new speakers? Are there patterns of change as revitalization proceeds? This chapter began with a quotation from an Aanaar Saami language teacher emphasizing the importance of intensive education for students. Let it end with a short extract from the interview with the previous teacher of the Skolt Saami language, emphasizing the importance of this education for the whole language:

68  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Annika Pasanen: Mitä tämä koulutus on antanut koltansaamen kieli­ yhteisölle ja kolttasaamelaisille? Tiina Sanila-Aikio: No, tulevaisuuden. Piste. [nauraa] Annika Pasanen: What has this education given to the speech community and the Skolt Saami people? Tiina Sanila-Aikio: Well, the future. Full stop. [laughter]

Notes (1) Inari is the name of the municipality in Finnish; in this chapter only the Saami variant, Aanaar, is used. Aanaar Saami is the name of the language. (2) The Finnish constitution can be seen online at https://www.finlex.fi/fi/laki/kaannok​ set/1999/en19990731.pdf (accessed 15 July 2019). (3) Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention, at https://www.ilo.org/dyn/normlex/en/f?p =NORMLEXPUB:12100:0::NO::P12100_ILO_CODE:C169 (accessed 15 July 2019). (4) The Sámi Language Act (Saamen kielilaki) 1086/2003 is available at http://www.finlex. fi/en/laki/kaannokset/2003/en20031086 (accessed 15 July 2019).

References Aikio, M. (1988) Saamelaiset kielenvaihdon kierteessä. Kielisosiologinen tutkimus viiden saamelaiskylän kielenvaihdosta 1910–1980. Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seuran ­toimituksia 479. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Aikio-Puoskari, U. (2016) Gullos sámegiella! Sámegielaid ealáskahttima buoremus vuogit ja našuvnnalaš politihka linját Suomas, Ruoŧas ja Norggas. Aanaar: Samediggi & Sámegiela doaimmahat. Dauenhauer, N.M. and Dauenhauer, R. (1998) Technical, emotional, and ideological issues in reversing language shift. Examples from Southeast Alaska. In L.A. Grenoble and L.J. Whaley (eds) Endangered Languages: Current Issues and Future Prospects. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fishman, J. (1991) Reversing Language Shift: Theoretical and Empirical Foundations of Assistance to Threatened Languages. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Hinton, L. (2002) How to Keep Your Language Alive: A Commonsense Approach to Oneon-One Language Learning. Berkeley, CA: Heyday Books. Hinton, L. (ed.) (2013) Bringing Our Languages Home: Language Revitalization for Families. Berkeley, CA: Heyday Books. Huss, L. (1999) Reversing Language Shift in the Far North: Linguistic Revitalization in Northern Scandinavia and Finland, Studia Uralica Uppsaliensia 31. Uppsala: Acta Universitetis Uppsaliensis. Jonsson, C. and Rosenfors M. (2017) ‘I have struggled really hard to learn Sami’: Claiming and regaining a minority language. International Journal of the Sociology of Language 248, 49–71. Laihi, T-M. (2017) Skolt Sámi language and cultural revitalization: A case study of a Skolt Sámi language nest. Master’s thesis. University of Helsinki. Available at https:// helda.helsinki.fi/bitstream/handle/10138/193650/Laihi%20sosiaali-%20ja%20 kulttuuriantropologia.pdf?sequence=2 (accessed 15 July 2019). Olthuis, M-L., Kivelä, S. and Skutnabb-Kangas, T. (2013) Revitalising Indigenous Languages: How to Recreate a Lost Generation. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. O’Rourke, B., Pujolar, J. and Ramallo, F. (2015) New speakers of minority languages:



Becoming a New Speaker of a Saami Language  69

The challenging opportunity. Foreword. International Journal of the Sociology of Language 231, 1–20. Pasanen, A. (2015) Kuávsui já peeivičuovâ. ’Sarastus ja päivänvalo’. Inarinsaamen kielen revitalisaatio, Väitöstutkimus. Uralica Helsingiensia 9. Helsinki: Suomalais-ugrilainen Seura & Helsingin yliopisto. Available at http://www.sgr.fi/uh/uh9.pdf (accessed 15 July 2019). Pasanen, A. (2016) Saamebarometri 2016. Selvitys saamenkielisistä palveluista saamelaisalueella. Sám giellabaromehter 2016. Čielggadus sámegielat bálvalusain sameguovllus. Selvityksiä ja ohjeita 39/2016. Helsinki: Oikeusministeriö. Available at http://julkaisut. valtioneuvosto.fi/bitstream/handle/10024/78941/OMSO_39_2016_Saamebaro_120s. pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y (accessed 15 July 2019) Rasmus, M. (2008) Bággu vuolgit, bággu birget. Samemánáid ceavzinstrategiijat Suoma álbmotskuvlla ásodagain 1950–1960-logus, Publications of the Giellagas Institute 10. Oulu: Giellagas-instituhtta. Sarivaara, E. (2012) Statuksettomat saamelaiset. Paikantumisia saamelaisuuden rajoilla. Dieđut 2. Guovdageaidnu: Sámi Allaskuvla. Sarivaara, E, Uusiautti, S. and Määttä, K. (2013) The position and identification of the nonstatus Sámi in the marginal of indigeneity. Global Journal on Human Social Science Arts and Humanities 13 (1). Available at https://socialscienceresearch.org/index.php/ GJHSS/article/view/535/482 (accessed 15 July 2019). Scheller, E. (2011) The Sámi language situation in Russia. In R. Grünthal and M. Kovács (eds) Ethnic and Linguistic Context of Identity: Finno-Ugric Minorities, Uralica ­Helsingiensia 5 (pp. 79–96). Helsinki: Helsingin yliopisto & Suomalais-Ugrilainen Seura. Schiffman, H.F. (1996) Linguistic Culture and Language Policy. London: Routledge. Seurujärvi-Kari, I. (2012) Ale jaskkot eatnigiella. Alkuperäiskansaliikkeen ja saamen kielen merkitys saamelaisten identiteetille. Helsinki: Helsingin yliopisto. UNESCO (2010) Atlas of the World’s Languages in Danger. Paris: UNESCO. Available at http://www.unesco.org/languages-atlas (accessed 15 July 2019).

5 From Mountains to Megabytes: The Digital Revolution of Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan Douglas McNaught

Decades of rural-to-urban worker migration have caused a generational disconnect between young urban Aborigines and the keepers of traditional knowledge, accelerating language loss. However, the rise of information technology has enabled new virtual communities to transcend this physical distance, bridge the cultural and linguistic gaps created by language shift, and enhance the experience of learning Aboriginal languages. Aboriginal groups have begun to produce their own resources, demonstrating that technology can be a powerful tool in the decentralization and autonomy of minority languages. This chapter therefore views the timely emergence of digital resources in Taiwan within the framework of linguistic human rights, as the socio-political shift of power moves further away from the government and into the hands of the Indigenous population as a whole. It examines the evolution and range of digital resources developed for Formosan languages and discusses the increasingly crucial role of technology in Indigenous language education, with a particular emphasis on its potential impact on future grassroots revitalization efforts. Introduction

Following Taiwan’s industrial development in the 1970s, decades of rural-to-urban worker migration have caused a generational dis­connect between young urban Aborigines and the keepers of traditional knowledge, accelerating language loss. However, the rise of information technology has enabled new virtual communities to transcend this physical distance, bridge the cultural and linguistic gaps created by language shift, and 70



Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan  71

enhance the experience of learning Aboriginal languages. It has also im­ portantly placed ‘powerful resources developed for major world languages into the hands of minority language communities’ (Holton, 2015: 371). To counter the perceived lack of efficiency of the Council of Indigenous Peoples – the central government organization devoted to Indigenous affairs – and to remove the filter through which Indigenous education is largely dictated, Aboriginal groups have begun to produce their own free, downloadable resources, demonstrating that technology can be a powerful tool in the decentralization and autonomy of minority languages. This has untapped potential for many of Taiwan’s ‘Plains Tribes’ (pingpuzu, 平埔族) – or Pingpu – who are not officially recognized by the government due to their prolonged Sinicization and loss of language, affecting their rights to land ownership, political participation, and Indigenous education (i.e. l­inguistic and cultural rights) (Huang et al., 2013). This chapter therefore views the timely emergence of digital resources in Taiwan within the framework of linguistic human rights (May, 2012). The potential benefits that technology brings to the dissemination and revitalization of Indigenous and minority languages has been under discussion following the publication of Buszard-Welcher’s (2001) chapter exploring the utilization of the internet by Native American language communities. Since then, many Indigenous communities have embraced a variety of multimedia tools as a means to revitalize their language (Penfield et al., 2006). However, discussion of the topic has largely been centered on the use of technology in ‘modernizing’ Indigenous languages, in heighten­ ing their prestige, and in the accessibility it brings for communities that are increasingly affected by migration (Holton, 2015). Galla (2009) notes that technology can help with: (1) the preservation of Indigen­ous languages; (2) material development and dissemination; (3) multiple modes of communication; and (4) achieving relevance, significance and purpose. However, technology has also shown itself to be a powerful ‘subversive’ political tool, whereby communities across the globe can create ways to organize themselves, share information and mobilize people for collec­ tive action, as evidenced by online campaigns like Black Lives Matter and Occupy Wall Street. Alongside traditional forms of grassroots activism, digital technology can circumvent bureaucratic barriers and help back issues that lack government support. This has great potential in Taiwan for the Plains Tribes in terms of both political and language activism. This has already been witnessed when, due to a perceived lack of efficiency of the Council of Indigenous Peoples, one Amis community bypassed bureaucratic obstacles by working with the online non-governmental organization GØV (零时政府) to publish on the free, downloadable dictionary app Moedict.1 The group has made the programming code available to download for free in the hope that it will empower other Indigenous tribes and inspire them to start their own dictionaries (Wilson, 2015).

72  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

This kind of digital grassroots project is by no means a new phenom­ enon: many other Indigenous communities have independently sought funding and technological support from non-government organizations to produce new language materials. Success stories include the Wahzhazhe app for the Osage language (northern Oklahoma, USA), developed by members of the Osage tribe and technical engineers at Google;2 the Six Nations Polytechnic (SNP) school in Canada that launched a Mohawk language app;3 and an interactive i-book with sound files to assist in teaching Hul’qami’num4 (British Columbia, Canada), along with many more. One Iñupiat community in Alaska even worked with a Seattle-based company to develop their own computer game, Never Alone,5 to promote their Indigenous culture and folklore. This has great importance for communities that lack government support. Since the lifting of martial law in 1987, the past three decades have seen huge strides in Indigenous rights in Taiwan, yet the majority of the Plains Tribes remain unrecognized by the government and receive no support in their attempts to revive their cultures and languages. Tonkin (2015: 194) states that ‘there has been a shift away from seeing language planning as a function of the state or of institutions toward seeing planning and policy as occurring at all levels, from the most formal to the most informal’. As a result, tribes such as the Siraya have made concerted efforts to self-organize, document, produce, disseminate and advertise cultural and linguistic materials in an attempt to revitalize and strengthen their Indigenous identity. However, there is still untapped potential for them (and others) to revive their languages by utilizing digital technology more effectively. This chapter proceeds by providing an overview of the Indigenous peoples of Taiwan and how their colonial history has resulted in the near (and, in some cases, complete) annihilation of their native languages. I then briefly discuss the history of Indigenous education and how technology is currently being implemented. Then, within the context of the current political obstructions that inhibit Plain Tribes’ access to linguistic human rights and support for linguistic and cultural revitalization, I examine the timely emergence of digital technology in terms of its potential to fight back against marginalization. I address the potential benefits of technol­ ogy from three perspectives: (1) the ability to adapt to and accommodate the different modes of learning which have been shown to exist between Han Chinese and Aboriginal students in Taiwan (Chou, 2005; Lee et al., 2012; Lin, 2007); (2) the ability to circumvent political barriers by placing powerful tools in the hands of language activists with which to create free resources, and to shape their own identity free from government reliance and interference; (3) a digital arena where ‘dormant’ languages such as Siraya can develop and grow organically, as has been shown to be the case with online minority language communities and those involved in developing ‘constructed’ or ‘planned’ languages.



Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan  73

The Indigenous Peoples of Taiwan Under Colonialism

The Indigenous peoples of Taiwan stand at around 546,000 people, about 2% of the total population of Taiwan (Council of Indigenous Peoples, 2018). There are currently 16 Indigenous tribes recognized by the Taiwanese government; each tribe has its own language and dialectal variations, which belong to the Austronesian language family. Although the Indigenous peoples have lived on the island for over 5000 years (Blust, 1999), their recorded history dates back only to 1623–61, when the island was colonized by the Dutch in the south-west of the island and by the Spanish in the north. This marked the beginning of huge changes in the social and cultural fabric of the Indigenous societies via the introduction of formal education and evangelization (Dupré, 2017). After the Dutch were expelled by Koxinga (國姓爺), who briefly claimed the territory under the Ming dynasty (1662–83), the next major occupation was by the Qing dynasty (1684–1895), which saw a rise in Hoklo immigrants from Fujian and, later, the Hakka. During this time, Aborigines were classified into two types, the ‘raw’ savages (生番) of the mountains, who were viewed as wild and ferocious, and the ‘cooked’ savages (熟番) of the plains, who, due to their proximity, had submitted to Qing rule and had adopted Han customs and language, and who resided in tax-paying households (Teng, 2006). The two terms did not designate divisions along ethnic lines, but instead two ends of a process of ‘civilization’ that was already underway. One of the results of this process was that, with the exception of the Kavalan, the main Plains Tribes (Ketagalan, Taokas, Pazeh, Papora, Babuza, Hoanya, Taivoan, Makatao and Siraya) all lost their mother tongues, an issue that continues to plague them in their fight for recogni­ tion today. The two-way distinction imposed by the Qing was adopted during the Japanese occupation (1895–1945), though the terminology was changed to ‘high mountain tribes’ and ‘plains tribes’, terms which were in turn adopted by the Chinese Nationalists (the Kuomintang or KMT) and which continue to be used today. Under Japanese rule, education through the medium of Japanese was compulsory. Traditional practices such as headhunting and tattooing were banned, and there were forced resettlements of Aborigines from the mountains to coastal areas, so that the Japanese could gain access to natural resources (Rudolph, 2003). Studies have shown that there is a direct correlation between the loss of Indigenous languages and the establishment of the laws, policies and practices that affect them (Dauenhauer & Dauenhauer, 1998). Following the Japanese surrender in 1945, the next four decades under the Chinese Nationalists saw the continued implementation of the most aggressive language policies in Taiwan’s history. During the period of martial law (1949–87), the Speak Mandarin Only campaign (1956) banned the use of local languages in schools (Dupré, 2017) and children were punished and

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ridiculed for speaking Aboriginal languages. In 1957, the new government launched the first Mandarin promotion groups, followed by the ‘Propaga­ tion of Mandarin in Mountain Counties’ in 1973 and the ‘Re-enforcement of the Compulsory Education of Aborigines’ in 1980 (Rudolph, 2003). There was also a widespread confiscation of Bibles written in A ­ boriginal languages throughout the 1970s (Rudolph, 2003: 72). These policies ­essentially resulted in ‘linguistic genocide’ (Skutnabb-Kangas & Dunbar, 2010) for the Aboriginal population, showing that language loss in the Taiwanese context has not been a linguistic issue only but ‘one of power, prejudice, (unequal) competition and, in many cases, overt discrimina­ tion and subordination’ (May, 2012: 4). However, following the lifting of martial law, the government’s policy of what Skutnabb-Kangas (2015) terms ‘assimilation-oriented negative rights’ began to shift to ‘positive rights’ with regard to Indigenous languages. A Brief History of Indigenous Education

In 1988, the government announced a five-year plan to improve Aboriginal education, which was enforced in 1993 when the Minister of Education, Kuo Wei-fan (郭為藩), promised the provision of classes in ver­ nacular languages and local knowledge (Rudolph, 2003). The government began integrating Aborigines into projects initiated by central government institutions, such as the Ministry of Education (MOE), culminating in the establishment of the Council of Indigenous Peoples (CIP) in 1996. Before this, Indigenous language instruction had already begun at junior and elementary schools in Wulai (烏來) in Taipei County with the introduction of Atayal in 1990 (Pawan, 2004). In 1991, Indigenous education gained legal recognition in Taiwan when Indigenous rights were incorporated into the ‘additional articles’ of Taiwan’s constitution, with the state affirming that it would ‘actively preserve and foster the development of aboriginal languages and cultures’.6 Following this, the MOE and the CIP began working alongside linguists and Indigenous communities to conduct language documentation and description projects and to develop orthographies and language materials. During this time, the Teachers College in Hualian (now part of National Dong Hwa University) also organized regular classes for Aboriginal teachers to improve their peda­ gogical skills and to participate in the development of teaching materials (Rudolph, 2003). In 1998, the Indigenous Education Act was enacted as a specific law to promote the development of education for Indigenous people, providing Aborigines with the opportunity to study their languages, histories and cultures as subjects at all levels of education (Chou, 2005). Since 2001, primary school students have been required to take one native language course while these courses were elective for junior high school students until the Aboriginal Language Development Act (原住民族語言發展法) was passed



Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan  75

on 26 May 2017. Since then, national language courses (Hoklo, Hakka and Aboriginal languages) are required at all levels throughout preschool, elementary and high school education (Chung, 2017). The Ministry of Education continues to fund language teachers and Indigenous education, while the CIP funds the accreditation of Indigenous language proficiency tests and training courses. Indigenous studies have also been introduced at a number of universities in Taiwan (Hung, 2013; Pawan, 2004). On paper, the Taiwanese government has made great strides in improving linguistic human rights for the Indigenous peoples. However, Coulthard (2014) suggests that, within a colonial context, state recogni­ tion and accommodation can be used to largely conceal more traditional and overt dominance hierarchies. Cru (2015) also notes that political recog­nition and top-down policies that fail to address larger socio-economic issues are generally ineffective at reversing language shift, and there are many practical issues that continue to hinder the successful revitalization of their languages. These include: (1) limited occasions for speaking Indigenous languages, mainly due to urban migration; (2) the reluctance of parents to teach Indigenous languages, due to perceived lack of respect and utility; (3) parents being unable to speak their own mother language; (4) inconsistent funding affecting In­ digenous language teaching and materials; (5) the pressure of high school and university entrance exams placing more importance on Mandarin and English (Huang, 2011). Moreover, most city schools in Taiwan have not been able to create native language programs due to a lack of qualified teachers, as well as inadequate facilities and resources (Chou, 2005: 7). As such, before investigating the potential application of digital technol­ ogy in grassroots revitalization strategies, it is worth looking at how such technology is already helping to solve a number of problems for urban Aborigines in Taiwan. The Current Role of Digital Technology in Aboriginal Education

Rau and Yang (2007: 114) state that e-learning has the ability to meet individual learning needs and give them access to a wider range of multimedia resources; this is ‘particularly useful for the design of teaching materials for less commonly taught languages and/or endangered languages, since such textbooks are not readily available and are extremely costly to produce’. Accessibility is a necessity, due to the increase in the number of urbanized Aborigines, stemming from limited employment opportunities in rural areas. Recent estimates suggest that as many as half of the Indigenous peoples now reside in urban areas (Huang & Liu, 2016), a trend that is seemingly affecting Indigenous populations worldwide (Peters & Andersen, 2013; Stephens, 2015). Thus, young Aborigines find themselves separated from their cultural roots in environments where immediate access to native speakers and language teachers is increasingly

76  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

difficult. However, digital technology has the potential to create virtual language communities, bringing together speakers and learners who are scattered over great distances (Holton, 2015), as well as to make selfdirected language learning more accessible and effective. The CIP has been instrumental in driving the digital revolution of recognized Formosan languages, with the development of websites like Language Paradise (語言樂園),7 the Indigenous Peoples’ Dictionary,8 which provides online and mobile access to 16 officially recognized languages, a series of Indigenous language e-books,9 the Indigenous Languages Research and Development Centre,10 which updates ‘new’ word-lists in Indigenous languages, and a website for the practice of the Indigenous Language Proficiency Test.11 These websites are highly useful in a country where 80% of the population has access to a smart phone (National Development Council, 2017). Rau and Yang’s (2009) research shows that attitudes towards e-learning is generally positive among younger ­Aborigines but the authors note that their impetus is mainly to prepare for the Proficiency Test, which would enable them to gain an additional 35% bonus points in the Basic Competence Test (a high school entrance examination), part of a government incentive to encourage Indigenous language learning. The lack of intrinsic interest in their own culture is reinforced by deeper sociological problems that urban Indigenous youth face inside city classrooms, which affect both their self-perception and their levels of support in city schools (Chou, 2005). Marginalization in Schools: Cultural Values and Modes of Learning

As in many other countries, Indigenous children in Taiwan often attend schools where no teachers understand their language and where it is not commonly either a subject or a medium of education. This makes the school a key figure in imposing assimilation into the dominant language and culture (Skutnabb-Kangas & ­Phillipson, 2017). Despite the legal gains made by the Indigenous peoples, the reality for many urban Aborigines is very different. Chou (2005) notes that urban Aborigines face a number of obstacles to achieving academic success, including socio-economic inequality, institutionalized racism and teachers being unprepared to work with Indigenous students and misinterpreting different cultural codes as laziness, or lack of interest or ability. Lee et al. (2012) note that Indigenous students have to learn school subjects in a Han Chinese environment, when many have been brought up in another language and with different modes of learning and cultural values. However, Lee et al. (2012) found that incorporating Indigenous knowledge into lessons not only helped to scaffold children’s learning but also increase their interest and pride in their own culture. Educating teachers on the cultural customs and worldviews of Indigenous peoples and incorporating such knowledge into the



Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan  77

curriculum could help to smooth the transition to mainstream education for Aborigines as well as help to educate Han Chinese students about the cultures and perspectives of other ethnic groups they share the island with. In 2013, the Education Act for Indigenous Peoples was revised to require teachers who work in Indigenous areas to complete ethnic culture and multi-culture courses. All levels of government were to comply with the Act within five years (Chen, 2016), though this does not apply to urbanized areas. Studies have shown that Aboriginal students in Taiwan are more inclined to learn visually and kinesthetically, preferring collaborative learning based on group solving, as Aboriginal knowledge is tradition­ ally acquired through participating in hunting, observation, story-telling and other group-related activities, and not by mainstream textbook and examina­tions (Lin, 2007). To help support this process, Samsung Elec­ tronics Taiwan in 2017 partnered with the CIP and National Chengchi University to design a new curriculum that uses digital technology to create immersive and interactive Indigenous language and culture lessons. This allows Aboriginal students to experience aspects of their heritage virtually, using mobile devices to gain first-hand educational ex­periences in a simulated ‘natural’ setting, away from the physical cultural and linguistic center.12 Not only does this make learning more engaging, but potentially appeals to intrinsic cultural modes of learning. However, while much progress has been made in developing Indigenous education materials, not all tribes are able to access such support. Digital Technology in Grassroots Initiatives

Linguistic human rights advocates emphasize the importance of first-language retention and argue that minority languages and speakers should have the same protection and support as majority languages (May, 2012). The Education Act for Indigenous Peoples was enacted in 1997 to safeguard Indigenous rights education, while the Indigenous Peoples Basic Act of 2005 stipulates that the government ‘should provide resources to help Indigenous peoples develop a system of self-governance, formulate policies to protect their basic rights, and promote the preservation and develop­ment of their languages and cultures’ (Hung, 2013). Unfortu­ nately, the Plains Tribes’ Indigenous status was dissolved in 1954 by the ­Kuomintang, and so while some linguistic human rights have been granted to the Mountain Tribes at the national level, they have not yet been extended to the Plains Tribes, who remain a marginalized group within a marginalized group. This prohibits them from accessing the same kind of funding and support for cultural and linguistic development that the recognized tribes are afforded. The CIP is in charge of officially recogniz­ ing the petitioning tribes but efforts to gain recognition for Plains Tribes have been largely ineffective, as a number of criteria are not met. Calls

78  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

for recognition were, for instance, denied on the grounds that Aboriginal status could be granted only to people whose parents were registered as Aboriginal, or that Plains Aborigines should have registered in the 1950s and 1960s (Hung, 2013). Due to cultural and linguistic loss, it has been difficult for Plains Tribes to distinguish themselves from the ethnic Han, particularly without continued use of traditional languages. The refusal to recognize the Indigeneity of the Plains Tribes is arguably a carefully thought-out political strategy that works to the advantage of the Han majority, as develop­ment along the west coast could be disrupted following any potential land rights claims by Plains Tribes (Chandran, 2018; Chen, 1998; Yang, 2015). The ‘erasure’ of the Indigenous peoples of the United States due to the establishment of a largely bi-racial system of black and white has been pointed out by Hall (2008: 275), who argues that ‘blackness is assumed to subsume any other ancestry on the one hand while In­ digeneity must be documented and quantified to exist on the other’. Hall (2008: 275) claims that the ruling white class has ‘­historically benefited from expanding the class of people considered property, and restricting the class of people holding property rights through treaty agreements’, erasing the political obligations owed to Indigenous peoples. Despite this erasure, some Plains Tribes like the Siraya have fought hard to reclaim both their language and their identity. Siraya is considered a ‘dormant language’ in that, although it is no longer used for daily life, there is an ethnic community that associates itself with it and views it as a symbol of that community’s identity (Simons & Fennig, 2017). Along with Kavalan, Siraya is one of the bestdescribed Plains languages, and is Taiwan’s oldest written language (Adelaar, 2007): when traders from the Dutch East India Company came into contact with the Siraya, the Formosan language was adopted as the major contact language, and the linguist and missionary Daniel Gravius translated the Gospel of St Matthew and the Heidelberg Catechism into the Siraya language in 1661–62. This survives along with a Dutch–Siraya word-list (the Utrecht manuscript) and a number of other documents (the Sinckan manuscripts) to form the foundation upon which Dutch linguist Alexander Adelaar (1997, 2004, 2007) reconstructed the grammar. Despite lacking government support at the national level, the Siraya community is highly motivated and its members have been working diligently to reconstruct and revive their lost language. Local support for their cause has also been high, with Tainan County acknowledging the official status of the Siraya on a provincial level in 2006, while Tainan City has also been proactive in promoting Siraya culture and language, and has even pushed to incorporate Siraya-language courses into the local educa­ tional system in 13 elementary schools. The city government also plans to provide Siraya announcements on buses, ‘bringing the Siraya language into daily life and making Tainan’s Indigenous culture more accessible’, thus contributing to prestige planning.13 The Tainan Ping-pu Siraya



Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan  79

Culture Association (TPSCA) (台南縣平埔族西拉雅文化協會) was established in 1999 and has been campaigning for official recognition and working systematically on small-scale language revitalization (Adelaar, 2012: 12; Huang, 2010), researching, developing and publishing language primers and dictionaries (2002–08), as well as holding cultural and linguistic summer camps (2009). Evans (2001) considers the linguist a key figure in language communi­ ties that lack fluent speakers and Adelaar has been working alongside the community as a linguistic consultant in corpus planning, taking part in a 2012 Siraya Language Symposium,14 which included discussions on the layout of a Siraya grammar book, issues regarding Siraya syntax, how to standardize a corpus with dialectal differences, strategies for restoring the language, and the applicability of Siraya spelling conventions to new materials. The need to have a standardized orthography is also becoming ever more important with Indigenous languages being increasingly used via online text-based media. The TPSCA recently released much of its language documentation work online via its own website,15 which contains over 700 example phrases/sentences of daily life, 50 verbs and their con­ jugation patterns with example sentences, an online dictionary, a song, and a game for matching up Siraya words and their Chinese equivalents. There are also 10 e-booklets that form an introductory language course, with simple texts covering basic aspects of Siraya grammar, cultural refer­ ences, everyday language such as greetings, and a wealth of vocabulary covering semantic fields like family, animals, body parts and the home. However, the website has very little in terms of grammatical explanation, few interactive exercises and very little multimedia; for instance, there are no accompanying audio recordings, which can provide richer sources for studying and accurately reproducing phonology and prosody, and inter­ actional contexts when compared with text alone (Eisenlohr, 2004). This is a real hindrance and highlights that fact that focusing solely on writing in acquisition planning restricts opportunities to become conversational in the language, which is typically how culturally specific modes of In­ digenous language teaching and socialization are carried out (Taff, 1997). However, video-calls via Skype or Facebook, for example, can aid in this, as they greatly facilitate face-to-face communication despite physical distance separating speakers. Although online multimedia courses can be quite effective for distance learning, a lot of scaffolding needs to be in place so that effective, self-directed progression can occur. A good model for making a more comprehensive learning tool is the online Yami (Orchid Island, Taiwan) course developed by linguist Victoria Rau and hosted by Providence University (Taichung, Taiwan).16 The course is divided into beginner, intermediate and advanced sections, with each section further divided into a range of lessons based around topics like ‘greetings’ and ‘family’. They incorporate real dialogues with audio files, a detailed breakdown of the

