Mahmoud Sabahi - Radio Zamaneh - February 20, 2019
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| Mahmoud Sabahi |
On the occasion of February 21, proclaimed by UNESCO as International Mother Language Day
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Is there truly such a thing as a "mother tongue"? Does a person learn language through the one their mother speaks to them during childhood? If a child loses their mother at birth and someone else—maybe even their father—begins speaking to them, what happens then? Which language becomes their "mother tongue": the one spoken by the deceased mother to the child in the womb, or the language of the other woman or father who raised them and communicated with them after the mother’s passing?
Sometimes, a child is accidentally switched with another at the hospital, and, unbeknownst to the mothers, they return home with a stranger’s (or perhaps even an enemy’s) child, each speaking their own language to this child. In such a situation, what would the "mother tongue" be?
A personal experience: My mother spoke Turkish to me as a child (she’s from the Turkish-speaking region of Isfahan). However, I never learned this language (beyond a basic level) nor used it, so my first language became Persian, the language in which I think, speak, and feel at home. Now my question is this: is my mother tongue Turkish or Persian?
According to the view that says the "mother tongue" is the language with which a person thinks, dreams, and uses to best express their inner emotions—and also the view that says the mother tongue is the language that forms one’s identity—my mother tongue is Persian (even though my mother never spoke this language to me). But, if we follow the perspective that says the mother tongue is the language first learned after birth, then my mother tongue is Turkish (despite the fact that I cannot speak Turkish), as my mother spoke Turkish to me as a child before any other language!
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Based on my reflections, studies, and experiences, using the term "mother tongue" instead of "first language" doesn’t seem entirely accurate, as it can create confusion and misunderstandings.
It’s also important to clarify that the term "first language" doesn’t necessarily refer to the very first language a person learns, but rather the language that ultimately becomes their primary means of expression. For myself and those children switched at birth, language developed in this way, as they, like me, learned their first language from a different family or social environment (not from their biological mothers), which altered their identity!
Still, it’s understandable why "first language" is often referred to as the "mother tongue": historically, there was no distinction between the language spoken by a mother to her child and the first language the child learned. But in today’s world, where migration, relocation, and cross-linguistic marriages are widespread, a child’s first language or languages cannot always be assumed to be the "mother tongue," even if many people still learn language directly from their mothers. However, by using "first language" instead of "mother tongue," the likelihood of misunderstanding is significantly reduced. Essentially, when we speak of a "first language," we mean not only the "mother tongue" but also any language that, even if not learned from the mother, serves as one’s primary language and holds the capacity for expressing emotions and thoughts.
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Before I started school and during my early school years, I could speak Turkish. Gradually, however, I subconsciously stopped using this language. In the social environment of my school, being Turkish and speaking Turkish was associated with a sense of backwardness and foreignness. To free myself from this oppressive situation, I completely rejected and repressed Turkish within myself. At that time, I couldn’t analyze why my Turkish suddenly disappeared from my mind as a teenager, but now I understand that the social environment, along with the school and educational structure, pressured me into blocking the progress of Turkish within me and clinging more to Persian. I now interpret this as a kind of linguistic self-destruction—or perhaps even a form of maternal infanticide.
To summarize: the verbal attacks, insults, and denigration of my Turkish language drove me away from my "mother tongue"—or more accurately, from my Turkish self—to the extent that for many years, I not only distanced myself from the Turkish language but also hated anything related to Turkish culture. Of course, my aversion stemmed from the fact that, whenever I encountered Turkish language or music, I would feel a pull toward it, a sense of kinship. Many years had to pass for me to reconcile not only with my Turkish "maternal part" but also to realize that Turkish is one of the most beautiful languages in the world and that the coexistence and interaction between Persian and Turkish enrich both languages. The idea of a pure, untainted language is as dangerous a myth as that of pure blood, genes, or race; any attempt to make such a myth a reality leads only to the destruction of languages and the unique lives that make the human world more vibrant, musical, capable, and enduring.
Later, when I became aware of these subconscious reactions arising from environmental pressures, I opened my mind to all languages and especially to my "mother tongue," Turkish, because I realized that language is the most fundamental human asset. Without language, human existence is unattainable—or more accurately, a person can only become their true self within the realm of language. This is why I didn’t fall into the metaphysical or Chomskyan cliché of a "pure grammar," a theory claiming that grammatical structure is innate—that is, present as a pre-existing idea or universal rule in the mind, enabling us to create countless linguistic forms.
