Gaelige by Orla O’Reilly

An bhfuil Gaeilge agat? No sorry. 

Language is the fabric that binds us woven in between the strings of the vocal cords. Yet it easily dissolves into the waves of time and sails away into the horizon, leaving those who spoke these words before us mesmerised by what could have been and lost in the culture that no longer touches our tongues. 

My lineage is plagued with a crippling fear, a fear that will likely never ease. That the language that was spoken for thousands of years in our homes, in our schools and in our towns will one day dissolve like ink in water.’  As if it were never there. I am a culprit. I’m faced away from what was and let those before me linger waiting to be woken by the sweet sound of just a few words in their native tongue. 

In the quiet of the night, I whisper its syllables like a prayer, hoping they will root themselves in my being before they fall through my teeth into purgatory. Yet still the words dissolve on my tongue like a wafer chased by diluted wine, a taste that was once synonymous with home. Soul of Christ, sanctify me and make me one with a language that would have once been mine.

1366 the Kilkenny statutes enacted by the Irish parliament attempted to reinforce British rule. ‘All Englishmen and the Irish dwelling among them must use English surnames, speak English, and follow English customs.’ God forbid a language you can't understand rests on a tongue. Still in a modern day  Storm clouds continue to gather on the horizon, they are shouting, ‘It's useless’ they scream, ‘A dead language.’

Every fortnight a language meets its demise, falling in between the cracks and sinking to the ocean floor, engulfed by the tide of unionism, as English spreads like an unstoppable current, never to be heard again by those who once breathed their life and their love into every letter. Irish is just one example of language beaten down by colonialism, but the list is endless, each language with their own unique construction and stories. 

Hittite. Tocharian. Dalmatian. Manx. 

Any of these ring a bell? No? 

Okay how about Etruscan, Ubykh or Luiseño? 

Nothing? 

Their names are like ghosts roaming empty halls, they were once lullabies, war cries, confessions of love. But are now restricted to words in a text book. 

Their deaths were not lengthy battles, nor dramatic turns of misfortune. They weren't long fights against deadly illnesses or stabs in the chest from enemies. Their deaths were silent. Insignificant. And we all watched. As they slowly and quietly drowned in a pool of indifference, which we filled to the brim with our western ignorance. 

The beauty of language cannot be ignored, each with their own ways of expressing emotions, phrases unique to its people  there is no direct translation for anything. 

Grá, an irish term meaning love. 

No. 

More than love. 

A god given gift, to feel so strongly for another something so divine it's beyond the realm of english translation. But that isn't all, each language is so vastly different from the next, each has it its unique way of expressing emotion, a better ways to say ‘I love you’ in irish would be Tá mo chroí istigh ionat, meaning; my heart is in you or Is tú mo chuisle, meaning; you are my pulse. 

In French to explain love you could say; Avoir un coup de foudre, which literally means to be struck by lightning. In Italian its; Perdere la testa per qualcuno meaning to lose one's head for someone. 

There is so much beauty in these expressions, to lose these is to lose not just words but entire ways of being or feeling. To ignore this charm should be a crime, worthy of conviction. 

But still the counter stance stems from a lack of cultural understanding, if a language isn't spoken by a majority then what's it good for? Communication is one thing, history is another. To view language as merely a utility is a disservice to its value and strip to its spirit. 

The looming threat of extinction hinders possible learners, their purposes dulled by the blaring voices of those ignorant to its historical significance.  Yet, facing away from the history that runs through our veins, cannot be deemed a solution either, perspective is where the solution hides. That delicate middle ground is where many choose to spend their days, admiring the beauty that kisses the horizon. 

Go raibh maith agat, Orla.