In this past Youth Day’s reminiscences it should not be forgotten that it was a linguistic grievance — the imposition of Afrikaans as a medium of instruction — that served as the pin in the grenade of the rage of the students.
That fact brokers a compelling question. More than a quarter century after Soweto and nearly a decade since democracy, it is timely to ask: how well has the government respected language rights?
The Constitution was a good start. It anointed 11 official languages and promised a bevy of language rights to all. To enforce these rights, the constitutionally mandated Pan South African Language Board (PanSALB), an entity charged with, among others, mediating complaints of language rights violations against government agencies, was established in 1996.
The board has the power to investigate complaints, issue subpoenas, publish findings in the Government Gazette and make ”recommendations” to government departments and parastatals. But PanSALB has proved to be a ”toothless watchdog”, which, as language activists complain, ”cannot bite, only bark”.
Since 1997 more than 300 complaints have been lodged with PanSALB. It has opened investigations into most and has made official recommendations to the government in response to several. Yet, according to the head of legal staff at PanSALB Edward Sambo, in ”more than half” of the investigations, the government has ignored the calls for remedy.
There have been ongoing violations of language rights. Many Tsongas, for example, have expressed their concern about a dearth of TV programming in their language. Though the Constitution guarantees ”parity of esteem” and ”equitable” treatment of all official languages, Xitsonga has seen its share of airtime decrease in proportion to other languages. To take another example, Xhosa-speaking parents in Free State complain that no surveys adequately assess the number and concentration of Xhosa-speaking children of school age. This, in turn, forces Xhosa children to learn through the medium of a completely unfamiliar language, such as Sotho.
Some English-speaking readers may dismiss these complaints as isolated or frivolous, but one brand of complaint has proved so widespread, that it brooks no such equivocation.
Consider that since 1994 many government departments have refused to communicate in any language other than English — even though the Constitution explicitly requires them to use ”at least two” official languages. This is more dire than it may at first seem. Only 9% of South Africans speak English as a first language, and fewer than 25% can understand it to any substantial degree. A recent government-commissioned survey by MarkData found that 46% of South Africans (67% in rural areas) cannot understand what politicians are saying because politicians favour English over African languages.
Why should this be so? Many have blamed the Department of Arts, Culture, Science and Technology (DACST) under Lionel Mtshali for handicapping PanSALB.
Back in 1993 the board boasted ample enforcement powers, including an ”independent” status that placed it above party politics, but was stripped of its independence during the writing of the final Constitution. A subsequent amendment to the PanSALB Act subordinated the board to the DACST, which began to underfund it while imposing additional responsibilities.
Former board members claim a hesitation to take on the government. For example, though PanSALB could make an iron-clad case against the Compensation Commissioner and the Department of Justice for their English-only policies, it declined to do so.
Some ethnic groups have accessed PanSALB’s legal services to a disproportionate extent. The board’s own audits revealed that Afrikaans speakers account for 88% of complaints lodged with its legal department.
Adriaan van Niekerk, language ombudsman for the New National Party, has speculated that while a handful of these complaints may come from so-called coloureds, the overwhelming majority are from whites.
CEO of PanSALB Dr Cynthia Marivate reportedly believes this is because black South Africans have little interest in language. In testimony to the sports, recreation, arts and culture committee of the Gauteng Legislature she said: ”[The language rights focus area] is weak, maybe because of the needs from the nine African languages speakers’ communities. Language is not one of their top priorities.”
Yet a study commissioned by the board concluded that at least 50% of South Africans wanted language to be a priority.
To be fair, the board has made some efforts at improvement. In the absence of its ability to enforce language rights, it has begun to sublet the jaws of other, more toothy agencies. Sambo, head of PanSALB’s legal staff, claims to have initiated contact with the Human Rights Commission and the public protector in the hopes that a formal process of referral can be established, whereby PanSALB could refer cases of recalcitrant rights-violators to either one of them. If implemented, this cooperation could signal to government departments that PanSALB does have indirect powers of enforcement, and its recommendations, thus, are ignored at the risk of legal action.
But this is not enough. Before language rights stand a realistic chance of fulfilment, two things need to happen. The government should recognise that language is pervasive, impacting upon diverse spheres from labour to education and health. To deliver in these sectors, services and information should always be available in at least the Nguni and Sotho languages. Second and finally, PanSALB needs to regain its independence so it can effectively protect the language rights of citizens; this can be attained through an amendment to the PanSALB Act.
If neither occurs, South Africa will likely continue along the present route of de facto anglicisation, and increasing numbers of ordinary citizens will be unable to participate in official discourses or access public services.
Tim Perry is a Fulbright Scholar in the politics of language at the University of Cape Town