Based on such a perspective that interprets a unifying element as the "universal grammar" of language, we would have to justify a centralized policy that denies diversity and difference, placing one language at the center of validity and perceiving other languages as mere, crude copies of the grammatical structure of that dominant language. And, of course, this is called "linguistics."
At such a moment, it’s fitting to recall Nietzsche's line from Twilight of the Idols to realize how metaphysical, Christian, and Platonic this view is: "I fear we shall never be rid of God as long as we still believe in grammar."
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Persian as the "primordial core"!—This fundamental error arises from some people confusing their place of birth with their origin. According to this "self-origin" perception, a Turk, Kurd, or Arab could also make this claim, declaring their language as the primordial core. But the truth is that no language can be the primordial core. Accepting the idea of a primordial core is to fall into the same Chomskyan trap and that perspective which refuses to acknowledge that each language is unique in its grammatical structure, independent of any central rule beyond its inner structure. By this mechanism, it interacts and learns from other languages while always maintaining its independent identity.
Language learning is a biological capability, or rather, an inherited biological intelligence formed through a long social life. It's not too complex: each social group, according to its own needs and circumstances, creates its own lexicon and grammar to express itself as a desire, an understanding, and a will—to exist, to critique and transform itself, to grow, to create an alternative fate. Therefore, it's not about one grammar (from which all other grammars are imperfect copies) but rather grammars; not about one language but languages.
Language, as a social product, is the domain of pluralities. What gives language its power and richness is not the dominance of its signs and grammatical rules, but rather its openness to diverse, creative expressions—and, more importantly, the acceptance of the human right to use language (e.g., Persian) not only with an accent but even with grammatical errors. The inviolable principle should be the right to freedom of expression, not the principles and rules of grammatical purity!
The fact that a language has become an official or central language does not imply its superiority. Instead, it signifies the historical and social dominance of one class or social group over others. Naturally, this language, having passed through centuries, now enjoys a more favorable and developed state compared to other languages spoken in the same society. But how did this language achieve its privileged, hegemonic status? Was it not by seizing equal opportunities and chances from other linguistic structures? Political and economic power, a robust educational system, mass media, cultural academies, and budgets upon budgets—yes, these are what make a language vibrant and flourishing, not the empty notion that one language is pure and primordial!
Let's not leave this question unasked: would this official language not be stronger and richer without suppressing and marginalizing other languages? Wouldn’t this prohibition of other languages have been the result of a misunderstanding, leading up to a self-limitation or even a self-destructive path?
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A person’s first language, or mother tongue, gives them a sense of being at home and, especially, a feeling of security and power. This may lead to the misunderstanding that their language is the most valuable and superior language in the world. Even a person in a remote tribe in the Amazon rainforest may feel this way about their language. This feeling is natural, but it becomes frightening and dangerous when it is used, individually or collectively, with scientific and linguistic tools to prove that one’s own language is the most superior, eloquent, and richest among all languages—as though it were the primordial or ultimate language, the beginning and end of all languages! This sense of uniqueness transcends superiority or inferiority in a language. Any language, no matter how small or undeveloped, is the highest and best language in the world for those who express and recognize themselves through it.
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I want to return once more to the topic of the mother tongue. We know that the extinction of any language means extinguishing a bright light in life, ultimately leading to the death of a unique body-mind. So why should Turkish, Kurdish, Balochi, or any other living language—which are parts of the intellect and the capacity for growth and transformation in Iranian society—be pushed out of the social, political, and scientific sphere to the point where they fade or disappear? These languages represent mind-body entities that can never be replaced.
But should we only defend languages in terms of their role as mother tongues? Absolutely not! Language is language: Arabic, Persian, Balochi, Turkmen, Turkish, or English and German—whatever way a language is learned or transmitted, it deserves a place in social life, and the pathways for its development should never be closed off. This should be our greater goal: that no language falls outside the realm of life and productivity. The more languages interact with each other, the richer, stronger, and more resilient they will become. We should not fear their fusion. Let each person speak, write, learn, and interact in whatever language they wish and are able to use. In the end, such freedom brings us to this essential truth:
As long as children (alongside Persian) cannot study and learn in other languages—regardless of whether it is their mother tongue—and as long as they cannot choose languages in addition to Persian, Persian will be a language imposed on them. For imposing means limiting the possibilities of choice—robbing people of linguistic freedoms and stifling the potential of those who have come to know themselves, or wish to know and express themselves, through other languages.
Link to the original text in Farsi: https://www.radiozamaneh.com/433760