WHEN my child fluently recited an English poem but faltered at naming a guava in our mother tongue, I felt the quiet loss of cultural disconnect.
This dissonance reveals a crisis in Pakistani homes: native languages like Punjabi, Sindhi, Balochi and Pashto are not vanishing by force but through neglect.
Language is more than communication—it carries ancestral wisdom, cultural humor and intimate ways of seeing the world.
The decline of mother tongues strips children of their connection to family, place and identity.
UNESCO reports that 27 Pakistani languages are endangered—some critically.
This isn’t just a linguistic loss but a fading of memory and meaning.
Punjabi, spoken by over 100 million, is absent from Lahore’s elite schools.
Pashto, with nearly 40 million speakers, is increasingly rural.
Even Sindhi and Balochi face urban decline, despite provincial support.
This shift isn’t accidental—it stems from a hierarchy shaped by colonialism and reinforced by policy, where English promises success, Urdu ensures cohesion and native tongues are marginalized.
The consequences are profound.
Children unable to understand their grandparents’ language lose more than vocabulary—they lose heritage.
Words like “mayen” in Punjabi or “hal-o-ahwal” in Balochi express emotions English can’t capture.
Losing these is losing a worldview.
Compounding the issue is stigma.
In cities, parents applaud children for speaking English but dismiss mother tongues as “gaon ki boli.
” This shame silences students in classrooms and drives accent-neutralization efforts in workplaces.
The message is clear: colonial languages are prestigious; native ones are outdated.
Yet, resistance exists.
In Lahore’s poetry circles, young Punjabis are reviving their language.
Karachi’s Sindhi youth blend humoUr and heritage on social media.
In Quetta, Baloch musicians merge traditional rhythms with modern sounds, keeping their languages alive.
These efforts show revival isn’t about rejecting modernity—it’s about reshaping it.
The state must do more.
Article 251 of the Constitution recognizes regional languages, but implementation is weak.
Pakistan could learn from India’s Language Revival Act or Wales’ bilingual education mandate.
Initiatives like mother-tongue instruction, regional publishing support and linguistic media representation can help.
Technology, too, holds promise—apps preserving oral histories or AI tools documenting endangered dialects could make a difference.
But real change begins at home.
Parents should rethink the message sent when switching to English during family meals.
Educators can adopt methods that honoUr native fluency alongside new languages.
The urban elite must acknowledge the cognitive and cultural benefits of multilingualism—research shows bilingual children excel in problem-solving and adaptability.
This is not a call to abandon Urdu or English.
It is a plea to embrace heritage and utility together.
A child fluent in Punjabi poetry can thrive in tech, carrying creative advantages rooted in deep linguistic awareness.
As Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o said, “Language is not just a means of communication; it is the very condition of our humanity.
” If we let our mother tongues fade, we surrender the stories that define us.
—The writer is Lecturer in English at Khwaja Fareed University of Engineering and Information Technology, Rahim Yar Khan, Pakistan. (waheed.shahzad@kfueit.edu.pk)
