I was first introduced to the concept & the pathos of a language on the verge of extinction as a teenager. Flipping through the channels out of boredom on a Sunday afternoon, I stumbled onto a PBS documentary featuring the Australian Aboriginal land rights trials of the early 70’s. The scene was a stately courtroom complete with stern men in wigs & robes intently staring at two aboriginal men seated at a table before them - a proud looking elderly man, scantily dressed in traditional garb, & a younger man, in a shabby mix of western clothes.

The younger man introduced himself & explained that the elderly man was the last of his people, that there were no others left who spoke his language. He explained that he could communicate with the man in a rudimentary fashion using a secondary language if necessary, but that it was this man’s desire to testify in his own language, in the language that would die forever with him. The stern men attempted to explain that the old man’s testimony would be more effective if they were able to understand what he was saying, that they would be very patient in allowing his statements to be translated. But the old man wouldn’t hear of it. When the commission members finally relented, the old man began to sing. Literally to sing. He wasn’t being dramatic. His delivery was casual - but the language that would die with him was, in fact, a “sung language”.

I was transfixed as was everyone in that courtroom. The commission members who wished to have his words translated were wrong. It was far more effective to hear this man’s story in his own language, even though the content couldn’t be deciphered. I’m thrilled now to return to my original inspiration through the Vanishing Languages Project.