Lebanon, the nation that prides itself on its multilingualism, has a paradoxical peculiarity. One that I call “Language-shaming”. Although code-switching is an inherent characteristic of the daily life of the Lebanese, it is also a perennial point of contention: whatever language a person uses, there would be always another person condescendingly criticizing their language choices: annoyed remarks about the use of a foreign language instead of “ƹarabe” (implying “Lebanese”, unwittingly). Anglophones mocking the perceived loftiness of the francophones. Francophones look down on people who never learned foreign languages. And the list goes on.

A daily unfolding pandemonium, especially on social media platforms, where you see everyone language-shaming everyone else, in English or in a flimsy MSA (Modern Standard Arabic) riddled with grammar and spelling mistakes. Or even a Lebanese/MSA interlingua that incorporates many foreign loans, using either the Arabic or the Latin script. Sometimes alternating both. 

Diglossia

And do you know what is the main driver behind all this mess? 

In a nutshell, diglossia! Diglossia is the situation where the official language of a country (in our case, MSA) is restricted to the written realm, while the country’s national language (in this case, Lebanese vernacular) is only spoken and not standardized. The vast majority of diglossic Lebanese do not even perceive the difference between these two forms of speech, failing to realize in the process that their vernacular amounts to a standalone language. They even firmly reject calling it a language, downplaying it to “Lahje”. Conflating “accent” with “dialect” (respectively Lahje/Lakne in Lebanese), only adds insult to injury. 

Considering the above, anyone schooled in foreign languages becomes instinctively inclined to use those languages to express their ideas, mostly in writing – and verbally to a lesser extent, to make sure their message is clearly conveyed, as such languages’ spoken and written forms converge. 

Language? Dialect? Accent? Literary? Vernacular? Colloquial?

The classification of Lebanese vernacular is inherently problematic because the very distinction between a language and a dialect in scientific terms, is far from being settled. 

Whatever the denomination or classification, Lebanon, a geographically small nation but a culturally impactful one, has already produced a wealth of intellectual and artistic output in its spoken language: the Rahbanis plays and movies, the Zajal poetry, the folkloric songs’ lyrics, in addition to books and translations by the likes of Morís Ƹewwéd, are a case in point. 

Additionally, the era of the internet and social media has seen a wider use of vernaculars in writing, ranging from WhatsApp messages, and social media posts to national media campaigns and even to web-based magazines. 

Back to the differentiation between language and dialect: in linguistics, there is no agreed-upon criterion to tell which is which. Rather, linguists tend to agree that the matter is of a purely political nature. In the same vein, positing that Lebanese is a dialect rather than a full-fledged language, is a political decision more than anything.

And either way, the fact remains that Lebanese is our mother tongue. The language we grew up hearing and speaking at home, on the streets, and at work. A language that has its own distinctive set of sounds, words, and syntax. A language that aptly expresses what we feel and think, naturally without any affectation. 

In other words, even if it does not enjoy official nor popular recognition, Lebanese is a modern language (or “langue vivante” as the French put it). For thousands of years, the native Canaanite basis saw the addition of Aramaic and Arabic strata with continuous lexical borrowings from the myriad of sources and civilizations that have trodden Lebanese soil. With each passing day our language evolves, acquiring new verbs, words, and expressions while dropping many elements that have gone obsolete. 

Therefore, to part ways with the current diglossic confusion, and to be able to master our natural language, we need to eventually use it in writing as much as possible, learn its grammar starting at a young age, and write books in it, preferably with a script specifically developed for it, to better reflect both its oriental and western sounds, in a way that can be used even by native speakers who never learned Modern Standard Arabic (namely, second generation Lebanese expats). 

The most salient, yet underrated, characteristic of Lebanese is that it is the product of contact between three of the greatest Semitic languages that marked our country and the region (i.e., Canaanite, Aramaic, and Arabic). It hence deserves adequate resources to empower and promote it. 

Who knows? By doing so, we might become one day like those countries where people speak what they write and write what they speak. 

This is by no means an invitation to stop learning foreign languages and to shun MSA. Multilingualism is and should remain our strong point. But converting our spoken vernacular into a standardized written language, would improve our written expression, capture and immortalize our native poetry and literature, and bolster our unique identity.