Quoting God and the Prophet

I’ve recently been hacking at the final chapter of my PhD, which will (hopefully) be an analysis of the use of religious language on what I like to call “Islamic advice programmes” on Jordanian radio. These programmes involve a host, typically a scholar well-educated in the principles of religion and Islamic law, taking calls from listeners on a variety of questions – whether a certain course of action is religiously appropriate, for example, or how to interpret some obscure part in an Islamic religious text. (With the recent rise of the so-called Islamic State, for example, a few listeners called in as to whether their appearance may have been “predicted” by the Prophet Muhammad in one of his sayings (hadith). Judgments on this vary.)

What’s particularly striking to me is how the host-scholars talk about and quote the religious texts in which they’re supposed to be experts. Whenever the Qur’an or a hadith of the Prophet is quoted, it impeccably resembles the written form in terms of grammar and pronunciation – a standard which is rarely kept up in “fresh talk” on Arabic-language radio, even for hosts that do tend more towards the “formal” (or Classical/Modern Standard) pole of the Arabic linguistic spectrum (as opposed to being purely colloquial). Every Islamic scholar worth their salt should, of course, know such lines by heart – or at least be able to pretend well enough that they do. But quotations are also, perhaps unsurprisingly, usually pronounced in a different way than the talk which surrounds them. They are not merely said – not even read in the kind of droning, measured style typical of modern formal Arabic reading (see e.g. here). Rather, they are – more often than not – recited, in a way that sets them clearly apart from ordinary speech. Vowels are elongated, pitch is heightened, and there are relatively long pauses after each line (often lasting half a second or more).

So I rummaged a bit through literature in linguistics to see whether anything much has been written on this issue – that is, the distinct prosody of Standard or Classical Arabic phrases when recited or inserted into mostly colloquial talk. I turned up some quite interesting bits of research, including experiments claiming that native speakers of Arabic are able to distinguish between ‘Western’ (i.e. North African) and ‘Eastern’ (i.e. everything east of Egypt) dialects on the basis of accent and intonation alone, and explorations of patterns of poetic recitation on the Arabian peninsula shared beyond linguistic boundaries. There seems to be quite some work on prosody in Arabic going on, sometimes in quite interesting directions, such as the extent to which phenomena like contrastive emphasis (as in “wrote this article, not him”) might affect (or not) the way Arabic words are pronounced.

There are two issues, though, with this kind of research generally speaking. First, most look at ‘dialectal’ Arabic only. This makes sense for linguistics research that looks to examine ‘natural’ languages – that is, replicating conditions of normal communicative interaction, where formal/Classical Arabic is virtually never used wholesale – but doesn’t provide much to go on for the kind of context on which I’m currently working, where Classical and colloquial language is often used interchangeably. And second, they all tend to see prosody as a feature of linguistic production. That is, they approach dialects as ‘having’ (or maybe ‘exhibiting’) a certain kind of prosodic pattern under certain conditions. Again, this makes sense if you’re trying to describe language as a communicative system. But it tells us very little about how prosody may be manipulated, strategically, for specific ends – such as, for example, setting religious quotations apart from ‘normal’ talk.

It’s not a difficult thing to notice. In the recording below, for example, between 1:46 and 1:54, the Islamic advice host Ibrahim al-Jarmi (on his Fatawa programme, broadcast by the Muslim Brotherhood-affiliated Hayat FM) gives a religious quotation which involves a marked change in pace of speech (mostly, longer vowels) and intonation (heightened pitch) towards the end:

Researching the details of this phenomenon, though, may prove to be slightly more difficult. For one, the classical schemes of research in linguistics don’t do a very good job of capturing these kind of contrasts. Even sociolinguists, when talking about Arabic, tend to focus to a large extent on distinctions between “codes” – formal / Standard / Classical versus colloquial Arabic, for example, or different ‘dialects’ defined as distinct linguistic systems. But for al-Jarmi in the recording above, the “code” remains more or less the same throughout – i.e., ‘formal’ or ‘Classical’ (even as the standards are more strictly applied to actual quotations than to talk that accompanies them). The distinctions, rather, hinge on sociocultural factors in a much broader sense – including the way in which religious texts, in particular, are understood as ‘quotable’ or ‘recitable’ in ways that ‘normal’ speech may not be. (This is not just an Islamic religious issue either; it is also true to an extent of poetry, which in mediated communication in modern Arabic usage is often involved in many of the same prosodic strategies; see e.g. the recitation at the beginning of the programme here, from about 0:38.)

Classical linguistic categories have their place, of course, and can be a powerful tool when trying to analyse the intricacies of human communication. But occasionally, the lens does need to be broadened a bit; otherwise, certain potentially interesting and important phenomena – like the way radio personalities treat Islamic texts – might recede from view.

Quoting God and the Prophet

Swearwords and Racism in Slovenian Football

Yesterday (18 April), the ranks of those who follow (willingly or unwillingly) Slovenian domestic football league news have been ‘shaken’ by the announcement that Ljubljana’s major club, Olimpija, is firing its coach, Marko Nikolić, following a racist slur he’d directed against one of the players on his team, Blessing Eleke, after he’d celebrated a goal perhaps a bit too enthusiastically in a match on 10 April. International football organisations spoke up; Nikolić was suspended for 7 matches, i.e. until the end of the season; all culminating in his sacking, announced by Olimpija’s president at a press conference yesterday. A strong message, it would seem, that racism can’t be tolerated.

There’s absolutely nothing to excuse Nikolić’s behaviour, but what raised my eyebrows just as much were some of the responses to what has been going on in the endlessly exciting arena of Slovenian professional football. Specifically, there’s been article published this morning on the Slovenian state TV’s website, which aggregates a few local sports pundits’ opinion on the Eleke incident – together with another recent one in which Zlatko Zahovič, the sports director of Slovenia’s other major club, Maribor, insulted one of his club’s players, Agim Ibraimi (who just so happens to be a Macedonian Muslim) via text messages. Ibraimi came forward with these and had them published in a local newspaper, but apparently things were smoothed over internally. All forgiven – except that one of the pundits in said article, Andrej Stare, called Zahovič (who is of Serbian descent) for being, essentially, a cultural impostor:

“I wouldn’t take a side here, though there seem to be some hitches in communication, since people from outside the Slovenian athletic-cultural environment use combinations of words and adjectives [SIC] in a different way than our norms would require [them] to. In Serbia, “jebemtimater” [“I fuck your mother”] means “how are you, you look well,” but here among us it’s an inexcusable swearword.”

