Breaking the Language Barriers

One of the most fascinating things I have found working and living in Gibraltar, has been the capacity for speaking a variety of languages that people can have. Coming from a place where speaking anything other than Anglicised French raises eyebrows and might mark you out as an immigrant, or the child of an immigrant, and where school children can opt out of learning foreign languages at anything beyond very basic, this is refreshing, to say the least.

So far this week, I have encountered a Frenchman whose English is nearly perfect, Spanish sounds almost native and who has learnt a good smattering of Moroccan through his work in property development out in Tangiers. Then there was a man from the Czech. Republic whose English is pretty clear, whose German is superb and who can muster up some Russian when the occasion requires it, in addition to the Portuguese man whose English is excellent, Spanish flawless and can hold a conversation in French. And finally there was the German who speaks better English than the English-speaking locals, is married to a Moroccan and speaks her language fluently, who can get by with reasonably pronounced French and whose command of Spanish is pretty impressive for someone who has only lived here for a year or so. Some of the English I have met can muster up relatively good Spanish, but prefer to use English first, just in case they are understood, which, in most cases, they are. And then there are the Moroccans in the community, most of whom speak their own language as well as English, Spanish, French, and some I have met recently, can add German to this portfolio of tongues.

Some of these people have travelled far and are determined to communicate well wherever they live, and I admire them for this. It seems to be the locals who have a remarkably laid back attitude towards languages. This may be because the Gibraltarians learn from birth to speak English and Spanish, and combine the two to create their own, unique patois. The nearby Spaniards from La Linea can either speak very basic English, or don't bother, because in most employment situations, they can get away with speaking only Spanish anyway, which, for English visitors, can be hugely frustrating because there is an expectation that local people speak English, yet so many shop and restaurant staff don't!

While I love listening to the babble around me, and trying to decipher the languages I hear, it does concern me that local children don't seem to benefit much from this welter of natural communication that is going on around them. Unlike my own childhood, those of my children and their friends is being conducted almost exclusively in English, thanks, largely to Disney Channel, Nickleodeon and WWE. Spanish is used rarely, and generally only in its crudest forms for expletives. They learn little of Spanish literature, art and culture, except for a short burst in senior school at advanced leve, if they have so chosen, and popular culture, which is available to all tourists. And the adults who speak Spanish regularly speak it poorly, with a limited vocabulary. It's a shame, because Gibraltar could be considered as bilingual, lauds itself for so being, but falls short of it, because so many local people do not have a sufficient command of Spanish to speak it in any other way than as foreigners.

So I have no objection to the Instituto Cervantes setting up here, if it genuinely will help to expand local knowledge and use of Spanish and the Spanish culture. Just so long as it is kept outside politics. And, it should be joined by some kind of institution which expands local knowledge of Moroccan language and culture, as much to ensure that Arabic is retained by the younger generations of Moroccan children born here, as to expand this language much further into the local vocabulary. After all, if we had learnt Arabic at school, I would feel far more comfortable haggling at the souks only twenty miles or so away, than I do trying to do it in the English, Spanish or French that I speak.

Battle to be British

The old man's hand trembled slightly at the fingertips when he shook my hand and bowed his head in greeting. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes were clouded with worry. I tried to reassure him, and when his meagre English failed him, I was able to calm his nerves a little in Spanish. A Moroccan national, this man (I shall call him Abdellah, although that is not his real name) was about to sit what is commonly known as the English Test. This is a test at the government office in Gibraltar where citizenship and nationality issues are decided, and it is set to decide whether the applicant can speak reasonable English. It is one of the hurdles faced by non-EU immigrants to convince the Gibraltar Government that they are genuinely worthy of being citizens of Gibraltar, and thereby, of being British citizens, with all the priveleges this apparently conveys on man and soul.

The reason I was with Abdellah was not because I am a lawyer, or that I even know him particulalry well. I don't even know any Arabic beyond a basic greeting, so I was unsure how much help I would be. But all Abdellah, an old friend of my father's, wanted was a bit of company so that he would feel able to speak up at the test. In short, he was terrified.

