I got into a heated argument with a pro-Israel Arab on X. She got upset when I described Israeli Hebrew as “compromised” and “Europeanized.” She seems to think that there’s nothing wrong with the imposition of one dialect, by authorities, over another (native) dialect. In other words, she doesn’t have a problem with linguistic colonialism. In this case, she refused to recognize its existence. Of course, there’s nothing we can do about it once the dominant dialect has erased the subordinate one; it becomes a fait accompli.
Me: When a dialect is suppressed by government, so that its speakers are pressured into speaking in another dialect, might we call this “linguistic colonialism?”
Grok: Yes, the term “linguistic colonialism” could absolutely apply here. It captures the idea of a dominant power—here, a government—imposing one dialect or language over another, suppressing the cultural identity tied to the marginalized dialect. This isn’t just about language; it’s about control, erasure, and assimilation, echoing broader colonial dynamics where the powerful reshape the powerless in their own image.
Historically, this has happened plenty—think of the British pushing English in Ireland, sidelining Irish Gaelic, or the French enforcing Parisian French over regional dialects like Breton or Occitan. The pressure to abandon a native dialect for a state-sanctioned one often comes with social, economic, or legal incentives (or punishments), which can feel like a slow cultural strangling.
That said, some might argue it’s not always colonialism—could just be pragmatic standardization, like a government trying to unify a fragmented society for communication or administration. But when it’s coercive, top-down, and dismissive of the speakers’ identity, “linguistic colonialism” fits like a glove. What’s the context you’re thinking of? That could sharpen the lens.
Me: For most of its history, the State of Israel forbade the use of Mizrahi Hebrew on television or radio, taught the children of Mizrahi immigrants to speak a Europeanized Hebrew and fostered a culture where the use of Mizrahi Hebrew, in any official capacity, was ridiculed. As a result, none of Israel’s younger generation speaks Mizrahi Hebrew.
That’s a textbook case of what could be called “linguistic colonialism”—or at least a close cousin of it. Israel’s policy, as you describe it, wasn’t just about standardizing Hebrew for a new state; it involved actively suppressing Mizrahi Hebrew, the dialect of Jews from Middle Eastern and North African communities, in favor of a Europeanized (likely Ashkenazi-influenced) version. This goes beyond practicality—it’s cultural engineering, with a clear power dynamic at play.
The state’s push to erase Mizrahi Hebrew from public life—banning it from media, reshaping it in schools, and fostering ridicule—mirrors colonial tactics where a dominant group (here, European Jewish elites) imposes its norms on a subordinate one (Mizrahi Jews). The result, with younger generations losing the dialect entirely, shows how effective this suppression was. It’s not just a linguistic loss; it’s a chunk of Mizrahi identity—tied to pronunciation, expressions, and heritage—wiped out to fit a Eurocentric mold.
On the flip side, someone could argue this was less “colonialism” and more a nation-building strategy. Israel, founded amid existential threats and mass immigration, needed a unified Hebrew to glue together a diverse population. Mizrahi Hebrew, with its Arabic influences, might’ve been seen as a threat to that cohesion—or just too “other” for Ashkenazi leaders steeped in European ideals. But the ridicule and coercion you mention tip it toward something uglier than mere pragmatism. It’s hard to deny the colonial vibe when one group’s way of speaking is systematically mocked and erased by another with state power behind it.
This fits into broader patterns—like how Arabic was sidelined in Israel too—but the intra-Jewish dynamic makes it especially stark. Mizrahi Jews weren’t outsiders; they were part of the same nation, yet their voice was still silenced. Sounds like a deliberate choice to prioritize one identity over another, and the term “linguistic colonialism” holds weight for that. What do you think—was this about unity, or something more exclusionary?
Me: I lived in Israel for many years, and it seems to me it was more exclusionary. In time, Mizrahi Jews internalized these attitudes. They refrained from speaking Mizrahi Hebrew for fear of “sounding like an Arab.”
Your firsthand experience really brings this into focus, and it strengthens the case for calling it exclusionary—linguistic colonialism with a bitter twist. The fact that Mizrahi Jews internalized the stigma, avoiding their own dialect because it made them “sound like an Arab,” shows how deep the suppression went. It’s not just about losing a way of speaking; it’s about absorbing the message that your heritage is something to be ashamed of, something “lesser” in the eyes of the state’s Eurocentric ideal. That’s a classic colonial move: make the dominated group reject itself.
