Do we lose our Arabic when we speak in foreign languages?

My fingers glide over the keyboard as I try to recall the locations of the letters from memory. Ever since the IT technician replaced my keyboard with one that had no Arabic letters, I’ve been struggling, in vain, to find my lost letters and bring them back. For years, they were lost from me, and I couldn’t find them.

The technician at the time didn’t understand how important those letters were to me, and I hadn’t realized their significance either. They were always there, near me, and were alive around me. I didn’t notice the letters fading away, nor did I grasp the magnitude of their loss until I was abroad, living far from home.

Ever since the IT technician replaced my keyboard with one that had no Arabic letters, I’ve been struggling, in vain, to find my lost letters and bring them back. They were always there, near me. I didn’t notice the letters fading away, nor did I grasp the magnitude of their loss until I was abroad, living far from home.

A childhood shaped by “Spacetoon”

I grew up with a strong bond to Modern Standard Arabic, something that wasn’t common among my peers at the time. In Lebanon, it’s typical for young children to learn French or English terms before even their native Arabic, since parents believe they’re doing their children a favor.

I mastered the correct vowel marks on Arabic words, or “tashkeel”—diacritical marks used to denote vowels—before learning their grammatical rules, thanks to growing up watching cartoons dubbed in Modern Standard Arabic on the Spacetoon channel. Our TV didn’t have the English Disney or French Tiji channels on it. I would eagerly wait for my favorite show, “Detective Conan,” to solve crime mysteries in Arabic dub, and with each episode, my passion for mysteries and the Arabic language deepened. “Detective Conan,” “Thunder Jet,” “Hunter x Hunter,” and “Let’s & Go” are all tv shows that shaped my Arabic language. I always excelled in Arabic “tashkeel” vowel mark tests, even if I struggled with grammar.

How can a language so rich in vocabulary not be enough to express ourselves? It’s not the language that falls short—it’s our surrender to the dominance of another language over our lives, our thoughts, and our identities.

At first, I learned Modern Standard Arabic through listening—watching cartoons and, as I grew older, by listening to classical Arabic songs. Later, I mastered the language through reading, devouring detective and mystery novels and poetry collections. I still remember spending an entire night reading a mystery novel, staying up until six in the morning to finish the book, using only the faint glow of my old Nokia phone for light.

From devouring a novel every week, I gradually lost the ability to read regularly. The increasingly tense atmosphere in Lebanon in recent years didn’t help, making it harder to find peace of mind or enough mental space and energy for reading. My busy schedule didn’t help either, and I struggled more and more with the focus that reading required. Technology and the overwhelming invasion of social media into our lives further distracted me. My reading habits dwindled to online articles and short stories. I could no longer sit down to read an entire book.

During those years, I still wrote in Arabic as part of my journalism work, maintaining a close relationship with the language, even if it became slightly distant at times. Eventually, I shifted from journalism to working with a non-governmental organization, like many journalism graduates in Lebanon who have moved to NGOs where job opportunities are more plentiful, and there’s more room to work in human rights fields.

During these two years far from home, I often felt lonely. Loneliness was nothing new to me. It was a feeling that had accompanied me and settled within me wherever I went while abroad. But a new and strange loneliness crept in—a sense of estrangement from the Arabic language and a deep solitude within it.

There, the main language of work shifted drastically to English, particularly when it came to email exchanges and written reports. I started focusing on improving my English, and without realizing it, my Arabic began to gradually fade, until it became limited to quick readings and conversations in colloquial Arabic.

Arabic carries a different taste when far from home

Two years ago, I traveled to Germany to continue my studies, where I met classmates from all over the world. Despite the enchanting experience I had, my relationship with the Arabic language weakened even more. It became my priority to strengthen my English for academic research and studies. English became the default, though unwanted, means of communication with friends who didn’t share a common language with me, even though it wasn’t the native tongue of anyone among us.

During those two years, I worked hard to refine my English skills and started improving my German, which I had begun learning a few years earlier, to navigate daily life and communicate with others in Germany.

I didn’t realize what I was losing during the time I was living abroad, so far from home. Some Arabic words, especially those in my spoken dialect, started slipping from my memory, to be replaced by English words. One night, I even dreamt that a friend was angry with me because I couldn’t find my Arabic words. That dream was, of course, a purely psychological projection—a subconscious feeling of accumulated losses.

I didn’t realize what I was losing during this time, so far from home. Some Arabic words, especially those in my spoken dialect, started slipping from my memory, to be replaced by English words. One night, I even dreamt that a friend was angry with me because I couldn’t find my Arabic words and vocabulary. That dream was, of course, a purely psychological projection—a subconscious feeling of accumulated losses.

In fact, I had started losing my Arabic vocabulary even before I traveled, as I increasingly consumed online content in English. I found it offered a broader way to express my inner feelings and emotions, ones that I felt the Arabic language hadn’t quite kept pace with.

How can a language so rich in vocabulary not be enough to express ourselves? I realize it’s not the language itself, but rather the content produced in Arabic that hasn’t kept up with our presence in this world. It’s not the language that falls short—it’s our surrender to the dominance of another language over our lives, our thoughts, and our identities.

How can my Lebanese and Arab friends fall in love and form relationships with people who don’t speak Arabic? How do they express whether they feel love, passion, devotion, infatuation, or any of the twenty other words in Arabic that describe the degrees of love? How can they truly be themselves in another language?