Obligatory screenshot:

stare quote

Stare is called out, and rightly so, in the article’s comments. Kicking your greetings off with “I fuck your mother” – phonetically almost identical, by the way, in both Slovene and Serbian –  wouldn’t win you many friends in any corner of the former Yugoslav world. But Stare’s statement is just one symptom of a more widespread phenomenon that I’ve written about before: the ease with which discourse in Slovenia slips towards assigning a greater leniency towards swearwords among those South Slavs of non-Slovenian descent – most frequently, Serbs and Bosnians (though others, in the fumbling fuzzy reaches of the ideology, are certainly not exempt).

There are many reasons for why this ideology persists, some of which I explore in the article linked to above. But what I find intriguing about Stare’s comment is that he does not use this ideology to ‘explain’ Nikolić’s behaviour. Nikolić had, similarly, used a swearword to insult Eleke – but in his case, the racist dimension is seemingly amplified enough to block any kind of quasi-culturalist explanations. These are as equally available for Nikolić as they are for Zahovič, given that Nikolić is himself Serbian. But not, it seems, once the publicly fronted line of racism is crossed.

Why is Zahovič different? Well, for one, he’s culturally and nationally much more ambiguous than Nikolić. He was born in Maribor, Slovenia; he has played (and very well) for the Slovenian national team; Slovene is his mother tongue. And yet, still, he is, really, a Serb. ‘Euphemistically,’ a južnjak (‘southerner’). The -ič at the end of his name fools nobody; everyone knows it’s really just a hidden -ić (the ć/č distinction is probably the most highly contentious orthographic shibboleth between Slovene and other South Slavic languages written in the Latin script). That is why, for Stare, Zahovič is so much more pernicious: an impostor, a hidden Balkan-born brute who, no matter how hard he tries to fit in, will always remain from “outside the Slovenian… environment.” Nikolić went against the rules; he has to go. Zahovič, on the other hand… well, that’s just how they talk, isn’t it? What can you do? Shrug it away cynically, and move on, and mutter to yourself, oh but of course a real Slovene would never say something like this. Of course it’s just the crypto-Serbs polluting our nice, pure, polite athletic-cultural environment. Et cetera, et cetera.

Having to deal with stuff like this is tiring, because the prejudices are so deeply rooted and so entangled with a host of other things – linguistic nationalism, migrant xenophobia, anxieties about Yugoslav history, post-socialist politics, and so on and so on – that it’s difficult to diagnose clearly what’s involved. Be that as it may, outbursts of linguistic ethnicism such as Stare’s are deeply, utterly wrong. A person speaking in the name of a state television outlet (Stare works for Slovenian state TV) should really know better.

There’s still a long, long way to go before such issues are resolved. But we shouldn’t lose sight of them. Idiocies like these should be called out; and maybe, by doing so, we can chip away at least a bit at the deep inequalities in public discourse hiding behind the Balkanist ideology of swearing-prone Serbs.

Swearwords and Racism in Slovenian Football

The Blessings of Rain

Rain, storms, flooding. The images coming in from Amman over the past couple of days have been nothing short of apocalyptic. (Naseem Tarawneh at the Black Iris has a nice collection of illustrative videos here.) Amman’s city centre and a huge number of tunnels, roads, and underpasses have been flooded under metre-deep rainwater, causing building collapses and drownings along with unimaginable traffic chaos. Better infrastructure would likely have worked miracles to prevent such catastrophes, and many Jordanians posting comments on the Internet have not been too kind about the authorities’ preparation to deal with the winter season.

Even though such disasters are a regular occurrence in Jordan, local media tend to frame  rainfall (and snowfall) in a very specific way. Precipitation is typically characterised as a “blessing” (ni‘ma, baraka, or ḳayr) from God – which makes sense for what’s been claimed to be the second poorest country in the world in terms of water resources. Rain fills dams and cisterns; it’s an essential part of the cycle which provides water used by Jordanian consumers – citizens, businesses, industry, and agriculture. Radio hosts always accompany forecasts of rain with hopes that it will mean all the best for Jordan, that they will be amṭār ḳayr wa-baraka – “rains of good and blessing” – and only be beneficial to the country as a whole.

So on Thursday, 5 November, when the worst parts of the most recent weather depression began to batter the skies over Amman, the radio host Muhammad al-Wakeel – in a “live” video posted on his Facebook page – filled his talk with references to blessings and God, and asked his 5.5 million Facebook followers to send in contributions from all of Jordan – “so we can be reassured regarding people in all governorates,” and be certain that the rain truly is a blessing and a “mercy” (raḥma) from God:


To be fair, there is always a grimmer underside to such pronouncements: the unstated fear that the rain will not just be “good and blessed,” that the water (or snow, or ice) will cause problems and accidents and further damage Jordan’s already overstrained infrastructure. But at the same time, a focus on God as the ultimate agent of rain also allows authorities to resolve responsibility for any catastrophes that do eventually happen. This is also, I think, the gist of a Facebook post written by Naseem Tarawneh as a reaction to the video of an Egyptian man whose children had drowned in a flash flood. Worth quoting from at length:

Rain is an uncontrollable act of God; everything else is on our hands. If you’ve been outside and witnessed the damage, most of it is manmade. It doesn’t take an engineer to arrive at the conclusion that there is something seriously wrong with our infrastructure and our policies. Tunnels and streets that easily flood with only a few hours of consistent rain. Construction sites are a lawless zone, with materials ranging from stone to cement and wood that are typically piled up on adjacent lands or organized in mountains on curbsides – these materials are carried out with the waters. Drivers with absolutely no patience or etiquette help cause as much of the traffic accidents as the rain, if not more.

On and on and on. This is become a tradition. Every year there’s a new weather catastrophe, and every year we see the same images. […]

It’s infuriating, for sure. But the anger and frustration comes from knowing that to policymakers, this is all just passing weather. […]

This man lost his children, not to an act of God, but an act of mismanagement that borders on the criminal. He deserved better. As do we all.

(Source: The Black Iris, “Of all the content being shared…”, Facebook post, 5 November 2015 – link)

So what might at first look like a fairly innocent aspect of using language – mentioning, as if by rote, that God is behind everything, rainfall is a divine blessing and so on – becomes a practice with deep consequences for how we imagine public accountability and responsibility. Every time a Jordanian broadcaster mentions rain as a blessing from God, they aren’t just making a theological claim, but also upholding a way of phrasing that allows the re-framing of what are ultimately infrastructural shortfalls as being something that human beings are powerless to face. Language plays a powerful framing role here; and exposing this role should, at least, inspire debates as to the limits of responsibility claimed by systems of government and administration when their citizens are hurt by climate-linked catastrophes such as this.