Initially, after some telephone conversations, it seemed I would be unable to sit in the test with him. "It is not so much a test," a senior executive at the immigration office told me, "it's just a conversation to see how well this person can communicate basic information about himself, his family and his life in English, which is the language you must be able to speak to be a British Citizen."

In the end, I was unexpectedly allowed to sit in the interview with him. "I'm so nervous I can barely speak Arabic," he explained. The officers who interviewed him, I have to say, came across as very professional and spoke in quiet, but clear, simple English, and, compared to the citizenship test in the UK, this was a doddle. But somehow, what was missing, was the element of fairness. And there was an undercurrent of what I will call "unintentional racism" in the way the senior officer approached the interview. I'm genuinely not certain if this officer was aware of the effect of body language, gestures and tone of voice on the interviewee, and even the cultural differences did not appear to be taken into account - after all, it was not his fault if paperwork in Morocco is not quite the same as paperwork in Gibraltar, or Britain, or Spain, or Latvia for that matter.

Abdellah is an old man who has had a complicated life: a divorce, a second wife, some children in Morocco, some born here. But he has worked and paid tax in Gib for almost 40 years. He is a law-abiding citizen, contributing to the local community and to the local economy. There is no access to language classes in Gib to workers whose hours go beyond 12 per day in order to make ends meet - working time directives don't seem to apply in many firms here. Abdellah's English is passable. He can, when relaxed, make himself understood by his employer of 20 years, by his neighbours, his doctor, dentist, optician and others. Did he really need to prove himself in person, at his age, and talk through complex paperwork, just to be able to travel regularly to Morocco through Spain? Or vote? Or take full part in the local communities they support with their labour, with full legal rights?

After the test, Abdellah wanted to treat me to a meal and invited me and my family to stay with his family in Tangiers. I'm not sure anything I did helped, but it is clear that the process of immigration to such disadvantaged persons in Gibraltar desperately needs humanising, and then "good neighbours" like me won't need to sit in interviews, and decent citizens like him won't need to be patronised in order to prove their worth. The Battle of Britain may have been fought and won last century, but in the twenty-first century, the battle for Britishness grows fiercer.

Community cohesion confirmed

Cathedral of St Mary the Crowned

I had a delightful morning. The weather was perfect: sunshine with just enough of a breeze to take the edge off the heat, and just to complete the idyll, the kids were at school, the dog asleep indoors, and the coffee at the Piazza, (el martillo to seniors, Sir John Mackintosh Square to many non-Gibraltarians) strong and smooth. While I dipped churros into a small mound of sugar on the edge of my plate, I watched dozens of people meander along Main Street having celebrated the confirmation into local Catholicism of their children.

I'm not usually a fan of religious festivals and avoided the sinister Spanish Easter processions that smack too much of paganism, idolatry and hypocricy for my liking, and the celebrations for the end of Our Lady of Europa jubilee year. But, hot on the heels of the first Holy Communion celebrations that saw pre-pubescent girls dressed as brides and pre-pubescent boys flaunt their innocence also in white, along with gifts and parties and lots of flash photography, this religious celebration, caught in Main Street, brought home to me just how beautifully the different religious traditions all relate to each other in Gibraltar.

While I drank the coffee - and I like it to still be steaming hot when I get to the bottom of the cup, so I don't hang around - I watched the kids that had been confirmed into the Roman Catholic church excitedly chatter to their large and extended families, and these exchanged greetings with passing friends, some of whom wore the kappel of Judaism, while others, in jallabah's or hijabs or kofi's, smiled and kissed their congratulations as they headed for Friday prayers at the mosque.

Ibrahim-al-Ibrahim Mosque

While Gibraltar's Roman Catholicism is still the predominant religious tradition that still governs the calendar for schools and holidays, and continues to exert a stupefying influence on social and political modernisation, the way that people are able to understand, accept and enjoy each other's traditions is as refreshing as it is wonderful. While in some places overt displays of faith are played down so as not to cause offence to people of other religious persuasions, in this tiny city, people can worship openly and are respected for doing so.