During these two years, I often felt lonely. The feeling of loneliness was no stranger to me. It was a feeling that had accompanied me and settled within me wherever I went abroad. But a new and strange loneliness crept in—a sense of estrangement from the Arabic language and a deep solitude within it. After long days at university, I’d come back exhausted to the shared housing in the evening, and when I’d start cooking with my Bangladeshi roommate, I’d instinctively speak to him in Arabic, only to catch myself and switch back to English.

When I’d go on walks with my Turkish friend and we’d engage in intimate conversations, I could feel Arabic rising in my throat, waiting for permission to be released. And when I met my Italian friend, who lives in Beirut, in the streets of Venice, I thought I could finally express myself in Arabic. Yet again, the Arabic words surged up to my throat only to stop there, giving way to English—the language that became the mediator between us.

This didn’t just happen with friends who happened to be non-Arabic speakers. Even when I’d meet with friends from one of the 22 Arab countries, English or French became the neutral ground on which we all stood. It became easier to speak in a foreign language than to put in the effort to reconcile our different accents.

When I speak to my friends, I can feel Arabic rising in my throat, waiting for permission to be released, only to stop there, giving way to English. This didn’t just happen with non-Arabic speakers. Even when I’d meet with friends from one of the 22 Arab countries, English or French became the neutral ground on which we all stood. It became easier to speak in a foreign language than to put in the effort to reconcile our different accents.

But when I’d have intimate phone calls where I wish to express myself and my innermost feelings, I’d feel frustrated, let down, and eventually angry with myself. That’s because Arabic vocabulary fail me, and I’d resort to English to express myself and my emotions.

When and how did it become easier for us to communicate in a foreign language than in Arabic, even in its standard form? It seems absurd and crazy at first glance. Why did we surrender to the reality of communicating exclusively in the language of the colonizer?

The loss of the Arabic language tastes even more bitter when mixed with the flavor of living far from home. My uncle, who emigrated from Lebanon to Switzerland and then to France in his late teens during the early days of the Lebanese Civil War, didn’t have access to the means of communication, easy contact, or an Arab community like we do today. Over the decades, my uncle forgot some colloquial words and letters. Before he could travel or maintain constant communication with the family in Lebanon and with other Lebanese migrants in France, it was traditional Arabic music that became the last thread connecting him to the language.

I felt that simply listening to songs and keeping the Arabic language alive within me—hidden and fearful—wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t survive for long if it didn’t find its way out into the world; it would never see the light if it remained stuck in my throat.

Now in his sixties, my uncle may need a moment to distinguish between two similar letters, but he doesn’t need the same effort to sing "Rubaiyat Al Khayyam" along with Umm Kulthum’s voice. As for me, I felt that simply listening to songs and keeping the Arabic language alive within me—hidden and fearful—wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t survive for long if it didn’t find its way out into the world; it would never see the light if it remained stuck in my throat.

A prisoner waiting for her freedom to soar

I recently realized that my proficiency in other languages, particularly English, came at the expense of my Arabic. And I call it *my* Arabic because it is my language, my own. Of course, I didn’t lose my command of the language over the past two years—or even the past seven—but I did lose part of the deep connection and intimacy we once shared. Now, I write in Arabic as a translation of thoughts that first come to me in English. The words no longer flow freely in Arabic as they once did.

When and how did it become easier for us to communicate in a foreign language than in Arabic, even in its standard form? It seems absurd and crazy at first glance. Why did we surrender to the reality of communicating exclusively in the language of the colonizer?

Recently, I participated in a training in Egypt on immigration, a training program deeply rooted in the Arab world and conducted in the Arabic language, both in terms of the materials and the participants. It was then that I realized how thirsty I was to express myself in my mother tongue—not just to communicate my thoughts and feelings, but also to articulate knowledge. I found that many of the participants, like me, carried a language imprisoned within them, waiting for permission to be set free.

I struggled to translate the knowledge I had acquired in English during my master’s studies in migration into Arabic. I also became keenly aware of how marginalized Arabic knowledge production is in Lebanon. I encountered this issue while preparing my master’s thesis, when I realized how rare it was to find research we produce in our own language.

When I participated in a training on immigration, a program deeply rooted in the Arab world and conducted in the Arabic language, it was then that I realized how thirsty I was to express myself in my mother tongue. I found that many of the participants, like me, carried a language imprisoned within them, waiting for permission to be set free.

Despite the fact that migration studies, for example, are of primary concern to countries in the Global South—where the majority of the world’s refugees reside—and despite the fact that we in the Arab world produce scientific knowledge and research papers on migration and other social issues, most of this research is published in English or French. There is a significant scarcity of studies produced in our mother tongue.

Just as with knowledge, I have often wondered how my Lebanese and Arab friends can fall in love and form relationships with people who don’t speak Arabic. How can they truly be themselves and exist fully with their partners without the presence of their Arabic language? How do they express whether they feel love, passion, devotion, infatuation, or any of the twenty other words in Arabic that describe the degrees of love? How can they truly be themselves in another language?

I think about language and food as two things that bind migrants to their homelands, even after generations of migration and separation from their native countries. And I think once again that I don’t want the fragments of the Arabic language to remain trapped inside me. I want it to be a language that breathes, lives, and feels with me. I want Arabic to be alive in all my senses—I want to hear it, read it, speak it, and write it.

I think about language and food as two things that bind migrants to their homelands, even after generations of migration and separation from their native countries. I don’t want the fragments of the Arabic language to remain trapped inside me. I want it to be a language that breathes, lives, and feels with me. I want Arabic to be alive in all my senses—I want to hear it, read it, speak it, and write it.

I feel a sense of euphoria when my fingers touch Arabic letters after a long separation. When I allow its words to flow from my throat, they soar freely into the air after having been imprisoned by fear for so long.

* The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22