The Blessings of Rain

Creoles, National Vernaculars, and Colloquial Arabic

There are very few people looking at language on radio in Arabic-speaking contexts, so in attempting to find scholarly parallels I’ve necessarily had to look further afield. Linguistic anthropology, especially, provides a lot of comparative fodder, and one intriguing piece of work in this tradition I’ve come across recently is this article by Paul Garrett, on the use of the local creole language Kwéyòl (or “Antillean Creole French”) on radio in St. Lucia.

In brief, Garrett argues that the use of Kwéyòl as opposed to the official language of St. Lucia, English, provides for a more accessible, colloquial style, as well as being suggestive of a particularly St. Lucian identity. He links the on-air use of conversational Kwéyòl, further, to what he calls strategies of “reappropriation” of language: a basically traditionalist nationalist orientation in which “local” forms of culture, communication, etc. are celebrated. This is contrasted to strategies of “instrumentalisation,” in which Kwéyòl is performed – for instance, in news bulletins – in a way reminiscent of (formal) English.

The goal of instrumentalisation is national uplift via linguistic ‘development,’ in which the intelligentsia takes on the role of educators by providing a full spectrum of communicative roles for the vernacular – including formal contexts such as news broadcasts. By contrast, reappropriation – and the use of Kwéyòl in ‘conversational’ radio talk shows falls into this category – is in part a reaction to such formal uplifting of language. Rather than formalise Kwéyòl, it seeks to preserve an impression of the ‘original,’ everyday, face-to-face contexts in which it would be used, such as discussions at home or in “rumshops.”

Guadeloupe creole 2010-03-30

“Slow down, children at play.” A sign in Guadeloupean Creole, a Caribbean creole variety related to St. Lucian Kwéyòl. Image via Wikimedia Commons

The concern here is that Kwéyòl, if formalised, would become too alienated from everyday life – too like the official, colonial language (for St. Lucia, English; note that the parent language for Kwéyòl is French), and hence too associated with social contexts in which inauthenticity, mistrust, and dissimulation prevail. As Garrett explains it (p. 150; emphasis mine):

[This] reflect[s] an ideologically-based sentiment that is prevalent and widely noted in creolophone Caribbean societies and has strong affinities to reappropriation approaches: the notion that the creole language is intrinsically more honest, direct, and straightforward than the official-standard language... The creole is thought of as being qualitatively and essentially different from the official-standard language in that it does not dissemble, does not obscure the speaker’s meanings and intentions. The creole, and by extension, he or she who speaks it, simply “tells it like it is.” In contrast, anyone speaking the official-standard language – particularly a speaker who could be using the creole but has chosen not to do so – is never entirely to be trusted. His or her words instantiate and uphold the persistent hierarchies, based in no small part on sociolinguistic stratification and “gatekeeping,” that pervade creole societies. Such a speaker’s words always have the potential to carry hidden meanings, to conceal hidden motives, and ultimately to disrupt (or at least taint) local solidarities…


Reading all this, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Charles Ferguson’s classic article on diglossia. Ferguson’s reflections on the Arabic language situation – that is, a system where a language is believed to be divided into two related yet distinct codes, ‘High’ and ‘Low,’ or ‘Standard’ and ‘Colloquial,’ appropriate to particular communicative contexts – put it in parallel with a number of other comparative cases – including Haiti, where Haitian Creole is spoken (according to Ferguson) as a vernacular code alongside standard French. Haitians, or at least those who can in fact speak and write French, are thus diglossic.

In St. Lucia, the situation is probably more accurately described as bilingual, rather than diglossic, since the French basis of Kwéyòl doesn’t exactly make it possible to (ideologically) argue that Kwéyòl and the ‘High’ official code (in St. Lucia, English) are varieties of the same language. But even in Haiti, the diglossia claim has been contested – primarily because such a high proportion of the population is effectively monolingual in Creole. Whatever the case may be, the attitudes Garrett describes towards the ‘High’ code seem to be broadly shared. In order to speak in a ‘true,’ ‘genuine’ manner to one’s co-locals, one should speak the creole language; the ‘High’ idiom is always potentially tainted as a compromised code of hierarchy and collaboration. Hence why, in St. Lucian radio broadcasting, Kwéyòl is the natural choice for the kind of simulation of spontaneous everyday conversation that talk radio programmes aim for.

Creoles are, in the Caribbean, also national vernaculars; markers of a distinct national identity – Haitian, St. Lucian, Guadeloupean – that further enhance their meanings of solidarity. Contrast this with the Arabic-speaking context, where calls for using the ‘Low’ form in mediatised settings have traditionally been associated with precisely the opposite sort of ideals: collaboration, colonialist conspiracies, the undermining of shared ageless Arab values, and so on. But reading somebody like Niloofar Haeri, with her descriptions of the alienation her Egyptian informants felt towards Standard Arabic, the parallels between the Arabic-speaking and Caribbean creole-speaking contexts become quite striking. There are certain hierarchies – social, educational, regional, political, religious – that use of Standard Arabic inevitably implies, and which makes it highly inappropriate for use in the informality-simulating context of talk radio broadcasts.

“The romance of first winter rain.” Transcription of song lyrics (actual or imaginary / satirical) is one limited, though ubiquitously necessary, context of use of colloquial Arabic in writing, as the above caricature demonstrates. Image via Roya TV’s Twitter account


The situation is of course a lot more complex than that. The comparison effectively falls apart when we begin to consider the cultural, social, and historical background in more detail. Standard Arabic is not the native language of any social group – unlike colonial languages in creole-speaking societies, which can be traced to very particular social groups, ones whose historical roles have typically been violent and repressive. There are also the religious connotations of formal Arabic as the originary language of Islam, which introduces a whole new set of values into the equation.

Finally, we must beware of – and this is a point I always like to stress – black-boxing the contrasting codes of diglossic language situations into neat frames of ‘Standard’ and ‘Colloquial,’ without actually examining what these labels mean. There is variability at both poles – but especially so the ‘Colloquial,’ given the existence of various dialectal varieties and linguistic forms with different levels of prestige, and different kinds of links with social identities and norms of use. Classifying a stretch of talk, or even a word or sound, as ‘Colloquial’ doesn’t tell us much beyond the fact that it’s ‘not Standard’ – whereas its actual cultural associations could run from ‘prestigious urban,’ to ‘stigmatised rural,’ to ‘prestigious Bedouin,’ to ‘stigmatised Bedouin,’ to ‘devalued refugee,’ to ‘feminine,’ to ‘masculine,’ to ‘female performing forcefulness via use of a masculine-associated token,’ to ‘female performing socio-geographic origin via use of a regionally marked token which just so happens to also have masculinity associations in this particular context’… and so on. If all we can say about a bit of talk is “this is in [Jordanian, Lebanese, Egyptian, whatever] Colloquial,” all such nuances are lost.