80  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

main grammar points introduced in the dialogue, and a range of activi­ ties to practice alone or as part of a class. This is a sophisticated course complete with authentic multimedia and detailed pedagogical support, which obviously took time to develop and build. While not everyone has the means to do this, there are a number of companies that produce free online templates to quickly build resources without needing any computer coding knowledge. One example is ACORNS,17 downloadable software with which language teachers can create lessons via templates that include matching images to written and spoken audio, multiple-choice questions, story-book lessons, drag-and-drop activities, flash cards, fill in the blanks, and so on. The company 7000 Languages trains endangeredlanguage communities to use online tools and develop courses, and ownership rights of the content are retained by the community (Little, 2017). Other free online software includes Bloom18 for building free mono­ lingual or bilingual e-books, Forvo.com for building and maintaining free online dictionaries with accompanying audio files, and Anki, which is a popular personalized flashcard app for learning vocabulary. Authentic language materials in the form of interactive lessons, digital story-books and printable books can even be developed through Microsoft Office programs, such as PowerPoint, Excel and Publisher (Galla, 2009). Digital technology therefore allows tribes like the Siraya to take control of their own resource development and language learning, without having to rely on the financial support of the government. Despite having created a good number of digital resources, the Siraya community itself does not seem to have a strong online presence. However, the internet offers many possibilities for self-determination and self-­representation, where minority groups have the freedom to construct their own identities on their own terms (Zurawski, 1996). Stern (2017), for example, shows how a Balinese language Facebook group is continually reinforcing its local identity by using the language despite standard Indo­ nesian being the norm in official policies, school practices and even within families. This exemplifies how subversive language use can occur away from physical spheres of influence and interference, but it also highlights how technology and media are not tied to a home community (Schreyer, 2011: 410), and therefore have great potential for connecting communities affected by migration and separated by great physical distances. There are additional issues with learning a dormant language like Siraya, including having no fluent speakers, little or no original sound recordings or original linguistic material from which to work from (Amery, 2016). Nevertheless, digital technology can offer new ways to help solve these issues. Creating New Arenas for Language Revitalization

May (2012) argues that a historically associated language is not a necessary marker of identity (e.g. the loss of Irish), but Huang et al. (2013)



Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan  81

emphasize that Siraya identity is tightly bound to the heritage language as it occupies a particularly important legal position for Plains Tribes: they are Indigenous peoples without an official status in their own country, as their government considers their language extinct and, by associ­ation, their culture and their ‘race’. The fact that the government has described the Siraya language as ‘dead’ is essentially a political matter. There have been, and continue to be, numerous attempts to reclaim, relearn and revive Indigenous languages, with linguistic communities making great strides in South Australia (e.g. Diyari, Barngarla and Kaurna), and in the United States (e.g. Esselen and Huron) among others (Amery, 2016), and the successful linguistic revitalization of ‘dead’ languages with government backing has been seen with languages like Hebrew and Cornish. However, revitalizing a dormant language is not a simple task. Adelaar (2013) points out that there were many issues related to corpus planning (Ferguson, 2006) and that some of the Siraya data needed ‘engineering’ before they could be used for revitalization purposes, such as recognizing the schwa as an independent phoneme, resolving issues with the ‘voice’ suffixes,19 and combining vocabularies from different source dialects. However, Adelaar notes that the Siraya language revivalists in the community have taken a number of active approaches, such as simplifying the grammar when descriptions were inadequate, while also trying to maintain as much authenticity as possible (Adelaar, 2013; see also Amery, 2016). One thing seemingly absent from the discussion is the potential emergence of linguistic innovations as survival strategies for the continu­ ity of the language. Learners of Hawai’ian, for example, have stressed the need to develop original materials that reflected their own culture, per­ spective and reality, which included updating and expanding the Hawaiian lexicon, as their language had stagnated due to years of op­ pression (­Warschauer et al., 1997: 352). While much has been written about how technology can revitalize (or accelerate the abandonment of) minority languages (Buszard-Welcher, 2001; Eisenlohr, 2004), very little of it has discussed its potential for dormant languages. In recent years, there has been an increase in the appearance of minority languages on social media sites like Facebook, and Kral (2015) shows that processes of learning via this medium is enabling Indigenous youth in Australia to foster linguistic creativity and lexical modernization, resulting in the emergence of hybrid and creative language forms and practices, and non-standard structures. Indeed, Zuckermann (2009) claims that one should expect languages that have been successfully revived to show some form of hybridization. Kral (2015) therefore suggests that we need to examine language learning from the angle of fostering new environments that invigorate minority language use for those who have minimal access to language-learning resources. The internet provides an arena in which such linguistic innovations can take place and Buszard-Welcher (2001: 336) states that endangeredlanguage websites that have features that require real language use, such as

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email lists, bulletin board discussions and live chats, tend to produce the most innovative content. Although this may be a relatively new and un­ explored phenomenon in the revitalization of dormant languages, within the realm of ‘constructed’ or ‘planned’ languages – that is, those that are artificially invented for a variety of purposes, such as Polish linguist L.L. Zamenhof’s Esperanto (an international auxiliary language) or Dothraki (an aesthetic language for a fictional world) – continual linguistic innova­ tion within a language community is a well documented phenomenon. Tonkin (2015) states that, for Zamenhof, status planning involved an emphasis on Esperanto’s ownership by its linguistic community, in that he envisioned all speakers collectively contributing to the planning of the language. Indeed, this seems to be a natural extension of language learning and linguistic creativity, as, when new communities of speakers form around these languages, linguistic changes and modifications naturally occur to fit the needs and desires of the speakers and, 130 years after its creation, much of the vocabulary of Esperanto has been crafted by the speakers themselves and not by the original creator (Tonkin, 2015: 196). In some cases, entire offshoots of the original language occur due to perceived deficiencies in the original; one of the first documented auxiliary languages, Volapük (1879–80), saw a number of language factions splinter off to form derived languages like Nal Bino, Balta, Bopal, Spelin, Dil and Orba (Peterson, 2015). The same inevitable linguistic evolution occurred in J.R.R. Tolkien’s elvish languages, Quenya and Sindarin, used in his Lord of the Rings trilogy. Although a basic grammar and phonology of Sindarin was published in the appendices of his novels, these were developed through two journals dedicated to Tolkien’s constructed languages: Parma Eldalamberon (1971–2007) and Vinyar Tengwar (1988– 2013). A more detailed phonological and morphological description of Sindarin was published by linguist David Salo (2004), and the languages have been built upon by the wider fan base, who refer to these modified forms as Neo-Quenya and Neo-Sindarin in order to distinguish them from Tolkien’s original corpus. More recently, the minimalist language Toki Pona, famous for its very limited vocabulary (120 base nouns), has an active Facebook community that regularly discusses and collaborates in the creation of new vocabulary by democratically voting on suitable compound noun-phrases via interactive polls, as the screenshot in Figure 5.1 exemplifies. Peterson (2015: 15) states that ‘a key feature of some of the best [constructed] languages … is that they changed crucially as a result of contact with the community’ who are enthusiastic, motivated, and are able to be creative with and contribute to the development of these languages through their deep understanding of the grammar. The potential links between the language planning strategies employed by created-language communities and those involved in natural-language revitalization have been pointed out by both Tomkin (215) and Schreyer (2011: 404, 412); the latter notes that both communities typically have a



Indigenous Language Education in Taiwan  83

Figure 5.1  Collaborative word creation via group polling in the Toki Pona Facebook group, 27 December 2017

small number of speakers (most of whom are not native speakers), often scattered around the globe and physically isolated from one another, and lacking official recognition. They therefore heavily rely on the internet as the main medium with which to practice and perform these languages. Schreyer (2011) also provides many examples of fan-created content from speakers of Na’vi and Klingon, who have digitally developed everything from reference grammars and dictionaries to translations of Shakespeare in these fictional languages. There are also more than 25,000 Esperanto books, containing both original compositions as well as translations. Created-language communities therefore seem to be highly successful in utilizing new forms of social media and information technologies in the development of their languages’ acquisition, prestige and image planning. Tomkin (2015) argues that a community that adopts either a created language or a dormant language will (initially) always comprise imperfect speakers and therefore all three forms of language planning – corpus, status, acquisition – must be applied simultaneously. This highlights the importance for Siraya to have more detailed linguistic information readily available online: by understanding grammatical structures and morphol­ ogy, speakers are able to recognize and break down words to create new words using correct morphological processes, as has been seen with learners of Wergaia, a dormant Aboriginal language of Australia (Reid, 2010).

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Along with new forums for e-communication, digital technology offers improved possibilities for the creation and sharing of new linguis­ tic content, which is a key strategy in developing constructed/planned languages. One simple way to develop free resources in Siraya could simply be to write and translate Wikipedia articles, a strategy that has been successfully carried out by Aragonese (Spain) volunteers, who have written over 25,000 Wiki articles in their native tongue (Scannell, 2011), which are both access­ible and easy to share. With 13 primary schools now teaching the Siraya language in Tainan, shared-network capabilities like Google Drive could be established for teachers to create and exchange language lessons and activities across schools to develop and share cur­ ricular materials, which could then be uploaded online for other learners. Online forums and social media sites like Facebook potentially provide the perfect arena in which language use and evolution could take place. Although modern structures, vocabulary and ideas can potentially dilute the authenticity and cultural values of minority languages (Hinton & Ahlers, 1999), online language communities have been shown to be highly effective at self-regulating via the use of peer pressure and peer modeling (Stern, 2017). I believe these strategies have great potential for Siraya, which is in particular need of the (virtual) space to bypass official barriers that hinder language planning, and to allow the language to be reinvigorated and shaped by a new generation of speakers. This undoubtedly outweighs the fear of ‘corrupting’ the authenticity of a language that has already been largely reconstructed. Conclusion

Technology has largely been used to increase the prestige of Indigen­ ous languages and to ‘modernize’ them, yet the potential for digital technology to bypass political and financial roadblocks and to regenerate dormant languages like Siraya has not received the same attention. This chapter hopefully shows that the fight for linguistic human rights does not need to be so fierce when good-quality support for language learning and development is widely available and at minimal cost. Moreover, digital forums now provide new arenas in which linguistic innovation and rejuvenation of dormant languages can take place, unhindered by the physical distance between members of a language community. However, there needs to be an adequate amount of scaffolding in place in order to maximize its effectiveness, and communities should therefore: (1) consult teachers to help develop high-quality pedagogical materials to aid in online language learning; (2) increase the amount of audio-visual multimedia available online so that the spoken language can be modeled, practiced and performed within simulated social contexts; (3) develop and publish a more comprehensive and user-friendly grammatical and morphological breakdown of the language online, so that language learners can better



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understand the process of word formation, and so be more actively creative with the language; (4) encourage the continued development of original language resources in order to build up a corpus of new linguistic material (e.g. translations, e-books, short stories and poems), which can be published and disseminated online; (5) create, nurture and maintain online forums and social media for language development, discussion and regular use to occur and flourish. New apps, e-books and games alone are not enough to save minority languages: it is the commitment of community members to their cause that will ultimately decide whether a language thrives or disappears entirely. What is clear, however, is that with modern technological advancements, there are many new, exciting and subversive ways for linguistic minority communities to organize themselves, develop resources and forums to revitalize their languages and cultures, and be seen and heard on a global scale. Notes   (1) See https://amis.moedict.tw (accessed 6 August 2019).   (2) See https://oklahoman.com/article/5577840/through-technology-the-osage-seek-to-save-­ their-language (accessed 15 July 2019).  (3) See https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/hamilton/mohawk-language-app-1.4407431 (ac­ cessed 15 July 2019).   (4) See https://www.pqbnews.com/news/more-than-a-dozen-sd69-classes-learning-firstnations-language (ac­cessed 15 July 2019).   (5) See http://neveralonegame.com (ac­cessed 15 July 2019).   (6) See additional articles, article 10, of the constitution at https://english.president.gov. tw/Page/95 (accessed 15 July 2019).   (7) See https://web.klokah.tw (accessed 15 July 2019).   (8) See https://e-dictionary.apc.gov.tw (accessed 15 July 2019).   (9) See https://alilin.apc.gov.tw/tw (accessed 15 July 2019). (10) See http://ilrdc.tw (accessed 15 July 2019). (11) See http://lokahsu.org.tw (accessed 15 July 2019). (12) See https://news.samsung.com/global/samsung-launches-digital-learning-program-tohelp-preserve-taiwans-indigenous-languages-and-cultures (accessed 15 July 2019). (13) See Tainan City’s Siraya Cultural Festival, https://web.tainan.gov.tw/Nation/News_ Content.aspx?n=936&s=5778 (accessed 15 July 2019). (14) See http://sia-taiwan.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/siraya-language-symposium.html (ac­ cessed 15 July 2019). (15) See http://www.sirayatw.org (accessed 15 July 2019). (16) See http://yamiproject.cs.pu.edu.tw/elearn (accessed 15 July 2019). (17) See http://cs.sou.edu/~harveyd/acorns (accessed 15 July 2019). (18) See https://bloomlibrary.org/landing (accessed 15 July 2019). (19) The ‘voice’ system is a grammatical feature typical of many Formosan languages, whereby the semantic role of the subject (typically actor, patient, location or instru­ ment) is marked on the verb, while the grammatical subject is marked syntactically via case marking.

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Evans, N. (2001) The last speaker is dead – long live the last speaker! In P. Newman and M. Ratliff (eds) Linguistic Fieldwork (pp. 250–281). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ferguson, G. (2006) Language Planning and Education. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Galla, C. (2009) Indigenous language revitalization and technology: From traditional to contemporary domains. In J. Reyhner and L. Lockard (eds) Indigenous Language Revitalization: Encouragement, Guidance, and Lessons Learned (pp. 167–183). Flagstaff, AZ: Northern Arizona University Press. Hall, L.K. (2008) Strategies of erasure: US colonialism and native Hawaiian feminism. American Quarterly 60 (2), 273–280. Hinton, L. and Ahlers, J. (1999) The issue of ‘authenticity’ in California language restora­ tion. Anthropology and Education Quarterly 30 (1), 56–67. Holton, G. (2015) The role of information technology in supporting minority and en­ dangered languages. In P. Austin and J. Sallabank (eds) The Cambridge Handbook of Endangered Languages (pp. 371–399). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Huang, C. (2010) Language revitalization and identity politics: An examination of Siraya reclamation in Taiwan. PhD thesis, University of Florida. Huang, C., Macapili, E.L. and Talavan, U. (2013) Heritage linguistics and language activism: A conversation with the Siraya, paper presented at the 3rd International Conference on Language Documentation and Conservation (ICLDC). Available at http://hdl.handle. net/10125/26136 (accessed 15 July 2019). Huang, M.J. (2011) Training of indigenous language teachers in Taiwan: Past and future [灣原住民族語師資培育之回顧與展望]. Journal of Taiwanese Languages and Litera­ ture [台灣語文研究], 6(1), 69–114. Available at http://www.uijin.idv.tw/tlls/jtll/ abstract/6.1-5.pdf (accessed 12 February 2018). Huang, S-M. and Liu, S-H. (2016) Discrimination and incorporation of Taiwanese indigen­ ous Austronesian peoples. Asian Ethnicity 17 (2), 294–312. Hung, W.J. (2013) Macro and micro contexts, forces and challenges for Indigenous language education at elementary schools in Taiwan. Asia Pacific Journal of Educational Development (APJED) 2 (2), 13–22. Kral, I. (2015) Pedagogy or practice? Indigenous youth and language maintenance in and out of school settings. Paper presented at the 4th International Conference on Language Documentation and Conservation (ICLDC), 26 February–1 March, Honolulu, Hawai’i. Available at http://hdl.handle.net/10125/25386 (accessed 15 July 2019). Lee, H., Yen, C.F. and Aikenhead, G.S. (2012) Indigenous elementary students’ science instruction in Taiwan: Indigenous knowledge and western science. Research in Science Education 42 (6), 1183–1199. Lin, C. (2007) E-learning strategies for aboriginal children in Taiwan. International Journal of Learning 14 (6), 153–160. Little, A.N. (2017) Connecting documentation and revitalization: A new approach to language apps. In A. Arppe et al. (eds) Proceedings of the 2nd Workshop on the Use of Computational Methods in the Study of Endangered Languages (pp. 151–155). Stroudsburg, PA: Association for Computational Linguistics. May, S. (2012) Language and Minority Rights: Ethnicity, Nationalism and the Politics of Language. London: Routledge. McCarty, T.L. (2018) Community-based language planning. In L. Hinston et al. (eds) The Routledge Handbook of Language Revitalization. London: Routledge. Available at https://www.routledgehandbooks.com/doi/10.4324/9781315561271-4 (accessed 20 August 2018). National Development Council (2017) 2017 Individual/Household Digital Opportunity Survey in Taiwan: Executive Summary. Available at https://ws.ndc.gov.tw (accessed 4 January 2018). Pawan, C. (2004) Indigenous language education in Taiwan. In W.Y. Leonard and S.E.B.

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Gardner (eds) Language Is Life: Proceedings of the 11th Annual Stabilizing Indigenous Languages Conference (pp. 26–33). Available at http://linguistics. berkeley.edu/~survey/ documents/survey-reports/ survey-report-14.01-leonard-hinton.pdf [accessed 8 February 2018). Penfield, S.D., Cash, P., Galla, C.K., Williams, T. and ShadowWalker, D. (eds) (2006) Technology-Enhanced Language revitalization. Available at http://aildi.arizona.edu/ sites/default/files/technology_manual_2006.pdf (accessed 4 February 2018). Peters, E. and Andersen, C. (eds) (2013) Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Peterson, D.J. (2015) The Art of Language Invention: From Horse-Lords to Dark Elves, the Words Behind World-Building. Basingstoke: Penguin. Rau, D.V. and Yang, M-C. (2007) E-learning in endangered language documentation and revitalization. In D. Rau, V. Foley and M. Foley (eds) Documenting and Revitalizing Austronesian Languages (pp. 111–133). Hawai’i: University of Hawai’i Press. Rau, D.V. and Yang, M-C. (2009) Digital transmission of language and culture. In M. Florey (ed.) Language Endangerment and Maintenance in the Austronesian Region (pp. 207–224). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Reid, J. (2010) The rebirth of Wergaia: A collaborative effort. In J. Hobson et al. (eds) Re-awakening Languages: Theory and Practice in the Revitalisation of Australia’s Indigenous Languages (pp. 240–252). Sydney: Sydney University Press. Rudolph, M. (2003) The quest for difference versus the wish to assimilate: Taiwan’s Aborigi­ nes and their struggle for cultural survival in times of multiculturalism. In Religion and the Formation of Taiwanese Identities (pp. 123–155). New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Salo, D. (2004) A Gateway to Sindarin. Salt Lake City, UT: University of Utah Press. Scannell, K. (2011) Language revitalization through free software: The case of Aragonese. Blog entry, 6 December, at http://indigenoustweets.blogspot.com/2011/12/languagerevitalization-through-free.html (accessed 19 January 2017). Schreyer, C. (2011) Media, information technology and language planning: What can endangered language communities learn from created language communities? Current Issues in Language Planning 12 (3), 403–425. Simons, G.F. and Fennig, C.D. (eds) (2017) Ethnologue: Languages of the World (20th edn). Dallas, TS: SIL International. Online version available at https://www.ethnologue.com (accessed 15 July 2019). Skutnabb-Kangas, T. (2015) Language rights. In W.E. Wright, S. Boun and O. García (eds) The Handbook of Bilingual and Multilingual Education. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. doi 10.1002/9781118533406.ch11. Skutnabb-Kangas, T. and Dunbar, R. (2010) Indigenous children’s education as linguistic genocide and a crime against humanity? A global view. Gáldu Čála – Journal of Indigenous Peoples Rights, 1. Available at https://www.afn.ca/uploads/files/education2/ indigenouschildrenseducation.pdf (accessed 15 July 2019). Skutnabb-Kangas, T. and Phillipson, R. (2017) Linguistic human rights, past and present. In T. Skutnabb-Kangas and R. Phillipson (eds) Language Rights (pp. 28–67). London: Routledge. Stephens, C. (2015) The indigenous experience of urbanization. State of the world’s mi­ norities and indigenous peoples. In P. Grant (ed.) State of the World’s Minorities 2015 (pp. 54–61). London: Minority Rights Group International. Stern, A.J. (2017) How Facebook can revitalise local languages: lessons from Bali. Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development 38 (9), 788–796. Avalable at https:// www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/01434632.2016.1267737 (accessed 15 July 2019). Taff, A. (1997) Learning ancestral languages by telephone: Creating situations for language use. In J. Reyhner (ed.) Teaching Indigenous Languages (pp. 40–45). Flagstaff, AZ: Northern Arizona University.



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6 ‘Manx? That Was Never a Real Language!’ Robert Teare

Manx, the traditional language of the Isle of Man, was not recognized as a cultural asset or promoted by the Isle of Man government until 1985, by when the status of the language was so low that efforts to support it were typically met by the Manx people themselves with dismissive comments such as ‘Manx? That was never a real language!’ However, Manx has since seen both a substantial growth in the number of speakers and wider recog­nition; in particular, it gained Part II protection under the European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages in 2003. This chapter illu­ strates how the Isle of Man government’s recognition of the cultural and economic worth of Manx has enabled the language to grow and for Manx to be seen as a ‘real language’ once more. It analyses the linguistically and culturally relevant pedagogical activities taking place today. Introduction

The Isle of Man, 52 km long and 22 km wide at its widest point, is situated in the Irish Sea, almost equidistant from Scotland, England, Ireland and Wales. Among a number of peculiarities associated with the island, such as its three-leg emblem flag, tailless cats, four-horned sheep and highly dangerous motorcycle races, is its native language, Manx, also known as Manx Gaelic, Manks, Gaelg or Ghailck. Although Manx is by no means safe and secure, it has at least taken a step back from the cliffedge leading to extinction. The last native speaker is said to have died in 1974 (Broderick, 1999; Murphy, 2018) and yet, in the most recent census (2015), the number of self-reported speakers had jumped to 1800. There may not be any other example among the threatened languages of Europe of such a reversal of fortunes. Manx was not even recognized as a cultural asset or promoted by the Isle of Man government until a resolution to do so was passed in 1985. The resolution was proposed by Charles Cain MHK, but the motion that supported the bill could not be framed in terms of linguistic human rights, as by 1985 the island had maintained compulsory English-medium education for over a century and there were 90



‘Manx? That Was Never a Real Language!’  91

no native speakers left. Instead, rights were claimed for the language itself, Cain asking that the legislature ‘give the language what is its rightful due: respect and recognition as the historic tongue of the Island, without which we would be immeasurably poorer’. At that time, the status of the language was so low that, as Stowell records, efforts to support the language were typically met by Manx people themselves with dismissive comments such as ‘Manx? That was never a real language!’ (Stowell, 2005). However, since 1985, Manx has seen both substantial growth in the number of speakers and wider recognition; in particular, it gained Part II protection under the European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages in 2001.1 To give a feel for the context of Manx, this chapter gives an overview of the history of the language as well as a personal history of involvement in the revival movement, to show how the Isle of Man government’s recognition of the cultural and economic worth of Manx has enabled the language to become accepted as a ‘real language’ once more. It assesses the position of the language today, presents the Isle of Man government’s stated plans to protect the language going forward, and looks at how those working for the language have devised curricula, courses, schemes of work, assessment and accreditation suitable for such a small language. History of the Language

Manx is a Celtic language, a Goidelic sister language to Irish and Scottish Gaelic (Claque, 2007; Maddrell, 2002), with common roots in Middle Irish. The earliest records of Goidelic language on the Isle of Man are in the form of ogham inscriptions dating from as early as the 5th century ad. Manx is closer to Modern Irish in its pronunciation, perhaps more similar to Modern Scottish Gaelic in its grammar and vocabulary, but not immediately intelligible to either. It is not clear exactly when Manx, Irish and Scottish Gaelic began to develop as separate languages. When political, legal, economic and cultural forces contrived to standard­ ize and promulgate a standard form of English in the British Isles from at least the mid-15th century onwards, Gaelic and Gaelic speakers in Ireland and Scotland were frequently discriminated against. Policies put in place by the Anglophone rulers of Scotland and Ireland in the 16th and 17th centuries focused on driving Gaelic and its speakers out of the south-west of Scotland and then the north-east of Ireland, thus driving a geo­political wedge between the speakers of the dialects that became Irish and the dialects that became Scottish Gaelic. Up until the 14th century, all three Goidelic languages had absorbed vocabulary items from similar sources: Latin (church, religious, legal, calendar), Norse (legal, maritime, military) and Anglo-Norman (legal, military, executive). From 1346 onwards, the Isle of Man was ruled by English-speaking lords and their administrators, and came into increasing

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contact with the north-west of England. Church administration in the Isle of Man came under the Anglican Archbishop of York in 1542, and perhaps because the ruling Stanley family themselves were suspected of sympathies to Roman Catholicism, the imposition of the Anglican Church upon the Manx was not met with any significant recorded resistance and the number of Roman Catholics among the general population remained negligible until the 19th century. At the same time as cultural and geopolitical factors were separating Manx from the other Goidelic dialects, the economy of the Isle of Man was coming into increasing contact with the English-speaking economy (Ager, 2009). From the 17th century, the trade and prosperity of the mostly English-speaking ports of the Irish Sea that surround the Isle of Man (Liverpool, Whitehaven, Dublin and Belfast) grew, and Manx merchants began to make good use of the independent status of the Isle of Man. The differing import regulations, taxes and duties on trade allowed the Manx to operate what was known as ‘the running trade’: buying goods in bulk from Continental Europe to sell on to passing ships and the Englishspeaking communities surrounding the island. As late as the early 17th century, although Goidelic dialects differed greatly from the south of Ireland to the north of Scotland, there was a literary standard and the various dialects were usually considered to con­ stitute a single language, known as ‘Gaelic’, ‘Erse’ or ‘Irish’ in English. We can surmise that the closest dialects to the Manx dialect were those spoken in the geographically closest regions of Scotland (Galloway) and Ireland (Down and Antrim). Although exact dates are unclear, the Goidelic dialect of Galloway had ceased to be the community language in the towns of Galloway by the end of the 16th century. Also in Ireland, from 1606 in Down and Antrim, and from 1609 in most of the rest of Ulster, there was a large-scale displacement of Goidelic speakers by English speakers, known as the ‘Plantation of Ulster’. From that time on, the regions where Goidelic languages remained extant ebbed away from the Isle of Man like a re­ treating tide, and so, without an orthography shared with other Goidelic dialects, a common religious liturgy, common protocols for creating new words or dealing with loanwords, and without the close proximity of a wider support network in either Galloway or Ulster, it is not surprising that Manx continued to develop as a separate language. Manx had already diverged significantly from Classical Gaelic by the early 17th century, when Church authorities saw a need to translate the Church of England’s Book of Common Prayer into Manx. This work was completed around 1610, by Bishop Phillips, the Anglican bishop of the island. Phillips, a native of Wales, used a unique orthography for Manx. Although the first book printed in any Goidelic language, Séon Carsuel’s Foirm na n-Urrnuidheadh (1557), had set a Latin-based standard for both Irish and Scottish Gaelic orthographies, Phillips was either unaware of its existence or deemed it unsuitable for Manx. Phillips based his



