As a post-graduate management studies student in India, I went to France on an exchange programme. I landed in Paris in fine weather, at the start of the term. It was early in the evening as I reached the pick-up point at the airport. My French host was generous enough to pick me up. He insulated me from the first-day troubles in a foreign land, and I was grateful.
As I loaded my suitcases into the car, my host remarked, “You are quite tall for an average Indian girl.” Unsure how to react, I accepted it as a compliment and laughed it off. But, I did not know what he meant by an average Indian girl.
Over the next hour in the car, we exchanged courtesies and made a friendly conversation about Paris: the food, the culture, the history. I was able to sense a mildly supercilious tone, despite his warmth and friendliness, and it was unnerving. I learnt he had never been to India, yet he spoke about yoga, slums, and Indian cinema with conviction. I was mildly irritated with the stereotypes, but I refrained from making any remarks.
As I reached home, my hostess checked if I could have eggs in crepes that she was preparing for me. She called out her underlying assumption that, since I must be a Hindu, no one is having meat for dinner. I acknowledged her with a smile, and said nothing.
Some stereotypes
At the dinner table, they were keen to know what courses I will be studying, and if I was going to learn French. They eventually asked me if I spoke any language other than ‘Indian’. I told them ‘Indian’ was not a language, and that there were 22 official languages in the country, 122 major languages and 1,599 other languages. They were quite fascinated, and were quick to remark that they were surprised I was fluent in English. I told them how several Indian students learnt their mother tongue alongside English from a very young age. And, how I grew up to adore English and American literature, while reading the literature of my own language. Over the next 40-odd minutes, they asked me about poverty, life-threatening communicable diseases, terrorism, abysmal health indicators and everything they had heard and seen about India. After dinner, my hostess followed me into the kitchen and offered to show me what a dishwasher was. I was surprised and irritably told her I knew how to use it. She withdrew in embarrassment. Despite the hospitality shown by them, my conversation with my host was borderline edgy for the first few weeks.
Not an easy city
Paris did not seem to be an easy city at the start. On my first day, thanks to a broken Internet connection I helplessly went to the information centre at a railway station to seek my way from home to college. My inadequate knowledge of the language was enough for me to understand that the lady denied understanding English. I flashed my phone screen through the window, pointing out the station I needed to get to. This somehow infuriated her, and she finally spoke to me, in English, “When you come to this country, you greet us before getting to business. You say please, you request. No one is obligated to help here.” I was surprised by her fluency, and appalled by her coldness. I re-tried, and managed to buy my ticket. I witnessed similar hostility at various other places, until I stopped observing it, until I got used to it.
On another day I was travelling in the train when the ticket-checking personnel demanded to see my ticket. I produced my train pass. She seemed to be displeased and she said something to me in French. I nervously told her that I could not speak French, and if she could communicate with me in English, I will be able to assist her. The next moment, she drew a fine of fifty euros, and asked me to pay. Without understanding the offence, I paid the fine but my eyes welled up. She saw the helplessness on my face and struggled to tell me that my identity proof was not attached with the pass. I immediately took the card out of my bag and asked her if that is what she needed. She nodded her head, and unapologetically shrugged her shoulders while pointing to the fine receipt she had just handed to me. I asked her if it could be undone but she walked away without feeling obligated to respond.
‘Welcome deficit’
The ordeals and hardships of the first few weeks led me to form mental stereotypes about the French people, mostly as an unthinking, knee-jerk reaction. The stereotyping had nothing to do with thinking of them as people with red wine in one hand, and a baguette tucked under the other arm, with camembert hidden under the beret, but as people who were cold, unsmiling and unfriendly. Despite being polite and respectful, I found myself being met with rudeness from shop-owners, waiters and information desk staff. I always said please, thank you and good day. I dressed well so as not to look shabby in their establishments. I did not disturb other patrons, locals and travellers. I did nothing to attract attention. Yet, I was barely met with any understanding or compassion. Unwittingly, I began remarking to friends and family back home, “This city suffers from a serious welcome deficit.”
Looking back, I realise that I was bound to feel alienated and isolated, by both language and culture. I was often frustrated by my own helplessness, and it was easy to put a negative interpretation to any ambiguous experience. When I could not understand a situation, even a simple and straightforward exchange led to misunderstanding. It was hard to see the situation from the other person’s point of view and easy to believe that I was being treated unfairly. Analysing these experiences of a cultural clash, I was able to draw a few observations, but only in retrospect.
A few factors
First, familiar cues of how I was supposed to behave in the new place and amid the new culture were missing, or they had an entirely different interpretation. Second, the values that I deemed desirable and good were no longer accepted or shown by people in the new place. Third, the culture shock often put me in a state of anxiety and hostility, and my reactions ranged from mild uneasiness to unreasonable rage at the alleged eurocentrism. Fourth, I would express outright dissatisfaction with the ways and systems in the new place, and idealise things back at home. Fifth, I held a belief that the culture shock was permanent and that it will never go away.
In all such situations, I found it difficult to identify the source of the cultural clash, because beliefs and norms are often reflexive. Such ambiguous events triggered a sense-making behaviour where one constructs a meaning out of the cues received, followed by a script for the reaction. An individual’s knowledge is organised in schemas, which evolve and become complex with personal experiences and associated feelings. But, this schema-guided sense-making behaviour may occur unconsciously, in autopilot mode as seen in my encounters. Naturally, this does not discount for the pluralistic cultural background and one tends to interpret a foreign culture in one’s own cultural frame of reference, leading to misunderstandings and cultural conflict. The incorrect schema application made me view the events as unfavourable and violated my expectations. Since it was difficult to recognise the cultural assumptions I held, it was difficult to search for the source of the cultural clash.
To challenge assumptions
In the subsequent weeks, I also came to realise that one needs to go to the opposite sides of the world to challenge one’s assumptions about a culture and realise that they may never be true. I, who used to romanticise Europe after being exposed to foreign literature and media, was moved to see that poverty existed not only on Indian pavements, but also on foreign pavements, and it was equally distressing.
I learnt that knowing English was not enough, and that I was bound to find my way out of problems by myself without much help from strangers on the road or in the train, unlike in India. At the age of seven I was a proud owner of most of Enid Blyton collections that painted a rosy picture of young English children off to a picnic, carrying their cane baskets full of potted meat sandwiches, buttered scones, ginger buns, and a great fruit cake with almonds crowding the top. But, over these weeks in Paris, I saw people scavenge for food in waste bins outside supermarkets and at the stations. I understood we are influenced by what we see, what we hear. Whatever little my hosts knew was only one side of the story. Whatever little I know about other cultures is only one side of the story.
baid.megha@gmail.com
