The recent Moatsü festival, meant to be a proud celebration of heritage, offered a sobering glimpse into a deeper crisis: the quiet erosion of our cultural identity through the loss of language. While the colours, songs, and dances of tradition were on full display, the words that carry the soul of our culture were conspicuously absent.
It has often been said that to lose one’s language is to lose one’s identity. Language is not merely a means of communication; it is a vessel that carries our collective memory, our worldview, our values, and our stories. Without it, culture becomes performance rather than lived experience.
During the Moatsü celebrations, it was jarring to note that even the comperes, the leaders of the proceedings of the events, struggled to form complete sentences in the Ao language. Phrases like chalo, shabash, jaka, or even basic cues like “one-two-three” dominated the air, despite there being clear equivalents in the native tongue. If our festivals, the very occasions meant to reinforce identity, cannot uphold linguistic integrity, then what message are we passing on to the next generation?
Wearing traditional attire or performing customary dances is important but culture cannot be reduced to visual symbolism alone. When language is sidelined, so too is the knowledge embedded within it: folk wisdom, oral traditions, practices, and expressions that have no direct translation.
This is not a Naga problem alone; it is a universal truth. Cultures across the world face extinction when their languages are lost. But the good news is that cultural revival is possible when language preservation is prioritized. Community-led education, encouraging the use of native tongues at home, and incorporating mother languages into school curricula and public events are vital steps.
Language is not just a cultural ornament; it is the spine of identity. If we wish to preserve who we are, we must start with the words we speak.