‘Manx? That Was Never a Real Language!’  93

consonantism on English, and his system for vowels on ‘Continental’ values, thereby cutting literary links with the two Goidelic sister languages. Contemporaries of Phillips were not impressed with his orthography, and by the end of the 17th century a new orthographical standard had emerged, which, although it had very different vowel values, preserved most of Phillips’s consonant values, and maintained a similar distance to Classical Gaelic as had the Phillips orthography. There are no records of any subsequent sustained efforts to make use of an orthography similar to that of either Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Because of the substantial losses caused by the running trade to the British Treasury, the island was brought under direct rule by the British Crown in 1765. From that time on, English became the sole language of administration in the island and as the use of English became more wide­ spread among the islanders (Belchem, 2000), the usage of Manx began to decline, increasingly so as the Isle of Man became a tourist destination for workers from the industrial cities of northern England from the 1830s onwards. When the first published dictionary of Manx appeared in 1835, the author, Archibald Cregeen, wrote in the foreword: ‘I am well aware that the utility of the following work will be variously appreciated by my brother Manksmen. Some will be disposed to deride the endeavour to restore vigour to a decaying language.’ In 1872, the Isle of Man enacted the 1870 Westminster Elementary Education Act, which made primary education through the medium of English compulsory for the island’s children (Claque, 2009). The decline of the language continued into the 20th century, with only 529 respond­ ents (1.1% of the population) reported as speaking the language in the 1931 census. In the early post-war years, with the support of the Irish Folklore Commission, recordings were made of the last nine remaining native speakers, the last of whom, a retired fisherman called Ned Madrell, died in 1974. By this time, even the number of speakers who had learnt Manx as a second language had dwindled to perhaps as few as a couple of hundred, and not all of them lived in the Isle of Man. This was probably the lowest point in the history of the Manx language. In this chapter I try to explain as best I can how Manx defied the odds against its survival, and to give an account of the current challenges for the language, and share with you our strategies for the future survival. The next section is a reminiscence of my own involvement with the revival of Manx, and some of the amazing people who have worked so hard to enable it. Profile of a Revivalist – My Story

I was born in 1967 and brought up in the Isle of Man. I first knew of a language called Manx when I was about eight years old. A teacher called Phil Kelly at the primary school I attended was teaching children basic

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Manx phrases during lunchtimes. Of course, I also remember hearing Manx words, which I probably thought were English dialect words, seeing Manx on road signs and house names, and I even remember my maternal great-grandfather speaking Manx to his sheepdog. I learnt nothing about the language in school, and I don’t remember any of the teaching staff ever mentioning it, except for Phil Kelly. I don’t even remember any of the news surrounding the publication of Douglas Faragher’s English–Manx Dictionary in 1979, a monumental piece of work that greatly assisted much of the subsequent revival efforts. I didn’t really come across anyone trying to teach the language until I was 18 and had left school, when I discovered an audio-cassette course for the language called Abbyr Shen! Abbyr Shen! was written and produced by Brian Stowell in 1986, and published by Manx Radio, the Isle of Man’s national radio station. Pro­ duction of the course had been enabled by the Isle of Man government’s ‘Manx Heritage Year 1986’ project. I listened to the cassettes and studied the handbook, and subsequently found out that a man called Freddy Cowell was teaching the language to anyone who was interested. I was interested, but at that age there were too many other distractions, and although I attended a few classes I hadn’t progressed very far by the time I was 20, moved to London and then, after studying and travelling for a number of years, ended up living in Japan. In mid-1992 the government had appointed Brian Stowell as Manx Language Officer. Brian’s brief was to provide lessons in Manx to any children whose parents wanted their children to learn it. A letter asking parents to indicate whether they would like their children to learn the language received many more positive responses than anticipated. Brian had to recruit two teachers, one of whom was Phil Kelly. It was decided that weekly 30-minute classes would be provided to children in primary school from age 7 to 11, and extracurricular lessons would be provided to secondary school pupils. I first met Brian in 1995. Brian had learned Manx in the 1950s from the last generation of native speakers, but had spent most of his working life in England as a professor of nuclear physics. Brian said he had been studying and campaigning for Manx since he was 17. He told me how older people had mocked his efforts, the stock phrases being ‘Manx? That was never a real language!’ and ‘It’ll never earn you a penny!’, and how many in the government and the schools had told him teaching the language to children was a waste of time. Brian clearly cared deeply for the language, was determined that it would not die and believed that a revival was possible. He passed on to me all the learning material he could spare, including his own copy of J.J. Keen’s 1938 English–Manx ­Dictionary, and suggested names of other speakers who might be willing to help me learn, including Freddy Cowell and Phil Kelly. Besides J.J. Kneen’s English– Manx Dictionary and Abbyr Shen!, the principal learning materials available at the time consisted of E. Goodwin’s



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First Lessons in Manx, a grammar-based series of lessons first published in 1901, J. Kelly’s two works A Practical Grammar of the Ancient Gaelic or Language of the Isle of Man, Usually Called Manks (1803) and Fockleyr Gailckagh as Baarlagh (1866), A. Cregeen’s A Dictionary of the Manks Language (1838), B. Stowell’s Bunneydys: A Course in Spoken Manx (1974), R.L. Thomson’s Lessoonyn Sodjey sy Ghailck Vanninagh: Further Lesssons in Manx Gaelic (1981) and J. Gell’s Conversational Manx (1984). On subsequent visits I also studied with Leslie Quirk, a fluent speaker who had introduced Eamon De Valera to native speakers when he visited the island in 1948, and John Crellin, also a fluent speaker since the 1940s, who had served as a gunner on a destroyer in the Battle of the Atlantic and at the D-Day landings at Omaha Beach. Leslie and Juan taught me the language immersion style, by talking me through actions and discuss­ ing the environment around them. I spent time with them helping in the garden, making tea and coffee, and reminiscing. I also attended classes run by three groups: Banglane Twoaie, Caarjyn ny Gaelgey and Yn Çheshaght Ghailckagh. The style of lessons varied greatly, from traditional transla­ tion and grammar-based lessons to communicative, role-playing and story-based lessons. Of course, by this time, Manx was also becoming increasingly accessible online, with searchable dictionaries, the entire Manx version of the Bible, collections of ballads, stories, sermons, hymns, grammar notes and lessons. In 1999, I attended the centenary celebration of Yn Çheshaght ­Ghailckagh which drew together speakers and learners from around the island. Almost all the known speakers were there, but I counted no more than 60 truly fluent speakers. It was also attended by the Chief Minister, the President of Tynwald and the Minister for Education, who, while not speakers themselves, recognized the importance to the island of doing something for the language. Some of the younger speakers, such as Phil Gawne, were involved in the push to establish Manx-medium education, while others helped with evening classes and ‘Oieghyn Gaelgagh’ – social evenings for speakers. Phil Gawne and his wife Annie Kissack were instrumental in setting up Manx-medium ‘Mooinjer Veggey’ (‘Little People’) play-groups for pre-school children around the island in the late 1990s. Phil was appointed Manx Language Development Officer for the Manx Heritage Foundation (a government-supported charity) in 1998. In 2001, Mooinjer Veggey opened a Manx-medium class within an English-medium primary school. Nine pupils attended the first Manx-medium class. In 2003 the Manxmedium pupils relocated to a recently vacated old school building, now to be their own school, known as Bunscoill Ghaelgagh. The school building belongs to the government, and the school follows the same curriculum as other schools in the Isle of Man, but all lessons are in Manx. In 2003, the Isle of Man government signed the European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages, thereby agreeing to extend the Charter

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at Part II protection level to the Isle of Man. Part II comprises a single article, Article 7, ‘Objectives and principles’, and it is quoted in its entirety below: 1 In respect of regional or minority languages, within the territories in which such languages are used and according to the situation of each language, the Parties shall base their policies, legislation and practice on the following objectives and principles: a the recognition of the regional or minority languages as an ex­ pression of cultural wealth; b the respect of the geographical area of each regional or minority language in order to ensure that existing or new administrative divisions do not constitute an obstacle to the promotion of the regional or minority language in question; c the need for resolute action to promote regional or minority languages in order to safeguard them; d the facilitation and/or encouragement of the use of regional or minority languages, in speech and writing, in public and private life; e the maintenance and development of links, in the fields covered by this Charter, between groups using a regional or minority language and other groups in the State employing a language used in identical or similar form, as well as the establishment of cultural relations with other groups in the State using different languages; f the provision of appropriate forms and means for the teaching and study of regional or minority languages at all appropriate stages; g the provision of facilities enabling non-speakers of a regional or minority language living in the area where it is used to learn it if they so desire; h the promotion of study and research on regional or minority languages at universities or equivalent institutions; i the promotion of appropriate types of transnational exchanges, in the fields covered by this Charter, for regional or minority languages used in identical or similar form in two or more States. 2 The Parties undertake to eliminate, if they have not yet done so, any unjustified distinction, exclusion, restriction or preference relating to the use of a regional or minority language and intended to discourage or endanger the maintenance or development of it. The adoption of special measures in favour of regional or minority languages aimed at promoting equality between the users of these languages and the rest of the population or which take due account of their specific condi­ tions is not considered to be an act of discrimination against the users of more widely-used languages. 3 The Parties undertake to promote, by appropriate measures, mutual understanding between all the linguistic groups of the country and in particular the inclusion of respect, understanding and tolerance in relation to regional or minority languages among the objectives of education and training provided within their countries and encourage­ ment of the mass media to pursue the same objective.



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4 In determining their policy with regard to regional or minority languages, the Parties shall take into consideration the needs and wishes expressed by the groups which use such languages. They are en­ couraged to establish bodies, if necessary, for the purpose of advising the authorities on all matters pertaining to regional or minority languages. 5 The Parties undertake to apply, mutatis mutandis, the principles listed in paragraphs 1 to 4 above to non-territorial languages. However, as far as these languages are concerned, the nature and scope of the measures to be taken to give effect to this Charter shall be determined in a flexible manner, bearing in mind the needs and wishes, and re­ specting the traditions and characteristics, of the groups which use the languages concerned.

Part II protection was crucial to the subsequent development of Manx as it gave more specific safeguards to the language than the aspirations of the 1985 resolution. It also gave some measure of assurance to both those already employed as teachers of the language and those aspiring to do so, such that the old warning of ‘It’ll never earn you a penny!’ would no longer apply. By 2005, the number of pupils attending Bunscoill Ghaelgagh had increased to 24, including my own son. I had returned to live on the island and secured work as a peripatetic teacher of Manx, teaching in both primary and secondary schools. During the academic year 2005–06 I joined the Gaelic Medium (Secondary) cohort at Strathclyde University for teacher training, and in September 2006 began teaching two curricular subjects per week through the medium of Manx at Bunscoill Ghaelgagh’s closest secondary school, Queen Elizabeth II High School. Also in 2006, for the first time, the study of Manx was being offered as a curricular subject to pupils in their first year of secondary school. High school head teachers had always been reluctant to allow Manx to be taught within the timetable in secondary schools. They had doubts about the value of the formal qualifications on offer, the availability and suitabil­ ity of teaching resources, and possibly concerns for the viability of their established language courses. Pupils had previously been able to choose Manx as a timetabled class in later years, but only as an extracurricular subject in the first three years. In 2009, pupils at a second high school were also given the option of studying Manx as a timetabled subject. I was by now additionally teaching two evening classes per week to adults, using immersion methods and a mixture of ‘suggestopedia’, ‘direct physical response’, ‘silent way’ and ‘accelerated learning’ techniques. In 2010, I was appointed Manx Language Officer with responsibility for overseeing the teaching of Manx in all state-sector schools (but not Bunscoill Ghaelgagh). My appointment coincided with a series of govern­ ment spending cuts, stemming from the international financial crisis of 2008. One of the immediate consequences of this was the axing of

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funding for the teaching of French in primary schools, and staff cutbacks to the peripatetic Manx team, which resulted in a reduction in the number of classes in primary schools from one 30-minute class per week in each of the three terms of years 4, 5 and 6 (ages 7–11) to provision for two terms per year only. Although secondary school provision was unaffected, staffing issues, made worse by recruiting difficulties, stalled the develop­ ment of teaching materials and the expansion of timetabled provision to the three high schools that still only had extracurricular classes. One positive result of the cuts, as far as Manx goes, was that, as schools had lost their French lessons, most schools gradually adopted an ‘opt-out’ policy for Manx, which means that parents now generally have to return a slip of paper saying they don’t want their child to attend Manx lessons, rather than a slip of paper to say that they do. As a result, upwards of 80% of all pupils now take some lessons in Manx, with approximately 40% completing the three-year course. At the time of writing (2018) there were over 70 pupils attending Bunscoill Ghaelgagh; there were still evening classes and they were at­ tracting more learners than ever. An organization partially funded by the government, Culture Vannin, promotes the language, produces learning materials and puts on events for speakers. Manx is present on social media, the radio and the local newspaper. Almost all pupils in English-medium education study 10 hours per year of Manx in primary school, and have the option to continue studying the language as a timetabled subject in secondary school. Most impressively, I no longer know everyone who can speak Manx. Not only do I now regularly meet new people who are fluent in Manx, but they are also usually younger than me. It is difficult to say how many Manx speakers there are now, but it certainly feels like Manx is in a healthier state than it was 10 years ago. However, when judged against the six ‘major evaluative factors of language vitality’ (see below), Manx must still be considered a severely threatened language. The Current Context for Manx

The major evaluative factors of language vitality are outlined in a 2003 document produced by the UNESCO Ad Hoc Expert Group on En­ dangered Languages, entitled Language Vitality and Endangerment. They are: (1) intergenerational language transmission; (2) absolute number of speakers; (3) proportion of speakers within the total population; (4) trends in existing language domains; (5) response to new domains and media; (6) materials for language education and literacy.



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Intergenerational language transmission

There are a small number of children who have at least one parent who uses Manx with them in the home, and a very small number from Manx-speaking households. A reasonable estimate might be that less than 10% of Manx-speaking children in Manx-medium education come from such households. More research needs to be done to find out if the number of children from Manx-speaking households is increasing, and what measures need to be taken to support such families. Absolute number of speakers

It is very difficult to count the number of Manx speakers who live outside the Isle of Man. Although there is some evidence to suggest the language was previously spoken by communities in North America, par­ ticularly in Ohio, and perhaps in Liverpool, there is no evidence of any significant extant community of Manx speakers settled outside the Isle of Man. However, many young speakers leave the island to work or study, and these days they are able to maintain links to the language through the internet and social media. In addition, some learners who live outside the Isle of Man have been able to reach an impressive degree of fluency with internet-based lessons and face-to-face lessons. It is difficult to estimate the number of speakers outside the island, but it is a little easier to do this for speakers who live on the Isle of Man as the Isle of Man government census of 2011 required each respondent to state whether any member of the household ‘speaks, reads or writes Manx Gaelic’. The accuracy of responses is hard to judge, as there were no further questions about how proficient they were, or how often they used the language. The census recorded a figure of 1662 speakers and 1832 people who could speak, read or write Manx. Obviously, these are very low numbers, but by this measure the Manx language has always been at risk because the population of the Isle of Man itself has always been small. Even if we assume that 90% of the population in 1757 (a total of 19,144) could speak fluent Manx, that amounts to only 17,220, and this would probably have been the high-water mark for numbers of speakers. Although the population rapidly increased in the 19th and 20th centuries, Henry Jenner estimated in 1874 that only about 30% of the population habitually spoke Manx.2 That amounts to only 16,213 (out of a population of 54,042). By the time of the 1911 census, only 2382 speakers of the language were recorded (although others had been recorded as speakers in 1901, and had appeared to have forgotten the language by 1911). During the 20th century, the number of speakers fell dramatically, with the low ebb of only 165 reported in 1961, a much smaller number of whom would have been con­ sidered fluent. Thanks to the efforts of those who worked for the revival of Manx in the latter half of the 20th century, that number of speakers had

100  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

risen to 1500 by 2001 (but again, the number speakers who were fluent was considered to be much lower by all those working for the language). These days, it is likely that the number of speakers is over 2000, and the number of fluent speakers in the hundreds. So, the Manx language is growing again, but clearly needs to maintain this growth for its long-term future to become secure. Proportion of speakers within the total population

The current percentage of speakers (according to 2011 census figures) is 1.97%. The Isle of Man has a highly transient population (less than 50% of the population were born on the island). Trends in existing language domains

The percentage of the population who speak Manx is higher in the west, far north and far south of the island, but there are no Manx-speaking domains as such. There may be a slight growth in the number of speakers choosing to live in certain areas, but nothing substantial to report. Response to new domains and media

Twitter, Facebook and other forms of media are increasingly popular with Manx speakers. Materials for language education and literacy

Culture Vannin, Bunscoill Ghaelgagh and the Manx Language Unit all produce learning materials and content in the language. These are being shared more widely, but the volume is tiny. For example, in 2017 only three new books were published in the language. Manx today is a living language, but the contexts in which it can be said to be alive are limited. There is one Manx-medium primary school and Manx-medium lessons in two subjects per year are offered at one of the five state-funded secondary schools. Lessons for learners of the language are available to all pupils at the state-funded schools from the age of seven on, and at the University College of Mann – the only statefunded tertiary education establishment. There is no teacher training specifically for teachers of Manx, and there are few, if any, places of work that require knowledge of Manx outside of education. Forward Planning

By any objective evaluation, Manx remains, and will remain for the foreseeable future, a severely endangered language. The Isle of Man



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govern­ment and the Manx-speaking community recognize this, but do not see it as any reason to give up. On the contrary, the Isle of Man govern­ ment in 2017 released a policy document highlighting its plans for the language, entitled ‘Manx Language Strategy 2017–2021’, in which it made several strategic commitments to the language:3 Strategic Commitment [appropriate and adequate resources] • We will work to ensure resources are appropriate, accessible and of good quality. • We will ensure any developed resources are coordinated so as to avoid duplication. Enabling Actions • To carry out an audit of existing resources. • To develop a physical hub at Fairfield House cultural centre in St John’s which will include a small lending library of Manx language books, a shop, and a ‘hangout area’ for speaking and learning Manx. • To create a digital hub as a reworking of www.learnmanx.com to act as a gateway to access wikis, digital repositories grouped by age/level, database of ongoing translations, etc. • To develop a coordinated approach to Manx language social media where possible. • To raise the profile of Culture Vannin’s translation service, which incorporates the expertise of Coonceil ny Gaelgey. Strategic Commitment [Manx as an important part of national and cultural identity] • We will work together to ensure that Manx language continues to be visible, inclusive and a valued part of our distinctive, contemporary, cultural and national identity, and that the advantages of bilingualism are recognised. Enabling Actions • To create a simple advocacy toolkit for the Manx language. • To initiate a unified, branded, contemporary awareness campaign across all sectors. • To develop an audio-visual resource bank for the Manx language to enable effective branding and social media. • To work with Government departments and the business sector to facilitate appropriate training relevant to Manx language and culture, to reinforce positive national and cultural identity for all. • To explore the possibility of the IoM signing up to Part III of the European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages. Strategic Commitment [Manx-speaking community] • We will support people to develop the social use of Manx language at home, at work and in their free time.

102  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

• We will support schools to develop the social use of Manx language in a range of contexts. • We will support parents who raise their children as Manx language speakers, and those who send their children to Manx medium education, to develop opportunities for social use of Manx language. Enabling Actions • To develop a buddy system for Manx language speakers, bringing together fluent speakers and learners of all ages. • To develop a coordinated calendar of [language] events…. • To create a playground pack for primary schools. • To create parents’ networks relating to the Manx language. • To continue publishing and broadcasting for the Manx language speaking community, encouraging the creative use of the Manx language through all media. • To work together with other language communities globally to share best practice. Strategic Commitment [lifelong learning of Manx] • We will ensure that anyone, of any age, anywhere, has the opportunity to learn and speak the Manx language and that the language‘s role in community cohesion is recognised. Enabling Actions • Manx language and cultural awareness training for public and private sectors. • To develop sustainable recruitment and retention of teachers for the Manx language. • The production of resources which promote lifelong learning and which emphasise that all ages from all backgrounds have the opportunity to start learning Manx language. • To undertake a comprehensive needs assessment for all ages of Manx learners. Curriculum Planning

There are a number of contextual and intrinsic factors that limited the appeal of Manx to learners: Manx is a critically endangered language, most written works in Manx prior to the 20th century revival are on religious, agricultural or tragic themes, fewer than 50% of the population have ancestral connections to the language, and the dominant language of the Isle of Man is English and second languages are not popular subjects in English language schools. In addition, Manx has some features which we might reasonably expect English speakers to have difficulty with: • Manx has verb–subject–object word order, a feature shared with only 9% of world languages (most of which are on the UNESCO list of



• • • •

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endangered languages), copula constructions, various cases and both periphrastic and inflected tense formations. Manx has a unique orthography, with many differences to English orthography. Manx has a relatively large range of phonemes. Initial consonant mutation depending on grammatical environment is a feature of the language. Manx makes extensive use of idioms and two-word verbs.

Back in 1992, the curriculum put together for primary schools was called ‘Bun Noa’ (‘New Base’). It aimed to teach children basic vocabulary for specific topics, such as greetings, feelings, common phrases, numbers, colours, items of clothing, geographical features, animals, plants, parts of the body, food and drink, activities, games and transport, as well as basic sentence structures. Classes are delivered by visiting peripatetic teachers from the Manx Language Unit. In the early years, between 20% and 40% of primary school pupils attended the lessons, with 10–20% completing the three-year course. The course devised for secondary schools was called ‘Yn Coorse Mooar’ (‘The Big Course’). In the 1980s, the only formal qualification available for Manx was the Isle of Man government’s O-level Manx, which was written by academic experts with little experience of teaching to young children and for which there was no specification or scheme of work. There are no records of any school-age children successfully achieving such a certifi­ cate. To replace this, the Manx Language Unit devised a modular course known as the Teisht Chadjin Ghaelgagh (General Certificate in Manx). In consideration of the extracurricular nature of the lessons and to facilitate adult learners taking the course outside of school, it was designed as a modular course. There were five sets of assessment modules, leading to a final qualification. The focus of the course was on attaining a good command of the basic structures of the language By 2005 it had become apparent that the old modular curriculum designed for extracurricular classes was inadequate for the timetabled lessons. New material was required to instruct pupils to a higher level of fluency than had been expected with the older curriculum. The course was designed so that the passing grades for the Teisht Chadjin Ghaelgagh (usually taken at around age 16) would match the descriptors for levels A2 of the European Common Framework of Reference for Languages, and the passing grades for the Ard Teisht Ghaelgagh (usually taken at 18) would match the descriptors for B1–B2. Schemes of work and assess­ ment were put in place that closely followed those used for the teaching of French and other well established secondary school modern language subjects. Eventually, the curriculum designed for a major language like French was found to be unsuitable to a lesser-used language such as Manx. French

104  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

was a compulsory subject in Isle of Man schools, and the curriculum was largely designed for passing exams, with much focus on item learning for specific communicative circumstances (many of which, such as ordering a meal at a restaurant, had little relevance for Manx speakers). A new curriculum was designed that focuses on ‘system learning’ – developing the students’ ability to manipulate the language, rather than memoriza­ tion of set phrases. This system has been more successful in producing confident speakers. A typical lesson presents new vocabulary, a new type of sentence, provides controlled practice exercises and concludes with ap­ plication of the new structure in a role-play, discussion or writing project. Supple­ mental use of flashcard apps, PowerPoint presentations, video stories, games and quizzes, songs and short stories add variety and change of pace. We have found that such ‘system learning’ lessons work well even with eight-year-olds, provided there is plenty of variety. Conclusion

I very much hope that you will find the story inspiring, and of some practical use to those of you actively working to preserve humanity’s lin­ guistic heritage. I’ve done my best to give an accurate snapshot of what is happening in the Isle of Man, but in closing I’d like to add the traditional caveat to a Manx yarn: My she breag dinsh mee, she breag cheayll mee! – ‘If it’s a lie I told, then it’s a lie I heard!’ Notes (1) The European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages is available at https:// rm.coe.int/168007bf4b (accessed 15 July 2019). (2) See http://www.isle-of-man.com/manxnotebook/history/manks/jenner.htm (accessed August 2019). (3) ‘Manx Language Strategy 2017–2021’ is available at https://www.culturevannin.im/ page_286018.html (accessed 15 July 2019).

References Ager, S. (2009) A study of language death and revival with a particular focus on Manx Gaelic. Master’s dissertation, Bangor University. Belchem, J. (2000) The little Manx nation: Antiquarianism, ethnic identity, and home rule politics in the Isle of Man, 1880–1918. Journal of British Studies 39 (2), 217–240. Broderick, G. (1999) Language Death in the Isle of Man. Tübingen: Niemeyer. Clague, M. (2007) Narratives in Manx: Linguistic strategies in immersion acquired language. Journal of Applied Linguistics 4 (3), 261–284. Clague, M. (2009) Manx language revitalization and immersion education. Cultural Survival 2, 165–198. Maddrell, B. (2002) Speaking from the Shadows: Sophia Morrison and the Manx cultural revival. Folklore 113, 215–236. Murphy, K. (2018) A very brief history of the Manx language: From monks to Vikings to



‘Manx? That Was Never a Real Language!’  105

tourists, Manx has (almost) survived against the odds. At https://www.historytoday. com/katie-murphy/very-brief-history-manx-language (accessed 15 July 2019). Stowell, B. (2005) A Short History of the Manx Language. Belfast: An Clochan.

Manx links http://www.gaelg-hasht.16mb.com https://www.learnmanx.com https://bunscoillghaelgagh.sch.im/pages/index/view/id/11/Gaelg%20-%20The%20 Manx%20Lnguage%20 http://www.smo.uhi.ac.uk/~stephen http://www.isle-of-man.com/manxnotebook/index.htm (All last accessed 15 July 2019.)

