We’d sit outside my dadu’s house, in the massive two-acre garden, as the humid air clung to my skin and the streets beyond buzzed with life—hawkers calling out their goods, rickshaw bells ringing, voices rising and falling in the rhythm of a language that was supposed to be mine. I understood everything, yet when I tried to speak, the words never quite landed the way they should. My Bangla was clumsy, my accent giving me away as an outsider in the very place I was meant to belong.

I was born in Finland, raised in London, but my blood is Bengali. At home, ammu and abbu spoke Bangla, but the world outside existed in Finnish first, then in English. Somewhere in between, my Bangla slipped through the cracks. I never struggled to understand, but speaking was different—awkward, uncomfortable. I second-guessed my pronunciation, overcompensated for my accent, hesitated at every sentence. It was easier to just stay silent.

I only see my extended family every few years when I visit Bangladesh. Twice a year, on Eid, I make the obligatory phone calls to my chachas, chachis, mamas, mamis, and cousins. The conversations are always the same—polite, predictable, distant. My reluctance to push past my discomfort in Bangla means I will never truly know them.

I only ever had one real conversation with my dadu. I must have been around 14, sitting in the front room of his house. He spoke slowly, carefully, making sure I understood. And I did. Every word, every lesson woven into it. But when he finished, I just nodded, unsure of how to respond. I wanted to ask him more, to keep the conversation alive, but the words wouldn’t come. So, I stayed quiet.

I never got another story. My dadu passed before I ever got the chance to truly know him. I know he was a great man, but only through others—not from him. I never asked about his childhood, his struggles, or the things he had seen. The stories he could have told me are lost now, not because they weren’t worth telling, but because I wasn’t ready to listen properly.

I think about that a lot now. About how language isn’t just about communication—it’s about connection. I think about my nanu, who still calls me even though our conversations are slow and fragmented. He never gets frustrated when I pause to find the right words, never corrects me when I stumble through a sentence. He just listens.

Speaking Bangla is still difficult. I still hesitate, still second-guess my pronunciation. But I try. I answer my nanu’s calls. I speak Bangla with my parents. And when I visit my favourite street food market in Brick Lane—a place full of Bengali stall owners—I try to order in Bangla. My favourite stall is a Thai food stall, run by a Bengali family. I always get sweet and sour chicken and egg fried rice, and we always speak in Bangla. There, my words come a little easier. There, I don’t feel the need to be perfect.

I know I will never speak flawless Bangla. I may never read or write it fluently. But I refuse to let it disappear from my life completely. My broken Bangla is still Bangla. And every time I speak it, no matter how imperfectly, I keep a part of my history alive.

If you have a language that was passed down to you, hold onto it. Speak it, however awkwardly. Don’t wait until it’s too late to realise what you’ve lost.

Today is International Mother Language Day, which holds special significance for Bangladeshis like me. The date, February 21st, marks the anniversary of the 1952 Bangladesh Language Movement. On this day, students in Dhaka protested for the right to speak Bangla as the official language of East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). The movement tragically resulted in the deaths of several students, but their sacrifice became a powerful symbol of resistance not only against linguistic oppression but also against political injustice. Their fight for the right to speak their mother tongue became a pivotal moment in the struggle for independence and cultural identity.

International Mother Language Day, established by the United Nations in 1999, promotes linguistic diversity and cultural heritage. It serves as a reminder that language is not just a tool for communication; it is a vessel for stories, identity, and history that shape us. It reminds us to recognise and preserve the languages we speak, especially those that have faced the threat of disappearing, like Bangla in the context of my own experience.

It is likely that you have never had to fight for the right to speak your language. It is likely that you have never considered that people have shed blood simply to exist in their own words. Recognise that privilege. Speak your language with pride—because when a language disappears, so do its stories, its history, and a part of those who spoke it.

And perhaps, when we’re tongue-tied in our mother tongue, we realise the weight of what we almost lost.
Glossary of Bangla Terms