Garrett, writing on Kwéyòl, seems much more aware of such issues than most writers on Arabic media I’ve encountered. (There are exceptions: see e.g. Atiqa Hachimi’s work on Maghrebi dialect feature stigmatisation on pan-Arab reality TV programmes, or Alexander Magidow’s highly intriguing presentation on dialect mocking in a Jordanian comedy series.) He actually directly engages with local debates on what Kwéyòl – the ‘Colloquial’ pole – should be: a language transplantable into formal contexts, or an exclusively conversational code. And not taking for granted what a particular linguistic variety is also allows for us to look in much greater nuance at the social and cultural meanings that might lurk in the folds of its variation. This, in particular, is an issue that studies of language in Arabic-speaking media all too often seem to forget.

Creoles, National Vernaculars, and Colloquial Arabic

Some Thoughts on Conversation Analysis

(DISCLAIMER: This is a slightly more academic-toned post than many I’ve been writing so far. These might become more frequent for a while as my doctoral writing goes on. Still I hope to make it all accessible and interesting even to those who aren’t necessarily up to speed with the latest in humanities academia and academic approaches to language.)


For a while now, I’ve been searching for a good academic methodological ‘hook’ for looking at language on Jordanian radio. One semi-popular approach to such issues is Conversation Analysis, an empirical-analytical method developed by a gaggle of U.S. sociologists from the 1960s onward with the goal of studying the finer details of human conversation and see how mutual understandings emerge in actual social interaction – rather than being forced to read these off as ‘interpretations’ from interviews or textual descriptions of events. On the surface, it looks workable: you transcribe people’s conversations from recordings, with a reasonable degree of accuracy, and then look for patterns and principles in the details of how they exchange their turns and communicate. But delving into actual Conversation Analysis (best practice is to capitalize it; though I’ll be using CA henceforth) as an methodological-analytical approach, it becomes clear it wouldn’t quite do. It is, on the one hand, a bit too narrow in the kind of data that it admits as valid for analysis; and also, once you look at it closely, not at all the methodologically rigorous end-all it claims to be.


CA takes as its starting point the idea that talk, as a prime component of human social interaction, should be studied in its own right – as an activity with its own particular features and principles, and not merely a neutral medium of transmission for human values and beliefs. Conversation analysts proceed from transcripts of conversation (any kind of conversation: live, phone, broadcast – though always recorded so that a proper transcript can be made from it), and look at features such as when and how people take turns, when they are silent, when and how they correct themselves or each other (what CA calls “repair”), when and how they display (or not) that they have understood their interlocutor in conversation, and so on. The goal is to see, in short, how talk is structured as a social activity, and what this can tell us about how people deal with and come to understand each other over the course of this activity.

One strong proponent of using CA in studies of media has been Ian Hutchby, especially in his book Media Talk, where he looks at several broadcasting contexts – such as TV interviews, radio call-ins, and TV ‘audience participation’ programmes – and shows how these are organized according to principles that conversation analysts have found holding for “ordinary conversation” (Hutchby’s terms not mine). At the same time, conversation in media also has certain features not found in “ordinary” talk, and Hutchby lists a number of such features that CA can identify – which I’m not going to recount in detail here, but they include practices such as generalising reference in giving advice and constructing power asymmetries between hosts and broadcasters.

Picture 1: Gail Jefferson, one of the three founding figures of Conversation Analysis (the other two being Harvey Sacks and Emmanuel Schegloff).

For this to work, though, one needs to assume that (a) broadcast talk is in fact different from “ordinary conversation,” and (b) we know what the principles of “ordinary conversation” actually are. Both are assumptions made by whoever is analysing the talk (I’ll discuss a bit more below why this is a problem for Hutchby in particular). The second one, especially, links to one pervasive weakness of CA: its ethnocentricity. Most work on CA has been done on English, with the result being that we simply know much more – in brute, numeric terms; I’m sure every conversation analyst would agree that it’s possible, and desirable, to run CA on languages other than English – about the details of Conversation in English than in any other language. (Linguistic anthropologists have begun to redress the balance a bit, but the skewing is still considerable.) It also has somewhat eclectic transcription practices which any purebred linguist would probably gag over (eye-dialect! Putting a lengthening sign on an English vowel without indicating its IPA value! Using a colon as a sign for lengthening sounds in the first place, rather than the two tiny triangles that IPA necessitates!! Etc.). It’s not, then, an analytical approach which would be easy to generalise beyond English (even if there’s nothing in the actual principles of CA that would exclude this possibility).

There are more problems that have to do with the way CA approaches data. The focus is always on transcripts – and transcripts alone. For a conversation analyst to find an interesting feature to talk about, this feature has to be noted in transcripts, and observable in them across a number of cases. What’s going on in the minds of the people talking to each other is irrelevant – for CA’s purposes, it’s what they say, and how they say it, that matters; and that alone. All the “shared understanding” that CA goes on about is in fact only what is demonstrated in conversation; the “understanding” here isn’t a cognitive understanding, necessarily, but rather enough common ground for the conversation to continue in order to make sense. (Obviously, there needs to be some prior common cognitive understanding – at the very least, of the language that is being spoken – before the understanding-emergent-in-Conversation can come into play; but that’s merely a background assumption, rather than a topic of analysis for CA.)

A corollary of this is that in CA the analyst can’t argue for the relevance of any issue unless an “orientation” to it on part of speakers is discernible from the transcript. Variables such as gender, class, age etc. are irrelevant, unless there is proof in the transcript that participants are making it relevant for each other. Which makes sense on the very basic level of constructing and exchanging turns in conversation – but any attempt to broaden your argument, and you soon run into problems.

Take, for example, gender. Unless the gender identity of a speaker is made relevant in Conversation – explicitly, or implicitly, e.g. by being systematically denied long turns because of their gender identity – whether a speaker is male or female is not a variable for CA. Of course, comparing across cases – of, for example, all-male and all-female conversations – one could find consistent differences linked to gender; but the absurd conclusion you are forced to take if you follow the CA line religiously is that gender is simply irrelevant as a variable within these interactions. Unless you assume that speakers are also making the same kinds of links, across contexts, that the analyst is… but then there is no transcript-based proof that this is the case. (I think – or hope – that nobody would be insane enough to question the conclusion that gender is relevant in such a hypothetical scenario on the basis of this latter point; but the point is that any such conclusion already moves us away from the strict ’empirical closeness’ badge that CA wears so proudly.)

