Walking through Jinan this week in the Hui Quarter, I've been distracted by a set of signs. They're official and issued by the local government, and they implore local residents to join in the effort to make Jinan and more 文明 (civilized) and 卫生 (hygenic) city. Such ads are common throughout Jinan. The city is in the midst of a push (especially in the west end) to upgrade infrastructure in a major way: widening and repaving roads, fixing sewere mains, improving plumbing, taking down dilapidated buildings, etc. So, it didn't surprise me to find this sign near the entrance to the Hui Quarter:
"Join together with civility and cleanliness" this one more or less reads.
Or this one, placed next to Jinan's Great Southern Mosque, which declares "The development of patriotic and hygienic activites, creates a civilized and hygienic hometown."
These kinds of ads are nothing special in a city that is saturated with them, save for one aspect: the use of Arabic. In both cases, the phrases on the sign are simultaneously written in Arabic as well as Chinese. In a predominantly Muslim neighborhood, this might seem to make sense, however further consideration of the matter would perhaps suggest otherwise. As I've mentioned in previous posts, the Hui, unlike other of China's ethnic minoirty groups, are considered a "Chinese-speaking Nationality" (汉语民族). Many of China's other ethnic minority groups speak a language that is not a dialect of Chinese as their national language. While Arabic is important to the practice of Islam, not many Hui are, indeed, able to speak it. In Jinan, an Imam at one of the Hui Quarter's mosques told me that he was certain that less than 5% of the people who attended his mosque had any competency in Arabic.
And this problem is not unique to Jinan's Hui community. At least two of the Hui students I talked to in Beijing told me that they could understand only basic Arabic. In esssence, they had memorized enough to read parts of the Qur'an. Outside of this, they claimed, they couldn't really understand the language. They certainly could not, they maintained, hold a conversation in Arabic. An Imam at a Mosque outside the Third Ring Road in Beijing explained to me that when Hui people learn any Arabic at all, it's not modern standard Arabic, but rather Classical Qur'anic Arabic. In fact, he suggested, more frequently the average Hui person is more likely to know a kind of pidgin Arabic that uses Chinese sounds to make Arabic words. For this reason, he suggested, "Chinese-Arabic" varies from region to region within China, as local Chinese dialects sound out Arabic words differently.
In any case, the message seems clear: the average Hui person isn't exactly literate in Arabic outside of the Qur'an. And yet, many official publications, and places use Arabic on their signs in Hui areas. For instance:
The entrance gate to the Beijing offices of the Ningxia Hui Autonomous Region (called Ningxia Dasha, 宁夏大厦) use Arabic along with Chinese to designate the connection of the region to the Hui.
Likewise, the Community Offices on Douban Hutong, a neighborhood with a notable mosque, and a formerly vibrant Hui community. The sign in this place has also been made in both Arabic and Chinese, despite the fact that when I went inside to inquire about the demographics and history of the neighborhood, nobody working there was Hui, or seemed to know anything much about the community's Hui heritage.
Even the post office at Niu Jie used Arabic script below the Chinese on the sign for the building.
Arabic is commonly used is mosques, which makes a good deal of sense, considering that the rituals of Islam all use Arabic. In this sense, the use of the language in places of worship helps to facilitate the ritual, and thus is a crucial part of the experience. However, the ritual only requires that the celebrant himself be capable of having a strong grasp of the language. Others need only the basics to participate. By analogy, how many American Catholics are still able to speak church Latin beyond a few phrases? The use of Arabic in official signage in Hui places, however, is more interesting. Given that very few people are able to read and understand the language, why bother?
Of course, the use of Arabic extends beyond official spaces. Consider the major Islamic supermarket on Niu Jie in Beijing, which in its entranceway contains this sign:
It reads "Home of Muslims" more or less, and is clearly being used as means of branding.
As is the above sign placed over many of the aisles in the store which simply reads "Home".
And the packaging on my of the products, like this beef sausage.
The intent here is clear: if there's Arabic on the package, it must be made by other Muslims, or at the very least be halal. In this way, Arabic language becomes a marker of Hui identity, despite the fact that the language itself is one that many Hui are unable to speak. It's an avatar of Islamic identity, which hints at distant ties to Middle Eastern heritage, and to daily religious practice, but not necessarily to a shared spoken language. Afterall, it's one thing to know and understand the language of the Bismillah which affirms the oneness of God. It's another thing entirely to be able to read the packaging of a sausage in the deli aisle of your local grocery store.
Which makes the signs I've been seeing in Jinan all the more interesting. What is intended by placing Arabic on the signs, knowing that the vast majority of Hui in Jinan are unable to read it? Does this appeal to a higher moral calling to develop the city? Does this add extra gravitas to the agenda of the local government? Is this merely an instance of ignorance on the part of the local government which assumes that all Hui must naturally understand Arabic? The answer is unclear, but it provides a fascinating window into how Hui ethnicity is lived, understood, and defined in the context of urban China.