Icelandic language fighting tsunami of English

Two centuries ago experts predicted that Icelandic would be a dead language by now. But the doomsayers can eat their words: Icelandic is alive and kicking despite an onslaught of English brought on by modern technology. Schools are taking special measures to make sure the language lives on. (AFP)
Updated 30 November 2018
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Icelandic language fighting tsunami of English

  • Icelandic is alive and kicking despite an onslaught of English brought on by modern technology
  • For youths in Iceland, speaking English is simply a matter of necessity

REYKJAVIK: Two centuries ago experts predicted that Icelandic would be a dead language by now. But the doomsayers can eat their words: Icelandic is alive and kicking despite an onslaught of English brought on by modern technology.
Currently spoken by the 355,000 inhabitants of this North Atlantic island, Icelandic has repeatedly come under threat through the ages — following migrations, invasions by Norway and Denmark from the 16th to the early 20th centuries, and the Industrial Revolution.
But it has always survived, with the written language little changed since the 11th century.
With just a little guesswork, an Icelander today can read the Icelandic Sagas, medieval literary masterpieces written in Old Norse in the 13th and 14th centuries.
Yet English usage has in recent decades skyrocketed in Iceland — as around the world — thanks to the dominance of American pop culture as well as the adoption of modern technology such as the Internet, YouTube and smartphones with lightning speed.
Visitors to the capital Reykjavik need only ask locals for directions to quickly discover that Iceland is in fact bilingual.
For youths here, speaking English is simply a matter of necessity.
“I have to be able to read English because it’s everywhere and it’s universal,” 11-year-old Sigthor Elias Smith says — in Icelandic.
Here, people watch videos and play games on their laptops, tablets and smartphones in English for the most part. Like in other Nordic countries, dubbing is almost non-existent.
And Icelandic is glaringly absent in the online world.
“I watch YouTube a lot, I learn a lot of English that way, and also on Netflix,” says Sigthor’s friend Eva Bjork Angarita, 12.

Measures
Amid some concern that English is too prevalent, Iceland has adopted several measures to promote its own language.
In 1996, the government designated November 16 as Icelandic Language Day, aimed at drawing attention to its contribution to national identity and culture.
In 2011, a new law recognized Icelandic as the country’s official language.
And Education, Culture and Science Minister Lilja Alfredsdottir announced in September that authors or editors publishing books in Icelandic would have 25 percent of their expenses reimbursed, in a bid to increase the diversity of books available in Icelandic.
To counteract the dominance of English in technology, Alfredsdottir has also earmarked 2.4 billion kronur (around 17.5 million euros, $19.3 million) to develop Icelandic versions of voice recognition services for virtual personal assistants such as Apple’s Siri and Amazon’s Alexa.
Sigthor and Eva’s Icelandic teacher, Solveig Reynisdottir, is among those concerned about the rise of the Bard’s tongue.
She worries that the tsunami of English that children are exposed to online is affecting their Icelandic vocabulary.
“The children sometimes lack words because there are many they’ve never heard,” she laments as she hands out a language comprehension assignment to her 23 students.
“The technological changes are a real challenge,” Alfredsdottir admits.
Eirikur Rognvaldsson, an Icelandic professor and linguist at the University of Iceland, agrees.
He acknowledges that the ubiquity of English is not unique to Iceland, but notes that in contrast to other countries, many young Icelanders choose to live abroad.
“Young people in Iceland ... don’t necessarily see Iceland as their home in the future. They want to go abroad, study and live abroad. It seems their connections to their country and language are not as strong as they used to be.”
A 2016 Forbes study showed that 11.4 percent of Icelanders lived abroad, in sixth place of OECD countries with populations living overseas.

Prolific writers
Others say the fears are unwarranted.
Icelanders are prolific writers. Some 1,600 books are published in print each year, according to Iceland’s National and University Library. That’s three times more per capita than in France.
“We shouldn’t be worried by a few red flags,” says Ari Pall Kristinsson, a researcher at the Arni Magnusson Institute for Icelandic Studies. “Cultural life in Icelandic is very dynamic today.”
And it is worth noting that English may be gaining ground orally, but it is not making its way into Icelandic dictionaries.
While English loanwords and slang regularly creep into other languages, Icelandic remains one of the world’s purest languages.
The government’s Icelandic Language Committee sees to that. It guards the language closely, working meticulously to devise new words with Icelandic roots when necessary.
For computer, it came up with “tolva“: a mix of “tala” (number) and “volva” (prophetess), to create the poetic “prophetess of numbers.”
“I don’t think Icelandic will disappear,” says Gudrun Kvaran, head of the committee.
“Two centuries ago, our famous Danish language experts predicted that Icelandic would be dead within 200 years. And yet we’re still speaking Icelandic today.”


