I was met with a challenge recently, not the sort that upends one’s life or finances, but a challenge of language. A family friend had arrived from India, someone I have long respected and who is connected to me through my parents. They speak Punjabi and Hindi, but no English. Forgetting your native language
The challenge was not that I do not understand Hindi (I do). The problem was twofold. Firstly, my native language is Fiji Hindi, a distinct cousin of what is spoken in India. Secondly, nearly all my past communication with this friend had gone through my mum, who speaks “India” Hindi far better than I ever could. Forgetting your native language
When we met after many months, I struggled. I wanted to be warm and hospitable but instead found myself freezing when asked a simple question. My mind raced, trying to knit together a broken sentence, my thoughts tripping over the differences between Hindi and Fiji Hindi. I could almost feel my brain firing, my words emerging slowly and unevenly.
This is hardly an unusual experience. Many children of Indian descent in Australia grow up with a patchwork of languages: English at school, a mother tongue at home, and often the tug-of-war between the two. In my case, I began school speaking only Fiji Baat, which amused and perplexed my teachers. I knew no English, but like many children I absorbed it quickly, the so-called “sponge” effect at work.
Over time, though, English dominated. It became the language of education, of work, of friendships. Hindi remained at home, but with little opportunity to practise beyond family gatherings, its place in my daily life diminished. Now, decades later, I find myself speaking it haltingly, filtered through an Australian accent, with long pauses as I scramble for words I once knew so easily.
View this post on Instagram
The Diaspora dilemma
This kind of language paralysis is common among first- and second-generation Australians of Indian and other Subcontinental heritage. At home and within community circles, native languages remain alive. But the pressures of excelling in English, which are tied so tightly to education, careers, and social belonging, push many of us to sideline the languages of our parents and grandparents.
For some, English becomes the primary marker of identity, a passport to assimilation and a way of “fitting in” with wider Australian society. For others, there is a conscious effort to revive and preserve native tongues, often through community schools or weekend classes that bridge the gap between home and the broader world.
Underlying all this, though, is a deeper truth: language is inseparable from identity. The words we use, the accents we carry, the idioms we share, these are not just tools for communication but threads that tie us to heritage, memory, and belonging.
For me, the slow fading of my competence in Hindi has at times felt like a fracture in identity. English dominates my public self, but I cannot help but feel that something essential slips further away each time I stumble through a halting sentence. To speak only English is, in one sense, to become “one of them” – so well-assimilated that you risk losing connection to your own roots.
I sometimes see this as a failure: a failure to my ancestry, my community, even my younger self who once spoke fluently. But I know I am not alone. Across living rooms and kitchens, parents juggle the delicate task of equipping children for success in English while trying to keep their own mother tongues alive. In countless quiet ways, this battle continues.
What can be done?
The good news is that awareness of these challenges is growing. Across Australia, communities have established Sunday schools and language programs teaching Hindi, Tamil, Malayalam, even Sanskrit. Government-backed initiatives like the NSW Community Languages Schools Program provide further support.
But institutions alone cannot solve this. Many argue that the preservation of language must begin at home, with parents encouraged to speak, read, and sing to their children in their native tongues. It requires effort, yes, but also imagination: weaving language into stories, festivals, meals, and everyday life so that it becomes not just an academic exercise but a living inheritance.
The broader Australian community also has a role to play. Multiculturalism cannot be reduced to food festivals and dance performances; it must include respect and space for the languages that migrants bring with them. Supporting community schools, funding bilingual resources, and recognising the value of multilingualism in education are steps that affirm language as a central pillar of identity.
Holding on to our words
Language loss is rarely sudden. It slips quietly, over years of schooling, friendships, and workplaces dominated by English. But its effects can be profound, shaping how we see ourselves and how connected we feel to our heritage.
With greater effort from families, communities, and institutions, there is hope. Perhaps then, someone like me, faced with a visiting relative from overseas, will have the confidence to string together a sentence that carries not just meaning but warmth. Perhaps that man will forge stronger, more authentic connections, and in doing so, reclaim a piece of himself. Forgetting your native language
In the end, preserving our native languages is not only about grammar and vocabulary. It is about honouring the generations that came before us and gifting the same richness of identity to those yet to come.
READ MORE: Mother Tongues, Motherland – an ode to our many languages
