One of my earliest memories is of struggling with the English language.
Five years old and dressed in a blue school uniform, I kept asking my teacher, Mrs Peters, for "pani". Neither she nor I knew what "pani" meant in English.
When my mother came to pick me up, Mrs Peters asked her what it meant. My mother told her that it was the Urdu word for water.
I was born in Pakistan and when I first learned to talk, I only spoke Urdu, the language of my family and my country.
That would soon change. Two years later, I stepped off a plane into Sydney International Airport with my heavily pregnant mother. I have called Australia home ever since.
My mother can speak four languages. Today I can only speak one.
The pursuit of perfect English
Since my family's transcontinental journey, my mother has urged me to learn English, to know English, to only speak English.
Becoming fluent was seen as an early sign of success in this new country and the first crucial step towards a better education and life.
So, I became an avid reader at a young age. I would religiously watch the nightly news, parliamentary question time, and Playschool. I absorbed as much of the English language as I could. I talked to my family in this strange language until it became my own.
In recent years, I have participated in public speaking. I have won short story and poetry competitions. I studied two English subjects in high school and topped my school in them for three consecutive years, before enrolling in English at university.
The language transcended a mode of communication and became part of my identity — a symbol of my belonging in this country.
Meanwhile, my Urdu was suffering
This dedication has come at a cost.
As I became more and more proficient in English, I lost nearly all my competency in Urdu.
I cannot read or write Urdu, and my listening and speaking skills continue to dwindle with every passing day.
With the adult members of my family, I communicate in a combination of Urdu and English. I call this "broken Urdu", as I replace any words I do not know the Urdu translation for with English. With my sisters and cousins, I've always spoken English.
While this system has mostly been effective, it falls apart when it comes to my grandparents.
Often I struggle to understand what they are saying to me. If my mother is present, she will serve as a translator. Otherwise, I resort to smiling and nodding politely because, truthfully, I am shrouded with shame at not being able to speak to my own grandparents.
I'm not the only one
My struggle is not unique. So many children of immigrants are encouraged by their parents in good faith to discard their heritage language and embrace English in order to belong.
This phenomenon, of losing a native language, is called "language attrition". It commonly happens to people with a similar experience to mine, where speaking English is prioritised as it is seen as the key to success after migration.
A bilingual child has a five in six chance of losing their heritage language by the time they finish high school, according to University of Sydney Professor Ken Cruickshank, who spoke to the ABC in 2019.
People who migrate at a young age are more likely to eventually lose their first language skills.
In response, some state and territory governments are now running community language schools for preschool and school-aged children. In NSW, for example, classes are held outside of school hours in more than 60 community languages.
Relearning a language isn't easy
Recently, I have also become fascinated with the idea of learning Urdu again.
But my mother retains the same attitude that she has had since my adolescence; she believes there is no need for me to learn Urdu and that I should concentrate on learning French — which I have studied throughout high school and university — as it will open further career opportunities.
Teaching myself Urdu won't be easy. It will take me years to learn something that generations of my family have known — and that I already should.
This is the price so many children of immigrants pay. We face the choice between assimilating into a new culture or becoming an outsider in an already unfamiliar place.
I hope to be able to speak Urdu again one day. I hope to be able to speak with my mother in her first language, to understand my grandparents, and to speak the words that my ancestors have said before me with familiarity, ease and pride.
Aala Cheema is a Pakistani-Australian writer based in Canberra.
