The relationship between language and ethnic identity has long occupied a central place in social, cultural and political thought. It is a relationship that is at once intimate and complex – uniting people through shared expression while also becoming a site of contestation and power.
In anthropology and sociology, language is often seen not just as a means of communication but as a symbolic system through which communities construct meaning, memory and belonging. Ethnicity, in turn, embodies the collective sense of shared ancestry, culture, and tradition. The two are intertwined yet not synonymous.
Ethnicity differs fundamentally from race. While race is based on biological or physical attributes – real or imagined – ethnicity is a cultural construct. It represents a sense of collective identity formed through shared traditions, history, and often, language. Language is among the most powerful markers of ethnicity because it encodes the worldview, oral history and collective consciousness of a people. Yet not every linguistic community constitutes an ethnic group, nor does every ethnic group necessarily speak a single language. The relationship is fluid and socially constructed, changing over time as communities migrate, assimilate, or reassert their distinctiveness.
From this intimate connection between language and identity emerge several key terms: mother tongue, first language, native language and heritage language. These terms, though often used interchangeably, carry distinct cultural and emotional meanings. The mother tongue or first language usually refers to the language a child learns first at home and through which they begin to make sense of the world. It forms the foundation of thought, emotion, and cognitive development. The ancestral or heritage language, however, carries a deeper layer of meaning – it links individuals to their community’s history, traditions, and collective identity.
For example, consider a Torwali family that migrates from Swat to Karachi. Their child, growing up in an Urdu-speaking neighbourhood, may learn Urdu first, making it his or her mother tongue in practice. Yet, Torwali remains the ancestral or heritage language – a living connection to the mountains, culture and lineage of their forebears. As long as the child or family continues to identify with that linguistic and cultural heritage, the ancestral language remains central to their ethnic identity.
The concept of heritage language is deeply cultural and symbolic. It is through such languages that communities transmit folklore, songs, poetry, myths and oral histories – those intangible forms of heritage that sustain cultural memory. Hence, a heritage language is not merely a tool for speech but a vessel of collective memory, emotion and wisdom. When a community loses its language, it does not simply lose words; it loses entire ways of seeing and understanding the world.
Interestingly, the term ‘mother tongue’ itself is relatively modern, and its exact origin is uncertain. In many traditional societies – especially those organised along patrilineal lines, where lineage and inheritance pass through the father – the association of language with the mother is metaphorical rather than genealogical. Scholars suggest that it arose from the perception of the mother as the first teacher, the first source of nurture and love, from whom a child learns the sounds of the world. The English philosopher and priest, John Wyclif, is believed to have first used the term in the 14th century.
In South Asia, the concept of ‘mother tongue’ became popular only in modern times, primarily through colonial education systems and census classifications. Traditionally, communities referred to their language as ‘ancestral’ or ‘forefathers’ language’. In Torwali, for instance, the term ‘boop daedi jib’ literally means ‘the language of our forefathers’. This expression conveys a profound sense of continuity and heritage – language as the link that binds generations and carries forward the soul of a people.
In Pakistan, the relationship between language and ethnic identity is deeply political. The idea of nationhood in Pakistan was deliberately built on civic nationalism, a form of national identity rooted in citizenship rather than ethnicity or language. This model was motivated by a historical fear: that acknowledging multiple ethnic and linguistic identities might fragment state unity. Consequently, the Pakistani state, since its inception, has sought to minimise the political visibility of regional languages and ethnicities, promoting instead a religion-based unity as the foundation of national identity.
This ideological approach had far-reaching implications. The decision to impose Urdu as the national language, despite being the mother tongue of a small minority, alienated large linguistic communities such as the Bengalis, Sindhis, Pashtuns, Baloch and Punjabis. The language issue even played a pivotal role in the political alienation that led to the secession of East Pakistan in 1971. Yet, the lesson was never fully learned: Pakistan’s language policy continues to reflect anxiety over diversity rather than confidence in pluralism.
This anxiety is clearly reflected in Pakistan’s census practices. In the national census, citizens are required to identify their nationality as ‘Pakistani’, ‘Afghan’, or ‘Iranian’, but not their ethnic group. However, in the same form, people are asked to specify their mother tongue, a category that has become a political tool for classifying ethnicities. The 2023 census recognised only 14 of Pakistan’s 70-plus languages, excluding dozens of smaller but historically rich linguistic communities.
This selective recognition has created distortions and competition. Major ethnic groups use these limited categories to assert demographic dominance, while smaller languages disappear from official records altogether. Those who report Pashto as their mother tongue are classified as Pashtuns, Sindhi speakers as Sindhis, and Urdu speakers as Mohajirs. A Punjabi family living in an urban setting that reports Urdu as their mother tongue may suddenly be categorised as Mohajir? Similarly, Gujjar or Hindko speakers who report Pashto are counted as Pashtuns?
Such classifications are not trivial; they shape access to political representation, resources, and cultural recognition. In effect, language has become a political instrument rather than a neutral marker of identity.
Even more concerning is the lack of linguistic awareness among census enumerators, most of whom belong to dominant groups. They often misidentify minority languages due to ignorance or convenience. Thus, languages spoken in Hazara, Kohistan, Swat, Dir are mostly recorded as Pashto, while those of Gilgit-Baltistan are subsumed under Urdu or Shina. This systematic misclassification creates a dangerous linguistic centralisation, effectively erasing small languages from Pakistan's map. Once erased statistically, these languages lose visibility in policy, education and funding – accelerating their decline.
In Pakistan, as elsewhere, language is not merely a means of communication but a symbol of power, belonging and exclusion. The ability to speak a dominant language such as Urdu or English often determines access to education, employment and social mobility. Meanwhile, speakers of indigenous or regional languages are marginalised, their linguistic identities confined to the private sphere. This hierarchy of languages mirrors broader social inequalities.
What emerges, therefore, is a contradiction. The state insists that religion, not language, is the basis of nationhood, yet it uses language as a proxy for ethnic classification and political identity. This contradiction exposes the fragile foundations of Pakistan’s national imagination, which fears diversity instead of embracing it.
The connection between language and ethnicity is natural, emotional and historical. But when it is restricted by state power, policy frameworks or census classifications, it ceases to serve as a source of identity and becomes a tool of control. True national unity cannot be achieved by suppressing diversity; it requires recognition and respect for all the linguistic and cultural communities that constitute the federation.
To move towards genuine pluralism, Pakistan must reform its linguistic and cultural policies. This includes recognising all major and minor languages in official documents, supporting mother-tongue education at the primary level, and ensuring that smaller linguistic communities such as Torwali, Gawri, Wakhi, Burushaski and others are represented in the national narrative.
Language is the voice of a people’s history, emotion and imagination. Protecting mother and ancestral languages is not a matter of nostalgia; it is the foundation of cultural justice and mutual respect.
In a multilingual and multiethnic state like Pakistan, linguistic diversity is not a problem to be solved but a treasure to be celebrated. Recognising and nurturing this diversity is essential for building a balanced, inclusive and resilient national identity.
The writer heads an independent organisation dealing with education and development in Swat. He can be reached at: [email protected]
