We’d all like to believe that the way we speak about ourselves is neutral, unaffected by the history that shaped us. But how else can we explain the casual use of phrases like “ehna Arab” (we are Arabs) when justifying negative behaviors, or “3alam theleth” (Third World) to excuse shortcomings? Phrases like “mokhi orobi” (I have a European mindset) or “mch zayehom” (not like them) imply superiority over the societies we come from. This is far from neutral. Language, like everything else, is a social and political construct, often shaped by colonial narratives that reinforce dominant discourse.
Recently, I caught myself using the expression “إذا عرب خرب” (If Arabs are involved, things get ruined) in a conversation, only to feel the weight of its history pull me back. I paused, reflecting on how deeply embedded this self-deprecation is in our daily vocabulary: language designed to reduce us, to make us feel small. No matter how hard you work to unlearn these ideas, there are moments when your tongue betrays you and reproduces the expressions you’ve fought to discard.
I wasn’t shocked because I said it, but because it made me feel like my degree in Intercultural Studies was meaningless if I failed to detach myself from the deeply internalized orientalism I had studied so extensively.
Using “Arab” to mean “bad” or “inferior” is not something we can brush off. Expressions like “Arab rendez-vous,” “Arab time,” or “Sidi El Aarbi” reflect how our language reduces Arab identity to negative stereotypes. These aren’t random; they reinforce a polarization of power, rooted in orientalist narratives that have slipped our everyday speech. This is exactly what Edward Said’s theory of orientalism exposed—how we’ve internalized these ideas, framing “Arab” as the opposite of what is seen as “good” or “modern” in the West.
But “the other” isn’t just Arab—it extends to any non-Western ethnic group. For instance, the term “Berber” is still widely accepted, particularly in the tourism industry, where “Berber village,” “Berber culture,” and “Berber cuisine” are commodified and exoticized. This shows how indigenous identities are framed through a colonial lens, and the only terms we are kind of allowed to use are those western people had already normalized.
The same colonial thinking applies to how we use terms like “Third World” to define regions that have been shaped by colonialism and imperialism. These labels reduce entire nations to underdeveloped stereotypes, reinforcing a binary where the “First World” is synonymous with progress and development, while the “Third World” signifies backwardness and failure. It erases the historical exploitation that created these imbalances and positions former colonizers as benevolent saviors.
Similarly, labels like “Middle East” or “MENA” illustrate how geography is weaponized to impose meaning. Why not use neutral geographical terms like “Southwest Asia” or “North Africa” that describe regions based on their actual locations? “MENA” centers Europe as the point of reference, perpetuating a colonial mindset where Europe defines how the rest of the world is viewed, framing other regions through a Western lens of superiority and control. Shifting to geographical terms promotes neutrality, recognizing diverse histories, identities, and self-definitions.
European colonialism also shapes how we view language itself. Take Arabic, for example, which is often positioned as a unifying language in the region. Yet this has often come at the expense of indigenous languages like Tamazight, Nubian, and Kurdish, which have been systematically marginalized, leaving their speakers to feel that their tongues—and by extension, their identities—are somehow less valuable.
The problem goes beyond the words we use—it’s about who gets to speak. Think about how often Western scholars are cited as authorities on “Middle Eastern” issues, while our own thinkers are sidelined, or how Arabic is treated as a “foreign” language in global academia, even though it has played a central role in the world’s intellectual history.
If you’re eager to change the world, start with your tongue. Like any effort to drive change, it won’t be easy. Let’s reclaim our language and embrace the complexity of our histories, cultures, and identities. Let’s push for more inclusive labels like “SWANA” or “Global South,” and reject the erasure of indigenous languages in favor of a monolithic “Arabic.” It won’t be easy, but any conscious effort to choose words that reflect the truth of who we are is a step toward decolonizing our minds and futures.
In the meantime, let’s remember Bell Hooks’ powerful words: “Language is also a place of struggle. The oppressed struggle in language to recover ourselves, to reconcile, to reunite, to renew.”
Feature Image: Patuo’kn Illustration and Design.