CA methods are also silent on how gender norms may make only certain kinds of conversations, rather than others, come to happen in the first place: it looks only at what actually happened (i.e., the transcript), not how this situation, with these participants, as opposed to any other, even came to pass – even though the fact that there are these participants present rather than others likely has an influence on how they converse with each other. (This is all relegated to the background, to “broader social context,” something that CA acknowledges but is essentially agnostic upon since it can’t (always) be reliably read off the transcript – even though it’s a crucial factor in how this transcript in particular is available.) Talking about media, if there’s an all-male panel broadcast somewhere, and none of the feisty males present produces a turn for which gender would be an issue… then it’s just not an issue! Gender inequalities aren’t brought up, so there are no power differentials at play, and it’s a perfect public sphere as long as any troublemakers (e.g., women) are kept out of the Conversation.

Picture 2: An example of an interactional context with no displayed power inequalities whatsoever. Hasselhoff-approved. (Via  here)

In other words: for CA, unless the analyst can find an evident (to them) “orientation” to a concept such as gender in the transcript they are poring over, that concept is determined to be irrelevant to the interaction. Which is true only to the extent that it is irrelevant to the way the conversational exchange is unfolding at any particular moment. How this exchange is made possible in the first place, or where it might lead to, may well be influenced by “broader context,” but CA is not interested in this as much as in the micro-structures that make talk possible.


And this is the main issue I have with approaches like Hutchby’s. They seem to be convinced that CA is the only possible way in which talk on media can be analysed with an empirical basis for identifying asymmetries of power and other features of context, rather than simply saying such asymmetries are present. The analyst imposes their own understanding, the argument goes, rather than letting the data speak for itself.

But I’m not sure how identifying “orientations” in the micro-structures of talk involves any less imposition of the analyst’s own understanding compared to working on broader scales. In classic CA, at least, there’s the “next turn proof procedure”: the requirement that the other participant demonstrate, in their talk, that they have understood a certain orientation as such before this orientation can be said to be present. In other words, unless my interlocutor confirms (or plays on, or challenges) me making my own or anyone else’s gender relevant in my talk, there’s no basis for the analyst to claim that a certain understanding of the relevance of gender is shared between the two participants. But in media talk, where the interlocutors – the audience – are not present, there are no such subsequent confirmations. There is no way to prove that an orientation that a media analyst of Conversation identifies is actually shared by anyone else but the broadcaster – or, on the contrary, that orientations that the broadcaster does not bring up in their talk may not be relevant for some (or indeed all; there’s just no way to know) members of their audience. For all that, we have to fall back on the analyst’s intuition.


Picture 3: Conversation Analysis in action, as explained by linguistic anthropologists. From Charles and Marjorie Goodwin, “Participation,” p. 222-244 in A Companion to Linguistic Anthropology, ed. Alessandro Duranti, Oxford: Blackwell, 2004.

The fact that it’s the analyst’s intuition that counts causes problems even for classic CA. CA’s charter is to uncover general principles of human Conversation, but Jefferson, Sacks and Schegloff based most of their empirical conclusions and analytical guidelines on data from English. And though CA methods themselves are perfectly neutral in this respect, it’s difficult to see how somebody poring over transcripts in any language would be able to avoid bias without a good knowledge, or at least a vague intuitive sense, of what kind of communication ‘sounds normal’ for that language.

This is, of course, just the kind of work that many linguistic anthropologists do – but linguistic anthropologists also (usually) know the context of the conversations being produced fairly well, given that they’ve spent months or years with the people who produce them. But CA, in its traditional form, imposes no such requirement upon the analyst. One can (maybe even should) do CA based on transcripts and recordings alone, with no necessary knowledge as to where, how, for what purpose etc. such transcripts and recordings were made. But then one is limited to studying the principles of English (or Slovene, or Xhosa, or Yukaghir, or whatever language one can claim to know intuitively) Conversation; since even such simple things as long silences between turns – which might indicate some sort of problem, hesitation or disagreement, for (American) English speakers, but are perfectly normal in e.g. Apache – can vary considerably in what they mean in different cultural and linguistic contexts.

What I’m trying to argue here is not that using CA for analysing media is inappropriate. If you know how to do it, and do it consistently and carefully and with good knowledge of the broader context at hand, it can tell you a lot. It’s only that it is not inherently any less biased than any other kind of analysis of media texts (such as Critical Discourse Analysis, which Hutchby rather histerically seeks to demolish in his Media Talk book). So it’s probably not necessary to cling desperately to CA analytical methods and still produce some kind of sensible argument about the media text that you’re studying.


There are aspects of CA I still find attractive. It gives unrivaled access to the way in which conversation is organised, on a very minute level, and can reveal principles and asymmetries that more broad-based approaches can’t But in analysing talk on Jordanian radio (or any other media context for that matter), I don’t think it makes sense to sacrifice the broader arguments one can make – about power, politics, language, gender – simply to locate one’s analysis more firmly in a particular disciplinary tradition. Transcribing 50 calls from Muhammad al-Wakeel’s programmes according to strict CA conventions and looking at – say – sequences of turn-taking, or types of acknowledgment, or the way people put forward claims as to the veracity or relevance of their problems would of course be perfectly possible. But then I would be studying structures of turn-taking, or types of acknowledgment, or the way people put forward claims as to the veracity or relevance of their problems – and it would still be me deciding how relevant these are to power and inequality as it comes up in radio talk. (After, of course, a (hopefully) well-considered analysis.) So why not look more broadly as well?

Some Thoughts on Conversation Analysis

The Unwritten Standard

Before I began my field research in Jordan, my greatest concern was how to deal with what I anticipated to be the variability of language spoken on radio. Unlike MSA, colloquial Arabic – spoken in every  human interaction – does not have the force of codified grammars and centuries of written precedents behind it. (That doesn’t mean, of course, that it’s not rule-bound, just like any other language system.) There might, then, be a bit more flexibility in how Jordanian dialect is used on the air: creative ways in which people use dialect forms, perhaps, for people to mark their (actual or desired) social origin, or make claims to represent certain groups or stand for particular political positions.

Or so I had imagined.

