Egypt's Berber Speakers Still Cling to Language

Ibrahim Mohamed at his workshop in Siwa - AFP
Ibrahim Mohamed at his workshop in Siwa - AFP
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Egypt's Berber Speakers Still Cling to Language

Ibrahim Mohamed at his workshop in Siwa - AFP
Ibrahim Mohamed at his workshop in Siwa - AFP

Youssef Diab drives his truck through the Egyptian oasis of Siwa, singing catchy songs in a local Berber dialect that clings to life despite the dominance of Arabic.

The UN has classified Siwi, the easternmost dialect of the Tamazight language spoken across North Africa as far as Morocco, as "endangered".

But few adults in the oasis speak Arabic as their main language, and the children playing at the foot of the ancient local fortress talk and shout in Siwi.

Diab, a 25-year-old tourist guide with a colorful Berber flag in his back window, is convinced that the tongue will survive.

"Everyone uses it here," he said.

The Berbers of Siwa are one of the main linguistic minorities in Egypt, the most populous Arabic-speaking country with some 100 million inhabitants and long the flag-bearer of Arab nationalism.

Located some 560 kilometres (350 miles) from Cairo, their oasis only came under state control when it was occupied by Mohammad Ali, the founder of modern Egypt, in 1820.

Its isolation "allowed Siwa and its inhabitants to keep their specific traditions and a language that sets them apart from mainstream Egyptian culture", said sociolinguist Valentina Serreli, who wrote her PhD thesis on the language in the oasis, AFP reported.

It wasn't until the 1980s that Arabic became more common, due in large part to "tourism, mass media and mobility for higher education or for working purposes".

The UN in 2008 estimated that 15,000 people in the oasis, half the population, speak Siwi.

But Serreli estimates that the real figure is around 20,000.

"UNESCO considers the language 'definitely endangered' because 'children no longer learn the language as mother tongue in the home'", she said.

But "as far as I can tell, this is not true".

"The language is dominant in... conversations, even between young peers."

Ibrahim Mohamed, an elder of one of the region's 11 tribes and a respected figure in Siwa, said Siwi was central to the "Amazigh identity" of the oasis.

And despite an influx of tourists in the last few decades, the oasis remains relatively isolated, accessible by a single road from the Mediterranean coast.

"Siwa is to the Siwis what water is to fish -- they wouldn't leave it for anything in the world," said Mehdi al-Howeiti, the head of the local tourism office.

A son of the oasis, he studied elsewhere, but returned to Siwa to live.

Despite that devotion to their roots, Siwa residents face several challenges in protecting their language, including the cultural dominance of Arabic and the fact the tongue is only transmitted within families.

"In the past, our parents only spoke Siwi, which had nothing in common with Arabic," said tribal elder Mohamed, who wore a black Libyan-style skullcap on his head.

"Today, the language is becoming closer and closer to Arabic."

And while Egyptian curricula feature foreign languages, neither of the country's main minority languages -- Siwi and Nubian -- is taught at schools.

"The language should be formally taught so it doesn't disappear," Mohamed said.

The local organization "Children of Siwa" has led efforts to preserve the language.

Working with Moroccan and Italian partners, in 2012 it published a collection of songs, poems and proverbs in both Siwi and Arabic.

It was the product of two years work with 60 young local people and elders.

But despite those efforts, the book is now out of print and there isn't enough money for another edition, said the association's vice-president Yahya Qenaoui.

"We need to do more to preserve our heritage," he said.

"We can't do 10 percent of what we'd like to do... the association doesn't get any funding."

But Diab remains hopeful that the dialect will survive.

"At school, my son Ibrahim learns Arabic, he reads and writes it," he said.

"But at home, he needs to speak Siwi."



Nigerian Farms Battle Traffic, Developers in Downtown Abuja

Developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in Abuja. OLYMPIA DE MAISMONT / AFP
Developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in Abuja. OLYMPIA DE MAISMONT / AFP
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Nigerian Farms Battle Traffic, Developers in Downtown Abuja

Developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in Abuja. OLYMPIA DE MAISMONT / AFP
Developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in Abuja. OLYMPIA DE MAISMONT / AFP

Under the din of traffic from the highway bridge that cuts over his fields, Bala Haruna inspects corn, cassava and okra on his family farm.

A pump pulls up water from a nearby stream and is diverted through trenches dug through cropland wedged between four-lane roads -- fields which were here long before the nearby hotel, the imposing national mosque or any of the high-rises that make up downtown Abuja were even dreamed up.

"There were no buildings here," Haruna, 42, told AFP, reminiscing over his childhood as birds chirped and frogs croaked.

The urban farms dotting Nigeria's capital show the limits of the top-down management the planned city is known for -- oases scattered around pockmarked downtown that has long expanded outward faster than it has filled in.

They owe much of their existence to the fact that they lie in hard-to-develop gulches along creek beds. Even roads built through them over the years tended to be elevated highway overpasses.

That fragile balancing act, however, is increasingly under threat, as developers fill in farmland despite regulations protecting these areas as rare green spaces in a city known for concrete sprawl.

On the other side of the overpass, the future has arrived: the vegetation abruptly stops and temperatures suddenly rise over flattened fields razed by construction crews.

Local farmers said the people who took the land three years ago provided no documentation and only gave the eight of them 300,000 naira to split -- a sum worth only $190 today after years of rampant inflation.

Much of the farmland in and around downtown is supposed to be a municipal green space, with neither farms nor buildings on it.

But enforcement of the decades-old Abuja master plan is ripe with abuse and lack of enforcement, said Ismail Nuhu, urban governance researcher who did his PhD on the capital's urban planning.

Adding to the sense of precarity is that the land, on paper, belongs to the government.

"Politicians still use it to grab lands, just to say, 'Oh, according to the master plan, this is not to be here'," no matter what the document actually says, he told AFP, adding that, technically, even the presidential villa is not located where it is supposed to be.

Nyesom Wike, the minister of the Federal Capital Territory, which includes Abuja, recently told reporters he would "enforce" the 70s-era master plan by building roads and compensating and evicting settlements that stand in the way.

FCT officials including Wike's spokesman did not respond to requests for comment.

Urbanizing country, not enough jobs

The farms have provided steady employment -- a lifeline for some as the rapidly urbanizing country fails to produce enough jobs. A recent opening for 10,000 government jobs saw 450,000 applicants, according to local media.

"Having a green space... in a very thick, populated city like Abuja does a lot of good," said retiree Malik Kuje Guni, who started farming three years ago to supplement his pension.

While tens of thousands of residents pass by the farms each day without second thought, Guni, when he was working as a civil servant, would often come down to visit, enjoying the shade and fresh air.

Now tilling a potato plot of his own, "I can come down, work, sweat," the 63-year-old said. "I have hope something will come out of it."

A few blocks over, squat, informal houses made of wood and sheet metal give way to a field of sugarcane, corn and banana trees. Glass-paneled highrises, half-finished construction and the imposing Bank of Industry tower above.

The crops give way to land cleared by developers a few months ago, some of whom pushed into Godwin Iwok's field and destroyed his banana trees.

Iwok, who quit his security job 22 years ago to make more money as a farmer, has had parts of his fields destroyed twice in the past two years, neither time with compensation.

To Guni, the farms represent the city's rural heritage. Despite decades of government promises to relocate Nigeria's capital from the crowded, congested mega-city of Lagos, the move only occurred in 1991.

But neither Iwok, 65, nor Haruna want their children to continue their increasingly precarious line of work.

"I wouldn't want my children to stand under the sun as I did," Iwok told AFP.

"I only use what I'm getting here... to make sure my children go to school."