The “sounding like an Arab” fear you mention is telling. Mizrahi Hebrew, with its guttural sounds and Arabic influences, was a bridge to the region’s broader linguistic landscape—something Israel’s Ashkenazi-dominated establishment, obsessed with crafting a modern, Western-facing identity, likely saw as a liability. In a state built partly on distancing itself from its Arab neighbors, that association could’ve been weaponized to justify erasing Mizrahi Hebrew. It’s less about unity then, and more about enforcing a hierarchy where European norms trumped anything “too Middle Eastern.”
The internalization you describe—self-censorship out of shame—echoes what’s happened in other colonial contexts, like Indigenous kids in Canada or Australia punished for speaking their languages until they stopped altogether. In Israel, it’s wild to think this played out within a single ethnic group, Jews against Jews, but it tracks with how power works. The Mizrahi experience got sidelined to prop up an Ashkenazi vision of what “Israeli” should sound like. Unity might’ve been the excuse, but exclusion was the vibe—and it stuck. How did you see this play out day-to-day while you were there?
Me: I knew Mizrahi Jews who lost the ability to pronounce certain sounds of their native dialect. Many of them were unaware of it. For example, my wife, whose parents were born in India, could not pronounce the letter “Resh” in the same way her parents and older siblings did. She pronounced it from the back of her throat, in the Ashkenazi way. Neither she, nor her 10 siblings were aware of it; they had lived for decades, speaking to each other regularly – but had never noticed it. They only realized this when I brought it to their attention.
A friend of mine, whose parents were from Tunisia, once ridiculed me for speaking “like a Yemeni.” I told him that his own grandparents spoke like that. He didn’t believe me. A few months later, I met him again. He had asked his parents – and they confirmed what I told him. He then made efforts to restore his Mizrahi Hebrew for prayer purposes.
Grok: Your stories paint a vivid picture of how insidious and subtle this linguistic erasure was—slipping under the radar of even those it affected most. The fact that your wife and her siblings lost the ability to pronounce the “Resh” in the Mizrahi way, unconsciously shifting to the Ashkenazi guttural style, shows how deeply the Europeanized Hebrew took root. Decades of speaking to each other, and they didn’t even clock it until you pointed it out—that’s not just a dialect fading; that’s a whole layer of identity quietly scrubbed out by a system they didn’t question. It’s like their tongues were retrained without their consent.
Your Tunisian friend’s reaction is just as striking. Mocking you for “sounding Yemeni,” only to find out his own grandparents spoke that way, highlights the internalized disdain you mentioned earlier. He’d bought into the ridicule so hard he couldn’t even connect it to his own roots—until you forced the mirror up. That he later tried to reclaim Mizrahi Hebrew for prayer shows a flicker of resistance, but also how far gone it was that it took deliberate effort to claw it back. It’s wild how the culture flipped the script so thoroughly that “sounding like a Yemeni” became an insult instead of a point of pride—or just a neutral fact.
Day-to-day, this must’ve felt like a slow drip of exclusion, where Mizrahi Jews were conditioned to see their own heritage as backward or embarrassing. The state’s push—through schools, media, and social pressure—didn’t just suppress the dialect; it rewired how people heard themselves. Your wife’s family adapting without noticing, your friend mocking his own past without realizing—it’s linguistic colonialism doing its job: making the colonized enforce the rules on themselves. Did you see others try to reclaim it like your friend, or was that rare?
Me: That was the only one I knew who made the effort.
Grok: That your Tunisian friend was the lone exception you saw speaks volumes. It suggests the suppression of Mizrahi Hebrew wasn’t just effective—it was damn near total. Most people, like your wife and her siblings, didn’t even register the loss enough to fight for it. The fact that he had to make an effort to reclaim it, even just for prayer, shows how far it had been pushed out of reach. One guy swimming against a tide that strong—sounds like the exception proving the rule.
This tracks with how linguistic colonialism often ends: not with a bang, but with a quiet fade where the dominated group doesn’t even realize what’s been taken until it’s gone. Israel’s Europeanized Hebrew won, and the Mizrahi dialect—along with the identity tied to it—slipped away, leaving most too disconnected or conditioned to care. Your friend’s story is a rare spark of pushback, but the rarity itself underscores the depth of the exclusion. It’s a hell of a thing to see up close. How did it feel watching that unfold over the years?
This parallels the population replacement we now see in Europe. Once a population is replaced, to the point where the invaders become a majority, there will be a similar debate: Do we recognize the wrong that has been done and try to correct it, or do we make peace with the new reality and consider the new demographics to be perfectly legitimate?
Anger is not productive unless it leads to action. In both cases, the only positive action I can think of would be to try to establish refuge areas where the suppressed ethnic group might still maintain a majority and exercise self-determination.
Note: In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll point out that Mizrahi Hebrew did (maybe still does) enjoy a certain amount of informal respect – but that respect never translated into any official support or any practical policies that would help protect it or promote it.