7 An Ethno-educational Project with Wichi Communities in Argentina: Acquiring Language-inCulture Knowledge from Traditional Practices Joan A. Argenter and Virginia Unamuno

The collaborative production of didactic materials with the Wichi people (in the Argentine Chaco) described here highlights the links between formal education and linguistic revitalization. Since language learning is produced through children’s participation in activities that are culturally meaningful and socially and historically situated, language revitalization bridges the gap between school curriculum and community agenda. Wichi children, accompanied by members of their community, were involved in the local socioeconomic practices aimed at the production of textile artefacts based on processing the chaguar plant. In so doing, they acquired skills that frame language and other learning contents in an integrated way. Following this experience a monolingual illustrated storybook for young children was produced. Two aspects of producing this book are analysed: the process of composing and writing the text, transforming a conversation between a Wichi expert and a Wichi apprentice; and the community’s control over the non-Wichi storybook illustrator, who had to rework her drawings according to their instructions, highlighting the differences between outsider and insider. Wichi Communities in the Argentine Chaco

The Wichi are one of the Indigenous peoples inhabiting the Argentine lands of the Chaco region (INDEC, 2012). Approximately 50,000 Wichi people live in the Argentine provinces of Chaco, Formosa and Salta, as 106



An Ethno-educational Project with Wichi Communities in Argentina  107

well as in southern Bolivia. Most of the individuals who recognize them­ selves as Wichi speak a language that bears the same name. This language belongs to the Matacoan language family. Unlike other languages spoken in the region, Wichi has a high vitality. Almost 94% of the Wichi speak the language (Censabella, 2009). Inter­ generational transmission of the language is high and is related to two facts: most Wichi live in rural areas; and Wichis’ language ideologies play a central role in the Wichi worldview. A Wichi alphabet was devised in the 20th century by Anglicans during their evangelization work. They also promoted the creation of a Wichi Language Council (Consejo Wichi Lhamtes), which reached an agreement on a common alphabet for the different Wichi communities in 1998. Currently, in the Argentinian Wichi territories this is the most widely used alphabet. It is based on Latin characters, including ‘common characters’ (based on phonemes of all dialects of the language) and ‘regional char­ acters’ (based on phonemes that can be found only in one or more but not all dialects). Combining common and regional characters facilitates the mutual intelligibility of written texts between different Wichi speakers across the Wichi territories (Ballena & Unamuno, 2017). The Wichi were hunter-gatherers. Their economy was based on consuming small animals, fish, fruit and other naturally available food. At present, however, survival through traditional ways of life is difficult because Western agriculture and livestock have expanded into Wichi territory. Communities’ livelihoods have become increasingly precarious in the last few decades. Nevertheless, some Wichi are employed by the state. This type of employment includes non-professional employees and, more recently, Wichi professionals who work in the fields of healthcare and education. Many have been trained at institutions with an inter­cultural framework and using the Wichi language along with Spanish. In the next section, we present our perspective on the place and role of formal education in linguistic-cultural revitalization processes (see Hinton & Hale, 2001; Hornberger, 2008). On Language Revitalization and the Role of Formal School Teaching and Learning

When language advocates or native communities consider how to achieve language revitalization, it is reasonable for them to request, among other things, that the Indigenous language they support be taught in school (e.g. Fishman, 1991: 368; Hirvonen, 2008: 15; May & Hill, 2008: 67; McCarty, 2008: 161). Whether this is the best step to take depends on local values and ideologies. On the one hand, communities may take different stances regarding the fact that their traditional language, passed on orally for generations, becomes a written language. On the other hand, learning the traditional language at school has its limitations. Formal language

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learning does not guarantee a robust mastery of the language, since it is de-contextualized learning or learning in a ‘non-natural’ context: the schoolroom context itself is usually closer to that of mainstream society than that of the local community. Moreover, even if language teaching is invested with a language-in-culture approach, it is difficult to take tradi­ tional culture into the classroom (Hinton, 2001). However, a point is to be made regarding language revitalization and recovering cultural practices: hyper-traditionalism must be avoided, as this is one of the ‘pitfalls’ identified by Wilkins (2000) in survival efforts. Indigenous languages, even highly endangered languages, are in some sense modern languages: their speakers live in today’s world, a highly interconnected world, in fact. Language and cultural revival grant a sense of belonging and of being rooted to a community and to an environment. However, language teaching should provide for the use of the traditional language in that modern world, and hence for language development through lexical and terminological expansion, changes in syntactic con­ figurations and the cultivation of a broader repertoire of genres. Hinton (2001) draws two lessons from these facts. Firstly, ‘if a community engages in classroom-based Indigenous language instruction, it must work actively to bring Indigenous culture into the classroom and to change the classroom culture to meet Indigenous culture halfway’ – see below our claim for a ‘dialogue’ between national and community curricula. Secondly, ‘classroom-based language instruction can never be the sole source of serious language revitalization’. This amounts to Fishman’s well-known remark on the relevance of home and neighbour­ hood contribution – beyond school – to reversing language shift (Fishman, 1991: 373–380). Two main school systems have been designed for language revitaliza­ tion: immersion programmes and bilingual education. Immersion – which can be graded, from full to partial immersion programmes – has turned out to be the most effective method (Hinton & Hale, 2001: 180–182, 227–228; May & Hill, 2008: 84–85; McCarty, 2008: 169), provided appro­ priate conditions are met (Baker, 1988: 90; Baker & Prys Jones, 1998: 501). In full-immersion programmes, all instruction in the classroom is carried out in the traditional language. In bilingual education, a portion of the curriculum is taught in the traditional language. The most widespread bilingual education in Indigenous contexts of Latin America is the so-called Bilingual Intercultural Education (BIE). Unlike European or North American bilingual education, BIE not only addresses the development of language skills in more than one language, but also the incorporation of Indigenous cultural content and Indigenous identity assertion (López & Sichra, 2008). Eventually, this move might be understood as advancing ‘a larger decolonizing and democratizing project’ (McCarty, 2008: 161). A step forward has been claimed by language and educational advocates as well as by community leaders in Latin America. Two of the proposals



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put forward are as follows: first, ‘the urgency of modifying the official curriculum so that it acknowledges, accepts and includes Indigenous socio­ cultural practices and ways of life as integral to an alternative knowledge system’ (López, 2008: 46); and second, the need for the Luso-Hispanic criollo-mestizo population to ‘also benefit from Indigenous bilingual education, so as to become aware of language diversity, learn about the Indigenous languages spoken in their countries and also develop more sensitivity to Indigenous cultures’ (López, 2008: 46). The former matches Hinton’s first lesson. In addition, this proposal explicitly advocates for it to be officially institutionalized at national level. It then has an effect on educational planning and curriculum design. The second is to do with the target of bilingual intercultural education, and emphasizes true inter­ culturalism, construing it not just as politically correct terminology or as a way of promoting tolerance towards Indigenous peoples, but also as a ‘possibility to re-imagine and reconstruct the Latin-American nation-state along the lines thought by Indigenous leaders and organizations’ (López, 2008: 61). Various bilingual education experiences have been established in the Wichi territory since the end of the last Argentine dictatorship (1976–82). In this chapter, we briefly describe the bilingual education experiences in the zone of El Sauzalito, where our project is based. The first attempts to include Wichi educators in schools were part of informal collaboration between non-Wichi teachers and Wichi people who had the role of introducing the Wichi alphabet and assisting non-Wichi teachers during classes. During the early 1990s, these isolated experiences were formalized by the state, in accordance with the Indigenous Com­ munities Act passed in 1987. Later, Wichi were trained at the Centro de Investigación y Formación para la Modalidad Aborigen (CIFMA), created by this Act, on courses aimed at preparing young Wichi as Auxiliares docentes aborígenes (ADA), that is, as assistants of non-Wichi teachers. These ADA started to work at schools in the 1990s. The CIFMA then offered other training courses, this time intended to award young Wichis the diploma of Maestro intercultural bilingüe (MIB). Later, from 2000 onwards, a specific career was created for Indigenous people to guarantee them access to the diploma of Profesor intercultural bilingüe (PIB), allowing them to teach in primary and secondary schools. In 2007, a CIFMA branch was created in El Sauzalito and young Wichis are now being trained there as bilingual teachers. More than 100 Wichi teachers now work at schools in the region (Ballena et al., 2016). Most of them work as assistant teachers, but some are now in charge of a class and work independently. In the collaborative project we present here, Selis (or Celis), the Wichi teacher we have been working with, is an ADA. She was trained on the first CIFMA courses and has been teaching at kindergarten level since 1999. Zulma, a non-Wichi teacher from Corrientes, also participated in the project.

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Selis is not only a teacher. She also used to work as a chaguar artisan, that is, she worked the fibre of the plant usually known by its Quechuan name chaguar, in the production of traditional handcrafts. Chaguar is the common name for different plant species scientifically belonging to the Bromeliaceae family, mainly Bromelia urbaniana, Deinacanthon urbanium and Bromelia hieronymi. From a Wichi point of view, the chaguar is not one plant either. This name is a non-Wichi expression for at least two different plants that the Wichi distinguish according to their use in weaving as well as their cultural meanings. The Indigenous names are oletsajh (Bromelia urbaniana) and chitsajh (Bromelia hieronymi) (Montani, 2007). In the next section, we introduce the notion of ‘modelling community learning practices’ as the theoretical basis of our didactic OLETSAJHCHITSAJH project involving the recovery of language-and-culture practices among the Wichi. Modelling Community Learning Practices: A Strategy for Involving Schools in Language Revitalization

Cultural knowledge and productive activities as a basis for the design of didactic interventions and curriculum production is an important research area in anthropology studies applied to the education of In­ digenous populations. Thus, for example, the work of Gasché (2008), Gallegos (2001), Bertely et al. (2008) and Bertely Busquets (2009) has laid the foundations for understanding the need for the systematization of knowledge, activities and Indigenous practices in order to improve the quality of Indigenous children’s education. In addition to this systematization of Indigenous knowledge, we consider that interventions that seek to revitalize native languages through school projects should consider forms of Indigenous linguistic and cultural socialization. Thus, for example, our project was developed taking as a departure point the socialization practices that are common among Wichi women and girls. These practices involve the transmission of knowledge of how to manage a natural resource that is crucial for the material and symbolic life of the Wichi: the chaguar (Alvarsson, 1993, 2012; Montani, 2013). The work with chaguar for making yicas (a type of bag) and other artefacts implies a community of practice (Wenger, 1998). From childhood, Wichi women, at first playing the role of observers, progressively take on common tasks by learning, through observation and practice, the tech­ niques and meanings of the activities in which they participate. According to Wenger (1998), learning is situated and occurs within the human groups that are configured around a specific task. Within the community, homework and learning take place simultaneously, so that the one cannot be separated from the other.



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In the case of working with chaguar and handcrafting yicas and other textile artefacts, the notion of community of practice explains the forms of female socialization among the Wichi. Through the tasks they take on, women build their own identity. Wichi women who undertake chaguar work carry out the whole process (from the search for the raw material to the final production of the yicas) together with other women of different ages. Little girls and boys go with mothers, aunts and grandmothers to the forest, without necessarily having to take care of any specific task. Then, the girls begin to take on tasks such as carrying tools or collaborating in the extraction of the chaguar leaves. However, traditionally, it is only after a girl has had her first menstrual period that she can start her own knitting. In the past, Wichi women were confined to the community during menstrual periods and were left in the charge of an elderly person, often their grandmother. During this time, the girl wove under the observation and advice of her grandmother. It was time for girls to start their own crafts. Currently, where the project is carried out, there are few women who continue traditional weaving. For that reason, at present only some women are recognized as artisans, whereas at one time these skills and practices were common to all Wichi women. In terms of the didactic project, it was considered important to maintain the participatory principle, incorporating mothers and grand­ mothers in the work sessions. However, the didactic process implies a school ‘modelling’ reproduction of the activities and transmission contexts of Wichi knowledge. Therefore, for example, the community accepted the participation of boys in these activities – which is odd for the Wichi world – because it was a school teaching and learning activity. In this sense, we call ‘didactic modelling of community learning practices’ the processes involved in improving formal education with contents gained from non-school socialization routes jointly with the knowledge and the practices these convey. Thus, ‘didactic modelling of community learning practices’ includes at least two issues: collective research and documentation of local activities that will be incorporated into school practices; and the dialogue between the processes, knowledge and meanings of non-school community activities and those belonging to the school curriculum. According to Gallegos (2001), this didactic process implies ‘understanding the productive-communicative activities as bridges to other cultural universes’. Gallegos (2001: 81) states: Working the productive activities as pedagogical activities starts from investigating also the relation that exists between local knowledge and the elements of the technical-scientific universe. The ecological knowledge (knowledge of the natural environment) of a society, linked to technical know-how, involves cognitive processes that serve as a starting point in its articulation with western scientific concepts and categories, which then (according to the relevant degree of complexity) will be developed in the school. (Our translation)

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In these crossings between the community and the school, between local knowledge and school knowledge, the possibility emerges of proposing a critical interculturality, of establishing critical thought about the relations between the hegemonic and the native cultures (Walsh, 2008). In addition, such proposals, focusing on meaningful cultural activities, enable language awareness because, in the school setting, social and cultural processes that are not usually verbalized are named. In the case presented here, this systematization by the teaching staff and mothers brought with it the recovery of expressions that name the stages and actions involved in the central activity. As perceived by the Wichi, these expressions are rarely known by non-experts. Nonetheless, these expressions, which currently only artisans know, were formerly known to all Wichi women. In this way, the project created spaces for the recovery of expressions that represent the subtlety of the Wichi language in the categorization of the environment. Now, in the case presented here, the didactic proposal was directed, finally, to developing a reading book and creating infographics. In this process, collective workspaces for discussing graphic and editorial issues were set up. These workshops hosted moments of discussion about the materials. Wichi teachers and families used these spaces to monitor the editorial process and, in particular, the illustrations in the book. This is the last point that we consider fundamental when it comes to reviewing the links between school and community in relation to the revitalization of languages and cultures. Rather often, materials prepared for working with children who speak Indigenous languages are made by experts outside the community that will later employ them. Conversely, the strategy appears to be more effective if the recipients are involved in the process and are the ones who make decisions about the ways in which local practices are represented. To sum up, our proposal takes into consideration the following issues: (1) the systematization of knowledge and practices in collaboration; (2) the recovery of instances of linguistic and cultural socialization to relate them to instances of school socialization; (3) the active participation of recipi­ ents in decision-making during the editorial process and in the modes of representation of the practices on which the didactic material is based. In this study, we take this last point as the central axis. However, before presenting our analysis, we describe the OLETSAJH-CHITSAJH project, as well as its participants. The OLETSAJH-CHITSAJH Project: A Transversal, Naturally-Sited, Community-Bound Learning Experience

Selis works in a kindergarten located in the town of El Sauzalito. She is aware that the schoolchildren’s mothers are not passing on their traditional handcraft skills to their daughters, mainly because they live in town and, particularly, because they live in a non-Wichi world. At the



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beginning of the project, Selis was concerned about the loss of the Wichi culture, and her reflections about this issue led her to propose developing some projects at school that could have an impact on the transmission of Wichi skills and wisdom, traditionally a part of family socialization of boys and girls. The project was carried out during 2012 with a class of four-year-olds by its two teachers: Selis and Zulma, a non-Wichi teacher. They had been working together since 2001 and, as they said to us, their joint work was a very successful experience because they complemented each other, and they felt free to propose ideas and to each speak her own language in class. This was the first formal education experience for these Wichi children. Selis’s role here was essential, as most of these children did not speak Spanish and had no experience of interaction with non-Wichi people. Usually, they were afraid of the suweles (the Wichi name for nonWichi). Zulma’s role was to introduce them to the non-Wichi world, to the national language and to the formal educational system in general, among other tasks. Selis and Zulma were in charge of planning the project and recording the experience photographically. The plan was presented at a workshop we organized as part of our collaborative research in support of the language-culture revitalization process. During this workshop, we ­ discussed the relationship between the plan and the school curriculum, that is, the contents they had to teach the four-year-olds in accordance with education legislation. We assumed that the project would have to put into play two kinds of curricula and display a dialogue between them: the official school curriculum that natives have to follow as nationals and a curriculum of their own, a ‘native agenda’. We define this ‘native curricu­ lum’ as the contents that could be considered appropriate to be taught in school from a Wichi perspective, including native methods to do so. These contents and teaching strategies were defined by the Wichi teachers at the kindergarten in accordance with the views of elderly people who also participated in the workshops. An outcome of one of these workshops was a document articulating the parts of the didactic project. The project was addressed to carry out all the stages involved in the production of a yica, a chaguar bag. Since it was conceived as reproducing a collective communal enterprise, children, mothers and teachers would go outside the school to look for chaguar in the forest scrubland. This process involves recognizing types of plants, comparing them and selecting the most appropriate one for weaving. The Wichi are familiar with two species of chaguar, the ‘dwarf chaguar’ or oletsajh (Bromelia urbaniana), and the medium-sized chaguar or chitzajh (Bromelia hieronymi). Pupils were then introduced to the use of a stick employed by the Wichi to measure the length of the chaguar leaf. The selection of samples of an ap­ propriate length is an important ecological principle of the Wichi people. The extraction of the chaguar leaf is limited and controlled, in such a way

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that Wichi preserve the distribution of chaguar among families and do not disturb the balance of nature. On the second day they went out to pick the material for dyeing. Seeds, tree bark, resin and other natural components are used to give colour to the chaguar fibre. When they had all the elements, the children, teachers and mothers started the process. Selis taught them to remove the core of the chaguar leaf and to extract the plant fibre. They then laid the fibre out to dry and, finally, they learnt to spin. Once they had obtained chaguar thread, they dyed the fibre and observed the process of weaving done by Selis in the last part of the project. She made one little bag for each child, talking to them about the meaning of weaving from a Wichi point of view. All through this activity, children were presented with the following operations: • searching for, identifying and collecting the chaguar plant to be used in dressmaking (since the Wichi people invest the chaguar with a symbolic value that confers meanings, the children were regularly exposed to this intangible cultural local knowledge); • preparing the plant by scraping and drying the fibre, dyeing the thread, spinning it and weaving, according to the diagram in Figure 7.1. Throughout the entire process, learners were introduced to handling and caring for the environment, since the collection of chaguar is restricted by ecological principles of sustainability. The final output of the process is handcrafted products such as dresses, nets, handbags and baby-carriers.

Visiting the scrubland

Identification and selection of the plants

Yarn

Drying

Dyeing yarn

Bleaching with a river stone

Obtaining the colour thread

Obtaining the white thread

Extraction of the leaves

Extraction of the fleshy pulp of the leaves

Figure 7.1  The process of making chaguar, from the plant to the textile



An Ethno-educational Project with Wichi Communities in Argentina  115

The entire activity mobilizes a sequence of skills that frame language and other learning contents in an integrated way: natural sciences, arts, language, technology and narrative, all together. The children tackled the following tasks: observation, involving classification, measuring, identify­ ing geometric shapes; handcraft, improving communication and linguistic skills, such as managing vocabulary and constructing narratives, including conversing and reporting. In producing the book, narrative, dialogue and observation to achieve appropriate illustrations were put into practice. Once the joint children’s and community’s ‘fieldwork’ experience was over, we carried out new workshops in order to prepare the book. Four meetings were devoted to thinking, planning and developing the book. At first, we decided to write a story. Selis proposed writing about the ex­perience of passing on the Wichi know-how between mothers and daughters. Writing in Wichi is not an easy task for those who are not used to it. So, we decided to create a conversational setting that helped Selis talk about the experience of chaguar handcraft. She suggested having a conversation with a young teacher, Piti, and recording this conversation in order to gather material for the book’s text. We recorded this conversation, produced a transcript of the interaction and then Selis and Zulma wrote a first version of the text. This text was revised and corrected by Camilo Ballena, a member of our research team and a Wichi language teacher. With this second version of the text, we started to select an illustrator who could help us produce the book (Navarrete & Keil, 2014). We looked at many books and selected illustrator Agustina Suárez because of her previous work. We contacted her by email. She is a chil­ dren’s book illustrator and she agreed to take part in the project. We met her and showed her the text and photos, and she started to work with us in December 2012. The following section focuses on the dialogue between her designs and the Wichi participants in the project. We go into detail about the relationships between the view from outside versus the view from inside, or experienced knowledge versus imagined knowledge. The Community’s Control Over the Illustrator: The View from Outside versus the View from Inside

Agustina produced a first draft of the illustrations for the storybook following the script. The result was highly satisfactory in design and aesthetic terms. However, when Agustina’s work was presented to natives in a new collaborative workshop, her pictures raised a certain amount of discussion. The point was that Agustina was a non-Wichi, and so did not have direct experience of the community, and her conventional representation of the social and the natural world did not match the Wichi representation of their social, natural and cultural world, values and experience. Furthermore, they felt they were in a position of authority over the white professional and in a co-authoring partnership with her

116  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

regarding the project. Indeed, all of us were involved in a ‘dialogic editing’ (Feld, 1987) of an illustrated text. According to Feld, ‘editing’ invokes ‘the power to control which voices talk when, how much, in what order, in what language’. Our ‘dialogic editing’ with the Wichi, then, confronts us with ‘how their take on [our] take on them requires reframing and refocus­ ing [our] account’ (Feld, 1987) –a drawing-based account in the case. A relevant difference with respect to Feld’s work is that we were not writing an ethnography on Wichi ‘for our people’, but a Wichi narrative ‘for native people’ from the very beginning. The contrast between the etic and the emic viewpoints reflected in the drawings can be illustrated with three examples (Figures 7.2, 7.3 and 7.4). They are related to usual practices in the process of collecting and working the chaguar and on how Wichis build their houses and what cultural meaning the structure of the house reveals. These three drawings cor­ respond to different stages in the chaguar production process after it has been collected in the forest. All the figures show Agustina’s draft drawing on the left. On the right is the final drawing as it appears in the book, in accordance with the natives’ instructions. In what follows, the critical remarks about the left-hand drawings (i.e. the illustrator’s first drafts) are based on the remarks provided by the native people in the workshop discussion group. Eventually, the illustrator used all the comments in her final proposal (on the right-hand side). The first picture (Figure 7.2) refers to the way Wichi women carry the collected plants home from the forest. Unlike the illustrator’s presentation, the chaguar is not carried in a bucket or under the arm, but supported by a rope that Wichi women tie round their forehead. Moreover, the new picture picks up the natives’ suggestion that the women go to search for chaguar with a machete (a detail that had been forgotten about in a previous picture, the reverse of Figure 7.2, which showed them leaving the village on the way to the forest).

Figure 7.2  Carrying the chaguar plant home from the forest



An Ethno-educational Project with Wichi Communities in Argentina  117

Figure 7.3  Criollo houses versus Wichi houses. The fibres are put out to dry

The second picture (Figure 7.3) shows how Wichi houses are built and what the house in the draft drawing meant. Agustina, as many of us would, drew a house with a gabled roof. The Wichi know this type of con­ struction, but for them this type is usually identified as ‘a criollo’s house’. The Wichi houses are mono-pitched: the still half-processed chaguar fibres are hung from the front roof of the house, over the door, since this is the lower side of the roof slope and easily accessible, and the fibres are put there to dry. Also, it was suggested that the mother could be taking down some fibres. The illustrator took this suggestion on board. Finally, the natives amended the picture in Figure 7.4, where the woman appears weaving a piece of chaguar handcraft. Actually, the position of the yarn was wrong, since it does not run in a V shape, as shown in the draft drawing, but horizontally. Moreover, it was shrewdly suggested that the drawing should reflect a piece of chaguar handcraft that has already been woven.

Figure 7.4  Weaving a chaguar handcraft piece

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The collaborative work between Wichi and non-Wichi agents in the final step of the OLETSAJH-CHITSAJH project, as well as the active involvement of community members, has permitted excellent control over the materials worked with, averted non-local visual representations of scenes from Wichi life, and guaranteed a high-quality, meaningful product. Conclusion

As mentioned above, there is no consensus on whether taking the Indigenous language into school is by itself a positive factor for the re­ vitalization of minority languages and cultures. This is partly because, at least in Argentina, language schooling has been synonymous with the translation of Western content and knowledge into native languages. Even human resources (Indigenous teachers and other members of native communities) have been put at the service of translation and linguistic assistance in a school system that rarely gives them full participation for their transformation. In that context, there seems to be no hope for change. The possibility of the survival of native languages and the access to quality educational material appears to be limited. The language, understood as a mere code, does not seem to be able to break the dynamics of domination based on the language–culture–identity continuum. On the other hand, what we have discussed here is the role and potential of schools in processes of linguistic revitalization. As we have shown, this role has to do with the possibilities of changing what is taught, how it is taught and with what materials. In the last decades, the Wichi people have been working hard to challenge education and, thus, to improve the school experiences for Wichi children. As we have argued throughout the chapter, it seems important to work collectively in developing a systematization of Indigenous knowledge in order to rethink what is to be taught. Likewise, it seems important to be able to observe and establish dialogues between the modes of linguistic and cultural community socialization and the modes of school socializa­ tion. Finally, in the focus of our work, we have insisted on creating spaces where speakers have a crucial role in the decisions about the materials and in the monitoring of the editorial process.

References Alvarsson, J.A. (1993) ‘Yo soy weehnayek’. Una monografía breve de la cultura de los mataco-noctones de Bolivia. La Paz: MUSEF. Alvarsson, J.A. (2012) Belleza y Utilidad – La cultura material. Villa Montes, Bolivia: DICA 13, Universidad Uppsala en cooperación con FIWEEN. Baker, C. (1988) Key Issues in Bilingualism and Bilingual Education. Clevedon: Multi­ lingual Matters.



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Baker, C. and Prys Jones, S. (eds) (1998) Encyclopedia of Bilingualism and Bilingual Education. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Ballena, C., Romero-Massobrio, L. and Unamuno, V. (2016) Formación docente y educación plurilingüe en el Chaco: informe de investigación. Segunda parte. Unpublished report. Ballena, J. and Unamuno, V. (2017) Challenge from the margins: New uses and meanings of written practices in Wichi. AILA Review 30 (1), 120–143. Bertely, M., Gasché, J. and Podestá, R. (eds) (2008) Educando en la diversidad. Investigaciones y experiencias educativas interculturales y bilingües. Quito: Abya-Yala. Bertely Busquets, M. (ed.) (2009) Sembrando nuestra educación intercultural como derecho. La nueva escuela intercultural en Chiapas. Mexico: Ciesas/Ediciones Alcatraz. Censabella, M. (2009) Chaco. In I. Sichra (ed.) Atlas sociolingüístico de los pueblos indígenas de América Latina (pp. 143–228). La Paz: Bolivia. Feld, S. (1987) Dialogic editing: Interpreting how Kaluli read Sound and Sentiment. Cultural Anthropology 2, 190–210. Fishman, J.A. (1991) Reversing Language Shift: Theoretical and Empirical Foundations of Assistance to Threatened Languages. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Gallegos, C. (2001) El currículo de primaria basado en actividades como puente entre la cultura local y global: una experiencia educativa en la Amazonía Peruana. Cultura y Educación 13 (1), 73–92. Gasché, J. (2008) Niños, maestros, comuneros y escritos antropológicos como fuentes de contenidos indígenas escolares y la actividad como punto de partida de los procesos pedagógicos interculturales: un modelo sintáctico de cultura. In M. Bertely, J. Gasché and R. Podestá (eds) Educando en la diversidad (pp. 279–365). Quito: Abya-Yala. Hinton, L. (2001) Language revitalization: An overview. In L. Hinton and K. Hale (eds) The Green Book of Language Revitalization in Practice (pp. 3–18). San Diego, CA: Academic Press. Hinton, L. and Hale, K. (eds) (2001) The Green Book of Language Revitalization in Practice. San Diego, CA: Academic Press. Hirvonen, V. (2008) ‘Out on the fells, I feel like a Sámi’: Is there linguistic and cultural equality in the Sámi School? In N.H. Hornberger (ed.) Can Schools Save Indigenous Languages? Policy and Practice on Four Continents (pp. 15–41). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Hornberger, N. (ed.) (2008) Can Schools Save Indigenous Languages? Policy and Practice on Four Continents. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. INDEC (2012) Censo Nacional de Población, Hogar y Viviendas 2010. Buenos Aires: INDEC. López, L.E. (2008) Top-down and bottom-up: Counterpoised visions of Bilingual Intercul­ tural Education in Latin America (pp. 42–65). In N.H. Hornberger (ed.) Can Schools Save Indigenous Languages? Policy and Practice on Four Continents. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. López, L.E. and Sichra, I. (2008) Intercultural bilingual education among indigenous peoples in Latin America. In J. Cummins and N. Hornberger (eds) Encyclopedia of Language and Education (2nd revised edn, vol. 5) (pp. 295–310). New York: Springer. May, S. and Hill, R. (2008) Māori-medium education: Current issues and challenges. In N.H. Hornberger (ed.) Can Schools Save Indigenous Languages? Policy and Practice on Four Continents (pp. 66–98). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. McCarty, T.L. (2008) Schools as strategic tools for Indigenous language revitalization: Lessons from Native America. In N.H. Hornberger (ed.) Can Schools Save Indigenous Languages? Policy and Practice on Four Continents (pp. 161–179). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Montani, R. (2007) Vocabulario wichí del arte textil: entre la lexicografía y la etnografía. Mundo de antes 5, 41–72. Montani, R. (2013) La construcción material de la persona entre los wichís del Gran Chaco, Avá. Revista de antropología 22, 167–187.

