“You are Taiwanese? Do you speak Taiwanese then?”
Growing up in Buenos Aires, my school memories were filled with Spanish, a language that dances off the tongue with the same rhythm and elegance as the tango.
However, in my house, a different melody would play — one that alluded to my roots, an artisanal, homemade combination of Taiwanese Hokkien and Mandarin.
Although it was a beautiful sound, it was not a tempo I could follow. Put simply, the Taiwanese language was too hard for me to grasp.
Eventually, my parents gave into my requests and abandoned that unique fusion of Chinese and Taiwanese languages.
It helped me greatly to communicate with my parents, yet in that moment I did not realize I was slowly cutting myself off from my roots, and alienating myself from the history of my parents, grandparents and country.
I was too naive to realize that effectively, I was contributing to the death of the Taiwanese language.
Taiwanese, or Taiwanese Hokkien, is a language that holds the stories of my ancestors, a thread that connects me to my heritage.
However, like many in the Taiwanese diaspora, my journey with the language has been anything but easy.
The challenge of preserving the Taiwanese language while immersed in a predominantly Spanish-speaking society has been a significant part of my life, highlighting the broader struggle for language preservation within the Taiwanese diaspora.
For many Taiwanese families abroad, including my own, the maintenance of our mother tongue is a conscious effort against the relentless tide of cultural assimilation.
The older generation, particularly my grandparents, who first moved to Argentina, clung to Taiwanese as a bastion of their identity.
For them, Taiwanese was a sanctuary, preserving the flavors, emotions and wisdom of their homeland.
However, the decline of the use of Taiwanese by the diaspora was inevitable.
The number of people speaking Taiwanese continues to drop ceaselessly in this century, census data published by the Directorate-General of Budget, Accounting and Statistics in 2011 showed.
Although it is slowly declining, the language itself is a reflection of Taiwanese history and identity, as other (now extinct) minority languages were back in the 1970s.
Most importantly, it provides a glimpse of the fight of the locals to gain a place for their languages and heritage in the educational system throughout the heavily colonized history of the nation.
So, what is our role as Taiwanese living abroad?
It would be irresponsible to ignore the influence of the Taiwanese diaspora in the preservation of the Taiwanese language.
One of the most significant barriers to sustaining Taiwanese proficiency abroad is the lack of formal educational support. In Argentina, as in many countries with Taiwanese immigrants, learning resources for Taiwanese are scarce.
There are no Taiwanese language courses offered in schools, and community resources are limited, often informal and dependent on the efforts of volunteers.
This gap in formal education means that many young Taiwanese-Argentinians learn the language by heart rather than through structured instruction.
We pick it up through snippets of conversation with our elders, through the media we consume, and during the celebrations we attend.
This approach is very endearing, yet insufficient to foster true proficiency in the language.
Taiwanese is not only the buoy that keeps Taiwanese history afloat, but it is also the result of countless Taiwanese efforts to fight against colonialism.
The prevalence of the Taiwanese language is a symbol of the people’s resistance to cultural overwriting by an external force.
It is paramount to understand the crucial role Taiwanese nationals overseas play in this discussion.
Taiwanese descendants have a responsibility to protect the language from disappearing.
Taiwan itself has seen a rise in the predominant, arguably more useful Mandarin language, but why should the Taiwanese diaspora follow that?
For example, a formal education in Taiwanese would help the language thrive.
Additionally, although it is a controversial decision, a written Taiwanese (which has been proposed multiple times in recent years) would definitely encourage more people to learn it.
The only sure thing is that it requires a communal effort and a shift in perception — from seeing language preservation as a burden, as I have done before, to viewing it as an opportunity for cultural enrichment and identity strengthening.
Taiwan is increasingly using Mandarin, and it is in our hands to save Taiwanese from fading away altogether; a rhythm that is slowly turning silent.
Will we stand against the progressive “linguicide” happening in front of us, or will we look away and assimilate the colonial inheritance?
My answer is clear: I will not let Taiwanese disappear without a fight.
Fausto Fang is an Argentinian-born Taiwanese studying at New York University Abu Dhabi.
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