By Yara Mekkawi
The way I feel towards my mother tongue mirrors the way I feel towards my mother.
Growing up, she was always there; present, surrounding me, but in some ways, taken for granted. My father and I would naturally drift into English, sometimes even bonding over what didn’t translate to her, as if we understood something she didn’t.
But what I didn’t understand then was the weight of that distance.
My mother carries a certain intensity, one that’s deeply emotional, deeply expressive. And as a child, that intensity overwhelmed me.
I think I subconsciously associated that same feeling with Arabic. It felt heavy, demanding. I would feel anxious before Arabic lessons even began, as if the language itself required something from me that I wasn’t ready to give.
What’s interesting is that I never felt that way with French, even though it was completely foreign to me. It came without emotional responsibility. It didn’t carry identity, or expectation, or history.
And I think that’s what happens when you move away from your mother tongue, it’s not just a shift in language, it’s a shift in proximity to yourself. You lose a certain immediacy in how you feel and express things, especially as a child who is already learning how to articulate emotions.
Now, as I’ve grown older, I feel a pull back toward Arabic. A need to understand it more deeply, but also to be understood within it.
Especially now, when it feels like the world is increasingly turning its back on us. I feel a stronger responsibility to turn toward it. To face it, to reclaim it, and to exist fully within it.
Official Poster for International Mother Language Day by UNESCO