By Lionel Kubwimana
••5 min
How to transform the guilt of language loss into a meaningful journey of cultural identity.
It starts with a simple question, often on a quiet afternoon. Your child looks up from a bilingual book, or maybe from a video call with grandparents, and asks, “Why don’t we speak Kirundi at home?”
In that moment, something shifts. The question isn’t just about language—it’s about identity. It’s about belonging. For many diaspora parents, this is the moment we’ve quietly dreaded, because it brings to the surface a truth we’ve been carrying for years: we haven’t passed on the language our own parents gave us.
That question—so innocent, so direct—feels like a gentle crack in the foundation of the family story we’ve been telling ourselves. We might have created a home rich in other aspects of culture: food, music, stories. But the language, the very sound of home, is missing. And now our child has noticed.
This isn’t just about vocabulary or grammar. It’s about the subtle rhythms of speech that carry emotion, the proverbs that hold generations of wisdom, the jokes that only land in Kirundi. When language becomes identity, its absence becomes a silent gap in who we are as a family.
The feeling of loss that follows is real, and it’s heavy. It’s not just guilt; it’s a kind of mourning. You mourn the conversations you could have had, the lullabies you could have sung, the inside jokes you could have shared. You mourn the version of your child that could have grown up effortlessly bilingual, moving between worlds with the ease you never had.
This grief is valid. It’s a sign that you care deeply about your heritage. But it’s also important to understand where that loss comes from, and why it doesn’t have to be permanent.
Language loss in the diaspora is a systemic issue, not a personal failure. It’s the result of migration pressures, educational systems that prioritize dominant languages, and the sheer practicality of navigating a new country. Many of us grew up being told, “Focus on English (or French, or Dutch). That’s how you’ll succeed.” Our parents, with the best intentions, often encouraged us to assimilate—to speak the language of opportunity, even if it meant leaving Kirundi behind.
So the loss you feel isn’t a sign that you’ve failed. It’s a sign that you’re ready to reclaim something precious. And the beautiful part is that language, unlike many other aspects of culture, can be revived. It can be learned, shared, and woven back into your family’s daily life—at any stage.
The goal isn’t fluency overnight. It’s about creating small, sustainable moments that make Kirundi a natural part of your family’s rhythm. Here are three practical ways to begin, without adding pressure or turning it into another chore.
You don’t need to be a fluent speaker to introduce Kirundi. Start with the words you remember—greetings, endearments, foods, simple commands. Use them consistently in everyday situations:
These small anchors create a sense of familiarity. Over time, you can expand each phrase into a short sentence, then a conversation. The key is repetition, not perfection.
Choose one daily routine—bedtime, mealtime, or the drive to school—and make it your “Kirundi moment.” For example:
By tying language to an existing habit, you make it automatic and stress-free.
When motivation dips—and it will—remind yourself why this matters. It’s not about raising a perfectly bilingual child. It’s about giving your child a tangible connection to their heritage. It’s about preserving the stories, the humor, the wisdom that only exist in Kirundi. It’s about saying to your child, “This language is part of who we are, and it’s worth keeping alive.”
Share that “why” with your child. Tell them about your own memories of hearing Kirundi as a child. Show them photos of family members who speak the language. Let them see that this journey is about love, not about performance.
When your child asks, “Why don’t we speak Kirundi?”, they’re not accusing you. They’re inviting you. They’re curious about a part of their identity that feels missing. And that curiosity is a gift—it’s the starting point for a journey you can take together.
You don’t have to be a fluent speaker to begin. You just have to be willing to try. Start small, be consistent, and celebrate every word, every phrase, every moment of connection.
Because in the end, this isn’t just about language. It’s about belonging. It’s about giving your child the tools to understand where they come from, and the confidence to carry that heritage forward—wherever they go.