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Navarrete, A. and Keil, Z. (2014) N’ku ifweln’uhu. Buenos Aires: Wichi Lhomet. Walsh, C. (2008) Interculturalidad crítica, pedagogía decolonial. In W. Villa and A. Grueso (eds) Diversidad, interculturalidad y construcción de ciudad (pp. 44–63). Bogotá: Universidad Pedagógica Nacional/Alcaldía Mayor. Wenger, E. (1998) Communities of Practice: Learning, Meaning, and Identity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wilkins, D.P. (2000) Even with the best of intentions … Some pitfalls in the fight for cultural and linguistic survival. In F. Queixalós and O. Renault-Lescure (eds) As línguas amazônicas hoje (pp. 61–83). Sâo Paulo: Istituto Socioambiental.

8 Place-Based Liberatory Education with Aloha (EA) for an Independent Hawai‘i Kū Kahakalau

This chapter describes the evolution of a bilingual, liberatory Indigen­ous way of teaching and learning called Education with Aloha (EA), which is closely linked to the Hawaiian independence movement and the author’s personal journey. Presented through the story of Aloha, a fictitious Native Hawaiian educator, and her undertakings and experiences over 40 years, the narrative depicts the development of a series of innovative, culturally driven models of education, aimed at growing confident, bilingual Native Hawaiians ready, willing, and able to re-establish political, economic and cultural independence. Aloha’s story shows that Hawaiian-focused education programs, tested with thousands of Hawaiian students over the past decades, are working, thanks to the use of a traditional way of teaching grounded in aloha, or mutual affection and care among all. EA is both ancient and modern, place-based, culturally-driven, family-oriented and community-based. Moreover, EA is slowly becoming sustainable, thanks to the use of the latest technology to create products and services that teach Hawaiian language and culture in the Hawaiian way. Introduction

Aloha and welcome to the story of Education with Aloha, or EA for short. Interestingly, ea in the Hawaiian language means ‘sovereignty’ or ‘independence’, suggesting that EA is tightly interwoven with the Hawaiian independence movement. In fact, by sharing the growth of an exciting, place-based Hawaiian language and culture revitalization movement, which has evolved on multiple Hawaiian islands over the past three decades, this narrative aims to educate others about the liberatory potential of this uniquely Hawaiian way of education, for tens of thous­ ands of Native Hawaiian students. As a Hawaiian model of education, EA is culturally-driven, family-oriented and community-based and takes an ancient yet modern approach to education. EA promotes the rejuvenation 121

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of Hawaiian culture, the normalization of Hawaiian language, Hawaiian self-sustainability and the restoration of Hawaiian independence. EA is education for Hawaiians, by Hawaiians, using: Hawaiian values as behavioral expectations and pedagogical foundations; traditional ways of teaching and learning as methods of instruction; ‘place’ as central focus of the curriculum; and an ancient Hawaiian form of assessment called hō‘ike, known as ‘performance-based assessment to an authentic audience’ in education circles. EA is grounded in a Pedagogy of Aloha, first articulated by the author over 15 years ago, but practiced by our Hawaiian ancestors for thousands of years. This traditional, caring, per­ sonalized way of education is validated by dozens of Hawaiian proverbs and poetical sayings. One of these proverbs, passed down verbatim to us from our ancestors, states ‘A’ohe pau ka ‘ike i ka hālau ho‘okahi: ‘not all knowledge is contained in one school’. This ancient saying reminds us that we can learn from many sources, and that there can be multiple approaches to the revitalization of our native language and traditions. Hence, EA is not a critique of other Hawaiian education programs and language restoration approaches. Rather, EA is a unique way of teaching and learning, based on ancient pedagogical principles and practices, pilot-tested and validated by the author and thousands of ‘co-researchers’ of various ages, using a research methodology called Mā’awe Pono. This Hawaiian methodol­ ogy, developed by the author, aligns with other decolonizing methods of qualitative inquiry, and is rooted in ancient values and approaches. Over 25 years of research, on multiple islands, in and out of the classroom, confirm that EA has a positive impact on multiple levels for the vast majority of Native Hawaiian children and youth, from the ‘gifted and talented’ to those labeled as ‘low-performing’ or in need of ‘special education’, and generally believed to be ‘uneducable’. While this chapter may be of interest to non-Native educational ethnographers, community language revitalization activists, applied linguists, action researchers and others working in Indigenous language revitalization, it is addressed first and foremost to Indigenous educators, especially those working in language and culture revitalization. Indeed, the chapter wants to encourage, to excite and to bring hope not just to Native Hawaiians, but to Indigenous peoples worldwide, struggling to keep their native languages and cultures alive, or trying to revive their native language and culture, as is the case in Hawai‘i. In order to reach and affect Indigenous people(s), the author has chosen to explicate EA through the story of Aloha (which means love or affection in Hawaiian), a fictitious Native Hawaiian cultural practitioner and certified Hawaiian language teacher, and her learning journey over the past four decades. Since the beginning of time, storytelling has been an effective tool among Indigenous peoples to pass down cultural knowledge, perpetuate important values and traditions, and remember the lessons



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learned by previous generations. In fact, some believe, storytelling is the most powerful way to convey a cause, spread an idea or inspire hope, all things the Story of Education with Aloha aims to do. While all places, events and people mentioned in this narrative are fictitious, much of the story is true. Moreover, while none of the specifics mentioned in the story are factual in their entirety, the narrative intersects profoundly with the larger Hawaiian language revitalization movement, Hawaiian sovereignty and independence efforts, the evolution of Pedagogy of Aloha, the Hawaiian charter school movement, the author’s personal history, and so on. Yet, the Story of Education with Aloha is most emphatically not a historical account. It is an effort to educate others, using improvisations, theatrics and embellishments of actual people and events, all characteristic of a good story. The main point of the Story of Education with Aloha is to share successful tools and ­strategies for Indigen­ous language revitalization specifically, and the creation of Indigen­ous educational models in general. Moreover, the story exhibits the potential, and points out the imperative, of Education with Aloha, lest another generation of Native Hawaiians end up as educational and societal failures. Ma Ka Hana Ka ‘Ike (Through Work Comes Knowledge)

As she watches the sun disappear into the ocean, Aloha reflects on her day and smiles. Everyone had so much fun! She loves Native Kitchen, a new language-immersion experience held Saturdays and Sundays from 9 am to 3 pm at the local community incubator kitchen. Native Kitchen is the brainchild of her 20-year-old niece, Kahea, who is among a new genera­ tion of Hawaiian-as-an-Additional-Language speakers. Kahea attended Hawaiian immersion programs from preschool until she graduated from high school and is able to talk about everyday topics in Hawaiian with little or no effort. After high school, Kahea enrolled in an innovative, Hawaiian-focused, post-secondary program, which is helping her to transition to a kanaka makua (mature adult). Among other things, this program requires her to work regularly with a mentor, and complete a hands-on internship. Native Kitchen is part of this internship, expanding her knowledge of culinary arts. Already as a child of five or six years, Kahea had loved to help cook for the extended family and the many visitors to her home. Today, Kahea and her mentor Aloha, showed 12 Native Hawaiian learners, ranging from 8 to 68 years of age, how to prepare and enjoy a six-course delicious, healthy ‘Hawaiian-infused’ meal, as Kahea called it, while using only the Hawaiian language as the medium of communication. Like previous Native Kitchens, the day was a huge success and participants left with both a full stomach – a metaphor of contentment in itself – and big smiles. All had thoroughly enjoyed not just the delicious, novel foods, prepared

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using primarily native fruits, vegetables and fish, but also the time spent preparing it. In fact, many could still not believe that Kahea and Aunty Aloha had spoken to them only in Hawaiian. ‘I got it’, one of the uncles had shared with Aloha after the experience. ‘I actually got what you was saying in Hawaiian. What a trip! And here I thought I could never learn my language. I can’t wait to check out the website with the cooking videos all in Hawaiian.’ ‘We’ve come a long way’, Aloha smiles, thinking back on her journey over the past 40 years, and the many efforts to try to save the Hawaiian language from extinction. She remembers her mother, a teacher of hula, or traditional dance, and how very excited she had been when a constitu­ tional amendment was passed in 1978 legitimizing the Hawaiian language as an official state language. The amendment also called for a Hawaiian education program consisting of language, culture and history in the public schools, which the Department of Education is still working on. As early as the 19th century, American scientists had predicted the death of the Hawaiian language, followed by the death of the last Hawaiian, some time in the early 2000s. Sadly, the fact that the Hawaiian language, the Hawaiian way of life and eventually the entire race were going to die was the general consensus not just among non-native residents. Even her own people believed that Hawai‘i’s native language and cultural practices would pass with the death of the last generation of native speakers, who were then all aged 60 years or more. Even more sad was the fact that most of her parents’ generation had silently accepted that fate, as they tried their best to be good Americans and fit – generally unsuccessfully – into the American dream. Aloha recalls how members of her own family had discouraged her from majoring in Hawaiian language in the early 1980s, when her father’s Veterans Affairs (VA) benefits allowed her to attend college. They had asked her, ‘Why do you want to study a dead language? Learning Hawaiian is a waste of time. You’ll never get job with a degree in Hawaiian. Why don’t you become a lawyer? They make good money.’ Luckily, instead of being unemployed, exactly the opposite happened. Within three years, Aloha had built up a full Hawaiian language teaching line at the local high school, and was getting job offers from other schools, who heard about her successes with the students. ‘Goes to tell you’, Aloha recently told her nephew who wanted to major in Hawaiian, ‘Tutu [grandparent] was right, ‘A ‘ohe pu‘u ki‘eki‘e ke ho‘ā‘o ‘ia e pi‘i [No cliff is so tall that it cannot be scaled]. As long as we try hard, no problem is too great that it can’t be solved. Plus, today, you don’t need to worry: anyone with strong Hawaiian language skills can find a job in fields ranging from education, to technol­ ogy, from the legal system, to natural resource management and more.’ From the moment she stepped into the classroom 38 years ago, Aloha realized that her teacher licensing program at the local university had not prepared her whatsoever for the institutionalized racism, as one of the



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union leaders had called it recently, that faced her Hawaiian students in the public school system. Many of her students were labeled as being in need of ‘special education’ or ‘special motivation’ and so were assigned to her Hawaiian language class by their counselors because they believed Hawaiian, unlike other language electives like Spanish, French or Japanese, to be an ‘easy’ class, just right for Hawaiian students, who were perceived as less intelligent than students of other ethnicities. In fact, many coun­ selors at that time outright discouraged Hawaiians even to try to apply for college, telling them they were not smart enough to handle the required rigor. In addition, counselors frequently told students that Hawaiian would not be considered by universities, which required a two-year foreign language high school credit, even though that was completely false. Aloha also realized quickly that, in contrast to the other languages taught in the department, which had textbooks, workbooks, audio tapes and other instructional materials, there were no educational resources for Hawaiian, except for a Hawaiian language college text that focused on grammatical constructions. ‘I no like that book’, one of her students had told her the first day she tried to use it. ‘Why we have to translate absolutely useless sentences? Boring!’ So, Aloha had to be extremely creative, as she created her own curriculum, figuring out what vocabulary the students could actually use in the classroom and in their daily lives. She also had to determine the best way for them to memorize this vocabulary, since some of her Native Hawaiian high school students could not even spell simple words like ‘house’ in English. Soon it became evident that playing vocabulary games, like charades and win-lose-or-draw, was a great way for students to learn and review their vocabulary, while also having lots of fun. In fact, Aloha still remembers being questioned by several teachers about whether her students were actually learning something, since they seemed to be having so much fun in class. Those criticisms stopped when her students started to win island-wide Hawaiian language competitions and poetry contests, but the allegations of her colleagues had still hurt. ‘Instead of being happy that these kids, who have never succeeded in school before, suddenly love to learn, even teachers I thought were my friends acted weird, almost like they were jealous’, she had shared with a friend. Then, in the early 1990s, a paradigm shift at the school required the integration of technology into all subject areas, and while other language teachers could order CD-ROMs, videos and video disks, no digital Hawaiian language materials were available. So instead of becoming consumers of information, Aloha’s students became creators of informa­ tion, specifically information about themselves and their native language, culture and history. Aloha remembers being amazed at how fast her students, especially the boys, mastered the software and how quickly they learned how to use a scanner and eventually the first digital cameras. This effort, supported by an oral history grant, resulted in the first oral history

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CD-ROM of a renowned Hawaiian temple, created by Hawaiian high school students, many of whom were in special-education and specialmotivation classes and programs. This CD-ROM integrated the Hawaiian language at all levels, with a roll-over feature which translated particular parts of vocabulary from Hawaiian to English and vice versa. Since then, her students had created all kinds of digital products, from websites and DVDs to online advertisements and apps. Today, all her students had digital portfolios and would soon be able to earn digital badges in the Hawaiian language, which one of Aloha’s graduates was developing with a group of friends. It was amazing how a lack of digital Hawaiian language resources resulted in her students becoming creators of digital products and experts in the use of all kinds of software. In fact, several of her former students were working in the technology field in high-paying jobs, thanks to their background in technology and innovative thinking, which they learned in her Hawaiian language class. Kūkulu Kumuhana (The Pooling of Strengths: Physical, Cultural, Intellectual, Spiritual and so on for a Common Purpose)

When growing up, Aloha had loved to listen to her pure Hawaiian grandfather speak the sonorous Hawaiian language with his friends – ­especially after a beer or two. Sadly, by the time she enrolled in Hawaiian language at college, her grandfather had already joined the ancestors. So, Aloha spent as much time as possible in the presence of the last genera­ tion of native speakers. These experiences convinced her that knowing the Hawaiian language was an essential ingredient of being Hawaiian. At the same time, she realized that just saving the language, without any cultural practice, and without a place to live the culture, was not enough. Speaking Hawaiian and practicing Hawaiian culture and traditions went hand in hand – as did safeguarding the people and the land from outside forces spurred by greed and Western consumerism. While most of her Hawaiian language peers were essentially apolitical, Aloha got involved in the aloha ‘āina (love of the land) movement, aimed at protecting Hawai‘i’s precious natural resources from exploitation for tourism or military use. This included protesting against the bombing of a sacred valley, getting involved in the passage of the Native American Repatriation Act to protect ancestral bones from greedy hotel ­developers and shutting down a large development that would have destroyed important cultural sites. In 1990, Aunty Aloha was among more than a thousand protesters, many of them Native Hawaiian, who gathered at a locked gate leading to a sacred birthing place about to be destroyed. News reports stated that three dozen armed police were enlisted to keep the peace. In the end, more than 100 protesters, including Aunty Aloha and her cousin Kaleo, were arrested for trespassing. That night, as they shared their ex­periences with a group of friends, the question arose about



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what would have happened if more protesters had gone around the fence? ‘We would have won’, Kaleo had told everyone. ‘If there would have been a thousand of us, there is no way they could have booked us. As it was, we were literally forced out of jail as soon as they processed us, because there were already too many of us to house and feed even for one night. Too bad we did not have the critical mass necessary to shut them down.’ ‘So, what do we do to get this critical mass?’, Aunty Aloha had asked her friends. ‘We must start with the children’, one of her buddies responded. ‘If the next generation learns that, as Hawaiians, protecting the land is a responsibility, not a choice, then we have a chance to stop the destruction of our rainforests, and our beaches being taken over by expensive hotels.’ That evening, the group of eight young Hawaiians decided to start a summer program that would immerse Native Hawaiian children in a Hawaiian way of life for one moon cycle. ‘Let’s all bring four children each’, one of her friends suggested. ‘And then each one of us can teach them what we know best. I can do hula. Sister here can show them how to cook and Brother can teach them how to plant food. We can stay with my uncle in Wailau. He has lots of room for tents and he told me I can come and stay with him any time. Even better yet, he lives off the land, so the children can experience what it means to aloha ‘āina first-hand.’ The intergenerational camps had been a huge success. Aloha remembers telling a fellow Hawaiian language teacher after the first summer program: These kids learned more Hawaiian language in four short weeks than in a whole year in a classroom! In addition to their Hawaiian introduction, they learned several chants, songs and hula. They also learned all kinds of proverbs, and hundreds of Hawaiian words. In fact, by the end we were pretty much talking to them in Hawaiian. You should have seen this middle-schooler, who was super-shy and withdrawn when we first started and too embarrassed to even take off his shirt when we swam in the river, because he was a bit overweight. Even though both his parents were partHawaiian, I remember him saying that he didn’t know any Hawaiian. By the end of our camp, wearing nothing but a Hawaiian loincloth, he did his entire introduction – several minutes long – all in Hawaiian. He also was by far the best chanter, when the students performed a long cosmogonic genealogy all in Hawaiian for their parents. His mom cried and told me she was blown away by her son’s change. She told me she thought he even became more handsome while in the valley. How’s that?

While that concept had initially stumped Aloha, over the years her research validated that connecting young Hawaiians to the ways of their ancestors directly affected their self-image and their ability to relate to their identity as Hawaiians. The more they learned about their heritage, the more confident they became in who they were, which was also reflected

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in their physical appearance. ‘We are who we were’, one of her friends had told the youth one day. ‘Remember, we come from an awesome people, who were experts at taking care of each other, the environment and the spiritual world. And, as their survivors, it is our responsibility to carry on the language and the traditions of our ancestors. You wanna be Hawaiian? That’s what being Hawaiian is all about.’ Although new participants joined them each summer, it did not take long for them to became a tightknit ‘ohana, or family, by the end of the month. In fact, in only one moon cycle, lifelong relationships were developed, very different from the relations between students and teachers within Western systems of schooling. In the valley, everyone treated one another like family. All adults were ‘aunties’, ‘uncles’ or ‘grandparents’. Older youth took care of the younger ones, while all made sure that the elders had everything they needed. In fact, reciprocal help, open affection, or aloha, generous sharing, and lots of laughter would best describe a typical day among the Hawaiian-learning ‘ohana, or family of learners, as they lived and learned together in the valley. Daily protocol ensured that the group also connected with the spiritual world, starting in the morning, asking the ancestors for knowledge, strength, understanding, intuition, spiritual power and more, showing appreciation for food and other blessings throughout the day and ending the day with a prayer of gratitude and hopes of a ‘productive’ night. ‘Ka pō nui ho’olakolako [the great night that provides] is what our ancestors believed’, Aloha remembers her grandfather telling her. ‘It’s at night that our ancestors talk to us and teach us in our dreams.’ It was during their second summer camp that one of the participants, who was in 10th grade at the time, suddenly sat up in the middle of the night and began to speak in Hawaiian to someone the other kids in the tent could not see. What was even stranger was that the girl couldn’t even speak Hawaiian. When asked in the morning if she remembered anything, the girl replied: Oh, I had a visit from a very nice elder who welcomed me and asked me my name. When I told him my name, he started to chant and it sounded like a genealogy. Actually I’m pretty sure it’s the genealogy of my greatgrandmother, which my mom showed me recently. I can’t wait to tell my mom; she also sees the ancestors in her dreams.

Every summer it became increasingly clear that participants of all ages, from the toddlers to the elders, enjoyed learning informally through talking story, or by being shown a new skill hands-on and then immediately doing it over and over again. They loved listening to stories connected to the countless sites they visited throughout the valley, and learn hula about them. They also quickly picked up the special chants, songs and proverbs of the valley, which made sense now that they understood its rich history, as a training ground for voyaging priests, which dated back over 2000



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years. And every year, the hō‘ike, or performances at the end of the camps to their parents and the community, became more and more elaborate. What had started out as mini-presentation over the years turned into fully fledged hula drama, with elaborate adornments and attire, created by the participants, creative storylines and exhilarating chants and dances. After hō‘ike in the second year, there was so much interest in the next summer camp that the group decided that each of them would go back into their home districts and start summer camps there, based on the same hands-on, place-based, informal way of education incubated in the valley. ‘I love Wailau’, one of the boys had told Aloha at the end of one of the camps. ‘I feel at home here. All you guys feel like my family. I wish I wouldn’t have to go back to school once this camp is over.’ Education with Aloha (EA)

After several years of successful Hawaiian immersion camps in the valley, and the expansion of the concept to other districts and even other islands, Aunty Aloha couldn’t take it anymore. ‘Why is it only in the summer that we are doing what works, and the rest of the year we are stuck in a system that doesn’t work for us?’ she questioned her friends. ‘This makes no sense.’ That same year, Aloha had gotten a scholarship to enroll in an EdD program, where she learned about innovative, environ­ mentally focused schools-within-schools on the continent, through one of her peers. After discussing it with her family and friends, she decided to ask her principal if she could start a school-within-a-school, or more specifically a Hawaiian-focused academy, as her research project for her doctorate. Aloha never forgot what her vice principal, a fellow Hawaiian, told her: ‘You know Aloha, this Hawaiian stuff might work in the valley, but in order for Hawaiians to succeed we need to learn the Western way. If you can get enough students together, we are willing to give it a try. But if you want this program to continue, you have to show us data that demonstrate it’s working.’ That was the beginning of the Aloha ‘Āina Hawaiian Academy, which also ended up becoming the title of her dissertation, as well as Aloha’s official action research, which is still ongoing today. This Hawaiian Academy was for students in grades 9–12, who wanted to learn all subject areas through a Hawaiian lens, as they worked together in multi-age teams on authentic projects, an approach that had worked extremely well in the valley. Again, the impact of the Hawaiian-focused approach to education, now part of an official EdD research study, was amazing. In the first year, there was a 60% decrease in absences, because school was fun and students wanted to be there. The qualitative data were also impressive. Especially boys, who had been passed along from grade level to grade level, even though they were seriously deficient, suddenly realized that they were not stupid, like they had been led to believe.

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‘You folks taught me something. I never thought I could learn’, a junior boy had told Aloha in an informal interview at the beach, after his first year in the Academy. ‘And what is that?’ Aloha had asked. ‘You taught me how to read,’ the boy responded. ‘Can you believe that?’ Aloha had asked her little staff of four, including her cousin Kaleo. ‘Before coming to us he didn’t think he could learn how to read. Yet, all it took was a couple of weeks of doing some one-on-one decoding, and now he is reading almost at a ninth-grade level. He especially enjoys books about wayfinding, so if any of you have any reading materials on celestial navigation, please let me know.’ It took Aloha over three years to get her EdD. Throughout this time, she directed the Hawaiian Academy, as well as a ground-breaking Indigen­ous research project, that measured the impact of the Academy on its 100 Native Hawaiian students. While the positive impact of the Academy had been evident from the start, it had lacked systemic support. In fact, Aloha had been on leave without pay the entire time she worked full-time implementing this cutting-edge project, which hosted over 1000 visitors from around the world in its third year of operation. In the interim, Aloha had followed the national charter school movement, and when it became evident that, no matter how successful they were, there would be no systemic support at the school level, she was instrumental in getting a bill passed that allowed schools-within-a-school to convert to charter schools. At the end of the school year, the 9–12 Hawaiian Academy converted to a Hawaiian-focused K-12 school. There were multiple reasons for this expansion. For one, most Native Hawaiian students entering the Academy at ninth grade or thereafter were seriously deficient in pretty much every­ thing, including English reading and writing skills, math and science proficiencies, tech skills, knowledge of Hawaiian language and culture, self-direction, planning and time management skills, to mention just a few. One of her Academy teachers had said, ‘No sense. We spend at least two to three years catching the students up to grade level and undoing their poor study habits and negative attitude towards learning, before we can really start to have some significant impact on their academics. Why don’t we start with the babies. Then we can teach them right from the beginning.’ Aloha loved the idea, especially because several of her nieces and nephews had just started public school, or would soon enter kinder­ garten. And there were also her best friend’s twins who had attended their summer camps for the past two years and who had just enrolled in kindergarten. ‘You know what’s sad?’ her friend had asked her. ‘The kids sit at their desks all day, completing boring worksheets that are completely irrelevant to Hawaiian culture and our way of life. My boys did so good in Wailau. But they hate school. We need a Hawaiian academy for children from pre-school through high school.’



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Just like the Hawaiian Academy, Aloha ‘Āina Charter School was a huge success and spurred the creation of a dozen other Hawaiian-focused charter schools on multiple islands as well as the birth of a Hawaiian education consortium. This consortium encouraged fledgling schools to share their strengths and provide mutual support, as they struggled to deal with a lack of facilities, serious underfunding and difficulty finding ‘highly qualified’ teachers, once No Child Left Behind rolled around. ‘You know, I don’t care if they are highly qualified,’ Aloha had told her team, which had increased to a total of 39 staff serving 250 PK-12 students. ‘What I need is individuals who truly care about our students and can show them how to live in harmony with each other, the land, the sea and the spiritual world. I can teach them whatever skills they need to become good teachers, as long as they come with aloha.’ So, Aloha, with the help of a Native Hawaiian college professor friend, started their own teacher licencing/professional development program, where staff were taught, in the environment, during their intersessions, how to design and implement successful, multi-age projects that solved real problems in the community. Moreover, the program immersed her staff in Hawaiian language, culture and traditions, providing them with specific tools to use in and out of the classroom. One of the biggest, ongoing challenges for Aloha was to make Aloha ‘Āina Charter School bilingual. It was extremely difficult to recruit Hawaiian-speaking staff for the various multi-level project groups. Even full-immersion programs had a hard time finding teachers who were fluent speakers, although it had been over 30 years since the opening of their first Hawaiian language preschool. In addition, getting teachers to use the Hawaiian language in the classroom was an ongoing struggle. Even teachers who were fluent in Hawaiian often used English when conversing with students coming out of Hawaiian immersion programs. ‘You know,’ one of her staff had told Aloha, ‘I know I should speak more Hawaiian, especially with our Hawaiian-speaking students. But whenever there is someone who cannot speak Hawaiian, I start to speak English, because I do not want to embarrass those who don’t know Hawaiian yet. At the same time, I’m asking myself, “How will those students learn unless they hear the language spoken in everyday contexts?”’ ‘I know,’ Aloha responded. ‘I think all Hawaiians have a hard time excluding others, or even worse making them feel inferior. As a result, we tend to revert to English or Pidgin, since everyone can understand that. I believe this is an issue we definitely have to address if we want to normalize the language.’ Although progress was slow, over the years the use of Hawaiian at the school continued to increase, especially when the school’s first high-tech building was completed. With smartboards in each classroom, Aloha challenged her teachers, as she had been tasked decades ago, to integrate technology across the curriculum. With the help of two Aloha ‘Āina Charter School graduates, the teachers created fun Hawaiian-language

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games, using the latest in educational technology. In addition, the older students got involved in publishing e-books, creating apps and other Hawaiian-language materials for their younger peers. The emphasis on technology also initiated the creation of an online Hawaiian-language program, where students and their families could study Hawaiian anytime, anywhere. A group of 12th-graders even created a Hawaiian-language protocol webinar series, so families could learn how to practice basic Hawaiian protocol. In order to validate the impact of Aloha ‘Āina Charter School, Aloha decided to continue her action research even after attaining her doctorate in education. Interestingly, when asked why they enjoyed coming to school, and what they saw as the difference between the Hawaiian way of education, and the way they had learned at Department of Education schools, the students continued to identify aloha as the primary reason they felt happy and safe at Aloha ‘Āina. Another positive impact identified by most students, regardless of age, was the fact that the Hawaiian language and culture were not only integrated into the curriculum but provided the center and focus of every content area. In other words, whether it was science or social studies, literature or sports, every lesson was grounded in Hawaiian knowledge, and then moved out in concentric circles. ‘I love learning about being Hawaiian,’ one student wrote. ‘It makes me feel good about who I am and where I come from.’ ‘I love it that all of our learning starts here in Hawai‘i,’ wrote another. ‘We learn first about our land, our ocean, our history, our culture, our language, our chants and songs, and our values.’ ‘This is the first school where the teachers treat me like I was one of their nieces or nephews. I even get scoldings with aloha,’ a rascal middleschooler had told his father recently. ‘So why don’t we call what we do Education with Aloha,’ one of Aloha’s staff had proposed. ‘Let’s call it EA for short,’ another suggested. ‘Wait, doesn’t that mean sovereignty in Hawaiian?’ ‘It sure does,’ Aunty Aloha replied, smiling. After trying unsuccessfully to get systemic support for Education with Aloha, which in the interim had gained island-wide fame and a six-year accreditation, Aloha left her position at the Charter School, to work on a new initiative focused on transitioning Native Hawaiian youth to mature adults, ready, willing and able to perpetuate the native language, culture and traditions of their ancestors and take care of their role as responsible global citizens. ‘It’s time for us to become independent,’ Aloha had shared with a group of educators. ‘The camps, the Academy and the Charter School taught us the importance of Education with Aloha, and the need to be culturally driven, family oriented and community based. These pilots also made it clear that we need to be sustainable. So our next step is to create a model where Hawaiian youth can be educated for free, and



