Interview with Linda Murphy Marshall

Introduction by the Author

When did you decide to write the memoir that resulted in Immersion?

I knew I wanted to a) write about some of my work trips, trips most people — even those close to me — were unaware of; and b) I wanted to continue the story I began in Ivy Lodge, particularly after I learned that some people wondered what happened to me after the almost-depressing note on which Ivy Lodge ended. I wanted to let readers know that I was okay, that I’d followed my dream.

What were your biggest challenges in learning the African languages?

The State Department has a scale they use to determine the difficulty of a language, based on its “distance” from English, so obviously a Bantu language is going to be more of a challenge for most English speakers than, say, Spanish or French.

Xhosa and Sotho also proved difficult because, in the late 1980s, there were very few pedagogical materials. Dictionaries had been written by missionaries in the 1800s, and textbooks were hopelessly racist and offensive, particularly in those classic sample sentences, which were geared to those living under apartheid in the case of Xhosa and Sotho, South African languages. When I began studying Swahili in the late 1990s, materials were much more plentiful and far less offensive. Swahili is also much more well known, so that helped.

Another challenge and benefit was that with all the African languages I studied, except for the smattering of Somali I learned, I was the sole student in classroom settings stateside, and when I was in-country for immersions: for Sotho classes for Xhosa, Shona, and Amharic— all of them were a year long, which meant that there was no chance of having the pressure taken off me while another student was in the hot box; I was “on” every minute of the day, so that was exhausting, but ultimately rewarding.

Bottom line: the biggest takeaway in studying African languages was that I could no longer afford to passively (albeit enthusiastically) absorb what my instructors told me. I was called on to be an equal partner — maybe more — solving the puzzle by myself with the aid of sometimes 150-year old dictionaries, interviewing native speakers, creating my own working aids to achieve some degree of fluency.

In the book, you describe a process you used while first learning these languages in intensive one-on-one tutoring and incorporating what you learned during your immersion experiences to expand your language skills.  Could you discuss that for our readers? 

Prior to studying African languages — beginning with Xhosa — my language learning took place in a classroom with fellow language students, a group of us learning how to conjugate verbs, memorize vocabulary, repeat rote sentences, except for my Junior Year in college in Spain. Prior to Spain, these were largely passive methods, parroting what I heard and reading it back to my instructors.

My year in Spain from 1970-1971 expanded on that paradigm because I was, in essence, living in a classroom, so I was surrounded by “lessons” 24/7 and needed to speak Spanish to survive. My professors only spoke Spanish and I spoke Spanish to “live,” if you will, to perform everyday activities.

With African languages, this process expanded exponentially. There were no appropriate phrases to memorize, no textbooks, no one spoon-feeding me language X. Now I was an active participant in the learning process, which became highly interactive. I had to devise ways to master each language, write down new vocabulary words, particularly specialized ones I would need in-country.

There’s the case of studying Amharic in the States. Similar to other African languages, I was the sole student and had to create my own scenario and ask the instructor (always native speakers) how they would express it: subjunctive, past progressive, conditional tense, etc. I was an active participant in the learning process and needed to know what I needed to know, if that makes sense. We were partners.

It’s important to note that often, though not always, my instructors’ qualification was that he/she spoke one of the languages I was learning, was a native speaker. He/she might not have had any pedagogical training in the particular African language I was studying, might not have even known grammatical concepts; we had to build that structure together.

In addition, when I was in Brazil, for instance, I needed to get up to speed in specialized vocabulary: about politics, about the philosophy of Liberation Theology, about the geography and people of the country, etc. etc. I had to familiarize myself with an ocean of terms, knowing I might be called on to dip into that ocean to do my job.

