On a warm August day in 2025, the quiet town of Loma Grande, Paraguay, witnessed a wedding unlike any other in recent memory. Margarita Gayoso and Christian Ojeda, who had been living in Spain, returned to their Paraguayan hometown to celebrate their union not just with family and friends, but in the language of their ancestors—Guaraní. The ceremony, officiated entirely in Guaraní, left a profound impact on those present. “Everyone was crying because everything feels so profound in Guaraní,” Gayoso recalled to the Associated Press. “It’s as if the pronunciation pours out of your soul.”
Guaraní is more than just a means of communication for Paraguayans—it is a living symbol of identity, history, and soul. As one of Paraguay’s two official languages, alongside Spanish, Guaraní continues to shape the nation’s cultural landscape, even as modern pressures threaten its survival. According to Paraguay’s 2024 official data, about 1.6 million people report Guaraní as their main language, 1.5 million speak Spanish, and 2.1 million identify as bilingual. These figures highlight the language’s resilience in a region where most Indigenous tongues have faded in the shadow of Spanish colonization.
Yet, that resilience is now being tested. Linguists warn that fluency in Guaraní among younger generations is slipping. Nationwide preservation efforts are underway, but the challenges are steep. The language’s primary use remains oral, and it rarely appears in official documents, government records, or literary works. Even for a significant life event like a wedding, finding a Catholic priest able to preside in Guaraní proved difficult for Gayoso and Ojeda. Nevertheless, the effort was worthwhile, as some guests remarked it was the first local wedding they had attended conducted entirely in their mother tongue.
Why has Guaraní managed to remain so central to Paraguayan life, even as other Indigenous languages have vanished? The answer lies deep in the culture’s spiritual fabric. “In the Guaraní culture, language is synonymous with soul,” explained Arnaldo Casco, a researcher from Paraguay’s Department of Linguistics, in an interview with the AP. “The word is what the Lord bestowed on men, so we believe that, for the Guaraní people, losing their language was like losing their soul.” This profound connection to language fueled resistance to Spanish assimilation for centuries. Early European missionaries, recognizing this, learned Guaraní themselves in order to evangelize effectively.
The first written records of Guaraní in Paraguay were created by Jesuit and Franciscan priests, who developed an alphabet and dictionary to aid in delivering sermons. These early efforts played a critical role in preserving the language from extinction, even as the tides of colonization and modernization swept through Latin America. By the early 19th century, close to 90% of Paraguay’s population spoke Guaraní as their primary language. However, after the country gained independence from Spain in 1811, efforts to promote Guaraní fluctuated. During the 1930s, the language was encouraged to foster national unity during wartime, but a postwar decree soon banned its use in schools. This led to the punishment of parents and students for speaking Guaraní—an experience that left scars on many families.
“My parents and other parents were tortured for not speaking Spanish,” remembered Miguel Ángel Verón, a linguistics researcher whose father was beaten for communicating in Guaraní. “Why was not speaking Spanish his fault? He and my uncles ended up abandoning school.” It wasn’t until 1992 that Spanish-Guaraní bilingual education became mandatory in Paraguay. Both languages are now required in classrooms, but the law does not guarantee the availability of textbooks in Guaraní or foster widespread awareness of the need to preserve the language. As a result, many families have stopped speaking Guaraní to their children, fearing it could hinder their success and instead encouraging them to learn English.
“Paraguay continues to suffer from a deep linguistic wound,” Verón told the AP. “It might be easy to pass a law, but shifting our attitudes requires so much more.” For those working to preserve Guaraní, the language is far more than words. “The fundamental human values that we Paraguayans hold come from it,” Verón emphasized. “Solidarity, reciprocity, and a sacred respect towards nature.”
Guaraní contains concepts that defy translation into Spanish, such as “jarýi,” which describes god-like protectors of the land. According to some, like Verón’s father, the land needs years of rest between harvests to regain its wisdom and strength. “If you destroy a forest to eat, you won’t be in any trouble. But if you do it just for the sake of it or to earn money, the jarýi will come,” Verón explained. Casco, too, shared how he learned lessons from a local medicine man, including the belief that prayer can heal—a legacy from Paraguay’s Indigenous people.
Across Paraguay’s rural areas, hundreds of similar stories link language with faith and tradition. Yet, until recently, few written records of these beliefs existed. To address this, Casco leads a project to interview Guaraní speakers over 60 years old, aiming to create a register of collective memories and preserve the connection to Paraguay’s roots and history. His team has interviewed 72 people so far, and the transcripts will be published on the Department of Linguistics’ website once completed. “Our goal is to rescue the connection that we have with our roots and history through language,” Casco said.
The stories gathered in Loma Grande are as diverse as they are poignant. Juana Giménez, 83, is renowned for her knowledge of medicinal plants. Desperate parents would bring their crying babies to her, and with a mix of herbs, smoke, and prayer, she would help ease their pain. Marta Duarte, 73, spent years in Asunción as a tailor before returning to Loma Grande, where she now helps at the local church—discussing Bible passages in Guaraní even as the readings are in Spanish. Carlos Kurt, an 85-year-old descendant of German immigrants, still laughs about the time his second-grade teacher wrote to his parents, “Your boy is a good student, but he speaks way too much in Guaraní.” He loved the language, but now his own grandson does not speak it. “He doesn’t like it,” Kurt said.
Not every family is letting go. In Asunción, Sofia Rattazzi speaks only Guaraní to her mother and grandmother, Nancy Vera. Vera holds fast to beliefs like “yvyguy” treasure—gold supposedly hidden by wealthy Paraguayans during the 1800s wartime. The family still digs in their backyard, hoping to find these legendary riches. Rattazzi encouraged her grandmother to participate in Casco’s language project, saying, “I want her to see how her own history matters. Now something will be left from her once she is gone.”
As Paraguay moves deeper into the 21st century, the fate of Guaraní hangs in the balance. The language remains a wellspring of cultural memory and identity, but its future will depend on the willingness of Paraguayans—young and old—to keep speaking, sharing, and cherishing the words that pour from their soul.