Education with Aloha (EA) for an Independent Hawai’i  133

graduate with zero debt.’ So far, Native Kitchen and the protocol webinars were not only sustainable but had generated income, and several other income-generating Hawaiian language learning tools were being planned. As she drifts off to sleep, Aloha is filled with profound gratitude to the ancestors. ‘So many blessings on this divinely guided journey,’ she had told her audience the other day. ‘I am excited to see Education with Aloha continue to evolve and to expand. With all the data clearly pointing to its success with Native Hawaiians, it only makes sense that all Hawaiian kids should have the opportunity to attend a Hawaiian-focused school that is part of a Hawaiian system of education. Moreover, it is imperative that we all contribute to normalize the Hawaiian language, until Hawaiian is once again used by most Hawaiian families, and in most Hawaiian businesses and organizations, as the preferred medium of communication. Every time I hear a Hawaiian family speaking Hawaiian in the store, or at the beach, I am so grateful to all who helped to keep our language alive. We have come a long way.’ Conclusion

Unimaginable strides have been made by Native Hawaiians over the past decades to revitalize our native language, culture and traditions, and create successful Hawaiian-focused models of education. Yet, much remains to be done to normalize the use of the Hawaiian language among Native Hawaiians at home, at work and at play. These endeavors must be created from the ground up and owned at the grassroots level. Moreover, they must go hand in hand with Hawaiian efforts to create our own independent, womb-to-tomb ‘system’ of education, as advocated by the Native Hawaiian Education Council as early as 1997. The creation of this system in turn must be part of a larger Hawaiian effort to reject our status as marginalized citizens in our own homeland, and push back against over 100 years of official policy to Americanize Hawai‘i. Decades of data that place Native Hawaiians at the bottom of all positive educational performance indicators, and on the top of all negative educational performance indicators, clearly confirm that Western education has failed Native Hawaiians. At the same time, external and internal research confirms the multi-level successes of Hawaiian-focused Education with Aloha. Research also points to the potential of this ancient yet modern type of teaching and learning, to change the realities of tens of thousands of Native Hawaiian public school students, currently the most under- and uneducated major ethnic population. In fact, in schools with large concentrations of Native Hawaiians, as many as one-third of the student population is labeled in need of ‘special education’ services. By building on, expanding and refining successful pedagogies, educa­ tional approaches, curricular focal points and assessment practices, Native Hawaiians, as well as their Native relations around the world, can create

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systemic change for our people in education. Indeed, by doing things our way, we will indubitably grow a new generation of confident, bilingual, 21st-century Native Hawaiians ready, willing and able to re-establish and maintain their traditional language and cultural practices and their political, economic and cultural independence. Note on documentation In the traditions of my people, no citations will occupy this paper; it is enough that our land is occupied. However, in the interest of further study, I will suggest the following from YouTube, blogs and books by my people. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uV7jQD-JFOY https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMV_SPzY-qE&index=1&list=PLN7d6d7YoiH9hktDda2Y_dcP-hT1gj_v https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jXIWi1Kdrg8&index=5&list=PLN7d6d7Yo-iH9hkt­ Dda2Y_dcP-hT1gj_v http://www.socialinnovationacademy.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/EduShifts_Eng_ virtual.pdf Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, Noelani (2013) The Seeds We Planted:. Portraits of a Native Hawaiian Charter School. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, Noelani, Hussey, Ikaika and Kahunawaika‘ala Wright, Erin (2014) A Nation Rising: Hawaiian Movements for Life, Land, and Sovereignty. Durham, NC: Duke University Press,. Pukui, Mary Kawena (1983) ‘Ōlelo No’eau: Hawaiian Proverbs and Poetical Sayings. Honolulu, HI: Bishop Museum Press. Trask, Haunani-Kay (1993) From a Native Daughter: Colonialism and Sovereignty in Hawaii. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press.

9 Situated Safaliba Practices in School Literacies that Resist Dominant Discourses in Ghana Ari Sherris

This chapter positions Safaliba early-childhood literacy instruction in a linguistic human rights framework in which Safaliba activists and their allies demonstrate resistance to the social reproduction of a regional hegemonic language, Gonja. They do this through situated community practices that they bring into the school through an early-childhood literacy project of their own design, shifting the linguistic capital within a state institution and expanding the concept of school literacy. Field notes, interviews, classroom videos, photos and document collection from a larger ethnographic study comprise the sources for this chapter. Safaliba is a Gur language spoken by 7000–9000 speakers in a rich multilingual and rural area of Ghana. It is one of 64 Indigenous Ghanaian languages that the Ghana Ministry of Education does not recognize, and not one of the nine it recognizes for early literacy. Nevertheless, the Safaliba develop their own early-childhood Safaliba literacy curriculum, which exemplifies Indigenous activism of the highest order. The chapter elaborates on the three components of the Safaliba curriculum with examples that hold promise for other Indigenous peoples in Ghana and beyond, to begin a conversation about grassroots literacy and bottom-up language policy. Ghana’s Languages, Constitution and Educational Policy

According to the Ethnologue, Ghana has 81 languages, of which 73 are Indigenous and eight are non-Indigenous (Lewis et al., 2016). In terms of the Ethnologue language count, nine Indigenous Ghanaian languages are used in schools. These are Akan, Dagaare, Dagbani, Dangme, Ewe, Ga, Gonja, Kasem and Nzema. However, most Ghanaian policy documents and teacher manuals speak of 11 Ghanaian Indigenous languages in schools because these documents divide Akan into three languages, while 135

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Ethnologue counts them as dialects (Asante Twi, Akuapem Twi and Fante). Neither Ghana’s Constitution1 nor educational policy directly faces the challenge of allocating resources for mother-tongue literacy to ­Ghanaian’s 73 Indigenous language groups. Indeed, the Constitution and policy set the challenge of providing free, compulsory and universal basic education, although the State is still struggling to implement this fully (Akyeampong, 2009; United Nations, 2015). At the same time, many Ghanaian policy discourses on universal basic education are silent on the language of instruction (Nudzor, 2013) or discuss it only in terms of the 11 school languages, languages which are far from universally used, even within the borders of Ghana, and not regional lingua franca (Government of Ghana, 2010; Rosekrans et al., 2012; Sherris, 2017; United Nations, 2015). In what follows, I will briefly summarize major loopholes in Ghana’s Constitution, Ghana’s educational language policy and the inequities of funding from Ghana’s largest single donor for early-childhood materials development, the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). Ghana’s Constitution, written in English, does not reference Ghana’s Indigenous languages by name. However, with respect to citizenship, it states that speaking and understanding ‘an Indigenous language of Ghana’ (p. 9) is required to register for citizenship. Moreover, in its section on educational objectives, the Constitution states that it is the State’s responsibility to provide educational facilities in all regions of Ghana and that the government is responsible for generating a plan for free, compul­ sory and universal basic education. The section concludes with three more things that the State shall provide, albeit ‘subject to available resources’ (p. 30). These are: (a) equal and balanced access to secondary and other appropriate pre-university education, equal access to university or equivalent education, with emphasis on science and technology, (b) a free adult literacy program, and a free vocational training, rehabili­ tation and resettlement of disabled persons; and (c) life-long education.

Reference to Ghanaian languages also appears in the section on cultural objectives, which follows the section on educational objectives (sum­ marized above). It asserts that ‘The State shall foster the development of Ghanaian languages and pride in Ghanaian culture’ (p. 30). In addition, Ghana has ratified many United Nations documents from human rights conventions and, as a member of the United Nations Assembly, Ghana has adopted the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007), which, in terms of wording, is the strongest document on Indigenous languages, stronger even than the Convention on the Rights of the Child (1989), which Ghana has ratified.2 The Declaration on the Rights



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of Indigenous Peoples asserts the right to language revitalization, the right to transmit writing systems and literatures in an Indigenous language, and the right to provide education in an Indigenous language (articles 13 and 14). However, there is a loophole for States, such that they need to support the use of Indigenous languages only ‘when possible’ (article 14:3). There is nothing about the responsibility of the State to enact anything and funding is not addressed. Nevertheless, these rights provide a moral and legal foundation for action by any Ghanaian Indigenous people. While the Constitution sets out, as quoted above, the very lofty notion of ‘equal and balanced access’ to secondary education or beyond, children from 64 Indigenous ethno-linguistic groups have no opportunity to learn to read and write in their mother tongue(s) while children whose mother tongue is one of the nine Ghanaian school languages do have that op­ portunity. Where is equal access in that? Nor would there be improved access for any of these children if all were to start with English-only, as longer time-on-task has been shown not to improve the rate of learning when English-only replaces mother-tongue literacy instruction (MacSwan et al., 2017). Finally, when the State does not utilize any of its donor funding for the development of instructional reading materials in those 64 languages, it is inhibiting and suppressing these languages (and also access to English); it is not – as the State is constitutionally mandated to do (as quoted above) – fostering the ‘development of Ghanaian languages and pride in Ghanaian culture’. Indeed, some argue this is linguistic genocide and a crime against humanity (Skutnabb-Kangas & Dunbar, 2010). Donor Funding

The 11 Ghanaian languages and English are used in schools. USAID has supported the development and distribution of literacy instructional materials as well as teacher professional development in these languages and English, to a total of US$98 million between 2004 and 2019 (USAID & EQUALL, 2012; USAID & Ghana Partnership for Learning, 2015). This donor funding has supported five years of schooling: two years of kindergarten and the first three years of primary education (Ghana Education Service, 2012; Government of Ghana, 2010). After that, class­ rooms are English-medium with one of the 11 Ghanaian languages taught as a school subject. These funding decisions by the Ghana Ministry of Education (MoE) and the Ghana Education Service (GES) (the State’s cur­ riculum development and supervision division) effectively disenfranchise the other 64 Indigenous Ghanaian languages. Sherris and Schaefer (2017) showed that for a fraction of the USAID funding, simple materials could be created in all remaining 64 languages that could be downloadable in urban areas. These could be utilized in multilingual classrooms and downloaded and photocopied in those regional GES offices for rural schools with the highest numbers of speakers of the 64 languages left out of funding.

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In what follows, I will discuss my research method, my theoretical stance and the activist curriculum of the Safaliba, who speak one of Ghana’s 64 Indigenous unrecognized and unfunded languages. Safaliba activism could inspire other Indigenous peoples to take steps to resist and replace outsider Indigenous language instruction, the false lingua francas; it could inspire Indigenous groups to take back their schools. Ethnography of the Safaliba Literacy Curriculum

This chapter is based on my ethnographic data collection of situated Safaliba literacy practices from August 2015 to July 2016. Data were collected via audio- and video-tapes as well as field notes and document and artifact collection. This report has been member-checked with Safaliba activists to ensure that it is accurate with respect to their concep­ tualizations of literacy practices. Street (1993: 1) notes that ‘an ethnographic perspective on literacy … requires detailed, in-depth accounts of actual practices in different cultural settings … that recognize the central role of power relations in literacy practice’. It is also a way to understand the merit of a realignment of powers in a school setting. I argue that Bourdieu’s (1977) concept of linguistic capital provides such an understanding, where linguistic capital of schooling reshapes the linguistic market when teachers and students move towards community language and family language rather than a lingua franca that has no communicative power in the community. Safaliba Literacy Activism

Safaliba literacy activism had its genesis in a primary 1 (P1) classroom with 51 students in the English–Arabic Primary School in Mandari, Ghana. Materials were shared and piloted with teachers in the District Assembly Primary School, also in Mandari, Ghana. Both schools are government institutions which enrolled a total of 628 students during the 2015–16 academic year, which was when this ethnography took place. Two teachers from each school met weekly to discuss materials develop­ment for the three trimesters which comprised the academic year; these four Mandari teachers were the core of the project – each an activist for Safaliba literacy instruction in their schools. Safaliba orthographic development, linguistic documentation and earlier Safaliba literacy activism are documented by Sherris (2017) from a historical perspective and comprise an additional subset of data from this ethnography. In addition to the Mandari activists, every two weeks for the two final trimesters of the 2015–16 academic year, a group of 10 teachers from schools from a few surrounding communities met with the four teachers from the core group to share, evaluate and revise materials, as needed. A group of two to three people keyboarded and photocopied materials



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on a regular basis; this group included teachers, a Summer Institute of Linguistics field linguist and a few nearly graduated or recently graduated high school students who believed in the value of Safaliba literacy. Indeed, during the last trimester of the pilot year, some of the high school graduates became para-educators and others joined them the following year. This latter group of para-educators (the recent graduates of high school in Ghana) later continued their dialogue with me via Skype. Although those data do not enter this report, they do attest to the continuing grass­ roots activism within the community and among young people. This is of interest, since elites in major tertiary academic institutions throughout Ghana and elsewhere have argued that English is the only interest of the young, particularly among urban Ghanaians, who, it is sometimes argued, reflect and constitute ‘the new Ghana’ (Flamenbaum, 2016: 2013). In fact, the linguistic capital (Bourdieu, 1977) for Safaliba youth activists is not just English: it is Safaliba too (field notes, June 2016). The Safaliba literacy curriculum leader was a subsistence farmer/ teacher/Safaliba-literacy activist, Teacher Samua, who had approximately 10 years of teaching experience at the time (the 2015–16 academic year). Teacher Samua’s quiet and insistent determination to resist the official school policy of Gonja literacy gained the respect and support of parents, teachers, secondary school students, young adults, the Council of Elders and a broad cross-section of community leaders within overlapping Islamic, Christian and Mandari Land-Gods associations within Mandari. Members of these community groupings have overlapping affiliations. For example, the priest of the Mandari Land-Gods also sat on the Council of Elders, as did an imam and a Christian priest. Some important people had three funerals – one each for the Land-Gods, Allah and Jesus. Indeed, clans had active members of all three religious groups and some individuals were active in two or all three groups. Lines between affiliations were porous in many ways; elders and leaders of each affiliation were respected and their support was important for Teacher Samua. The shifting lines between independence and interdependence of these associations and a strong deference for the words, deeds and support of elders who led them were deeply important to Teacher Samua as he attempted to wrest the school association from its colonialist roots in Gonja (field notes, March 2016) and work from the real linguistic capital (Bourdieu, 1977) and heritage of the community, its leaders and its children. Because the curriculum developed by Teacher Samua had such broad appeal and was used by the other three core teachers as well as teachers at neighboring villages, I focus on a description of Teacher Samua’s main Safaliba literacy activities. Safaliba Literacy Curriculum

Teacher Samua, the P1 teacher in the English–Arabic Primary School in Mandari, Ghana, engaged his 51 students in three sorts of activities:

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(1) structured, skills-governed activities; (2) unstructured, creative ac­ tivities; and (3) listening to stories and shared reading. Together, these comprised Safaliba language and literacy instruction. Teacher Samua’s classroom was the nurturing source of resistance, materials development and scaffolded activities that others in Mandari classrooms and class­ rooms in surrounding communities adapted. The structured skills-governed activities included letter formation practice, copying dates and names, lists of short words for read-aloud practice, dictations of short Safaliba words, and sound–letter searches in short texts. The short texts were from the children’s repertoires of oral language that were transcribed by the teacher. The unstructured creative activities encompassed thinking of words that began with sounds the teacher called out, discussing folklore and field trips, drawing in response to a prompt or question about a field trip, and invented spelling or pretend writing accompanying the drawing. Listening to stories included tradi­ tional Safaliba folktales. Shared reading focused on the short texts which were the words of the children that had been dictated to Teacher Samua and that became small (often eight-page) booklets that were photocopied so that each child could have one. In what follows, I discuss the structured skills-governed activities, the creative ones, and the folklore and shared reading. Letter formation instruction, a structured skills activity, consisted of learning 19 consonants, nine vowels (o̱ /o/e̱ /e/i/ɛ/ɔ/u/a) and five diagraphs (ch/gb/kp/ny/ŋm). Safaliba’s 28 letters and five digraphs were taught in the first trimester and retaught in the subsequent two trimesters. With respect to vowel grapheme–phoneme links, the teacher often led the children in a song as children watched the teacher or a selected student point to different vowels on the chalkboard. Several additional activities became mini-lessons that were scaffolded in different ways. These routines and variations comprised a delicate shift that seemed to respect the needs of such a large class (51 students) as the teacher attempted to maintain the learners’ engagement. Otherwise, literacy would not have had much influence on these first-generation readers and writers. In each mini-lesson to learn a letter, students were told by their teacher to ‘bɔɔle̱ sɛbe̱ bee ko̱ ŋse̱ chɛ zaŋse̱ raa’ (‘say the sounds of the letters of the alphabet as they learn them’). This consisted of standing, lifting an arm, and tracing the letter sounds in the air above their heads following the teacher’s lead three or four times as they repeated the sounds. Then, in the same lesson, letter formation was explicitly taught. It consisted of listening to the teacher as he described where he started, stopped and might lift his chalk as he slowly formed a letter on the chalkboard. Students watched and listened. Finally, students were given a chance to form the same letter at the teacher’s request: ‘sɛbi sɛbibi paaligu ayi sɛbibe̱e̱ poo’ (‘write one new letter of the alphabet’). As the students formed the new letter with a pencil, their eyes moved from their lined exercise books



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to the chalkboard example. The teacher would then move around the room and help students in different ways. For instance, when students sometimes became disoriented by looking up at the chalkboard and back to their copybooks, Teacher Samua suggested they make a fist with their free hand and extend their index finger to use as a pointer that kept their place on the page where they had started a letter but had then had to look up for ideas from the letter on the chalkboard. In other instances, Teacher Samua suggested students form the letter again to the line or from the line, depending on the particular letter he had demonstrated. In these situations, pointing instructions with a student’s free hand were also suggested. When the teacher was satisfied with the class’s first efforts, he would ask them to form the same letter three more times and circle their best product, encouraging them to self-assess. After three or more letters were taught, the teacher would list them on the chalkboard and the students would listen and say the sound of each as the teacher pointed to the letters one at a time with a thin tree branch he used as a pointer. Then different groups of students followed the teacher’s lead and called out the sounds, followed by the remainder of the class calling out the same sounds. The rhythmic nature of the routine became a sort of a cappella choral voicing in a round rendition. Since the class of 51 students sat at nine round tables, each table with an assigned number, the teacher would often call on a table to follow his lead with the students from the remaining tables following the lead table. He then randomly selected additional tables to do the same. Sometimes the back tables, side tables or front tables alternated in following the teacher’s lead; the other tables followed the lead table’s turn. At other times, Teacher Samua would distribute small portable white­ boards, erasers and dry erase markers, one to each table of children. The whiteboards were lightweight and easy for the children to lift and pass to one another. They were a novelty in Mandari and purchased in a sta­ tionery kiosk in Bole, a nearby large mixed Gonja- and Safaliba-speaking town where Mandari residents went to market on Fridays. Teacher Samua would call out a sound or a small word and instruct each student with a whiteboard and dry erase marker to attempt to write it and seek consensus from others at the same table. Then he would ask for everyone to hold up their whiteboards and he would tell students who had correct attempts and who didn’t. He would repeat the sound or slowly sound out the word as he wrote it again on the whiteboard. Sometimes he left his original list of letters or words on the chalkboard and simply said one out of order. This provided more scaffolded support for students. Students would then erase their letters and hand their whiteboards, erasers and dry erase markers to the child sitting to their left and the activity would continue till everyone had had at least one turn. A word list for these activities was developed by both the core group of Safaliba activists and the broader group from the meetings with Safaliba

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activists from surrounding communities. Edmund Kuŋi Yakubu, a retired Safaliba teacher, who developed the first known Safaliba orthography in 1996 (see his orthography in Sherris, 2017), suggested using short words in different consonant (C) and vowel (V) patterns (CV, CVV, CVCV) during discussion of pedagogical ideas for Safaliba reading and writing instruc­ tion at a meeting with community activists. The activists brainstormed the list over several meetings and reached consensus on the translations to English (field notes, October, 2015). Returning to pedagogical activities with these short words and individual letter or digraph sounds, Teacher Samua would also invite individuals or pairs of students to the chalkboard, handing one student his pointer and asking that student to lead. If two children were asked to stand at the chalkboard together, one pointed to a letter or digraph, while the other read and the class repeated or recast the reader’s sound. At other times, the student pointed and the class read in unison. If two students were called to the chalkboard, they alternated. When errors were not recast by students, the teacher either recast them or asked students to clarify their meaning, which indicated to the students that they had erred and should give it another try. This process gave opportunities for discussions of what makes a supportive and caring classroom, where students can learn from their errors and the errors of others rather than mocking or laughing at errors in micro-aggressive ways. The children often had smiles and engaged with the above structured, rule-governed activities enthusiastically. It was rare for these children to be off-task during these teacher- or student-led activities. When a more creative activity was introduced, say where students were asked for words that might begin with a sound or a digraph, a thoughtful silence often filled the classroom, which was another sort of engagement that was palpable for the children, for the teacher and for me. The teacher would look at me and smile and whisper to me, ‘They’re thinking’. Children would steal glances from one another or look to more verbal interlocutors among them as if to encourage them to raise their hands. This was also an exploration of their school identities as silent-thinkers in a classroom with others, while students expanded the silence with a keen visual awareness of one another and the effect they had on the atmosphere of learning, a sense of the transition from highly routinized, repetitive and rhythmic spoken, chanted and sung activity to the silence and the looking. The entire experience of silent thinking seemed to transform and grow throughout the room at these times. These engagements with school in the mother tongue socialized the children into a domain – the school domain – for them to grow and their language experiences to grow. It was unlike previous schooling in their community because it was in their mother tongue and the social semiotic experiences of looking and silent thinking were linked to their language. School was not distanced; school was brought close to multimodality in and through their mother tongue.



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It was also unlike their two years of kindergarten, which was in Gonja, the official school language and a language very different from their own, indeed a false lingua franca. Creative activities chiefly centered on field trips on foot, drawing and invented spelling or pretend writing, and classroom discussions. The discussions were about either field trips or stories that the teacher shared from the oral traditions of the Safaliba. Drawing and invented spelling or pretend writing were about themes drawn from little booklets with photos and text in Safaliba and English. The Safaliba texts in these little booklets were the words of the children that had been dictated to the teacher, who wrote them on the chalkboard (Figure 9.1). Input from Safaliba teacher

Figure 9.1  Primary 1 teacher writing what a student tells him about the field trip to the Mandari Safaliba chief. This was the ‘raw material’ that became a small booklet for children to learn to read Safaliba

Figure 9.2  Page one from the little book titled Te̱ haŋ Te̱ Safale̱ naa Zaŋŋo̱ (We Visited the Safalinaas [Safaliba Chief] Palace), words dictated to Teacher Samua by P1 children after a field trip to the Mandari Safaliba Chief

144  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

activists led to the respelling of the word ‘yomu’ (alone) in Figure 9.1 to ‘yommu’ (alone) in the actual book the children received (Figure 9.2). Activists keyboarded and translated the text into English from a photo of the texts on the chalkboard. The topics of the booklets were mostly from the class field trips on foot. Activists translated the text into English and included it in the little books so that they would support also English language instruction. I photographed each field trip and gave my photos to the activists for the little books. Each child in P1 received a copy. Teachers in P2–P6 used the booklets in their classrooms too. A field trip took place approximately once a week to different Safaliba community members at their place of work (e.g. an egg farmer, a hair­ dresser, a petrol station attendant, a carpet weaver, a fufu maker, an imam, a yam farmer, and community leaders such as the Mandari Safaliba chief and the Safaliba traditional Land-Gods religious leader). One field trip was to a lorry driver, and Table 9.1 presents an excerpt from the lorry driver’s talk to the children. Table 9.1 highlights (in bold) how translanguaging,3 which is part of the linguistic repertoire of this lorry driver, becomes part of the students’ reper­toires. In such examples, the bridging or blending of mother-tongue meaning-making with English takes place beyond the four walls of the classroom. The most fascinating aspect of translanguaging in the Safaliba data is the noun–verb/preposition relation in the examples of jack/jack it and pump/pump it: jake̱ -jako̱o̱ and pɔmpe̱ -pɔmpo̱o̱ from

Table 9.1  Safaliba spoken interaction between lorry (minibus) driver (D) and P1 children (Ss) Safaliba transliteration

English translation

D: Kaŋ wigilye, ka loore wa nyɛ pɔŋcha, blɛ ne̱e̱ ba haŋ maŋ jako̱o̱. Kaŋ wigiliye blɛ ne̱e̱ ba haŋ maŋ jako̱o̱. Ya womaa wɔ? Ka e̱ ŋaa zaa te̱ be zeezaa ka e̱ loore ɛ pɔŋcha ka ne̱razaa chɛ na wigilii, ba na wigilii ka e̱ ɛo̱. Ka e̱na ŋ wa nyɛ pɔŋcha first, ka e̱ baso pɔmpe̱ na pɔmpo̱o̱ be̱e̱, ka e̱ baso pɔmpe̱ na pɔmpo̱o̱ be̱e̱, ŋaa ŋlɛ jake̱, ŋaa te̱ ŋ bɔɔla jake̱ [shows the pupils the jack] o

D: Let me show you, when a lorry gets puncture [flat tire], how they normally jack it. Let me show you how they normally jack it. Have you heard? If any of you happens to find yourself somewhere and your lorry gets puncture and there is no one to show you, they will show you to do it. When you first get a puncture, and you do not have a pump [an inflator] to pump it [inflate it] right there, if you do not have a pump to pump it right there, this is jack, this is what we call jack [shows the pupils the jack].

Ss: Jack.

Ss: Jack.

D: Ka e̱na ŋ too gorii blɛ zaa chɛ de̱ bo̱no̱ ŋaa iŋŋi o̱pe̱raa, o̱ na jako̱o̱ ase̱. Ya womaa wɔ?

D: If you are carrying load of any magnitude and you put this thing under it [the lorry], it [the jack] will jack it [the lorry] to stand. Have you heard?

Ss: Ɛɛh!

Ss: Yes!

D: Ŋaa te̱ŋ bɔɔla ɛɛm, wheel spanner [shows the pupils a spanner].

D: This is what we call er, wheel spanner [shows the pupils a spanner].

Ss: Wheel spanner.

Ss: Wheel spanner



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Table 9.1, because it is morpho-syntactic as well as lexical translanguaging. Were the talk to be in Gonja and exhibit translanguaging, the languaging would be most likely incomprehensible along with the Gonja; the multi­ modal show-and-tell aspect of the event with the objects around and in the hand of the lorry driver (see Figure 9.3) would be visually meaningful phenomena for the children, but little else unless simultaneous interpreta­ tion were provided. The linguistic capital (Bourdieu, 1977) is Safaliba in this school and community; the false linguistic capital is Gonja. A week later, the Safaliba literacy activists produced copies of the children’s account of their visit to the lorry driver’s place (Figure 9.3). The activists added photos taken during the visit and English. The activists also produced many additional copies of the little books for different classes (and grade levels) in Mandari and additional schools throughout the region. The team of activists prides itself on putting Safaliba above English on each page and selecting a word from the page to focus on. Also of interest to those who notice translanguaging is the use of the Safaliba orthography to support reading the English translation of the selected word at the bottom of each page. In one academic year, Teacher Samua’s class authored 35 little books (each of six or eight pages).

