News Desk
Language is not merely a tool for communication—it is the very fabric of our identity, the lens through which we perceive the world and the force that shapes the environment we inhabit.
This was the essence of a speech made by Aziz Ali Dad, a thinker, and author of Nomadic Meditations, at an event arranged by the Sasken Research and Development Foundation to celebrate International Mother Tongue Day and Climate Change in Gilgit the other day.
“Modern philosophy teaches us that we do not own language; rather, we are bound to it.”
Discussing mother language’s importance, he argued: “Language shapes our worldview, and in Gilgit-Baltistan, that worldview is rooted in ancient animist and shamanic philosophies.”
For centuries, our people have lived in harmony with nature, guided by a philosophy where everything is alive. To us, towering stones are not lifeless objects—they are sacred. The juniper trees whisper with the presence of fairies. Animals, forests, and humans exist as equals in the cosmic order, governed by deities like Murkum, who balances the human realm between the evils below and the sacred souls above. This worldview fostered traditions that protected forests, revered juniper trees in Diamer as Devaako—a sanctuary for sacred beings. Yet, this harmony fractured with the construction of Karakoram Highway.
Modernity promised us development, but it delivered climatic catastrophe, fractured our social fabric, and plunged us into an identity crisis. Market forces did not just cut down forests, pollute our environment —they slaughtered imagination, and destroyed cultural ecosystems; the fairies fled the trees; our languages and traditions were contaminated.
America—a “graveyard of languages”—stands as a stark warning: Societies that prioritize profit over heritage become tombs for their own memory.
Today, the digital realm holds immense power to preserve languages. The digital realm offers us a lifeline. Unlike writing—a venture monopolised by elites—digital tools merge voice, visuals, and visceral storytelling to democratize language.
Yet, institutions like Karakoram International University (KIU) remain oblivious to this power. “We witness baffling contradictions: linguistics is merged with English literature in their classrooms, yet Malang Jan, our own literary giant, is erased from curricula. Let me share a bitter truth: When I approached KIU’s Vice-Chancellor with a proposal for the promotion of indigenous languages and literature voluntarily, he dismissed me as if I was seeking a job,” he lamented.
Why must a German scholar translate Shina poet Amin Zia’s work into German before we deem it worthy of study? Our stories deserve stages, not silence. I am happy that some youngsters have started writing fiction and poetry in Shina language. Our mythological tales, folk songs, and oral histories deserve protection by turning folk tales into films and myths into music, he emphasised.
Today, self-proclaimed “language experts” peddle dangerous myths, claiming languages are 18,000 years old. “Let me be clear: Tamil, one of humanity’s oldest tongues, traces back 5,000 years. “Romantic lies do not preserve languages, but rigorous research does,” he stressed.
Women empowerment and language
“How can we champion mother languages while ignoring mothers themselves? Can a language survive if half its speakers are silenced?” he posed a question to the audience. Women are the first storytellers to their children, the keepers of oral traditions. Yet, we confine them to the margins. Women empowerment is the oxygen for linguistic revival, he emphasised. We must create spaces for women to write, speak, and perform with confidence.
Gilgit-Baltistan’s soul lies in its stones, trees, and tongues. Let us fight for them—not with nostalgia, but with the fierce urgency of now.