Language as Power: Arabic’s Role in Defending and Defying Authoritarianism

Protestors gather in Tahrir Square in Cairo, Egypt, during the Arab Spring Uprisings. Photo courtesy of Alisdare Hickson.

During the Arab Spring uprisings of 2011, the chant “aish, hurriya, adala igtima’iyaa” rang out in Cairo’s Tahrir Square. This phrase, a staple of the day’s mass demonstrations, translates from Egyptian colloquial Arabic as “bread, freedom, and social justice.” Comparable slogans spread throughout Egypt, encapsulating the grievances of the hundreds of thousands of citizens exhausted by poverty, state inequality, and the intensification of Hosni Mubarak’s authoritarian rule. But colloquialisms were not merely deployed for convenience: chants, slogans, and songs expressed in individual dialects reflected the peoples’ resistance against the language of state hegemony. Instead of Modern Standard Arabic (MSA), the formal language of governments and their media apparatuses, Arabic colloquialism was used strategically as a resistance in political discourse against authoritarian regimes that wield MSA to assert power. In this way, language became a tool with profound political weight—one that has often gone unrecognized and underappreciated by media coverage of the Arab Spring, which often focused on broader socio-economic or political factors. The choice to use vernacularism rather than Modern Standard Arabic in the Arab Spring uprisings was not a linguistic shift; it was an assertion that language is never neutral.

MSA’s history runs deep: it is the basis for literature, law, academia, and political communication across the Arab world. As the shared language of 22 nations, MSA is undoubtedly a unifying cultural bond, bringing together dozens of disparate and oftentimes mutually unintelligible variations of Arabic into one state-sanctioned lingua franca. Its formality comes from its roots in the language of the Qur’an, the most widely read text and the veritable backbone of both the education system and formal communications across the region. But MSA’s presence in propaganda hawked by authoritarian regimes has entrenched it in the popular imagination as a verbal testament to elitism, repression, and alienation from the concerns of everyday life. Colloquial Arabic, by contrast, is drawn from the spoken dialects unique to each Arab country and even different areas within each country. One might imagine MSA as the natural choice for protestors seeking to build linguistically cohesive movements across the Arab world, but as al-sha’b (the people) sought democracy from the ground up, the colloquial language seemed a more fitting alternative. 

While protesters in Tahrir Square chanted in Egyptian dialect, they were symbolically breaking away from the language of the establishment and reinforcing their collective power as citizens. The reason for this is simple: colloquial Arabic is grounded in the lived experiences of everyday people and thus speaks directly to the heart of each nation’s struggle. The chant “bread, freedom, and social justice” captures the spectrum of what the Egyptian people were struggling for: basic survival and societal change. Using colloquial speech to voice this demand—juxtaposing something as tangible as bread with the aspirational values of freedom and social justice—connected the immediate needs of the people with their broader political aspirations. This approach marked a departure from earlier movements in the Arab world, such as the pan-Arabism of the 1950s and 1960s, which primarily utilized Modern Standard Arabic to unify disparate groups under the umbrella of a singular Arab nationalism. While that effort succeeded in fostering a sense of regional identity, it failed to resonate with the everyday experiences of the working-class and rural communities. Notably, Gamal Abdel Nasser, the second president of Egypt, began to use MSA in his speeches to promote pan-Arabism across the region. Yet illiteracy rates in Egypt in 1960 were high, around 26 percent, meaning for many Egyptians, MSA as a written language was not accessible, and as a result, neither were Nasser’s speeches. However, by contrast, the Arab Spring’s mix of everyday speech with political ideology allowed protestors to transform political discourse into a language every citizen in a nation could understand, from farmers to shopkeepers to young urbanites. By grounding these ideals in their everyday tongue, protestors demonstrated that structures of power, like structures of speech, ought to be direct, accessible, and free from state-driven formalism. 

Contrary to the divisive nationalist sentiments one might expect from the use of local dialects, protestors have in fact used Arabic vernacular strategically, not only to relate their grievances plainly but to forge connections that transcend national borders. The practice of “dialect borrowing,” in which words or phrases from one regional dialect are incorporated into another, is a classic example of how colloquial language can foster––instead of obstruct––a shared linguistic repertoire. For example, the Egyptian term “baltaji” means “thugs” or “thief or bandit” and is used against Hosni Mubarak’s supporters. Jordanians and Yemenis have borrowed the word “baltaji” in their own dialects to express resentment towards their respective governments, and it has even shown up several times in formal Jordanian media spheres. 

At the very same time, MSA has been deployed as an instrument to systematically erase local expressions of autonomy by imposing a homogenized linguistic identity upon citizens. The consistent use of MSA in state-sanctioned speeches, state-controlled media, and official discourse aligns the language with authority, power, and hierarchy. For example, in Algeria, the country’s move towards Arabization sought to replace French as the dominant language with MSA. This policy, likely a postcolonial effort to reclaim national identity by breaking away from French colonial influence, was specifically implemented through the push of MSA to be the main language of instruction in the educational system. In doing so, the Algerian state reinforced its association with centralized authority as the state positioned MSA as the sole legitimate language while marginalizing colloquialism. When the state appropriates the language of the Qur’an, it paradoxically transforms Arabic from a tool of unity into one of exclusivity and control. As a result, MSA creates an aura of formality and legitimacy, which the state can use to alienate diverse cultural and linguistic groups. There then exists a gap between the state’s authority and “official” language or power with the everyday language of the people. 

The gap between the state’s use of MSA and the peoples’ use of dialect not only shows a clear cultural and linguistic divide but reinforces an authoritative agenda that prioritizes control over representation. Local governments create a barrier that restrains citizens’ ability to engage with and challenge state narratives. This linguistic inclusivity amplifies the perception that governments are disconnected from the realities of their citizens. The governments' use of MSA solidifies their dominance—eventually, MSA serves not as just a medium of communication but as a tool of control, isolating the very people it claims to represent. 

While the Arab Spring failed to achieve lasting democratic transformation across the region—with Tunisia standing as a fleeting exception before facing its own democratic backslide—one of its enduring legacies is the remarkable shift in the role of language as a tool of resistance. In the wake of these uprisings, activists, civil society, and even governments must recognize the value of the Arabic dialect as a tool for representation, inclusivity, and effective political mobilization. By further integrating colloquial Arabic into public communications, national governments can help bridge the divide between the state’s authority and the lived experiences of its citizens. This shift would humanize governance and create a more engaged and represented citizenry, where, ideally, political discourse would inspire its investment in civil institutions rather than perpetuate popular alienation. In the peoples’ choice to speak in their own tongue, they reclaimed not only their language but their voice.

Kaitlyn Sullivan (CC ‘27) is a staff writer at CPR and a sophomore at Columbia College studying Middle Eastern studies and political science. Her interests include comparative politics, linguistics, and U.S.-Middle Eastern relations.