#language and memory

[littlecakeclub]

A Bookshelf in Three Languages

Language was just difference. A thousand different ways of seeing, of moving through the world. No; a thousand worlds within one. And translation — a necessary endeavour, however futile, to move between them. Babel by RF. Kuang

There are three languages on my bookshelves: English, French, and Urdu. Each of them holds a part of me and says something about who I am. Some are easy to read. Some are still a struggle.

Urdu is the language of the place I was born.

From the streets of Old Delhi, it speaks of masjids, food stalls, a mixed culture, and the religious diversity of Shahjahanabad. When my parents moved to Europe, they both wanted me to keep my mother tongue. They always spoke to me in a mix of Hindi and Urdu. It's the language of home, of warmth and familiarity. The one I use with my family, the one that plays in the background of old ghazals, the one that colored my childhood through dramas and films. It’s a language woven from the cultural tapestry of the subcontinent, and every word feels like poetry.

But in recent years, with the rise of Hindutva in India, I’ve watched with a heavy heart as my motherland is torn apart by religious and fascist ideologies. I’ve also seen the language I grew up with—one of my deepest ties to the land where I was born—turned into a political object. Urdu became “the Muslim language.” And Muslims like me, in this political narrative, apparently no longer belonged to India.

It made my heart ache. What about our ghazals? What about the beauty of this blended language? What about the stories whispered in homes and sung on radios? What about the schoolbooks we read, the handwritten letters, the film scripts that shaped generations? What about the political essays written in Urdu by intellectuals during the independence movement?

That rejection only made me hold on to Urdu more fiercely.

In 2021, I decided to learn how to read it. I felt the need to protect my heritage in a more active way. I started online classes on Preply with a lovely Pakistani teacher, and after a year, I was able to read simple children’s books. Now, my goal is to read a full adult novel but honestly, it’s tough. I struggle with pacing and often lose focus. Still, I don’t want to give up.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about trying immersive reading—pairing books with audiobooks to help build fluency. It’s slow progress, but it’s something deeply dear to my heart.

French is the language that first said the word “immigrant” to me.

But it’s also the language I read my first story in.

When my parents moved to Belgium, I was schooled in French. It became the language I learned to read in—and the one I used to write my first stories, fanfictions, essays, and novellas.

It’s still the language I feel most at ease with—both for reading and writing. I can read quickly, without losing nuance or depth. When I want to tackle long or flowery books, I often choose the French translation—like I did for The Priory of the Orange Tree or The Realm of the Elderlings. I also enjoy reading essays on French and Belgian politics.

Too often, the books I’m drawn to are either untranslated, badly translated, or left unfinished. And the French publishing world? It’s not very diverse—often even less so than the English one.

That’s what eventually led me to my third language.

English is the language of my colonisers.

It’s also the language that opened me up to more diverse stories. Ironically, it’s in English that I first read Indian authors. It was the language my parents switched to when they didn’t want us to understand what they were saying.

I strengthened my English through school, the internet, and my English-speaking friends. I started reading novels around the age of 19, mostly YA at first, and now I read comfortably.

Sometimes I still need more focus—especially with poetic or dense writing—and when I’m stressed, I definitely read slower than in French.

But I love reading in English, not because I want more American books, but because it gives me access to stories from around the world, including India. It brings more diversity into my favourite genres: fantasy and historical fiction.

Still, it’s not a perfect language. It’s one that colonised—and in many cases, erased—others. It tried to erase mine.

So I’ll always approach English with some caution. It isn’t mine. But it’s a tool I’ve come to love using.

As a child, I dreamed of becoming a writer.

I used to invent stories and write them in WordPad—novellas, short stories, fanfictions. I dreamt of publishing a novel that would offer readers the kind of adventure books gave me.

But I haven’t written fiction in twelve years. Most of my writing since then has been essays, especially through my antiracist work. And yet, a part of me still dreams of telling stories.

Sometimes I wonder: if I were to write stories again, in which language would I want to do it?

I’d love to write beautifully in Urdu but I’m not there yet. Speaking and writing are two very different things. English would probably be my first choice, because I prefer the publishing world in that language. But since it’s not my native tongue, it’s hard to craft something fluid and beautiful without heavy revisions. I write more naturally, more lyrically, in French. But the publishing world there feels so white, so elitist—it really discourages me.

Still, I know it’s a privileged dilemma to have. I feel deeply grateful for these three languages. Each one tells a different part of my story.

So that’s how I ended up with a bookshelf in three languages.

To Urdu, my heart belongs and my roots speak. To French, it’s my comfort zone, the language I was raised in. To English, the language that opened me up to the world.

[incognitopolls]

Anon made this observation recently where everyone they know who was summoned by whistling was German, and their non-German friends were confused about this. They'd like to get some international insight.

–

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[ckducky]

Learning to say "I love you" in each others language 

[kitkat-the-muffin]

William Kaplan’s Bar Mitzvah was so accurate btw

Like it reawakened my hebrew sleeper agent and I started singing the prayers with him

Mazel tov

[anistarrose]

the owl house has some diabolical parallels via framing of scenes but none make me cry more than plant glyph dead dad vs. light glyph dead dad. what if i was never normal about luz and her dead dads (both biological and non-biological) again

[ID from alt:

Luz drawing a plant glyph in Reaching Out

Luz and Amity watching as they send the flowers into the air with a balloon

Luz touching an inert light glyph in Watching and Dreaming

Luz watching with a tearful smile as she releases the light glyph into the wind. The scene has the exact same framing as the scene in Reaching Out.

