In a world where cultures increasingly collide and blend, the boundaries that once defined language and identity are shifting at a dizzying pace. From the ancient hills of Jammu, where the Dogri language once flourished, to the bustling corridors of the University of Toronto, where students juggle accents and idioms, the struggle to preserve one’s linguistic heritage amid relentless modernity is as urgent as ever. The stories of Dogri’s slow fade and the everyday code-switching of multicultural youth reveal the high stakes—and hidden costs—of linguistic survival in a globalized age.
Dogri, the regional language of Jammu, is cherished for its sweetness—an identity captured in the saying, “Mithriye Dogre Di Boli, Te Khand Mitthe Log Dogre” (Just like the Dogri language, the people who speak it are also sweet), as reported by The Wire. But sweetness alone hasn’t been enough to halt its decline. The language’s roots run deep: Dogri is documented as early as 1160 A.D. in the Takri script, and the famed Persian poet Amir Khusrau listed it among India’s prominent tongues in the 13th and 14th centuries. During Maharaja Ranbir Singh’s reign in the 19th century, Dogri was given official status as a court language and taught in the Raghunath Mandir Pathshala, where scholars received books and uniforms. Between 1856 and 1885, Dogri’s influence widened, even appearing on currency and postal stamps. British geologist Frederic Drew observed, “New Dogri is used for petitions that are read before the Maharaja, and for this purpose, it has replaced Persian, on which petitions were written when I first came to Jammu.”
Yet, this golden era was not to last. After the Dogra rule ended and British colonialism took hold, Urdu replaced Persian as the administrative language, pushing Dogri to the margins. Before Jammu and Kashmir joined India in 1947, Dogri thrived in the region. But afterward, Kashmiri and Urdu were granted official status and included in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution, while Dogri was left out. This snub dealt a blow to Dogri’s public presence, especially in schools. Without institutional support, the language’s decline accelerated, and today, its speakers and writers are dwindling.
Dogri’s renaissance began with passionate literary advocates like Dinu Bhai Pant, Shambhu Nath Sharma—who translated the Ramayana into Dogri—Kishan Smailpuri, and Padma Sachdev. Their decades-long campaign finally paid off in 2003, when Dogri was added to the Eighth Schedule. Still, official recognition hasn’t translated into widespread revival. Dogri remains notably absent from many academic curricula, a gap that continues to erode its relevance. As The Wire notes, “when a language is neither spoken at home, nor taught in schools, nor valued in society, its extinction becomes inevitable.”
Modernity has only compounded these challenges. Parents, eager for their children to succeed in a globalized world, often avoid speaking Dogri at home, sometimes even feeling embarrassed to use it in public. The result? A generation growing up disconnected from their linguistic roots. The article’s author, Rohan Qurashi, argues that the responsibility of preserving Dogri now rests on the youth: “They must speak their mother tongue with confidence and pride.” He points to Punjab as a model, where students are required to study their mother tongue up to the 10th standard. Qurashi believes that if Dogri is integrated into school curricula and embraced in daily life—at home, in digital spaces, and through creative media—the language can thrive once more.
But Dogri’s predicament is not unique. Thousands of miles away, the phenomenon of code-switching—shifting language, accent, tone, or behavior to adapt to different social settings—plays out daily among students at the University of Toronto. As The Varsity explains, code-switching can be both a survival skill and a source of inner conflict. The article’s author, a Pakistani student who has lived in five countries, describes how her accent and linguistic style change depending on her audience: “I exaggerated my T’s and D’s, and rolled my R’s, sounds that my friends on the phone certainly weren’t used to.” Her friends’ laughter made her realize she had been unconsciously code-switching for years, “unrolling” her R’s for school presentations and thickening her American accent to project confidence.
For some, code-switching is a mark of adaptability and strength. Rayn Lakhani, a second-year peace, conflict and justice student, notes, “When I choose to code-switch strategically, I see it as adaptability and a strength of my linguistic capabilities.” For others, it’s a painful compromise. Obiajulu Udemgba, a second-year architecture student, laments, “I now mourn the elements of my cultural identity that I feel I may never get back… It has also extinguished the linguistic element of my cultural identity that once deeply defined me.”
The stakes are high. Students report feeling pressured to adopt a “standard” North American English accent to be taken seriously. Pilar Amparo Dominguez, an English and political science student, shares, “I felt like I was received more positively as an international student if I spoke English with a standard North American accent.” Otherwise, she faced questions about her background—a subtle form of othering that makes code-switching feel less like a choice and more like a necessity.
Yet, some see code-switching as negotiation, not assimilation. Daniel Park, a Korean-Canadian commerce student, says that in Canada, “being ‘Canadian’ becomes about being tolerant, accepting, and inclusive.” Lakhani, however, calls code-switching an “iceberg”: “On the surface, [code-switching] can promote inclusion… but at a deeper level, it almost feels as though students must conform to dominant narratives of speaking and being.”
The emotional toll is real. Constant vigilance—altering speech, behavior, and even identity—can be exhausting. Arhaan Lulla, a criminology and political science student, observes, “If you’re just concerned about sounding a particular way, the entire point [of what you’re trying to say] is gone.” For him, clarity matters more than the prestige of a Westernized accent. Lakhani adds, “When I choose to code-switch strategically, it feels like power. But when it’s forced, it feels like loss.” Dominguez agrees: “Code-switching to fit in with the majority population could be a loss of diversity.”
Still, there’s another side to the story. For many, code-switching is a way to connect with others who share their background. Gabriela Quiroga, who has lived in Colombia, Chile, Sweden, and now Canada, says, “It depends really on where my friends are from. If they have sort of a Latin background… I feel a bit more comfortable code-switching, and I feel like I do it automatically.” Dominguez adds, “Speaking with a Filipino accent makes it very easy to befriend other Filipinos.”
Professional spaces add another layer of complexity. Pinar Ari, a public health and psychology student, avoids disclosing her cultural identity in job interviews until after she’s hired, fearing bias. For many, English fluency and accent have become professionalized—gateways to success. But this “coat of armour” can be heavy, leading to fatigue and burnout.
In the end, both Dogri’s struggle for survival and the code-switching experiences of multicultural youth highlight the delicate balance between adaptation and authenticity. As Lulla puts it, “People should be comfortable in the way that they speak, in terms of their accents, because that will help them out in the long term. If you’re insecure about the way you speak, you’re not going to be able to communicate your thoughts.”
As languages like Dogri fight for space in the modern world and young people navigate the choppy waters of belonging, the challenge is clear: to embrace new linguistic realities without losing the richness of one’s roots. The journey is far from easy, but the rewards—a sense of connection, pride, and selfhood—are worth every word.