Over the past few months, as I’ve engaged in more and more depth with the Jordanian radio field, I’ve realized that, with regard to the language you can hear spoken across the spectrum of Jordan’s Arabic-language radio stations – from the community-oriented ones, to the ‘hip contemporary’ ones, to those who aim at more conservatively nationalist audiences, to those that promote an Islamic (and Islamist) social (and political) orientation – there’s not really that much of a difference.

When talking to radio professionals, I most commonly heard that there was a time – in the murky past of the first years of the 21st century – when this was not yet so. A time when, in a media field newly opened to broadcasting beyond that of the government’s official voice, radio presenters were not yet quite sure how to engage their audiences. Many turned to Lebanon as a model; exposure to Lebanese dialect was common through satellite television, and its Levantine roots made it closer to Jordanian speech styles than (for example) Egyptian.

But such voices  sounded foreign – at the very least; if not outright fake – in the mouths of Jordanians. Through the years, “Jordanian” accents gained more prominence; now you hardly hear Lebanese-speaking presenters anymore (except on that admirable holdout that is Sawt al-Ghad). Still, it was a very specific kind of “Jordanian” that came to be considered the norm: namely, that based on the dialect of Amman.


(A vista from Tlaa’ al-Ali, West Amman)

This is a familiar pattern from developments in other Arabic-speaking countries with media that use colloquial language (most famously, Egypt). The dialect spoken in the capital comes to be considered as a kind of “non-standard standard,” or “prestige” dialect (these are all terms from Arabists that have written about the issue) – presumably because, by speaking like a capital dweller, you’re that bit closer to becoming one. Being a capital dweller, in a highly centralized country, brings all sorts of social and economic perks (or at least it is assumed that it does). More, given a general flow of people into the capital, people from outside it are much more likely to speak in the way that’s spoken in the capital than vice versa; and so a critical mass develops which gives the dialect features of the capital that extra edge over those that might be encountered outside it.

What kind of language, then, is this radio Ammani? What features are there to distinguish it and place it among dialects in Jordan and the kinds of Arabic spoken in Levantine countries more generally?

In this regard I’m going to consider in particular the work of Enam al-Wer on the “dialect of Amman,” and then move on to look at what the implications of using this particular style of speech on Jordanian radio might be. Even the strongest norms are, after all, associated with particular preconceptions and ideologies. And this is precisely the part where they become  interesting.

The Capital’s Dialect

Amman’s dialect has been examined in the most detail by the Essex linguist Enam al-Wer. Her writings include studies both on Ammani’s history – its emergence as a koine, or a language variety that comes out of contact between several different varieties or dialects – and its present status and features.

Amman’s position as an economic and administrative center is relatively new; it dates only to the partitioning of Jordanian territory into its own state entity in the beginning of the 20th century, and the city can hardly boast of a history as illustrious as other urban centers in the area – such as Jerusalem, Beirut, or Damascus. In line with this, the development of Amman’s own prestigious dialect has also been on a much shorter timescale than in these other cities; and it is closely intertwined with Jordan’s recent socio-economic history.

al-Wer brings together the factors involved in a recent book contribution (available online as a draft: LINK); I will only summarize them here. The first social stratum to function as an elite in Amman were members of prominent Levantine families that gravitated to the town from the 1920s onwards (after it became the capital of the Emirate of Transjordan, newly established under British tutelage after the dismemberment of the Ottoman Empire). The population later swelled with immigrants from elsewhere in (Trans)Jordanian territory, as well as Palestinians (especially following the wars in 1948 and 1967). From the 1970s onwards, policies were in place aimed explicitly at the “Jordanization” of public sector posts. These gave many “Transjordanians” – ie., members of families who could claim origins from localities somewhere from within Transjordanian territory – chances for social and economic advancement. As a consequence, some dialect features associated with speech styles of “Transjordanian” origin also gained more prestigious associations.


Amman’s “koine,” though, didn’t develop from local dialects alone. As al-Wer shows, the social standing of families that brought their own styles of speech from other urban centers in the region gave the developing “Ammani dialect” a decidedly urban Levantine flavor. (In the Levant, as in many other regions where Arabic is spoken, the firmest dialect distinctions are between language spoken in cities versus language spoken outside of cities; often dialects spoken in two cities a hundred kilometers apart will have more features in common than dialects spoken in a rural (or, even more so, a nomadic-Bedouin-tribe-inhabited) area just outside one of these cities.) This, in contact with dialects spoken by ‘native Transjordanians,’ produced a blend of features quite unlike any other in the region – a dialect that can safely be termed as specific to Amman, and the generations of people that by now had been born and raised in the city.

One distinct quirk of Ammani is that the language one hears is split according to the gender of the person speaking it. The sound /q/ – pronounced as an uvular stop in Classical and Standard Arabic, but with a range of pronunciations in equivalent words in different Arabic dialects – is especially telling. In words that count as ‘colloquial’ or ‘dialect’ words – ie., those that Ammanis consider everyday or informal enough not to require a Standard Arabic pronunciation – a female speaker would pronounce this sound as a glottal stop: [ʔ], in the International Phonetic Alphabet. This is also how one would expect to hear /q/ pronounced in Jerusalem (or Beirut, or Damascus). Male speakers, by contrast, usually prefer to use [g] (voiced velar stop; much the same as the ‘hard g’ in English) – which is a common pronunciation in many Bedouin dialects, but also in dialects native to Transjordan.

So, for example, the word قهوة qahwa “coffee” would be pronounced ‘ahwe – with a glottal stop at the beginning – by an Ammani woman, and gahwe by an Ammani man. (Final a often changes to e in Levantine Arabic dialects, something Arabists call imaala (literally “slanting”).) And a word such as أقول aquul “I say” becomes b-‘uul (with a glottal stop, and the colloquial present indicative marker b- at the beginning) for women, and b-guul for men.

(As a quick aside, a short personal anecdote to demonstrate how strongly this gender patterning is considered to be the hallmark of Jordanian / Ammani. When I was still at the beginning of my fieldwork, I tended to use [ʔ] when I spoke Arabic, modelling myself on Palestinian and Egyptian pronunciations of the kind I’ve been most exposed to through my years of studying the language. The automatic reaction of many people, when they heard me speak this way, was that I’d learned Arabic in Lebanon – which I’d never visited in my life (though I had lived in Amman for two months a few years back). In other words, it was simply unimaginable for the people I’d spoken to for me to have picked up the [ʔ] pronunciation in Jordan, where obviously as a male I should have been using [g].)