Figure 9.3  Page 2 from an 8-page little book with words by P1 children titled, ‘We visited the lorry driver’s place’

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Figure 9.4  Mohammed Yakubu’s drawing of ‘Teŋbane ne kube’ (Land-God and Stones)

The donor funding discussed above that is supporting the development and distribution of early-childhood literacy instructional materials in 11 of Ghana’s Indigenous language has no bilingual texts save for teachers’ guides, where the instructions are scripted in one of the local 11 Ghanaian languages. There are no examples of translanguaging or even bilingual glosses in the early-childhood materials themselves. The instruction of one of the official Indigenous languages and English are kept separate. Creative activities chiefly, but not exclusively, centered around drawing and pretend writing, or, as it is sometimes called, invented spelling (see Figures 9.4 and 9.5). After a shared read aloud activity with a little booklet

Figure 9.5  Bakari Mariama’s drawing of a ‘Teŋbane’ (Land-God)



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composed of the children’s words dictated to Teacher Samua, Teacher Samua asked the children to draw and write about the Te̱ ŋgbana (LandGods) in Traditional Safaliba beliefs. One child, Mohammed Yakubu, told Teacher Samua that he had written ‘Teŋbane ne kube’ (Land-God and Stones) (see Figure 9.4). While Mohammed Yakubu used complete invented spelling except for his name, another pupil, Mariama Bakari (Figure 9.5), did write the onset grapheme correctly, /T/, in ‘Teŋbane’ (Land-God), as well as all of the letters in her name. Listening to stories and shared reading comprised the third component of each Safaliba literacy lesson. The stories were narrated usually by Teacher Samua. Occasionally, guests shared stories with the class. The story discussed below was told by a guest to Teacher Samua’s classroom, the Safaliba Chief of Mandari on a visit to the school (see the Appendix for the full text). The stages of narratives that have been found in imaginative litera­ ture, folklore and myth throughout West Africa and many other places, including the Global North, are present in the Chief’s story, ‘Ŋ ye naaŋ ŋ chiye bo̱ŋne̱ e̱ haŋ wa kuri paŋse̱ paŋse̱ ne̱e̱ ’ (‘Why the tortoise has a cracked shell’). By explicating this, it becomes apparent that Safaliba folklore prepares children for folklore from other Indigenous groups, though not all, in Africa and elsewhere. The Chief’s story has different variations throughout West Africa, many of which, like this one, follow a basic structure of narrative such that there are orientations, complications and resolutions (Brisk, 2015; Labov & Waletsky, 1967; Martin & Rose, 2008; Rose & Martin, 2012). After the ritual opening, where it is customary that the children repeat ‘Ŋ tɔɔre̱ ŋ na. Kolimbo’ (‘Once upon a time. Time, time’), we learn about birds deciding to fly skyward and the first complication, generated by the request of Tortoise to fly with them, which is resolved through the birds deciding to share one wing each with Tortoise, allowing him to fly with them. This leads to a new orientation: receiving food in a context where only Tortoise has the name ‘ya zaa’ (all of you). Cunningly, when food from Sky is brought, Tortoise would ask, ‘ka ne̱mboye diibu ŋlɛ?’ (Whose food is it?). Sky would respond, ‘Ah, ka ya zaa’ (Ah, it’s for all of you). Then Tortoise would eat it all, which generates the second complication, hungry angry birds, which is resolved by the birds taking their wings from Tortoise and flying to earth to eat. Tortise realizes this will make his return difficult and asks Dove to tell Tortoise’s mother to put out pillows on Monday for his return, a fall from Sky, which is a resolution to Tortoise’s thinking but a complication to Dove’s. Consequently, Dove tells Tortoise’s mother to put out a hard rock for Tortoise’s return on Monday and she does this, which is a resolution for Dove and a complication for Tortoise. When Tortoise lands on the rock, his shell breaks, a complication for Tortoise and his mom, but a resolution for the birds. The folktale ends with Tortoise’s mother sewing Tortoise’s broken shell together, which is a

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resolution for them. The Chief shares the moral of the story: ‘Se̱ le̱ ŋ bɛɛro̱ ko̱ o̱ ra naaŋ’ (Too much wisdom kills), which indicates that the know-it-all

and cunning Tortoise jeopardized his life by his crafty manipulations and selfishness, which had angered the generous birds. Folklore such as this example were part of nearly every Safaliba literacy lesson. Shared reading consisted of having the children slide their finger under each short text on each page as the teacher read it aloud, or as the students read in unison, or as individual students volunteered to read aloud alone or with a partner. Teacher Samua recast errors and when the shared reading was completed, he asked a few questions such as ‘Boŋ yaŋ zaŋse̱ aye̱ buku nŋ poo? (What did you learn from this book?) or ‘Kaa fotose̱ ane̱ me buku ŋaa poo. Boŋ eŋ tɛɛse̱ ka buku ŋaa bo̱lla?’ (Look at a few photos in this book. What do you think this book is about?). On Fridays, P6 students sat with two to four P1 students from Teacher Samua’s class and they practiced shared reading for about 30 minutes. The P6 students also practiced shared reading with the English text as this helped them prepare for their junior high school entrance exams and it gave the P1 students opportunities to listen to and practice English. Conclusion

The early-childhood Safaliba literacy curriculum for P1 exemplifies the right of an Indigenous people to reclaim their language in and for their schools and to resist the false lingua franca and false linguistic capital of Gonja. I have described how the curriculum is situated in the culture, practices and the voices of young Safaliba children with the guiding, creative, sustained leadership of Teacher Samua and broad community support. The linguistic capital (Bourdieu, 1977) of Safaliba is extended by its bilingual curriculum development with English, the only official language of Ghana since colonial times. I have also illustrated how Safaliba folklore prepares children to understand orientations, complications and resolutions, which are genre attributes found in folklore in many, although not all, Indigenous narratives. In 1921 Edward Sapir wrote, ‘Language is itself the collective art of expression, a summary of thousands of individual intuitions’ (Sapir, 1921: 231). The ‘collective art of expression’ that is Safaliba has been brought into the schoolhouse. Its ‘thousands of individual intuitions’ transform a curriculum that once provided only partial access to schooling into one that provides, potentially, equitable access. No longer do just the elite Safaliba children succeed; the potential exists for all Safaliba children to succeed. As such, Safaliba literacy instruction becomes a model, but not a blueprint, for other Indigenous communities in Ghana whose children have been frustrated by false mother-tongue education that has generated access for some children and not for others.



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Notes (1) The Constitution of Ghana dates from 1992 but was revised 1996. It is available at in http://extwprlegs1.fao.org/docs/pdf/gha129754.pdf (assessed 2 January 2018). (2) See https://www.unicef.org/crc/index_30160.html (accessed 15 July 2019). (3) Translanguaging is a free and unencumbered deployment of means to make meaning from one’s full heteroglossic repertoire of social semiotic modes and ensembles of modes. With respect to spoken language, it is the languaging that transforms (thus, ‘translanguaging of’) communication from one separate and distinct language code to a code-mixing or a dialect-mixing often representative of rich multilingual contexts, but also true of individuals who claim knowledge of only one language.

References Akyeampong, K. (2009) Revisiting free compulsory universal basic education (FCUBE) in Ghana. Comparative Education 45 (2), 175–195. Bourdieu, P. (1977) The economics of linguistic exchanges. Social Science Information 16 (6), 645–668. Brisk, M.E. (2015) Engaging Students in Academic Literacies: Genre-based Pedagogy for K-5 Classrooms. New York: Routledge. Flamenbaum, R. (2013) The pragmatics of codeswitching on Ghanaian talk radio. International Journal of Bilingualism 18 (4) (special issue: Codeswitching in West Africa), 329–345. Flamenbaum, R. (2016) Literacies, language, and technological transformation in the ‘New Ghana’. Dissertation, UCLA. Ghana Education Service (GES) (2012) Programme to Scale-up Quality Kindergarten. Education in Ghana: Narrative Report to Support the Operational Plan to Scale Up Quality KG Education in Ghana. Ministry of Education, Ghana Education System. Available at https://issuu.com/search?q=ghana%20EDUCATION) (accessed 2 January 2018). Government of Ghana (2010) Education Sector Plan 2010–2020, Ghana. Volume 2 – Strategies and Work Program. Available at https://www.globalpartnership.org/content/ government-ghana-education-strategic-plan-2010-2020-esp-volume-2-strategies-andwork (accessed 2 January 2018). Labov, W. and Waletsky, J. (1967) Narrative analysis. In J. Helm (ed.) Essays on the Verbal and Visual Arts (pp. 22–44). Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press. Lewis, M.P., Simons, G.F. and Fennig, C.D. (eds) (2016) Ethnologue: Languages of the Ghana, Nineteenth edition. Dallas, TX: SIL International. MacSwan, J., Thompson, M.S., Rolstad, K., McAlister, K. and Lobo, G. (2017) Three theories of the effects of language education programs: An empirical evaluation of bilingual and English-only policies. Annual Review of Applied Linguistics 37, 218–240. Martin, J.R. and Rose, D. (2008) Genre Relations: Mapping Culture. London: Equinox. May, S. (2012) Language rights. In M. Martin-Jones, A. Blackledge, and A. Creese (eds) The Routledge Handbook of Multilingualism (pp. 133–142). London: Routledge. Nudzor, H.P. (2013) Exploring the policy implementation paradox: Using the Free Compul­ sory Universal Basic Education (fCUBE) policy in Ghana as an exemplar. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 26 (8), 933–952. Pierre, J. (2013) The Predicament of Blackness: Postcolonial Ghana and the Politics of Race. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Rose, D. and Martin, J.R. (2012) Learning to Write, Reading to Learn: Genre, Knowledge, and Pedagogy in the Sydney School. London: Equinox. Rosekrans, K., Sherris, A. and Chatry-Komarek, M. (2012) Education reform for the expansion of mother-tongue education in Ghana. International Review of Education 58 (5), 593–618.

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Sapir, E. (1921) Language: An Introduction to the Study of Speech. New York: Harvest Books (1949). Sherris, A. (2017) Talk to text Safaliba literacy activism: Grassroots Ghanaian educational language policy. Writing and Pedagogy 9 (1), 163–195.
 Sherris, A. and Schaefer, P. (2017) Lessons learned from Ghanaian Safaliba literacy activists: Theorizing expanded literacy opportunities in unrecognized mother-tongues. Paper presented at the United Nations Symposium on language, the sustainable development goals, and vulnerable populations, United Nations Plaza, New York, USA. Skutnabb-Kangas, T. (2015) Language rights. In W.R. Wright, S. Boun and O. Garcia (eds) The Handbook of Bilingual and Multilingual Education (pp. 185–202). Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Skutnabb-Kangas, T. and Dunbar, R. (2010) Indigenous children’s education as l­inguistic genocide and a crime against humanity. Gáldu čála: The Journal of Indigenous Peoples’ Rights 1, 1–126. Skutnabb-Kangas, T. and Phillipson, R. (2017) Language policy in education: Violations or rights for all? In T. Skutnabb-Kangas and R. Phillipson (eds) Language Rights (vol. II, pp. 1–22). London: Routledge. Street, B. (1993) Introduction: The new literacy studies. In B. Street (ed.) Cross-cultural Approaches to Literacy (p. 1). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. United Nations (2015) Ghana Millennium Development Goals: 2015 Report. Available at http://www.gh.undp.org/content/ghana/en/home/library/poverty/2015-ghana-millen​ nium-development-goals-report.html (accessed 3 January 2018). USAID and EQUALL (2012) Education Quality For All: Final Report. USAID/Ghana Cooperative Agreement Number 641-A-00-04-00237. USAID and Ghana Partnership for Learning (2015) Learning Annual Performance Report, 4th Quarter (FHI 360). Available at http://pdf.usaid.gov/pdf_docs/PA00MWDM.pdf (accessed 4 January 2018).

Appendix Ŋ ye naaŋ ŋ chiye bo̱ŋne̱e̱ haŋ wa kuri paŋse̱ paŋse̱ ne̱e̱ Ŋ tɔɔre̱ ŋ na. Kolimbo. Numbillii ŋ isigi yaŋ, ka a wɛɛra Naaŋme̱nne̱ zu. A haŋ wɛɛra Naaŋme̱ nne̱ zu ne̱ e̱ , ka kuri me̱ ŋ ye ka o̱ gba na tube̱ te̱. Ŋ ye naaŋ ŋ chiye bo̱ŋne̱ e̱ haŋ wa kuri paŋse̱ paŋse̱ ne̱e̱ . O̱ŋ ye ka o̱ na tube̱ te̱ ka chɛ o̱ ba so kpɛŋkpɛma. Tɔ, baŋ ye ka be̱ lɛ wo̱na yaŋ, kpaŋ zaa gmaa o̱ kpɛŋkpɛnni. Baŋ de̱ ko̱ kuri. Kuri, ba haŋ wɛɛra ne̱e̱ , baŋ te̱ ta sɔre̱ , baŋ zaa ye ka kpaŋzaa dite yoori. Kpaŋzaa dite yoori ne̱ e̱ , o̱ na ye ka o̱ yoori ŋnɛ ya zaa. Baŋzaa so ba yo̱ye woo, ka ya zaa. Ka ba haŋ de̱ diibu waane̱ , o̱ na so̱ge̱, ka ne̱ mboye diibu ŋlɛ? Ah, ka ya zaa. O̱ yoori naanɛ ya zaa? Ka o̱na yommu de̱ ge̱ o̱ diibu a di. Blɛɛŋ kɔŋ wa kpɛ a numbillii. Aŋ ye tɔ, te̱ na lɛɛbe̱ naaŋ kuli ne̱ e̱ wɔ, a yala, kuri, ko̱ma ŋ kpɛŋkpɛnni. Ŋaa ye ko̱ma ŋ kpɛŋkpɛnni, ŋaa ko̱ma ŋ tɔɔre̱, ko̱ ma ŋ tɔɔre̱. Kuri, ba zaa yemmiye, e̱na me̱ŋ ŋ jɛŋ bee, e̱ ko̱ ŋ la tɔŋŋe̱ sigi wa. Tɔ, ŋmanne̱ ŋ wa kenne poori. O̱ŋ ye, tɔ, ŋmanne̱, ka e̱ waya yaŋ, e̱ wa chi ŋ maa ka Atɛnɛɛ ŋaa ŋ na wa. Ka a yala, ka o̱ wo kabitise̱ yaŋ, ka o̱ biŋŋi ka ŋ kenne a e̱ŋŋa wa le. Ŋmanne̱ wa chi o̱ maa yaŋ, ka o̱ wo kubiri yaŋ, ka kuri ye ka o̱ kenne. Ka ba wo kubiri biŋŋi. Ŋ daba, kuri haaŋ yi kpiŋkpilaŋ kpilaŋ, kpiŋkpilaŋ kpilaŋ, kpilaŋ kpa. Ka u poori zaa haŋ panse̱. Ka o̱ maa balo̱o̱ ne̱ e̱ ka o̱ de̱ fupiŋ sɛ sɛo̱. Ana ŋso kuri sɛ gili ne̱ e̱ . Bo̱ŋne̱ e̱ haŋ waane̱ kuri be be̱lɛ ŋlɛ ne̱ e̱ . Se̱ le̱ ŋ bɛɛro̱ ko̱ o̱ ra naaŋ.



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Why the tortoise has a cracked shell Once upon a time. Time, time. Once there were birds who decided to visit the sky. As they set off, Tortoise too said he would go with them. I want to tell you why Tortoise has a cracked shell. He [Tortoise] said he would follow them [birds] but that he does not have wings. They decided that each of them should cut one of its wings. They gave [the wings] to Tortoise. On their way, they decided to get new names for themselves. In the process of selecting the names, Tortoise decided his name would be ‘all of you’. They all had their names and his was ‘all of you’. Anytime food is served, he would ask, ‘whose food is it?’ Oh, it’s for all of you. Isn’t his name ‘all of you’? Hence, [Tortoise] would eat the food alone. It continued that way until the birds became very hungry. They then decided that they would return home and each started demanding their wing from Tortoise. One after the other, the birds collected their wings from Tortoise. They all went away and left Tortoise behind without any wings to fly down to the ground. Dove was the last to leave. Tortoise told Dove to tell his [Tortoise’s] mother, when he gets home, that he [Tortoise] would be coming home on Monday. That his mother – she should put some pillows on the floor for him to land on. Dove came and told Tortoise’s mother that Tortoise said he would be coming home so she should place a rock on the floor. Tortoise fell from the sky and landed on the rock. All of his shell broke into pieces. His mother gathered the pieces and stitched them. That is why Tortoise has a shell sewn together. That is the reason why Tortoise is the way he is. Too much cleverness kills.

10 Coda. ‘Fight Back and Fight On’ – Reflections on Education Projects for the Continuance of Indigenous, Tribal and Minoritized Languages and Cultures Teresa L. McCarty

In his acclaimed collection of stories and poems Woven Stone, Acoma Pueblo author Simon Ortiz writes that the Acoma language – ‘our Aacqumeh dzehni’ – is ‘a vital link to the continuance of the hanoh, the people’ (Ortiz 1992: 5, 9). Even under the violence of colonization, the stories of people, place, land, family and home carried within Acoma oral tradition ‘would never be lost, forgotten, and finally gone’, Ortiz insists. ‘They would always continue’ (p. 9). Ortiz’s notion of continuance, of ‘knowing present place and time’ in relation to past and future genera­ tions (p. 9), is illuminated by the metaphor of woven stone. In ‘A Story of How a Wall Stands’ he brings the metaphor to life with a lesson from his father, a stone mason. ‘That’s just the part you see, / the stones which seem to be / just packed in on the outside’, his father explains: and with his hands puts the stone and mud in place. ‘Underneath what looks like loose stone, there is stone woven together…. It is built that carefully,’ he says …. ‘So that placed between the stones they hold together for a long, long time.’ (Ortiz, 1992: 145)

Woven stone represents the strength of Indigenous continuance, which will ‘hold together for a long, long time’ (p. 145). In the context of settler 152



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colonialism, says Ortiz, continuance is ‘fighting back’ and ‘fighting on…. We cannot turn away’ (1992: 31). Like the stones woven together in Simon Ortiz’s poetics, the accounts in this volume stand as testimony to the resilience, strength and vitality of Indigenous, Tribal and minoritized projects that ‘push back’ against language endangerment. Yet, to push back is also to push for something or someone – to imagine radical new possibilities and desired futures – to fight on. In this closing chapter I put the accounts presented here in con­ versation with Ortiz’s notion of continuance and a wider body of research and praxis in Indigenous language reclamation, highlighting what I believe these projects stand for. I focus on three thematic strands that weave throughout the book: family and community; cultural knowledges and identities; and rights, reclamation and self-determination. I turn now to the first thematic strand. Continuance of and Through Family and Community

A foundational quality of education projects for language and cultural continuance is the co-participation and commitment of families and community members across generations and over extended periods of time. These are intergenerational efforts, for, as Colleen Alena O’Brien notes for Kamsá (in Chapter 2 of this volume), reigniting language learning among younger community members often falls by necessity to elder language- and knowledge-keepers. In her discussion of the Māori language movement that ‘has changed the lives of so many’, Tania Ka‘ai (Chapter 3) places whānau (family) front and centre. Recognizing that ‘Māori language is at the heart of Māori development’ – development being a parallel to continuance – Ka‘ai stresses that Māori-centred education ‘can be successful only if the language is reinforced in the home’ (p. 35). Similarly, Annika Pasanen in Chapter 4 notes that adult learners of Saami ‘had all started to use a Saami language with their children’ (p. 54). As one new speaker in Pasanen’s account mused on beginning her language-learning journey, ‘I had the idea that some day – when I have my own children, I could speak Saami to them’ (p. 61). Writing from Hawai‘i, Kū Kahakalau (Chapter 8) describes Education with Aloha (EA) as ‘culturally-driven, family-oriented and community-based’ (p. 121). Kahakalau shows how these family- and community-based projects bring larger intergenerational collectives together, generating ‘lifelong relation­ ships … very different from the relations between students and teachers within Western systems of schooling’ (p. 128). These familial and communal processes are evident in Indigenous, Tribal and minoritized language and culture revitalization and reclama­ tion initiatives around the world. For example, Māori language education leaders Cath Rau, Waimātao Murphy and Pem Bird (2019) report on a

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consortium of 24 Māori schools, Ngā Kura ā Iwi o Aotearoa (NKAI), built on collaborations with Māori tribal groups (iwi) ‘as language owners and partners’ (Rau et al., 2019: 74). Parents, families and elders ‘expressed a strong desire that the school provides support for events at tribal gathering places [and] engages with tribal elders across a variety of settings’ (Rau et al., 2019: 83). As a consequence, students graduate with knowledge and skill in ‘working for the collective good’ and ‘knowing how to express a deep care for others’ (p. 83). As the NKAI case suggests, these education projects create an overall family-like setting of care, responsibility and mutual support. Noelani Iokepa-Guerrero describes similar features for the Hawaiian Pūnana Leo (language nest) preschools: ‘Staff, children, and families … grow as a community, supporting one another for the greater purpose of perpetuating the Indigenous language and culture, while learning the language, the culture, and more about themselves and the place where they live’ (Iokepa-Guerrero, 2016: 241). This is continuance. In many communities these efforts begin with a few families or in­ dividuals. As Colleen O’Brien relates, in addition to community-based efforts, ‘One Kamsá man … has taught himself the language by using the available materials and spending time with older people’ (p. 25). In his ‘[self-]profile of a revivalist’, Robert Teare details how his role in oversee­ ing Manx language education in state public schools led Manx to ‘become accepted as a “real language” once more’ (in Chapter 6 of this volume, p. 91). Further, a small number of parents now socialize their children through Manx at home. In the United States, the recovery of myaamia (Miami) and Wôpanâak (Wampanoag), both ‘formerly sleeping’ Algonquian languages (Leonard, 2008), provides additional testimony to these micro-level processes and their relationship to cultural continuance. Miami language reclamation, described by myaamia linguist Wesley Leonard (2012) as an ‘extreme case’ because the language was revitalized entirely from written texts, began with the efforts of tribal citizens Daryl Baldwin and Julie Olds, the lin­ guistic work of David Costa (1994) and support from the Miami Tribe of Oklahoma (Baldwin & Olds, 2007). A descendant of Miami leaders, Baldwin began learning the language out of personal interest. ‘I remember feeling a sense of loss but also a sense of responsibility,’ he relates. ‘I became determined to learn what I could’ (Baldwin et al., 2013: 5). Baldwin and his wife Karen Baldwin gradually established Miami as the home language. ‘We approached the effort collectively as a family,’ Daryl Baldwin writes (Baldwin et al., 2013: 6). In collaboration with the Miami Tribe, Daryl Baldwin and Julie Olds also began a community-based Miami language learning program; subsequently, the Myaamia Project (now the Myaamia Center) was established at the Tribe’s namesake institution of higher education, Miami University in Ohio, whose mission is to pursue research and education with ‘direct application to the community’ (Baldwin & Olds, 2007: 286; see also https://miamioh.edu/myaamia-center/). ‘What



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an opportunity for us,’ Baldwin reflects, ‘to take what started in the home nineteen years ago to a college campus and to be present during the education of our youth’ (Baldwin et al., 2013: 18). The revival of Wôpanâak, which had not been spoken for 150 years, began with jessie little doe baird, a citizen of the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe of Cape Cod, who determined ‘that I was responsible for, and capable of, making a place for my language to be welcomed back into my community, and that creation of such a place had to begin in my own home’ (little doe baird, 2013: 21). As she relates in an account analogous to Teare’s revivalist profile, little doe baird returned to the university to learn Algonquian linguistics ‘and began to work with the documents that my Ancestors wrote’ (p. 21). From these efforts came the Wôpanâak Language Reclamation Project, and more recently Mukayuhsak Weekuw, The Children’s House, a Wampanoag language nest preschool (see http:// www.wlrp.org). Like the Manx case, there are now Wampanoag families who have made the Wôpanâak the language of the home, and a larger community of language learners, users and activists. Many prominent cases of individual, family and community-based endeavours exist. One example is Hinton’s gathering of the stories of families throughout the world who are engaged in ‘bringing our languages home’ (Hinton, 2013). As scholar-activists Mary Linn and Stacey Oberly observe, these efforts ‘have and will continue to ensure that future genera­ tions are endowed with language rights and self-determination’ (Linn & Oberly, 2016: 154). This, too, is continuance. Continuance of and Through Indigenous, Tribal and Minoritised Knowledges and Identities

To revitalize and reclaim an ancestral language is also to reclaim local cultural knowledge, identity and a sense of belonging to people and place over time. In this regard, the education projects presented in this volume reflect what Gikuyu writer Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o (2009: 20) calls the act of re-membering what the colonizers sought to dis-member – the reclama­ tion of ‘a people’s memory bank’ – as a means of cultural continuance. Douglas McNaught (in Chapter 5 of this volume) captures the meaning of this for Siraya peoples in Taiwan: ‘Siraya identity is tightly bound to the heritage language’ (p. 80). In related scholarship, Iokepa-Guerrero gives the example of the Hawaiian term na‘auao, the English translation of which is ‘education’ but which in Hawaiian means ‘daylight mind; enlightened gut’ (IokepaGuerrero, 2016: 238). Thus, she explains: from the Hawaiian perspective education is more than cognitive skill in the brain … learning and knowledge also sit at the ‘gut’ or core of a person … the process, product, and state of being achieved when information

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gathered by all five bodily senses and the ‘sixth sense’ of a person are processed and appropriately used. (Iokepa-Guerrero, 2016: 238)

Chickasaw scholar-activist Kari Chew writes similarly of her experience learning her ancestral language: One phrase I learned was, ‘Chikashsha saya,’ ‘I am Chickasaw.’ Though I had said these words many times in English, they never fully conveyed my sense of who I was; saying them in Chikashshanompa, I had finally found my voice. (Cited in McCarty et al., 2018: 162)

These examples illuminate the embodied connections between language, culture and identity and their embeddedness within local Indig­ enous ways of knowing and being. ‘Our journey of language reclamation goes beyond the mechanisms of language as communication’, Mohawk scholar-activist Louellyn White maintains, ‘and honors the ways that language encapsulates culture and identity’ (White, cited in McCarty et al., 2018: 167). ‘When we think about language, we think about culture’, states Hawaiian language scholar-activist Kauanoe Kamanā, ‘so we’re … really talking about … the reestablishment of Hawaiian identity for Hawaiian people’ (cited in Hermes & Kawai‘ae‘a, 2014: 315). Describing her language reclamation journey, Hopi scholar-activist Sheilah Nicholas states that ‘the outcomes include reclamation of cultural identity and belonging, return and reconnection, responsibility and reciprocity … the right to remain Hopi’ (cited in McCarty et al., 2018: 167). That schools have a necessary role to play in these processes is evident from the education projects described in this volume. EA education in Hawai‘i, for instance, ‘is education for Hawaiians, by Hawaiians, using: Hawaiian values as behavioral expectations and pedagogical foundations; traditional ways of teaching and learning as methods of instruction; “place” as the central focus of the curriculum; and an ancient Hawaiian form of assess­ment called hō‘ike’ (Kahakalau, Chapter 8 of this volume, p. 122). Ari Sherris (in Chapter 9) shows the ways in which Safaliba cultural practices ‘and the voices of young Safaliba children’ inform an early-childhood Safaliba literacy curriculum, demonstrating ‘the right of an indigenous people to reclaim their language in and for their schools’ (p. 148). In their discussion of the OLETSAJH-CHITSAJH project in Chapter 7, Joan A. Argenter and Virginia Unamuno demonstrate how ‘didactic modelling’ of Wichi learning practices can unite communitybased knowledges and cultural practices with ‘those belonging to the school curriculum’ (p. 111). There has been considerable debate in the scholarly literature and education practice over just how much school-based programs can achieve as vehicles for language reclamation (e.g. Fishman, 1991, 1996; Horn­ berger, 2008; McCarty & Nicholas, 2014). As Elsie Rockwell and Ana



