Migrants want to learn English: why isn't the government investing to help them do so?

“If you're not prepared to learn English, your benefits will be cut," said George Osborne during the Spending Review. ESOL teacher Eli Davies explains that migrants are keen to learn English, but unless we have properly funded ESOL provision across the b

There was a predictable slew of tough-talking on benefits in George Osborne’s Spending Review last week. As well as the announcement that JSA claimants will have to wait seven days before they can sign on and there was further tough talk on migrants who don’t speak English. “If you're not prepared to learn English,” Osborne said, “your benefits will be cut."

It has already been pointed out in several places that this is misleading nonsense, grounded in the pernicious myth that immigrants don’t want to learn English. I have worked as an ESOL teacher for nearly ten years and am part of the national Action for ESOL campaign, which campaigns against cuts to the subject. I and my colleagues have encountered no reluctance to learn among the migrant population: every year our courses are oversubscribed and students themselves frequently ask for more provision, as well as bringing along their equally keen friends or relatives to classes.

To some degree migrants are an easy target for the government. In times of austerity they are often the first vulnerable group to have access to services removed and there is no doubt that immigrants have already borne the brunt of much of the government’s cuts. Over the last 15 or so years the drip-drip feed of the ‘immigrant = scrounger’ narrative from the mainstream press - and shamelessly pandered to by politicians - has created a climate in which such cuts go unchallenged or unnoticed. (The latest example of this is Jeremy Hunt’s racist political point-scoring over so-called “health tourism” in the NHS).

Many ESOL learners are speaking out against these cuts. In 2010 the government announced that students on benefits would have to pay up to £1,000 for an ESOL course, and Action for ESOL began a year-long campaign against the move. Our campaign included several big student-led actions, including rallies, demonstrations and college walk-outs and eventually resulted in a government u-turn. We have been campaigning on further planned cuts and in May organised a lobby of parliament and a packed-out parliamentary meeting, at which many students spoke passionately about the importance of ESOL. None of this points to a lack of willingness to learn English - or indeed to speak up - and we are extremely concerned about the government’s dangerous scapegoating. It is the height of hypocrisy to slam immigrants for failing to integrate and learn English on the one hand, then take away their means to do so on the other.

We are already facing year-on-year government cuts to ESOL and Further Education and there is a real worry among ESOL professionals about the impact of Osborne’s proposals on our sector. Tying English classes to benefits could well mean more involvement for private sector contractors like A4e and an increase in short "quick fix" courses, taught by unqualified and underpaid teachers. Such providers often impose unhelpful and inappropriate targets that have less to do with long-term progression and more to do with making a profit. Making ESOL classes mandatory is punitive and dangerous; like many of the government’s welfare policies, it strips away the agency of the individuals concerned and underestimates the complex realities of people’s lives.

What we really need is properly funded ESOL provision across the board. Understandably there have been moves by some organisations to work around funding cuts by looking for cheaper options, such as online provision, but it is crucial that any such measure runs in conjunction with longer-term courses taught by trained professionals. ESOL teachers - like all teachers - encounter many complex needs on a daily basis: learners may have basic literacy needs, learning difficulties or issues resulting from trauma in their country, and qualified and well-supported professionals are essential. Language-learning is a complicated business but it is vital that we invest in it. Migrants want to learn English. The government should provide the long term, properly funded means to do it. 

Eli Davies is a London-based teacher and writer

There are already year-on-year government cuts to ESOL and Further Education. Photograph: Getty Images
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad