As we continue to commemorate Youth Month, I find myself reflecting deeply on what it means to be a young person today — especially in the context of language, identity, and the ongoing fight against oppression in all its forms.
I was honoured to attend the second day of an incredibly moving and intellectually stimulating event hosted by the University of KwaZulu-Natal at its Edgewood campus. The gathering focused on the harmonization and synchronization of acronyms for Indigenous languages, and was facilitated by Dr. Wababa and Professor Maphumulo, with Mr. Njabulo Manyoni as the programme director.
I had the privilege of attending the event through the kind invitation of Dr. Phephani Gumbi, and for that, I am truly grateful.
The timing of the event could not have been more meaningful. It is Youth Month in South Africa — a time when we remember the courage and sacrifice of the young people of 1976, who rose against the apartheid regime’s attempt to impose Afrikaans as the medium of instruction in Black schools. That fight was about much more than language.
It was about identity, about dignity, and about refusing to be erased. Language was used as a weapon of control and suppression — and so young people, some just children, decided to fight back.
In 2025, the terrain has shifted, but the wounds of language remain. As I sat in that room, listening to scholars, students, and language activists speak about the importance of preserving Indigenous languages, I couldn’t help but think about how language continues to hold the power to liberate, or to wound.
We watched a thought-provoking video titled Sink or Swim, in which a Xhosa-speaking teacher was instructing white learners in isiXhosa. It was an incredibly symbolic moment. Here was an image of reversal — of cultural reclamation — of language being used not to exclude or dominate, but to invite, to teach, to equalize. It challenged every notion we’ve been raised with about who owns language, who deserves to be understood, and what it means to be truly seen.
One comment from a participant struck a chord so deep I haven’t stopped thinking about it. She said: “The use of language can be a form of violence.” That hit me hard — because it’s true. The way we speak to and about others, the words we use, the names we give, and the languages we choose to ignore — all of that has the power to harm.
As a gender-based violence and femicide human rights activist, I’ve seen firsthand how language is used to dehumanize, to silence, and to shame. We may not carry whips or guns, but we carry words. And sometimes, those words cut even deeper.
For example, calling foreign nationals “amakwerekwere” isn’t just slang — it’s violence. It is a word soaked in xenophobia and laced with disgust. It strips people of their dignity, otherizes them, and creates a climate where violence becomes justifiable. It is the kind of word that lays the foundation for the burning of bodies and the breaking of families. And yet, we use it casually, carelessly, cruelly.
Even in the GBV space, the language we use can either empower or retraumatize survivors. When we ask victims of rape, “What were you wearing?” or “Why didn’t you scream?” — that is linguistic violence. When we reduce women to stereotypes — calling them “attention seekers,” “angry feminists,” or “bitter exes” — that is violence. When we ignore a victim’s mother tongue in legal processes, we are not just being inefficient. We are being violent.
Language can be a sanctuary or a battlefield. And too often, in our country, it is the latter.
That’s why the work being done by UKZN and the scholars involved in this initiative is so powerful. It is about more than just synchronizing acronyms — it’s about reclaiming the linguistic dignity of our people. It’s about giving children the right to learn in their own languages.
It’s about disrupting the colonial hierarchy of language that still lingers in our systems. And it’s about teaching us — as activists, as citizens, as human beings — to speak with care.
Because, ultimately, this is also a mental health issue, a justice issue, a human rights issue. When people are not allowed to name their pain in their own tongue, when they are made to feel alien in their own land, when their language is reduced to a “home language” but never a language of power — we are failing them.
I would also like to take a moment to extend my heartfelt thanks to the University of KwaZulu-Natal for organizing such a timely and thought-provoking event. My sincere appreciation goes to the facilitators, Dr. Wababa and Professor Maphumulo, for their wisdom, energy, and guidance throughout the programme.
A special thank you to Mr. Njabulo Manyoni, who directed the programme with such grace and focus, and to Dr. Phephani Gumbi, whose invitation allowed me the opportunity to participate in this important gathering. I am also deeply grateful to the group I was placed in — thank you for the meaningful conversations, the laughter, the insight, and the shared commitment to building a more inclusive future. It was an honour to learn with and from each of you.
So yes, this Youth Month, let us remember the 1976 generation. Let us honour their fight. But let us also widen the struggle. Let us remember that language is still being used today to exclude, to wound, and to erase. Let us commit to using language as a tool of healing, of justice, and of love.
And as for me? I left that event changed. Inspired. Challenged. And most of all, reminded that the revolution is not only in the streets — sometimes, it begins with the words we choose to speak.
Camagu.