One of Gibraltar's synagogues

I'm not sure why it should be like this in Gibraltar and not so in many other parts of Europe, or, indeed, the globe. Perhaps it is that religion itself allows for a spiritual growth that opens up an understanding of the spiritual needs of others. But I'm not so that this is the case. I prefer to think that in such a small place as Gib, where the memories of the isolation of being locked into the Rock are still so fresh and only one generation old, we all had to get on with each other, we needed to learn about each other's ways, accept them, understand them and live with them. It made life easier, and in these days of continuing religious wars, the religious co-existence in Gibraltar is exemplary.

Puppy love!

I've inadvertantly, and a little reluctantly, become a dog owner. Spot, pictured above, unimaginatively named by my kids, turned up at the front door one evening when her previous owners were looking for someone who would take her off their hands. I should have known then not to bother, but as I tried to shove the kids back indoors and ignore their pleadings, the pup pounced into my arms and got licking. Well, I caved in, and now I don't know whether to regret it or take it on board and embrace it.

Suddenly, as well as becoming proficient in poop-scooping, de-worming, and dashing down six floors, dog in arms, to get her outdoors in time for a pee, I've unwittingly joined those hoards of people who walk aimlessly round and round Harbour Views with furry friends attached to the ends of leads, in an attempt to prevent soiling of floor tiles . I trudge about unwillingly, wishing I was still in bed, while these dedicated folk seem to love everything about their pooches.

What I have noticed is, well, that I notice dog poo. And there's loads of it in Gib. So, I wonder, if all the dog owners I encounter at unsocial hours, pounding their pavements with pooches in tow, all pick up their dog's effluence, something I've gratefully observed, how come there's so many turds trailing on the pavements from here to the border and back? Dirty dogs I'm not keen on, but dirty dog owners, who leave the mess to pass on diseases to kids and breed maggots, cockroaches and goodness-knows-what else, are totally unacceptable. When I had to wash some off Spot's paws the other day - not hers, but another mutt's she had accidentally trodden on - I thought that a system of by-laws and fining would help, but most effective would be making the guilty owners bath in the stuff. Then maybe they'd learn.

And talking of animals, I witnessed the catching of a mangy old cat while I enjoyed breakfast at the Piazza yesterday morning. I can see why my Dad enjoyed hanging around gossiping with the other Grumpy Old Men who congregate on a bench and mull over one shared copy of the Gibraltar Chronicle. "El Martillo", he always called it, the old name the Piazza was known by. Just as even now, people my age call it the "Piazza" when officially it is Sir John Mackintosh Square.

There I sat, watching the crowds scuttle by, sipping strong coffee and dipping churros in a little mountain of sugar in my saucer, when I caught sight of a man wielding a cage and suddenly bending over and stuffing a cat into it. Seconds only. Like greased lightning. And off ,they rattled in an old van, I hope to the GSPCA, but alarmingly taking the one-way road towards the kebab shops. I wondered if this gifted cat-catcher could also be persuaded to deal with the pigeons, which are far more disease-ridden and pestilential than cats, and don't catch rats. But then, no "palomos", and no government, from what I understand from the Grumpy Old Men.

Searching for a small haven

Four months in Gibraltar, and, having turned the flat over three times to visiting relatives, I am now looking forward to creating some kind of routine, carving out a small place where I can do all those things I need to do each day, and hiding away in some inconspicuous corner, where the rest of the family can't find me, so that I can get back to writing my book. Today I think I might have found the place - if not for writing up copious research notes, at least for organising my thoughts and perhaps rediscovering some vestiges of my eloquence.

