Shopfronts are a sign of our poorly educated times

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine asked for my suggestions for a name for a new barber’s shop he was planning to open. After a lot of discussion, we settled on an English name that was an invented word, in terms of spelling, but which, when pronounced, sounded exactly the same as another one connected to the hairdressing industry.

Then, of course, the name and establishment had to be registered with the Department of Economic Development and the Municipality. Naturally, since the word couldn’t be translated, it was rendered phonetically in Arabic letters. All perfectly logical. Certainly, these bodies, whose task it is to determine what company names are approved – and therefore what goes on shopfronts – had no objection. The name was a linguistic oddity, but was not anything that could be deemed as corrupting the Arabic language.

Years ago, it was common to see names of companies that seemed rather odd, or, on occasion, rather rude, in one of the languages in which they appeared on shopfronts. Photographs of some of the more remarkable ones were even published in magazines and newspapers overseas. Eventually a decision was taken that there had to be more of a check on the names that were approved for commercial use, with one guideline being that they should be in correct Arabic (unless, of course, no translation was possible). Some peculiar names disappeared and I had more or less forgotten about the topic.

Until last weekend, that is, when my attention was drawn to a large shop in Abu Dhabi’s Sheikh Hamdan Street, called, in English, “Collection of Gifts”. The Arabic sign – or, to be precise, the sign in Arabic letters – said: Collection li’l Hadaya (gifts). An exact equivalent of the English name in Arabic would, surely, have been possible to find. Instead, passers-by able to read the script are faced with a linguistic abomination.

Not far away was a tailor’s shop belonging to a man or family named Maarouf. This appeared correctly in Arabic, but the sign in the Roman alphabet referred to the shop as being “Popular”. Maarouf can be translated as known or well-known, but it’s a bit of a stretch, although perhaps acceptable as a marketing tool, to turn it into “popular”. Since in the original Arabic, the word was someone’s name, it would have been preferable to write that.

There are, of course, some combinations of words that become recognisable brand-names, providing you can read the alphabet being used. Thus the fast-food chain Thai Express is transliterated into Arabic letters as just that: Thai Express, with the same pronunciation. An assortment of Arabic words meaning an express from Thailand wouldn’t transfer the same meaning, let alone clarifying what kind of express. A train? A noun? A verb?

This clumsiness in terms of the translation of shop names isn’t the only problem with regards to the proper use of, and translation of, Arabic. A magazine editor I know was bewailing the fact the other day that she regularly reads stories in the Arabic newspapers or sees advertisements on television that are replete with grammatical errors. Many working journalists, whatever degree they may have, are incapable of writing Arabic accurately, or even of recognising the fact. The same is true, of course, of many who write – or purport to write – in English. At one time, experienced sub-editors would have been expected to tidy things up, as The National’s sub-editors do with my copy. That’s by no means always the case these days.

That, of course, brings us back to a topic with which I have dealt on previous occasions – that of the often-poor standard of Arabic language teaching in our educational system, from primary to university level, in both the public and private sector. Today, we see the impact of that teaching on shopfronts and in poorly edited newspaper copy. And tomorrow?

Peter Hellyer is a consultant ­specialising in the UAE’s history and culture