How rediscovering your mother tongue is revolutionary

Several books in Kurdish surrounding the 29th edition of the primary school book “Alf û bey Kurdî” in the middle. (Gardi, February 2021).

Speaking, reading, writing, and understanding a language is a revolutionary act, especially one that’s under threat of extinction or persecution. One of the world’s most persecuted languages happens to be the language of my ancestors, parents and grandparents, and my mother tongue.

Spoken by over 40 million people, Kurdish is an Indo-European language from the Indo-Iranian language family. Kurdish, itself, is an umbrella term used to describe the different dialects of the language: Kurmanji, Sorani, Hawrami, Kelhuri, and Zazaki - to name a few.

It’s one of the official languages of Iraq and the semi-autonomous Kurdistan Region of Iraq. Kurds also speak it in Iran, Syria, Turkey, and the Kurdish diaspora - of which I'm a part.

I grew up speaking the Sorani dialect, which is spoken in Iraqi Kurdistan, and by the Kurds in Iran.

As a child of the diaspora and a first-generation Canadian, a distinct identity took shape. Although Kurdish was the first language I learned to speak, when I started school, English dominated my life.

At home, my siblings and I spoke in English to each other, however with our parents, we spoke a mixture of Kurdish and English: Kurnglish. School, friends, media, and music were mostly in English.

Naturally, there were periods of Kurdish. I’m more familiar with the Looney Tunes and Bugs Bunny cartoons’ Kurdish-language dub compared to the English versions. The charming sounds of Kurdish music also helped strengthen my awareness of the diversity of the Kurdish dialects.

When I was 8 years old, I taught myself how to read and write in the Central Kurdish alphabet with the first-grade book my parents and generations of other Kurds learned from. Starting with the simple sentence “دارا دوو داری دی” (Dara saw two trees), I expanded my reading skills by reading news headlines in Kurdish on the Kurdish TV channels.

Yet, I still felt like there was something missing, some spark to my mother tongue that was there during my childhood that slowly disappeared as I grew up.

By the end of 2020, I read My Father’s Paradise by Ariel Sabar. It’s a beautifully written memoir based on the author’s father, Yona Sabar, a Jewish Kurd from Zakho, Iraqi Kurdistan. Yona is a linguistics professor in the United States, and his life’s work is to preserve the language of the Jewish Kurds: Aramaic.

In one of the chapters, Yona interviews Mamo Yona, an elder from Zakho, for his linguistics project at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Mamo Yona would retell ancient stories in Aramaic, and Yona Sabar would write them all down in an effort to understand and preserve the Aramaic language.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I was overcome with emotion while reading this chapter. I kept thinking back to my own mother tongue, how I don’t speak it enough, how my reading is slow in the Central Kurdish alphabet, how I want to preserve this persecuted language and continue speaking, listening, reading, and writing in it for the rest of my life. My Father’s Paradise motivated me to reconnect with my mother tongue in a new way.

Under Saddam Hussein’s Baath regime, my relatives and parents couldn’t celebrate their culture and ethnicity, let alone place importance on their language when Arabic was held supreme.

Around 25 million Kurds in Turkey and 10 million Kurds in Iran are denied their fundamental human right to learn their mother tongue in school, and many forget it due to heavy assimilation policies in both countries.

In Syria, Kurds were denied Syrian citizenship starting in 1962 - meaning 2 million Kurds in Syria didn’t exist.

As a Kurd in the diaspora, I have the privilege to learn my mother tongue without fear, and I am determined to use that privilege to reconnect with it.

So, one morning I asked my mom if she had any children’s books in Kurdish to improve my reading skills. She went to her bedroom and returned to the living room with a handful of novels she thought I could read. I was surprised by her belief in me. My mother really thinks I can read an entire novel in Kurdish, she must be kidding, I thought as I browsed through the book titles.

Soon enough, I read my first page in Kurdish from Hiwa Kader’s novel The Children of the Neighbourhood. I read 60 pages before realizing the book wasn’t drawing me in.

The first book I completed was the Kurdish translation of the French novel Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Quran. Feelings of pride and joy consumed me when I finished it - and every book I’ve read in Kurdish since.

While reading, I’d underline any words and phrases I didn’t understand, and my mom would translate or explain them to me.

Since I started reading in Kurdish, I’ve realized the beauty and complexity of the Kurdish language - we have so many words with different meanings depending on the context. I rediscovered the magnificence and colourfulness of my mother tongue. The lovely intricate swirls of the Central Kurdish alphabet and how they magically connect together to create a story.

A fresh gateway opened in my language learning journey, one that’s given me a growing appreciation for all languages and language learners. Children of the diaspora: it’s never too late to reconnect with or learn your mother tongue.

I think Khaled Hosseini describes it perfectly in his book And the Mountains Echoed: “if culture is a house, then language was the key to the front door; to all the rooms inside. Without it…you ended up wayward, without a proper home or a legitimate identity.”

I hope my story will encourage you in some way to rediscover the language of your ancestors.