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Maria R. Gomes point out for the Latin American context, ‘a standard way of schooling seems to impose itself as a recurrent and subtle default model, which continues to reorganize and resignify those elements of [Indigenous] cultures and languages that are allowed to enter the space of formal education’ (Rockwell & Gomes, 2009: 104). Indeed, the projects in this volume speak to these very challenges. Sherris describes the privileging of ‘a regional hegemonic language’, Gonja, in Safaliba children’s schooling in Ghana (p. 135); Argenter and Unamuno critique the lack of quality education materials and constraints on Wichi in breaking ‘the dynamics of domination’ in Argentinian schools (p. 118); and Kahakalau points to Hawaiian struggles ‘with a lack of facilities, serious underfunding’ and majoritarian policies that elevate the colonial language and non-Native teachers at the expense of Hawaiian (p. 131). Still, as Kahakalau also observes, ‘Unimaginable strides have been made’ in bringing Indigenous languages, knowledges, values and ways of teaching and learning into Indigenous children’s education to create successful Indigenous-focused models of schooling (p. 133). These are radical redesigns of the experience of schooling which ‘might lead to another possible education, as well as another possible world, for all’ (Rockwell & Gomes, 2009: 107–108) – and thus new possibilities for language and cultural continuance. Continuance of and Through Rights, Reclamation and SelfDetermination

In their introduction to this volume, Ari Sherris and Susan Penfield ‘take the position that language rights are entailed and implicated in basic human rights’, noting that each chapter ‘embodies multiple enact­ ments of linguistic human rights’ (p. 9). O’Brien, for example, indicates that the Colombian government ‘is finally recognizing the rights of In­ digenous peoples’ and that there is ‘a growing movement of Indigenous pride throughout the country – perhaps the strongest such movement in history’ (p. 20); McNaught details ‘great strides in improving linguistic human rights’ for Indigenous peoples in Taiwan (p. 75); and Teare illumi­ nates ‘how the Isle of Man government’s recognition of the cultural and economic worth of Manx has enabled the language to grow and for Manx to be seen as a “real language” once more’ (p. 90). These are hard-fought victories of linguistic human rights (LHRs), which, as Tove Skutnabb-Kangas points out, were ‘absent from binding international human rights instruments, especially in education’ until the mid-1990s (Skutnabb-Kangas, 2000: 482; see also Skutnabb-Kangas & Dunbar, 2010; Skutnabb-Kangas & May, 2016; Skutnabb-Kangas et al., 1995). Yet we know from Skutnabb-Kangas’s work and that of other international researchers, including the editors and contributors to this volume, that significant disjuncts exist between LHRs ‘on paper’ and in practice. McNaught, for instance, notes that ‘within a colonial context,

158  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

state recognition and accommodation can be used to largely conceal more traditional and overt dominance hierarchies’ (p. 75). It is therefore in the crevices between official rights pronouncements and de facto edu­ cation policy and practice that grassroots, family- and community-based reclama­tion activities may find their greatest value. In their call to de­colon­ize language endangerment ‘from the ground up’, Haley De Korne and Wesley Leonard point out that the reclamation of a minoritized language ‘by ground-level participants is fundamentally a political act through which participants negotiate control over linguis­ tic authority, knowledge production, and self-definition through their linguistic practices’ (De Korne & Leonard, 2017: 7). Reclamation thus highlights the intentional decolonizing aims of language projects such as those reported here, and the self-determination of Indigenous, Tribal, and minoritized peoples in the continuance of their languages, lands, and ways of knowing and being. This can be seen, for example, in the aloha ‘āina (love of the land) movement, which, Kahakalau explains, involves fighting back against corporate land theft and exploitation of Hawai‘i’s natural resources and sacred sites. EA (ea), as a ‘place-based liberatory education’, explicitly references Hawaiian sovereignty. As Hawaiian scholar-activist Noelani Goodyear-Ka‘õpua writes, unlike Western con­ ceptions of sovereignty, ea ‘is based on the experiences of people on the land, relationships forged through the process of remembering and caring for wahi pana, storied places’ (Goodyear-Ka‘õpua, 2014: 4). The work of other Indigenous scholars further focuses the possibilities of language reclamation for self-determination and cultural continuance. Hopi scholar Sheilah Nicholas, for instance, examines how Hopi people living in what is now known as the south-western United States con­ ceptualize and enact linguistic and cultural rights within an Indigenous ontological and epistemological paradigm of long-life sustenance, health and happiness. Illustrating this with public dance performances tied to the Hopi ceremonial calendar, she writes that ‘These ancestral traditions … convey, through myriad forms of language … the Hopi way of life … this is the Hopi birthright, itaamakiwa, inherent with individual and collective responsibilities in the pursuit of life’s fulfillment’ (cited in McCarty et al., 2014: 234). Diné-Lakota scholar Tiffany Lee links LHRs to the Diné (Navajo) concept of k’é, centred on kinship, love, compassion, unselfish­ ness and peacefulness. K’é anchors Indigenous self-determined efforts to promote ancestral languages in both public and private domains, including education. ‘For the security and continuity of Indigenous lands, languages, cultures, epistemologies, families, and resources’, says Lee, k’é represents ‘a solid and promising foundation for ensuring our future’ (Lee, 2016: 113). Similarly, Makalela, speaking from South Africa, ties LHRs to an Indigenous African epistemological system based on ubuntu, ‘realized in the injunction: “I am because you are, you are because we are”’ (Makalela, 2017: 521). Ubuntu ‘valorizes interdependence, fluidity, and flexibility of



Coda. Reflections on Education Projects for Continuance  159

cultural and linguistic systems as gleaned from the Limpopo Valley, among other centers of civilization’, Makalela writes. Through ubuntu, language planners are enabled to rediscover ‘a plural vision of interdependence and fluid, overlapping discursive systems … where the use of one language is incomplete without the other’ (Makalela, 2017: 527). These Indigenous-centred approaches illustrate the ways in which rights, reclamation and self-determination weave together in support of families and communities, ancestral knowledges and cultural identities, and the larger project of language and cultural continuance. As ‘inten­ tional political resistance to dominant colonizing forces’, write Hermes and Kawai‘ae‘a, such efforts ‘have always existed in the hearts and minds of … native people’ (Hermes & Kawai‘ae‘a, 2014: 304). The language reclamation initiatives in this volume join this long-term project of continuance, shining a light on the generative ways in which Indigenous, Tribal and minoritized communities are refusing coloniz­ ing metaphors of language ‘death’ and engaging in dynamic education projects of language and culture vitality. These projects push back but also fight on, promising to ‘hold together for a long, long time’ (Ortiz, 1992: 145). Acknowledgments I extend sincere thanks to Editors Ari Sherris and Susan Penfield for inviting this concluding commentary. It is an honour to participate in this important book project and the Linguistic Diversity and Language Rights series edited by Tove Skutnabb-Kangas. I extend deep ap­ preciation to Tove, whose scholarship and activism continue to inspire us to ‘fight back and fight on’, and to Tommi Grover of Multilingual Matters, the most generous, committed and visionary publisher I know.

References Baldwin, D., Baldwin, K., Baldwin, J. and Baldwin, J. (2013) myaamiaataweenki oowaaha: Miami spoken here. In L. Hinton (ed.) Bringing Our Languages Home: Language Revitalization for Families (pp. 3–18) Berkeley, CA: Heyday Books. Baldwin, D. and Olds, J. (2007) Miami Indian language and cultural research at Miami University. In D.M. Cobb and L. Fowler (eds) Beyond Red Power: American Indian Politics and Activism Since 1900 (pp. 280–290). Santa Fe, NM: School for Advanced Research. Costa, D. (1994) The Miami–Illinois language. Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of California, Berkeley. De Korne, H. and Leonard, W.Y. (2017) Reclaiming languages: Contesting and decolonizing ‘language endangerment’ from the ground up. Language Documentation and Description 14, 5–14. Fishman, J.A. (1991) Reversing Language Shift: Theoretical and Empirical Foundations of Assistance to Threatened Languages. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Fishman, J.A. (1996) Maintaining languages: What works and what doesn’t? In G. Cantoni (ed.) Stabilizing Indigenous Languages (pp. 186–198). Flagstaff, AZ: Northern Arizona University Center for Excellence in Education.

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Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, N. (2014) Introduction. In N. Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, I. Hussey and E. Kahunawaika‘ala Wright (eds) A Nation Rising: Hawaiian Movements for Life, Land, and Sovereignty (pp. 1–33). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Hermes, M. and Kawai‘ae‘a, K. (2014) Revitalizing Indigenous languages through In­ digen­ous immersion education. Journal of Immersion and Content-Based Language Education 2 (2), 303–322. Hinton, L. (ed.) (2013) Bringing Our Languages Home: Language Revitalization for Families. Berkeley, CA: Heyday Books. Hornberger, N.H. (ed.) (2008) Can Schools Save Indigenous Languages? Policy and Practice on Four Continents. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Iokepa-Guerrero, N. (2016) Revitalization programs and impacts in the USA and Canada. In S.M. Coronel-Molina and T.L. McCarty (eds) Indigenous Language Revitalization in the Americas (pp. 227–246). New York: Routledge. Lee, T.S. (2016) The home–school–community interface in language revitalization in the USA and Canada. In S.M. Coronel-Molina and T.L. McCarty (eds) Indigenous Language Revitalization in the Americas (pp. 99–115). New York: Routledge. Leonard, W.Y. (2008) When is an ‘extinct language’ not extinct? Miami, a formerly sleeping language. In K.A. King, N. Schilling-Estes, L. Fogle, J.J. Lou and B. Soukup (eds) Sustaining Linguistic Diversity: Endangered and Minority Languages and Language Varieties (pp. 23–33). Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Leonard, W.Y. (2012) Framing language reclamation programmes for everybody’s em­ powerment. Gender and Language 6 (2), 339–367. Linn, M. and Oberly, S. (2016) Local and global dimensions of language revitalization in the USA and Canada. In S.M. Coronel-Molina and T.L. McCarty (eds) Indigenous Language Revitalization in the Americas (pp. 137–157). New York: Routledge. little doe baird, j. (2013) Wampanoag: How did this happen to my language? In L. Hinton (ed.) Bringing Our Languages Home: Language Revitalization for Families (pp. 19–30). Berkeley, CA: Heyday Books. Makalela, L. (2017) Language policy in Southern Africa. In T.L. McCarty and S. May (eds) Language Policy and Political Issues in Education, Encyclopedia of Language and Education, Vol. 1 (3rd edn) (pp. 519–529). Cham: Springer International. McCarty, T.L. and Nicholas, S.E. (2014) Reclaiming Indigenous languages: A reconsidera­ tion of the roles and responsibilities of schools. Review of Research in Education 38, 106–136. McCarty, T.L., Nicholas, S.E., Chew, K.A.G., Diaz, N.G., Leonard, W.Y. and White, L. (2018) Hear our languages, hear our voices: Storywork as theory and praxis in Indigenous-language reclamation. Daedalus, Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 147 (2), 160–172. McCarty, T.L., Nicholas, S.E. and Wyman, L.T. (2014) 50(0) years out and counting: Native American language education and the four Rs. International Multilingual Research Journal 9, 227–252. Ortiz, S.J. (1992) Woven Stone. Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press. Rau, C., Murphy, W. and Bird, P. (2019) The impact of ‘cutluralcy’ in Ngā Kura ā Iwi Tribal schools in Aotearoa/NZ: Mō tātou, mā tātou, e ai ki a tātou – For us, by us, our way. In T.L. McCarty, S.E. Nicholas and G. Wigglesworth (eds) A World of Indigenous Languages: Politics, Pedagogies and Prospects for Language Reclamation (pp. 69–90). Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Rockwell, E. and Gomes, A.M.R. (2009) Introduction to the special issue: Rethinking In­ digenous education from a Latin American perspective. Anthropology and Education Quarterly 40 (2), 97–109. Skutnabb-Kangas, T. (2000) Linguistic Genocide in Education – Or Worldwide Diversity and Human Rights? Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Skutnabb-Kangas, T. and Dunbar, R. (2010) Indigenous children’s education as linguistic



Coda. Reflections on Education Projects for Continuance  161

genocide and a crime against humanity? A global view. Gáldu Čála Journal of In­ digenous Peoples Rights 1 (special issue). Skutnabb-Kangas, T. and May, S. (2017) Human rights and language policy in education. In T.L. McCarty and S. May (eds) Language Policy and Political Issues in Education, Encyclopedia of Language and Education, Vol. 1 (3rd edn) (pp. 125–141). Cham: Springer International. Skutnabb-Kangas, T., Phillipson, R. and Rannut, M. (eds) (1995) Linguistic Human Rights: Overcoming Linguistic Discrimination. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. wa Thiong’o, N. (2009) Something Torn and New: An African Renaissance. New York: BasicCivitas Books. White, L. (2015) Free to Be Mohawk: Indigenous Education at the Akwesasne Freedom School. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press.

Index

Page numbers in bold refer to illustrations. Those followed by n refer to notes, followed by the note number. Aanaar Saami language 49–50, 52–3 language transmission 60, 63–4 new speakers 65–6 status 56 Aboriginal Language Development Act (2017), Taiwan 74–5 Aboriginal peoples see Indigenous peoples Acoma language 152 ACORNS software 80 adult learners 123 evening classes 97 intensive education 51–3, 55–7 master–apprentice relationships (mentors) 25–6, 37–40, 63–4 see also education ’Aha Pūnana Leo 14 Akan language 135 Algonquian languages 154–5 Aloha ‘Āina Hawaiian Academy 129–33 Amis community 71 Aotearoa/New Zealand 32, 36, 40, 42 apps for language learning 71–2, 132 Hawaiian language 126 Kamsá language 24–5, 27, 29 Aragonese 84 Argentina 106 government policies 3, 109 schools 112, 118, 157

assimilation 51, 67, 74, 76 Austronesian language family 73 Balinese language 80 Bibles 21, 25, 74, 78, 95 bilingual schools Bilingual Intercultural Education (BIE), Latin America 108–9 Hawaiian language 131 Kamsá language 18, 23–4, 30 bilingualism 37 Bloom software 80 Bunscoill Ghaelgagh, Isle of Man 95, 97, 98 Casa de Pensamiento, Colombia 17, 24 CASLE project, Finland 53, 63–4 Celtic languages 91 Chaco 3, 13, 106 chagras (gardens) 19, 24, 26, 27 chaguar fibres 110–11, 113–14, 116–18 charter schools, Hawaii 130–2 Chickasaw language and culture 156 children 7, 123 childraising 35–6, 40, 43, 61–3 language acquisition 28, 62–3 preschool 23–4, 26, 33, 44, 154 teens 45 see also families; schools



Chinese people learning styles 72, 76 in Taiwan 73–4, 76–7 Christianity Ghana 139 Isle of Man 91–2, 95 South America 3, 18–19, 21, 25, 26, 107 Taiwan 74, 78 Colombia 19–20, 157 government policies 20, 25–6 indigenous peoples 18–19 coloniality 2, 152–3, 155, 157–8 Argentina 3 Colombia 3, 18 Ghana 14, 139, 148 Taiwan 73–4, 75, 78 communities 19, 85 digital communities 4, 70 role in continuance 4, 153–5, 158 speech communities 64–7 community initiatives 4 Hawaiian people 121 Kamsá people 18, 25–6, 30 Māori people 34, 40 myaamia (Miami) 154 Safaliba people 138–9 Wichi people 107–8, 110–18 Wôpanâak (Wampanoag) 155 computer games 27, 72, 132 constructed languages 82–3 continuance 153–9 Council of Europe, Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities (1995) 8 Council of Indigenous Peoples (CIP), Taiwan 71, 74–5, 76, 77 creative activities 140, 142–4, 146–7 see also handcraft skills cultural capital 2, 23 culture 34–5 continuance 108, 155–7 Hawaiian 126, 128–9, 155–6 Kamsá 17, 18, 19, 21–2, 25–7, 28

Index 163

Māori 43–4 Saami 50–1 Safaliba 142–4, 146–8, 150–1, 156 Wichi 107, 110–13, 116–18 Culture Vannin 98, 100, 101 decolonize/decolonization 4, 14, 15, 108, 122, 158 dialogic editing 116 dictionaries 43, 71, 76, 80, 83 Kamsá language 22 Manx language 93, 94, 95, 154 Moedict app 71 Siraya language 78, 79 digital technology 45, 80–5 apps 24–5, 27, 29, 71–2, 126, 132 campaigns 71 computer games 27, 72, 132 online courses 79–80, 132 resources 45, 75–6, 95, 125–6 social media 4, 17, 34, 40, 80, 81, 82, 84, 100 software 25, 80, 126 websites 25, 84, 124 dormant languages 72, 78, 81, 83–4 Dothraki 82 Dutch language 78 ecological principle 113 education 4–5, 155–6 academic achievement 36–7 tertiary education 36, 75, 100, 139 see also adult learners; children; community initiatives; schools Education Act for Indigenous Peoples (2013), Taiwan 77 Education with Aloha (EA) 121–3, 129–33, 153, 156, 158 educational planning 13, 109 emotions, description of 44 English language 75, 137, 144, 145, 148 digital media 3–4 Westminster Elementary Education Act (1870) 93

164  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

Esperanto 82–3 essentialism 6 ethnic identities Hawaiian people 133 Kamsá people 18, 27 Saami people 56, 60, 64–6 in Taiwan 73, 78 ethnographic study, Ghanaian schools 138–48 European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages (1992) 7, 8, 90, 91, 95–7, 101 Facebook networks 34, 40, 80, 81, 82, 84 families 29 language planning 43–4 relinguification of homes 27, 34–6, 46, 60–3, 67 role in continuance 153–5, 158 training and support 37–40, 99 see also children FARC (Fuerzas Armadas ­Revolucionarias de Colombia) 19–20 field trips (school) 143–5 Finland government policies 11, 51–2, 55, 59 Saami speakers 54–5 Finnish language 51, 52 Formosan languages 12, 76, 78, 85n19 Foucault, Michel 2–3 Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minori­ ties (1995) 8 Gaelic languages 91–2 see also Manx language Ghana government policies 136–8 indigenous languages 135–7 schools 137–48, 157 girls, socialization process 111

Goidelic languages 91–2 Gonja language 135, 139, 143, 145, 148, 157 grammar see syntax Gur languages 135 Hakka language 73, 75 handcraft skills 110–11, 113–14, 117, 128 harakeke (flax plant) 33, 34 Hawaii, government policies 124 Hawaiian culture 126, 128–9, 155–6 Hawaiian language Education with Aloha (EA) 121–3 language nests 33 language transmission 124, 126–7, 133–4, 153 normalization of 133 school education 124–6, 127–9, 133–4 summer camps 127–9 teaching 124–5 heterotopias 2–3 hō’ike assessment 14, 122, 129 Hoklo language 73, 75 homes, relinguification 27, 34–6, 46, 60–3, 67 Hopi culture 156, 158 Hul’qami’num language 72 human rights 7–9, 157–9 linguistic 4, 6–9, 70–1, 74, 77–8, 84, 91, 136–7, 157 identities (linguistic) 4, 6, 155–6 Hawaiian 128 Manx 101 Māori 36–7 Saami 50, 53 Siraya 72, 78, 80 immersion 108, 129, 131 daytime classes 123 evening classes 97 language nests 33, 59, 60, 154, 155 schools 33, 108 summer camps 127–9



Inari Saami language see Aanaar Saami language Indigenous Communities Act (1987), Argentina 109 Indigenous Education Act (1998), Taiwan 74 Indigenous peoples 7–9, 52 Argentina 13, 106–7 Colombia 18–19, 20, 24, 25–6 Finland 54–5 Ghana 135–6, 137 languacultures 1–5, 7–9 North America 72, 78 Taiwan 71–4 worldview 76–7, 108, 158–9 Indigenous Peoples Basic Act (2005), Taiwan 77 Inga people 24 language 18–19 Iñupiat community 72 Irish Folklore Commission 93 Isle of Man 90 government policies 90–1, 94–8, 101–2 see also Manx language Kamsá language 18–19, 20–1, 28–9, 153, 154 documentation of 21–2, 25 educational resources 24–6, 29 language transmission 18, 22, 23, 25, 28, 30 in schools 18 speakers 18–19, 20, 22–3, 25, 30 teaching methods 28–9 vocabulary 24–5, 26–7 writing system 29–30 Kamsá people adult education 25–6 attitude to language 20–1 chagras (gardens) 19, 24, 26, 27 community intervention 18, 25–6 culture 17, 18, 19, 26–7, 28 migration 17, 20

Index 165

school system 23–4 storytelling 19, 22, 25 k’é (kinship) 158 Klingon 83 languacultures 1–5, 7–9 language advocates xiii, 77, 107, 108 language isolates 19, 21 language nests 33, 59, 60, 154, 155 Language Paradise website 76 language planning 43–4, 81, 82–3, 101–2 language reclamation 4, 5, 6, 15, 56, 57, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159 language revitalization 4–6, 23 see also individual languages language transmission 75 communities 153–5 families 35–6, 153–5 intergenerational 30, 37, 42, 47, 53, 60, 99, 107, 153 see also individual languages language vitality 27, 53, 98, 107 learning styles 72, 76–7, 128–9 Lenguas Indigenas 25 letter formation 140–1 lingua franca 18, 136 false 138, 148 linguistic capital 135, 138, 139, 145, 148 linguistic innovations 6, 80–2, 84, 108 literacy 20 Manx 98, 100 Safaliba 138–40, 145, 147–8, 156 Mandari, Ghana 138–9 Mandarin language 73–4, 75 Manx language 90–3, 154, 157 educational resources 93, 94–5, 100, 103–4 grammar 102–3 language strategy 101–2 language transmission 98–100

166  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

revitalization 93–8 in schools 94–5, 97–8, 102–4 speakers 91, 93, 99–100 see also Isle of Man Māori language development 35, 40, 153 educational resources 45, 46 language transmission 37–8, 42, 44, 47, 153–4 linguistic analysis 40–2 revitalization projects 32–4, 36–7, 38–40 vocabulary 43 Māori people culture 43–4 education 35–6 familial relationships 43, 46 worldview 40, 44 master–apprentice relationships (mentors) 25–6, 37–40, 63–4 Matacoan language family 107 migration 6, 19–20, 70, 71 Mohawk language 72, 85n3, 156 mountain tribes, Taiwan 71, 73, 77 myaamia (Miami) language 154–5 Native Hawaiian Education Council 133 Native Kitchen 123, 133 Navajo language 158 Na’vi language 83 New Zealand 32, 36, 40, 42 New Zealand Council for Educa­ tional Research 34 New Zealand Human Rights Com­ mission 37 Ngā Kura ā Iwi o Aotearoa (NKAI) 154 North Saami language 50, 53 language transmission 60, 64 speakers 51, 66 Norway 50, 51 OLETSAJH-CHITSAJH project 110, 112–18, 156

oral traditions 107–8, 140, 141, 143, 152 history 14, 126 see also storytelling orthography Manx language 92–3, 103 Safaliba language 142 Siraya language 79 Wichi language 107 Osage language 72 pedagogy Hawaiian culture 128–9 Māori culture 38 Wichi culture 112–15 Pite Saami language 51 plains tribes (Pingpu), Taiwan 71, 72, 73, 77–8 planned languages 82–3 Pūnana Leo 33, 154 Quechuan languages 18, 26 Quenya language 82 radio stations Kamsá language 25 Manx language 94, 98 Saami languages 51, 59, 64 reading activities 140, 147–8 religion Hawaiian 128 Kamsá 18, 19, 28 Māori 44 Safaliba 139, 147 see also Christianity research methodologies ethnographic study 138–48 Hawaiian (Mā’awe Pono) 14, 122 Indigenous 38, 40 interviews 22–3, 53–4 participant-observer 40–1 surveys 53–4 rural environments 18, 23–4, 137 Russia 50, 51



Saami Language Act (2003) 55, 59 Saami languages 49–52 adult education 54–7 field studies 53–4 at home 60–3 language transmission 53, 60–4, 153 revitalization projects 51 schools 63 in social networks 59, 60 speakers 52, 63–7 at work 57–9 Saami people 56, 152 culture 63–4 speech communities 65–7 Safaliba culture 142–4, 146–8, 150–1, 156 Safaliba language 157 documentation of 138 literacy curriculum 138–48 scaffolding 76, 79, 84, 140, 141 schools 13, 156–7 bilingual 18, 23–4, 30, 108–9, 131 boarding schools 11, 51 elementary schools 23–4, 78 immersion 108 Indigenous worldview 108–9, 156 language revitalization 63, 107–8, 118 links with communities 112–18 preschools 23–4, 26, 95 primary schools 23–4, 33, 93–5, 98, 100, 103, 137–48 schools-within-schools 129 secondary schools 23–4, 33, 74–5, 94, 97, 98, 100, 103, 129–32 see also children; education self-determination 157–9 Sibundoy Valley, Colombia 18, 19–20 SIL (Summer Institute of Linguis­ tics) 21, 25, 139

Index 167

silent thinking 142–3 silent way method 34, 97 Sindarin language 82 Siraya language 79, 80–1, 83, 85n19 digital technology 77–80 Siraya people 72, 78, 81, 155 Skolt Saami language 50, 52–3 language transmission 60, 63–4 new speakers 65–6 social media 4, 17, 81, 84, 100 Facebook 34, 40, 80, 81, 82, 84 socialization 13, 79, 110, 111–13, 118 social mobility 6 Spanish language 18, 20, 22, 23–4, 107 storytelling Hawaiian culture 14, 122–3, 128 Kamsá culture 19, 22, 25 Safaliba culture 140, 147–8 Wichi culture 115–18 see also oral traditions structured activities 140–2 Suárez, Agustina 115–17 Sweden 50, 51 Swedish language 52 syntax 84 constructed languages 82 Kamsá language 19, 21, 29 Manx language 91, 102–3 Safaliba language 142, 144 Siraya language 79, 81, 83, 85n19 systems learning 12–13, 104 Tainan Ping-pu Siraya Culture As­ sociation (TSPCA) 78–9 Taiwan 157 coloniality 2, 73–4, 75, 78 government policies 71, 74–5, 76–7, 81 Indigenous peoples 70–2, 74–5, 76–80, 155 Te Ipukarea Research Institute, New Zealand 38, 40 Te Reo o Te Pā Harakeke 33–6

168  Rejecting the Marginalized Status of Minority Languages

teachers 53–4, 59, 138–9 training 74–5, 109–10, 131 teaching methods 28–9, 34, 97 creative activities 140, 142–4, 146–7 field trips 143–5 practical projects 113–15, 128 reading activities 140, 147–8 structured activities 140–2 systems learning 12–13, 104 see also immersion; master–ap­ prentice relationships (mentors); storytelling teaching resources 45, 80, 100, 103–4 stories 21, 25, 125 Ter Saami language 51 tertiary education 36, 75, 100, 139 Toki Pona language 82, 83 trade links 92 translanguaging 144–6, 149n3 ubuntu concept 158–9 UNESCO Ad Hoc Group on En­ dangered Languages 98 United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (1990) 7, 136 Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007) 9, 136–7 Declaration on the Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious and Linguistic Minorities (1992) 7 United States 154–5 Indigenous peoples 72, 78 USAID (United States Agency for International Development) 136, 137

universities see tertiary education Uralic language group 50 urban environments Colombia 17, 20, 24, 29 Ghana 139 Taiwan 70, 75–6 vocabulary Kamsá language 24–5, 26–7, 27 Māori language 43 Safaliba language 144–5 Siraya language 79 Volapük language 82 Wahzhazhe app 72 Waitangi Tribunal (2010) 36, 47n2 Wergaia language 83 whānau (family) 10, 11, 32–4, 36–41, 46, 153 Wichi language 107 community learning 110–18 school education 107–10 Wichi Language Council (Consejo Wichi Lhamtes) 107 Wichi people 106–7, 156 schools 157 traditions 110–13 worldview 107, 115–18 women Kamsá speakers 22 Saami language learners 54–7, 67 Wichi language learners 110–11 Wôpanâak (Wampanoag) language 154–5 Yami language 79 yicas (bags) 110–11, 113