Caught between two worlds, the journey to rediscover a fading first language unfolds—one word, one stumble, and one story at a time.
As I pack my suitcases, pick the airplane seats, and choose between endless outfit options for my upcoming trip to India, a blend of emotions stirs within me. There is joy, excitement, and anticipation, yet also a bittersweet pang at the realization that my Punjabi, the language of my childhood, has become quieter over the years. Words and dialects I once knew immediately and intimately, have started to feel foreign and have blurred with time. While I still speak it, read it, and write it, it feels as though the cultural familiarity has faded. Such a change is so incredibly apparent in the young generations of today, as this fading of our languages is more than just the loss of a linguistic ability, but rather it feels as though we are losing a part of our souls.
Our first language is not simply a way of communication; it is a bridge to our roots, an extension of our culture, an echo of our ancestors’ voices, and the warmth of the homeland. And to feel that connection slip through your fingers is to feel unanchored in the midst of cultural heritages.
For many of us who have grown up in diasporic communities, this struggle to preserve our first language is a familiar challenge, even if our parents ensured that our culture and traditions were woven into our daily lives at home. We find ourselves grasping at two diverse worlds: one embedded in the history, traditions, and languages of our heritage, while the other is rooted in societal demands that prioritize English as the default avenue for communication. This shared duality creates tension within us all, where we feel the need to honour and sustain our roots, while also complying with a traditionally English-dominated landscape.
At first, the balance feels manageable, since at home we speak in our native tongue with our families, while at work and with friends we effortlessly fall into English. However, as time passes the balance is disrupted. The continuous exposure to the English language and the pressures of our social lives demand convenience, and speaking English becomes a natural path. Eventually, the language that was once an instinctual extension of us begins to fade, where words and sayings become tangled with uncertainty, and what was once a seamless second nature, becomes fragmented.
The shift creeps up on us slowly, in the little moments – pausing too long to find the word, the hesitation in answering in your mother tongue, or the newly grown fear of making a mistake. It is a painful realization when the fluence we took for granted is now so distant. For university students, this struggle is more amplified as the environments we spend the most time in subconsciously prioritize conformity. Within the commotion of campus life, where lectures, group projects, and socialization command our lives, there is little time to sustain and reflect on the cultures we have grown in.
University settings center around English being the communal avenue of communication, making it a language of natural connection and convenience. In both academic and social environments, the dominance of English slowly and unnoticeably pushes our native languages further and further back. Juggling university life leaves little room to even ponder our native languages and this neglect only widens the gap between us and our heritages – a gap that becomes harder to bridge the longer it is left unattended.
For many students, this realization only enhances the feeling of isolation and disconnection that already accompanies the university experience. It sparks countless worries: am I becoming a stranger to my history? Will I be able to share our heritage with my children? Will I lose the ability to understand the depth of grandparents’ prayers? This is a weight that is not considered enough.
But rather than letting this fear consume us, we can choose to take action and reclaim what is not gone, but simply lost within us, waiting for a reawakening. As long as our native languages are nurtured, they remain alive and can regrow despite any circumstance. Reconnecting with your first language is a journey of slow, and small but meaningful steps. Starting to speak with courage, having conversations in the mother tongue with family members even when your sentences falter. There is a silent power in choosing to stumble rather than stay quiet. Embracing modern tools like Duolingo and online language resources, which, while lacking familial warmth, provide a structured way to rebuild what we may have lost.
To keep our minds engaged, we can challenge ourselves to think in two languages, pausing to find native equivalents for English words—a practice that feels like lighting candles in a dim room. Immersing ourselves in our cultural art has also been transformative; its music and films breathe life into the language, making it feel vibrant and joyous again. Most importantly, turning to our elders without embarrassment, our greatest teachers, asking them about words and phrases we do not understand. These conversations are not only deeply enriching but also a way to mend the gaps in my understanding, one word at a time.
While on this journey of reclamation, we need to remind ourselves that language is forever alive, whether it is breathing and existing quietly or vibrantly, it is fluid and forever growing. It does not mean we have failed if we hesitate to speak in our native language, but rather it is an opportunity for us to rediscover such culturally intimate parts of ourselves. It is the small efforts we make to reconnect with our roots that eternally keep our cultural legacies alive.