It’s important to note at this juncture that my work assignment in Brazil marked the first time I was being paid to act as a translator and as an interpreter in Portuguese. In addition, as I write in Immersion, contrary to normal translation protocol, I was asked to interpret not only from Portuguese to English (the norm; going to an interpreter’s strongest/native language), but I was also being asked to interpret away from English, to interpret on the spot from English, away from my comfort zone, to Portuguese. As a result, this first official, paying trip represented a number of challenges, and tremendous growth on my part.

When I was in Zambia and the US Ambassador expected me to know/work in two local languages  — Bemba and Chinyanja (there are 73 official languages in Zambia) — during the riots and coup attempt, languages I didn’t know, had never studied, I had to pore over hundred-year old dictionaries, hopelessly out of date. I had to teach myself, and do it quickly. I had to teach myself. These languages — and other African languages — were like puzzles I needed to solve, putting the pieces together a word at a time, a grammatical concept at a time, a subject at a time. Using the language family they’re all in (Bantu), I built a structure comparing and contrasting the “new” languages from ones I’d already studied, to see if I could make sense of these new ones.

In-country, I relied on locals to help me as I built my language base. “How would you express THIS?” I asked one of the employees at the hotel where I stayed in Dar es Salaam. “What does THIS term mean in Swahili, and how is it used?” I asked him. “What do these words mean?” I asked a traditional healer — also in Dar es Salaam — words that were not in any dictionary or textbook I’d used. As I mention in Immersion, one time a woman approached me because I had a Wally Lamb novel in my basket, a book she desperately wanted. When I saw that she was carrying a coveted Swahili dictionary that was out of print and impossible to find, we simply traded books. Things like that happened all the time.

But it wasn’t just the vocabulary and the grammar, it was cultural concepts I had to learn: not using my index finger to beckon someone (highly offensive in Tanzania and elsewhere), not using my left hand to eat a meal (Ethiopia), not referring to myself as “Linda” with the family I stayed with in a Tanzanian village but, rather, as “Mama-Alex” (my son’s name)…there were countless bits of essential cultural information. If I made a misstep, I’d lost my unofficial tutor(s), lost their trust.

Part of my philosophy of looking at language learning as an exercise in solving puzzles came to play when the language in question used a different alphabet. Russian’s Cyrillic alphabet was my first exposure to a non-Latin script in the mid-1980s. (I erroneously thought that, once I mastered it, Russian would be easy; the alphabet turned out to be the least of my problems in comparison to the grammar). Then, in 1991, studying Amharic exposed me to their writing system, which evolved from the ancient Semitic language Ge’ez: the syllabary. An amateur artist, I fell in love with the squiggles and lines, the little hats and domes and hooks. They looked like little sketches, and turned out to be very logical and relatively easy to learn. But, as was the case with Russian, the alphabet was the easy part; Amharic was/is extremely difficult.

Your narrative describes numerous harrowing experiences that you had in several overseas locations.  Did you get training to prepare you for that?  How useful was that training?

I had zero training for the trip to Kenya, following the terrorist-bombing of the US embassies; there was no time. That fact, coupled with the fact that I traveled with a seasoned CIA team, put me at a disadvantage, I think. They expected me to be up to speed on techniques, and I was not. I had to wing it. I don’t write about it in the book, because it’s classified, but when I was in the hotel by myself and the Kenyan policeman came to the door, I really had to be creative — beyond what I write about — because the team had left me alone, and I had no idea what to do.

When I was in Zambia, the coup came as a complete surprise in a    normally peaceful country, so, again, that was a case of trying to piece together what I’d heard others say regarding what to do in an emergency, but there was no training.

When I was in the DRC, I knew I was going in the middle of a war, and that I had to carry cigarettes to barter safe passage, for instance. There was also the expectation that I would be able to drive myself on dangerous roads to the embassy each day, and that I would be able to deal with rogue “soldiers” out and about, that I would be able to check for IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) under the vehicle I was expected to drive.

Before my first work trip to Africa, to Zambia, I did have a briefing to prepare me, and just like the character “Q” in James Bond movies, the man briefing me suggested I carry a bulletproof briefcase. I knew I wouldn’t be able to flip it in front of me in time in case of someone shooting at me, so I passed. This same gentleman did give me a handy little device to safely secure my hotel room, though (that first trip, I stayed in a hotel). It overrode the hotel’s locks and, presumably, prevented someone from entering the room without permission.

Prior to going to the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), I was instructed not to bring home any Congolese currency, not to take advantage of their black market system to exchange money, to carry cigarettes, but it was all fairly random advice.

In the DRC and elsewhere I mainly learned as I went, and in often dangerous situations. When the coup attempt occurred in Zambia, I had to jog my memory for discussions of locking yourself to the back of the house, to make it harder for dangerous people to enter, but no one told me anything in advance. No one was expecting a coup attempt and rioting.

How did it feel to be thrust into situations where your contributions were critical to the success of the mission?

It was very rewarding, once I was out of danger, and I was told that my contributions were critical, so that was gratifying, although all the complimentary write-ups to that effect were classified and disappeared, presumably, once I retired. But I DID feel like I was contributing, particularly after the terrorist attack, but also in many more routine work assignments/TDYs which are NOT in the book. My contributions — particularly as the only person who “knew” some of these languages at the time — were appreciated, I think, although in some cases I do think there was the belief that a linguist can just learn any language at the drop of a hat.

Your overseas work included the necessity of not only learning the local languages but understanding the local culture and interpersonal norms.  Were your language teachers effective mentors for navigating the cultures?

I was lucky, particularly with Xhosa and Swahili and during immersions in-country, to have excellent teachers. We had formal classes during the morning and then were out and about during the afternoon, so that was very helpful. But my instructors in all the African languages I studied always put the language in context for me: what was offensive, what to avoid, what to emphasize in exchanges with local people, etc.

Other times, though, for example, when I stayed with the family in Tanzania to improve my Swahili, there were lots of lessons I learned, which I write about in the book: for instance, don’t say that you’d like a warm bath before bed when someone will have to warm up the water for you on a Coleman Stove. And, of course, the knowledge that middle class (and other words) in one language does NOT translate to the same meaning I ascribe to it in English.

With Xhosa, my DC tutors were very helpful, but there’s nothing like being in-country, so my tutor in Cape Town was tremendously helpful in educating me about the world around me.

Did you experience culture shock in going back and forth from your American home and family life to your numerous overseas assignments? 

Ironically, the greatest sense of culture shock I felt was following the 3 1/2 week work trip to Brazil’s outback, favelas, and Rio. I remember returning to my little suburb of Kirkwood, Missouri, and feeling like the people in my hometown were wearing clothing that was too bright, too white, and I felt a huge disconnect just after those few weeks. I didn’t feel it quite as much in Africa, even though I was gone longer in most instances. Maybe I was used to traveling overseas by then, or was older; I’m not sure.

Which of the countries where you worked felt like the most difficult or hostile environment?  Which was most friendly?

The country that felt the most hostile and difficult was the Democratic Republic of Congo. For years the lingua franca and official language had been Lingala, which I did not speak, but when I traveled there, the official language was Swahili (because of the current leadership), so I wasn’t able to communicate with people as readily as before. In addition, DRC was in the midst of a war and that added some hostility to the interactions.

The friendliest countries were South Africa and Tanzania. In South Africa, locals thought it was hilarious that this woman could speak their language, but seemed to gravitate towards me as a result. And South Africa is such a beautiful country, I think that made it a friendlier country overall because they had lots of tourists and outside influences.

People in Tanzania were very friendly, too, because I could communicate with them, and walked/traveled among them, on their daladala busses, walking around with my tutor, etc. Once, when I went with my tutor to visit a women’s cooperative, the women there thought I was hilarious because, unlike them, I told them I didn’t cook or sew well, and they were baffled that I had no domestic skills.