End ID.]

[silly-lil-scribbles]

what the fuck is going on with severance istg every fucking post i see about that shit is like “bleep bloop outened the sisky??? on MY paster??? AND FUCKLECHIN JUST LET HIM???????”

[mournfulroses]

Yannis Ritsos, trans. by Kimon Friar, from a poem featured in "Erotica: Love Poems,"

[janknabobfdi]

"romeo and juliet" okay? but could shakespeare write whatever the fuck church and texas had going on? i dont think so

[shisasan]

17 June 1926 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov [ID: 17 June 1926 My sweet creature. END ID]

[wildstar25]

MiqoMarch Day 20 - Memory

Rare is it to see you so shaken. I can only imagine what thoughts must be consuming you at this moment, my love.

[uwudonoodle]

[fictionkinfessions]

It's crazy how people will assume that not having memories automatically makes you kin for fun or any less of someone who kins. As if not having memories isn't one of the most alienating experiences you can have or that you're not just as serious because of that. Kind of crazy how people will other those in an already othered community, almost as if people's experiences with something aren't locked in a singular box & we all have different. experiences. who woulda thought!

Anyways, people with no memories, I see you and it's rough out here. You definitely aren't any less of who you are because of it, your selfhood is your own.

No one's getting more valid points because they remember shit, just remember that.

✉

[bimoonphases]

@wolfstarmicrofic June 11 - prompt 11: Kiss [word count 702]

"You never told us," Anwell started, looking up from the book he was reading. "How was your first kiss?"

Sirius raised his head from the carpet where he was passing Estelle the tin of broom polish and looked at his son at the same moment Remus did from over his cup of tea.

"Why the sudden interest, young man?" Remus smiled.

"Just curious I guess," the sixteen-year old shrugged.

Sirius looked at his husband and leaned forward.

"Do you mean our first kiss with each other or our first kiss at all?" he asked.

"Didn't you start dating back at Hogwarts?" Anwell frowned.

"We did, it doesn't mean we didn't have... Experiences with other people first," Remus said.

"I want to know both," Estelle said as she polished the broomstick she had just gotten for Christmas to celebrate her becoming a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.

"Alright then," Sirius stretched. "My first kiss was actually with your aunt Mary."

"Aunt Mary?" the children chorused.

"Oh yes, we dated for a short while then decided we weren't a good match. Your Dad was really jealous."

"I wasn't," Remus rolled his eyes. "Or rather, I was but I didn't know it was jealousy then."

"What about your first kiss, Dad?" Estelle asked. "Was it with someone we know too?"

"No, seren fach, it wasn't," Remus smiled. "It was during the summer when I was back at your mam-gu and thad-cu's. His name was Robert and he was working a summer job as a gardener. We used to sneak out in the fields after his shifts ended, your Papa was really jealous when he found out."

"Not my fault you showed up on the Hogwarts Express that September hot as hell and with your neck covered in hickies," Sirius grumbled.

"Was it then you decided to kiss him?" Anwell asked as Estelle snorted.

"It's when I found out I really, really wanted to," Sirius sighed.

"And then he proceeded to do exactly nothing about it for months," Remus smirked.

"It was hard!" Sirius protested. "If I went and kissed you I didn't know if you'd like it or if I would ruin a friendship."

"As if I hadn't been painfully in love with you for years."

"I didn't know!"

"Everybody knew at that point," Remus laughed. "Even James knew!"

There was a moment of silence, the one the children had grown up with at the mention of a series of names from their fathers' past.

"Un ange passe," Sirius smiled. "Anyway, yes, it took me a while after that. But then we started studying Patronuses and I had a really hard time obtaining a fully formed one, and your Dad spent a lot of time helping me. It was late one night and he was showing me the wand movement for the umpteenth time and I just turned around and kissed him."

"Took me completely by surprise," Remus smiled fondly at his husband. "But then I kissed him back."

"And then I managed to cast the Patronus charm properly."

"Dad was your happy memory?" Estelle asked.

"Your Dad always was my happiest memory, even in the darkest times of my life," Sirius reached for Remus's hand and squeezed it. "Mon amour."

"Fy nghariad," Remus smiled as he bent over the armrest to kiss him.

"I didn't mean I wanted a kissing demonstration," Anwell groaned.

"Shut up, I know you asked just because you want to know if they felt the same as you did after kissing Anita at the party when we beat Hufflepuff," Estelle scoffed.

Sirius and Remus turned to look at their son who was growing crimson.

"How do you know that?" he stared at his sister.

"You were making out in the staircase to the dorms, you idiot," Estelle rolled her eyes. "Right where I was making out with Selene!"

Her brother threw a cushion at her face and in the battle that followed Remus and Sirius took shelter in the kitchen.

"They grow up so fast," Remus smiled.

"There's one thing I noticed," Sirius passed his arms around Remus's waist. "Our daughter was kissing someone whose name means moon."

"You adorable romantic," Remus sighed, pulling him in for another kiss.

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

darry doesn't much give a shit about cussin. as long as they're not actin a fool in public or cussin at HIM he really could not be assed. there are only two words he will NOT let them say: bitch specifically about a woman n cunt. however. there is absolutely nothin more temptin to a child then bein told there are things they aren't allowed to say. which regularly results in two of them playin that stupid game where you go back n forth sayin the word louder n louder until one of you gets caught n Darry hollers at them

[sysig]

The familiarity is not very comforting (Patreon)

[deathandnonexistentialdread]

Yami sounds very surprised that his name was in hieroglyphs