Pronunciation of /q/ might be the characteristic that is most often (and most easily) picked upon when talking about differences among Arabic dialects. But there are also other features that make Ammani distinctive. Another sound with a similar kind of gender split is j (the sound in e.g. al-Jazeera): Ammani men often pronounce this as an affricate, [dʒ] – precisely as in English – while Ammani women invariably use a fricative, [ʒ] (a ‘softer’ sound, like in English measure). There are also specific ways in which vowels are pronounced; al-Wer goes on at some length about the details of this (if by some outlandish chance you’re a phonology enthusiast you can go check out her paper for the particulars; see pages 10-13 in the online draft PDF). Grammar, also, has features that can be heard in other dialects in the region (such as the very Palestinian use of final alone for negation) combined with others coming from different dialect areas, or even features that seem to be novel inventions for Amman alone: like using, for example, -kum for the second person plural bound pronoun, which fits with the Standard Arabic version but contrasts with most neighboring dialects (which would prefer either -ku or -kun).

All these features come together to create a form of Arabic with clear roots in existing Levantine dialects, but which is also distinctive to Amman. No surprise, then, given the status and prestige of the capital, that it would also become the language used in new  media enterprises that have emerged in Jordan over the past few decades.

Ammani Norms

Media, of course, never just presuppose a given linguistic reality from which they draw their communicative resources. They also help construct language: their texts circulate broadly, and provide models for speech and interaction which media audiences relate to in various ways.

It’s probably a stretch to claim that commercial radio stations played a role in ‘normatizing’ Ammani. Local understandings of a set Ammani dialect likely had force long before the liberalization of Jordan’s media field in the early 2000s. (al-Wer, again, indicates this, in her generational analysis of how distinctly Ammani features came together.) Still, once an Ammani speech style turned up on the airwaves, it’s easy to see how it might have spread, as a kind of informal standard: a way for presenters to interact with audience in a way that (they consider) will make them commonly understood, as well as project a sense of “Jordanian-ness” that sounds more authentic – or, to use a word favored by my contacts, “spontaneous” – than using a dialect that could clearly be associated with some other country-level variety of Arabic.

Presenters might draw, then, on language they know – natively, if they’re Ammanis; otherwise, as the ‘standard’ medium of communication used in interactions in the capital, or more accurately the kind of language used in such interactions by people who provide desirable social models. But simply by using it in the context of radio, they’re also transforming it, by making it acceptable as a media norm. Radio performances (and they are, always, performances) thus construct language – not necessarily by inventing a style outright, but by placing some locally relevant style into a particular context, and producing at least at least a tacit sense that it is appropriate for this context.


Always, though, it’s Ammani that we hear. All of Jordan’s radio stations aiming for more than just a local audience are based in Amman; and the linguistic asymmetry here mirrors quite perfectly the social, economic, and political asymmetries that bedevil Jordan. Even if speaking, or at least understanding (if only by necessity), Ammani is common to most Jordanians, the differences remain. There’s still the sense that those brought up with the dialect natively are relatively closer to the Norm – and with it, the kind of speaker, the kind of person, that one might want to be – than others.

An article by Myriam Achour Kallel – available online here; in French only – describes the situation on a Tunisian radio station that uses “colloquial Arabic” in pretty much identical terms. The dialect of the capital – Tunis – is privileged over all others, even in situations when using regional speech might perhaps attract more listeners (the radio station Kallel examines has a significant number of listeners hailing from one particular region outside the capital). The station’s producers give various, mostly linguistic, justifications for this practice, but they tend to avoid the most fundamental issue: namely, the political and socio-economic asymmetry between a Capital and its Regions that made the Tunis dialect preferred and desirable in the first place.

As in Tunisia, so in Jordan. Radio, as a media form, focuses on simulating interaction: between presenters and their guests, presenters and audiences, either directly through call-ins or indirectly through addressing them by speaking ‘into the ether.’ (Or something in between, when patching together different media in order to keep the channels of communication open – for example, when reading out and responding to text messages or online comments.) When speaking Arabic, for this not to sound fatally stilted, a colloquial variety is really the only choice. At that level, though, there is no longer any kind of codified or written standard. So people’s decisions are driven by other kinds of evaluations: based, ultimately, in social convictions and ideologies, and highly revealing of local hierarchies of value – between kinds of language, and the kinds of people believed to speak it.

The Unwritten Standard

Lebanese on the Air

These days it’s hard to find a radio station in Jordan that does not present its programmes in colloquial Arabic. But it was not always so. The liberalization of the broadcasting field only dates back to the early 2000s, when new audiovisual laws allowed radio stations to be established in Jordan outside the purview of the state broadcasting corporation – which had vastly preferred MSA and only allowed colloquial Arabic in a few cordoned-off programmes.

The linguistic situation, nowadays, seems relatively stable: most broadcasters use a speech style based on the colloquial Arabic of Amman, a kind of ‘soft standard’ with distinct features that mark it out as distinctly ‘Jordanian’ within the broader context of Arabic dialects in the Levantine region. Still, Ammani is not the only accent one can hear when flipping through Jordan’s radio channels. Regional stations and programmes dedicated to local genre traditions – such as broadcasts of Bedouin poetry – both exhibit dialectal variety, as do stations directed at Jordan’s immigrant communities (such as the Iraqi radio station al-Rasheed). As far as channels aiming for a broader audience are concerned, though, the dialect one is most likely to come across is Lebanese.

Lebanese colloquial in Jordan is represented, these days, most prominently by the radio station Sawt al-Ghad (“The Voice of Tomorrow”) – and, in particular, its morning show host, Jessy Abu Faisal. In what follows, I’ll examine Abu Faisal’s programme in more detail, and look at what speaking – and indeed being – Lebanese on Jordan’s airwaves today might mean.

Jessy Live

There are very few female radio hosts working in Jordan’s prime time morning slot. This alone makes Jessy a bit exceptional, along with her linguistic distinctiveness. Her programme, called Jessy Live, ticks off most of the morning show genre boxes – speaking over music, reading messages sent in by listeners, commenting on recent events – though she also offers some sections (such as horoscopes and a few minutes set aside for “meditation”) that might not fit too well in the decidedly masculine frame of self-presentation of other hosts. There is also a short section set aside for “sports” – for which, as usual in Jordan, read “football”; presented, notably, not by Jessy herself, but rather  by a male journalist through a phone call.

(Jessy Abu Faisal, talking to a young guest in her studio – a girl suffering from bleeding in her left eyelid – before she comes on air during her programme. Note especially the ‘framing’ of the clip with canned recorded phrases in English)

The call-ins, too, have a decidedly ‘lighter’ feel. Many involve (mostly male) listeners with music requests; others might be on topics that Abu Faisal happens to be discussing. There are no heavy problem-solving ‘dramas’ here, though; no requests for mediating with authorities. There might be limits, then, to the kinds of roles allowed to this particular female host within the boundaries of her broadcast genre.