Interestingly, though, there was a shift in the behavior towards me in Kenya. I did an immersion in Nairobi and in Mombasa, and locals were extremely helpful, helping me with problematic vocabulary or cultural concepts. But when I was there after the terrorist bombing in 1998, their attitude had changed, and I didn’t feel welcome. As I write in Immersion, when I was reviewing my notes and dictionaries in a restaurant one day (rather than remaining in my hotel room endlessly), one of the employees spotted me, my dictionaries and working aids, and confronted me, wanted to know what I was doing, why I was studying Swahili, so that was an understandable change, no doubt due to the terrorist attack by Al Qaeda that killed far more Kenyans than Americans, even though Americans were the target.

In the book you describe how you felt you underwent a personal transformation to become a more confident person because of your overseas experiences.  What would you identify as the most significant experiences in this transformation? 

When I was overseas — particularly during that first official, professional, and life-changing trip to Brazil — I was removed from what I felt were negative influences, and surrounded by new friends who believed in me and my abilities, so that was, as I write in Immersion, life-changing. I’d been lifted out of an environment in which family members and my then-husband had a low opinion of me, and low expectations. I was in a sink-or-swim bubble and expected to be a professional interpreter and linguist, for the first time in my life.

Likewise, when I was on other trips I was pretty much on my own, my tool being my language skills, particularly in dangerous situations. I think that’s part of the reason I wanted to write the book because even people I worked with, sat next to, had no idea what I was doing overseas because they didn’t have a need to know.

Also, because foreign languages were the first — only? — strong skill I had, except maybe playing the piano, I was no longer drowning in all the evidence of my ineptitude with math, science, etc. I’d found something I was good at, something that was particularly manifested overseas, and that helped build my confidence. And other members of the team I was on — Americans and Brazilians — were highly complimentary of my skills, so that was a boost to my flagging self-confidence.

The most experiences that occurred in this transformation were during that first solo trip — to Brazil. Because I was literally the link between the Americans I was traveling with and the Brazilians we were visiting. I bridged the gap between them in hundreds of ways — from the sublime to the ridiculous. As a result, I felt a tremendous sense of responsibility to get it right, to make sure that there was linkage between the two groups, and I was the only conduit for that happening.

What advice would you give to students or others who aspire to the type of career that you had? 

I would advise students to study languages in which they have an interest, or a potential interest, otherwise, you won’t have the right mindset. For instance, after I’d worked with Xhosa and Sotho, South African languages, my management wanted me to study Afrikaans but, for me, it had no appeal, probably because it was then the language of an oppressor. As a result, make sure you have an interest not only in a particular language, but also in the culture in which it’s spoken because, as we’re learning more and more, being familiar with the culture in which a language is spoken is essential. Of course, if you’re working for the government or another entity, you may not have a choice, so try to make the best of it, immerse yourself in its culture, in its history, in knowing everything you can about it and the people who speak it.

I would also advise anyone interested in a career with languages to make use of all the pedagogical sources that are available now. At the risk of sounding like a dinosaur, when I was studying Xhosa, Sotho, and Shona, the resources were limited. But now you have so many ways to enhance your skills, the sky is the limit. But I would also encourage people, insofar as possible, to go to the country or city where the language in question is used; there is truly no substitute for being where you’re surrounded by people speaking the language, where you can speak it, where you can read and write it. As I write in my memoir, I thought I was fluent in Spanish until I went to Madrid and realized how much I needed to learn. And, as frustrating as it sounds, we’re never “finished” learning a language; there’s always another idiom to learn, more new words to master, a way to enrich your speaking, reading, listening, and writing. You’re never “done.”

Marshall, Linda Murphy. “Ivy Lodge.” Linda Murphy Marshall, https://lindamurphymarshall.com/ivy-lodge/. Accessed 10 Oct. 2024.

Marshall, Linda Murphy. “Immersion.” Linda Murphy Marshall, https://lindamurphymarshall.com/immersion/. Accessed 10 Oct. 2024.