How a Syrian refugee chef met Britain’s King Charles

Imad Alarnab, a chef and restaurant owner who fled Syria in 2015, works at one of his restaurants in central London. (AFP)
Updated 55 min 2 sec ago
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How a Syrian refugee chef met Britain’s King Charles

  • Alarnab, 48, said he had asked the king to come to the popular eatery when he met him at Buckingham Palace

LONDON: Pots clanged and oil sizzled inside the London kitchen of Syrian chef Imad Alarnab, as the former refugee who fled his country’s civil war recalled hosting King Charles III.
When the chef left his war-torn homeland in 2015, he never imagined that one day he would watch as cameras flashed and wide-eyed crowds greeted the monarch arriving at his Soho restaurant last year.
Alarnab, 48, said he had asked the king to come to the popular eatery when he met him at Buckingham Palace before an event honoring humanitarian work in 2023.
“I told him ‘I would love for you to visit our restaurant one day’ and he said: ‘I would love to’... I was over the Moon to be honest.”
The chef has come a long way since he arrived in London after an arduous journey from Damascus with virtually no money in his pocket.
Fearing for his life, he had escaped Syria after his family was uprooted again and again by fighting.
His culinary empire — restaurants, cafes, and juice bars peppered across the Syrian capital — had been destroyed by bombing in just six days in 2013.
Alarnab spent three months crisscrossing Europe in the back of lorries, aboard trains, on foot and even on a bicycle before he reached the UK.
“When I left, I left with nothing,” he told AFP, as waiters whirled past carrying steaming plates of traditional Syrian fare.
Starving and exhausted, he spent the last of his money on a train ticket to Doncaster where his sister lived.
“Love letter from Syria”
To make a living, Alarnab initially picked up any odd jobs, such as washing and selling cars, saving enough to bring his wife and three daughters over after seven months.
His love of cooking never left him though. In France, while he was sleeping on the steps of a church, Alarnab had often cooked for hundreds of other refugees.
“I always dreamed of going back to cooking,” he said.
So it wasn’t long before he found himself back in the kitchen, cooking up a storm across London with his sold-out supper clubs, bustling pop-up cafes, and crowded lunchtime falafel bars.
Alarnab’s friends gave him the initial boost for his first pop-up in 2017, and profits from his new catering business then covered the costs of later events.
He now runs two restaurants in the city — one in Soho’s buzzing Kingly Court and another nestled in a corner of the vibrant Somerset House arts center.
“I was looking for a city to love when I found London,” Alarnab said, adding it had offered him “space to innovate” and add his own modern twist to classic Syrian dishes.
Far from home, Alarnab said his word-of-mouth success had grown into a “love letter from Syria to the world” that needs no translation.
“You don’t really need to speak Arabic or Syrian to know that this is the best falafel ever,” he said, pointing to a row of colorful plates.
“There is hope”
For Alarnab, spices frying, dough rising and cheese melting inside a kitchen offered an unlikely escape from the real world.
“All my problems, I leave them outside the kitchen and walk in fresh.”
When he fled Syria, Alarnab thought going back to Damascus was forever off the table.
Yet he returned for the first time in October, almost a year to the day after longtime leader Bashar Assad was toppled in a lightning rebel offensive — ending almost 14 years of brutal civil war.
He walked the familiar streets of his old home, where his late mother taught him to cook many years ago.
“To return to Damascus and for her not to be there, that was extremely difficult.”
Torn between the two cities, Alarnab said he longed to one day rebuild his home in Damascus.
“I wish I could go back and live there. But at the same time, I feel like London is now a part of me. I don’t know if I could ever go back and just be in Syria,” he said.
Although Syrians still bear the scars of war, Alarnab said he had seen “hope in people’s eyes which was missing when I left in 2015.”
“The road ahead is still very long, and yes this is only the beginning — but there is hope.”