Language Barrier in Education

 

Lost in Language: The Struggles of Pakistani Students in a Multilingual Maze

In Pakistan, where linguistic diversity should be celebrated as a national strength, it has instead become a silent struggle—especially for students. From the earliest stages of life, children are caught in a confusing web of languages that do not align with their environment, educational system, or spiritual experience. This mismatch is far more than a second-language learning issue; it represents a deep-rooted crisis that hinders intellectual development, suppresses identity, and fractures the student’s connection with both society and self. To ignore this issue is to continue failing the very generation entrusted with the country's future.

A child in Pakistan is typically raised in a mother tongue—Punjabi, Sindhi, Pashto, Balochi, Saraiki, or another regional language. This is the language of love, storytelling, and early thought. However, as the child steps into public life, especially in urban areas, the societal language often shifts to Urdu or a mix of regional dialects, subtly displacing the mother tongue. When the child enters school, the pressure intensifies. English, and sometimes Urdu, takes over as the medium of instruction. This shift not only creates confusion but also sends an implicit message that their first language is inadequate for serious thought or education. Over time, students begin to internalize this belief, and the language that once gave them their first thoughts and emotions is silenced by institutional structures.

The impact of this linguistic displacement becomes most evident in education. In classrooms across the country, students are expected to absorb complex subjects in English—a language many have little exposure to outside of school. Instead of facilitating understanding, the language of instruction often becomes a barrier. Students are forced to memorize without meaning, speak without confidence, and write without clarity. Their performance is often judged not on the basis of comprehension or creativity, but on fluency in a language that is not their own. For students from less privileged backgrounds, especially in rural areas, this system creates a built-in disadvantage that they may never fully overcome. Education, which should be an equalizing force, becomes yet another space of exclusion.

This sense of alienation extends beyond the classroom. As students mature and are taught to embrace a sense of national pride, they encounter another paradox. They are expected to honor national symbols such as the anthem, yet the heavily Persianized language of the anthem is often difficult to comprehend, even for native Urdu speakers. This moment of national unity becomes an empty ritual, a symbolic gesture rather than a heartfelt expression of patriotism. The irony is striking: a student is expected to stand in reverence for words that are intended to inspire, but which remain incomprehensible. Nationalism, in this context, feels more like a command than a connection.

Religious education presents a similar contradiction. Arabic, the language of the Qur’an, holds deep spiritual significance in Pakistani society. Children are encouraged to memorize sacred texts from an early age, yet most do so without understanding the meanings of the verses they recite. This practice, while rooted in devotion, often fosters dependency on religious intermediaries rather than personal engagement with faith. Without comprehension, spirituality becomes ritualistic rather than reflective. For many, the result is a distant relationship with religion—one based on memorization, not meaning; obligation, not understanding.

The psychological consequences of these layered language experiences are profound. From childhood to adulthood, students learn—both explicitly and implicitly—that their mother tongue is less valuable than national, official, or religious languages. They are constantly required to shift linguistic identities, often without fully mastering any of them. This results in a fragmented self, unable to fully belong in any space. The very tools they are given to learn, express, and grow are not rooted in their personal reality. Instead, they are forced to navigate life through words that do not reflect their innermost thoughts or cultural grounding.

This crisis is not insurmountable, but it demands urgent and thoughtful intervention. Pakistan’s education system must begin by recognizing the value of regional languages—not just as cultural artifacts, but as valid mediums of instruction. Children should begin their educational journey in the language they know best, allowing for genuine comprehension and self-expression. English and Urdu can be taught as secondary languages, with an emphasis on gradual integration rather than forced immersion. Arabic, too, should be taught with meaning and context, enabling students to develop a personal, reflective connection with their faith.

Such a multilingual approach would not only enhance learning outcomes but also reaffirm students’ cultural and personal identities. It would allow students to express their ideas confidently, engage critically with knowledge, and relate meaningfully to their nation and religion. Across the world, students in multilingual societies like Switzerland, Canada, and Finland successfully learn two or more languages because their education systems are designed to support linguistic diversity rather than suppress it. In these contexts, each language is respected for its cultural and functional role—whether it's the mother tongue, a national language, or an international medium of communication. Students are not forced to abandon their first language but are encouraged to build upon it as a foundation for acquiring new ones. If Pakistan adopts a similarly inclusive and thoughtful approach, it can transform language from a source of confusion into a source of empowerment. Above all, it would teach students that every language they speak has value—and so do they.

Finally we can believer that Pakistani students have the potential to thrive, to think independently, and to contribute meaningfully to society. But to unlock that potential, we must first let them speak, learn, and grow in a language that feels like home. Language should be a bridge to opportunity, not a wall that separates young minds from their future. It is time we reimagine education not as a process of replacing identities, but as a journey of nurturing them. In doing so, we can finally give our students what they have always deserved—the freedom to learn in their own voice.