A Lebanese Host

Abu Faisal’s radio career began in her home country, as a presenter on Mirage, a radio station that belonged – as she states in one interview – to “a friend of her father’s” (and defunct since 1997). She has stated that she faced “difficulties” at the beginning of her career in Jordan – going on a decade, now – but also that she and her listeners had “adapted quickly” to each other.

What’s interesting here is that, despite her lack of familiarity with Jordanian dialect, there was never any question that Abu Faisal would be presenting her programme in anything other than colloquial Arabic. Here, at least, speaking “the people’s language” – rather than a stilted, formal Arabic style – was far more crucial than the details of what this language actually was. It is much easier, in other words, for the presumed gap between presenter and audience to be bridged by ‘training one’s ear’ each to the other’s dialect – rather than adopting a presumably shared standard. (It helps, of course, that many Jordanians are familiar with Lebanese speech; in terms of their presence in (pan-)Arab media, Lebanese speech styles are second only to Egyptian – and all the more so in the Levant, where Lebanon is the country likely boasting the greatest media diversity.)

Abu Faisal’s accent includes all the features one would expect from a Lebanese radio host. Among the traits distinctive of Lebanese, there is vowel-raising – from a to e, in particular, so nees rather than naas “people” – as well as the use of -kun and -(h)un as 2nd- and 3rd-person plural pronouns (“you” and “them”), respectively (the Ammani / Jordanian standard has -kum (sometimes -ku) and -(h)um here).

There’s also the way certain words are pronounced, especially those with q – a phoneme pronounced unambiguously as a uvular stop in Classical / Standard Arabic but a favored phonetic shibboleth for contemporary Arabic dialects (and academic studies of them). There is a kind of “formality bar” in conversational Arabic as to which words retain the Classical pronunciation of this phoneme, and which use a colloquial version (something which Hassan Abd el-Jawad has termed lexical conditioning). In normative Ammani, the colloquial variant is split by gender: men use g instead of q, while women use the glottal stop. By contrast, in Lebanon – as in Syria, and the more prestigious Palestinian dialects – it’s the glottal stop throughout.

Since Abu Faisal is female, this might not make much of a difference – but in fact, along with the lack of gender split, other Levantine dialects also tend to set the “formality bar” much higher than Ammani / Jordanian does. That is, words that in Jordan would still be pronounced in the ‘formal’ manner use the ‘colloquial’ version in Lebanese. So one hears Abu Faisal say Taa’a for “energy” and Ta’s for “weather” – both of which are much more likely to be pronounced Taaqa and Taqs, respectively, retaining the formal q, if the dialect being aimed for is ‘Jordanian.’


(“Jessy Abu Faisal.” Source: Sawt el-Ghad Jordan’s Twitter page – LINK)

Marks of Abu Faisal’s Lebanese identity are also evident in the content of her programme. She might affirm her origin by playing a song describing her home country – commenting, to her listeners, that this is “so you hear something about Lebanon.” Listeners also take it up themselves: by sending in messages, for example, saying “good morning” to “Jessy,” and an added greeting to كل الوطن العربي : “the entire Arab homeland”, or “all Arabs / Arab lands” – with the implication that any common ground between the presenter and the Jordanians who listen to her can only be one that goes beyond national borders. Clearly, both host and audience are well aware of her Lebanese-ness – in language and beyond.

Speaking Spontaneously

There are many meanings one could draw from Abu Faisal’s on-air performances. The classic stereotype, in Jordan, is that Lebanese speech styles – and, indeed, Lebanese identity itself – have feminine or feminized associations. In this context, it’s perhaps not strange that the most prominent Lebanese voice on Jordanian radio is also female. As we’ve seen, this has implications for the morning show built around “Jessy” as a presenter-character: allowing certain topics and styles of interaction (horoscopes), while foreclosing others (sports, bureaucratic mediation). Ideas about gender implied by the genre might, then, be just as conservative as its formal limitations – reflected in aspects such as music choices, and interactional style, as I’ve argued on this blog previously.

There’s another dimension to all this, though, that may be just as important. Pretty much all radio professionals I’ve spoken to during my time in Jordan have emphasized the value of spontaneity among radio presenters. Using colloquial Arabic on air is valued as long as the language you use is your ‘natural’ way of speaking: not formal, not stilted, not sourced from previously prepared ornamented texts, but rather focused on the interaction itself, addressing listeners and interlocutors like one would (presumably) normally do in a conversation.

Especially deserving of criticism, here, are those who betray this spontaneity by adopting a style of speech that is not their ‘native’ one: in particular, Jordanian presenters that – and this was always presented to me as a thing of the past, an obsession that Jordan’s airwaves have by now been purified from – tried to adopt Lebanese colloquial features in order to emulate Lebanese media personalities, and by association appear more ‘hip’ or ‘modern.’ Lebanese, in the mouths of Jordanian presenters, feels “fake”; worse, even, than formal Arabic, since it cheats its addressees by pretending to be spontaneous even though it really isn’t. (Let’s leave aside, for the moment, the fact that, for a Jordanian presenter not brought up in Amman, adopting a normative ‘Jordanian’ – i.e., Ammani – accent might be just as “fake” as trying to speak Lebanese.)

Jessy, on the other hand, can at least be presumed to be “spontaneous” in speaking Lebanese. After all, it is “her” colloquial, the dialect she – as a woman with Lebanese origins – is supposed to claim and revel in as her own. (Leaving aside, as well, the fact that “Lebanese” here is of course also only a label given to a very particular speech style prestigious in Lebanon, rather than something that all Lebanese would speak normally.) Still, we can wonder whether the association of “Lebanese” with “fakery” might not be strong enough to overcome this particular biographic detail.

We’re firmly in the realm of meanings and ideas here; “metapragmatics,” following Michael Silverstein, ideas about language use that take on a life all of their own quite apart from the actual linguistic reality (though they may then come back to exert influence on this reality merely by virtue of their force as ideas). It would make sense, though, considering the complex of values revolving around distinct kinds of colloquial Arabic in Jordan, and the particular situations in which Lebanese and its speakers tend to occur. It may well be difficult to claim your dialect is ‘spontaneous’ or ‘authentic’ when the context where it’s heard most often is that of flamboyant media stars and foreign television dramas.

Lebanese on the Air