Tucked away on the eastern side of the Rock, with nothing facing it except the blue vastness of the Mediterranean, Catalan Bay is a simple delight. Today the sea is a sparkling sapphire with shimmering pinpricks of sunlight. It moves with only a gentle lapping of the seashore, green waves licking over the gold of the sand, like the breathing of a beast deep in sleep. The Mamela, that rock that thrusts out of the sea, firm and rounded like a young woman's breast for which it takes its name, is more exposed than usual today, the water just caressing its base and the heat of the sun warming its tip.

The Caleta Hotel stands perched on the edge of the cliff as it curves away from the Bay towards the south. It is like a large, white seabird poised as if for flight, just waiting for the right time to take off.

Small, wooden boats lie idle on the sand, or propped up against the walls on the side of the road, a memory of the distant days when the village thrived on the fish caught in the Bay. The Virgin, perched atop the small church still peers down onto the sands to give her blind blessing to all seafarers, although nowadays she stands back, inbetween two apartment blocks.

Some of the apartment blocks are being refurbised and are encased in ugly scaffolding. Nevertheless, the hammer and clank and grind of construction is dull here, as is the noise of passing cars, more of a hum here, unlike the incessant roar of the traffic that afflicts the western side of the Rock.

The sounds of daily life here: the chink of glasses at the bars, the call of the corner-shop seller, the raised voices of English tourists trying to make themselves understood, forgetting that here most people speak English and are not deaf, all are dulled into insignificance by the murmer of the sea and the cry of the gulls clinging to life on the sheer mountainside that towers over this huddle of homes at its feet.

I think that, for a while, a little tired as I am from the bustle and aimless noise of Main Street, the choking of the fumes on Queensway, Westside and Market Square, the arid abandonment of Europa Point and the offensive opulence of Ocean Village, I will make this my retreat, my haven.

Human rights matter

I've not thought of myself as highly political for many years, not since the coal miners' strike of the 1980's and various anti-nuclear demonstrations I went on as a student. But recently I have been incensed to the point of writing letters to newspapers criticising Gibraltar's government for its dismissive attitude towards the workers of Moroccan background who, literally, keep the wheels of Gibraltar's society turning. These people, many of whom have lived here for decades, work hard and long hours, earn the lowest wages, live in the most dreadful housing and have few rights, least of all citizenship rights, which would enable them freedom of travel in and out of Spain, freedom to vote and have a say in who governs them. They have little access to public services, despite paying taxes and social insurances, and many are not allowed to have their wives and families join them. And that is the tip of the iceberg.

That in a small place like Gibraltar there are practical difficulties in integrating everyone who wants to join this community is undeniable. But I firmly believe in the principles of equal opportunities and had to speak out against the obvious discrimination that the Gibraltar government applies towards Moroccan workers. I've written two letters so far. I was surprised the first was published because it was long and outspoken. The second may not see the light of day because it is even more critical than the first. But I am lucky to live where I can speak as I feel, and I have a duty to speak out against injustice.

Readers can follow the links to the Gibraltar Chronicle, Panorama (another local newspaper) and The Guardian, where this issue is covered in more detail.

There is no place in 21st century Gibraltar, or Europe, for discrimination of any sort.

A gifted daughter is itself a wonderful gift.

These are pictures painted by my daughter, Jessica. She's waiting to start art college in September and in the meantime, she paints and draws, and takes fabulous photos.

The flower on a yellow background is called "Be Happy". It is cheerful, as its maker. It's acrylic on canvas and she sent me the image on a dull day when the tendons in my foot - badly inflamed - were giving me particular grief. It worked, and brightened my day.

This one on the left is a play with space and shape and colour. It explores creativity itself, the moulding of something out of nothing - make of it what you will! For me, it is an explosion of energy. As is Jessica. Her art is an emanation of herself.

I loved the one below: Red Woman, and just had to use it as my profile picture. Acrylic on canvas, it's simplicity belies an undercurrent of sensuality. I love the way Jess is exploring her burgeoning womanhood. I firmly believe she will be a really good artist some day.

Jessica is putting some of her art for sale, because she is struggling so much to get a job, and I so much admire her for that - she is far more mature than she realises, and far more so than I was at her age.