Can one reclaim their language enough to use it in everyday life, despite its imperfections? Whether codified, spoken, written, oral, dialectal, or undervalued, can it truly become one's own again when emotional, cultural, conventional, and psychosocial barriers come into play? Psychiatrist Dr. Wadih Rhondali, a specialist in psycho-oncology and neuroscience, explores these questions through the lens of his personal and professional journey between Morocco and France. When I returned to live in Morocco, I faced a personal paradox. I understood darija perfectly [the Moroccan dialect, ed.]. But I couldn't speak it—not without effort, not without embarrassment, not without that inner tension that tightens the throat and freezes movement. I, who had learned several foreign languages with ease, suddenly stumbled over my own mother tongue. A language I had never really learned academically, but one I had inherited emotionally—from family, peripherally. I told myself, «It's normal, I haven't practiced». Or even, «The day I really need it, it'll come back». But it didn't. Or if it did, it was awkward. The more I tried to correct myself, the more my body resisted. I had to rely on absurd memorization strategies just to retain a word, even though I'd heard it a thousand times. Visual associations, diverted systems, as if I were trying to bypass a locked door. That's when I realized: the blockage wasn't cognitive. It was emotional. My brain knew. But it had shut down. I knew what that meant: the amygdala, that little sentinel of the emotional brain, had activated its warning signal. It had recognized something threatening in this language—not objectively, but symbolically. A buried memory. A fear of doing wrong. An old wound, never really healed. When a language is associated with a hurtful experience—mockery, humiliation, a feeling of inferiority—the brain records it, and the amygdala sorts it out. This small structure nestled at the heart of the emotional brain acts as a threat detector. It doesn't distinguish between real danger and symbolic injury. A harsh tone, a brutal correction, an unwelcome burst of laughter... and it sounds the alarm. And once the amygdala identifies a language as a potential vector of pain, it reacts automatically. It sends stress signals to the rest of the brain, inhibiting several areas essential for learning and expression: - The hippocampus, which allows for long-term memory, goes into standby. Words no longer anchor. - The prefrontal cortex, responsible for planning, attention, and organization, becomes less available. - The language areas—Broca's (production) and Wernicke's (comprehension)—lose their fluidity. What should be a simple act of speaking becomes a superhuman effort. The result: you know… but you can no longer say. This process can be reversed This mechanism is well known in anxiety disorders, trauma, and school phobias. But it is still too little recognized in the field of language learning. Yet I see it every day in consultations: brilliant children struggling to read in classical Arabic; teenagers who understand darija perfectly but never dare to speak it at school; adults who blush or sweat as soon as they have to express themselves in a language that is, nonetheless, familiar. It's neither laziness nor a lack of intelligence. It's a neurological protection strategy. The brain does what it can to avoid reopening a wound. It closes the door. It blocks access to this language just as it would to a painful memory. But the good news is: this process can be reversed. Through approaches of «emotional reassociation», it's possible to reconcile a person with a language they've learned to fear. It takes time, kindness, and above all, a safe environment where the language becomes a space for exploration—not judgment. This, in my view, is where the essential lies. Before asking someone to speak a language… it must be allowed to be felt without fear. Because in Morocco, languages are not neutral. They are saturated with implicit social signals, hierarchical statuses, emotional memories. They are not all introduced in the same climate. Some are valued—French, English—as springboards to success, synonymous with openness, modernity, intelligence. Their speakers are often admired, even envied. Others, like classical Arabic, are sacralized—the language of the Quran, of knowledge, of school—but rarely experienced with lightness or spontaneity. Then there are the ones spoken at home—darija, Tamazight—which are not taught, sometimes corrected without explanation, marginalized in institutions, yet they carry the intimate: primary emotions, the mother's voice, cooking, tenderness. And a language that has never been made to feel legitimate becomes one you no longer dare to speak. Or one you speak with the fear of not doing it well. For those who return, this home language sometimes becomes a site of internal conflict. One feels foreign to what one should inhabit. Illegitimate to express what one feels. I've seen it in consultations. I've heard it in the messages received after my series «Retour au bled (Back Home)». Hundreds of people wrote to me: «I understand, but I don't dare speak». «I'm ashamed of my accent». «I grew up in Morocco and yet, I remain silent». This shared silence says something. It says that our relationship with languages is also a relationship with safety, with listening, with identity. Before asking someone to speak well, we should ask: in which language do you feel recognized? Welcoming the language without hierarchy I'm not proposing a miracle. But I believe in one thing: for a language to live within us, it must be welcomed. Without mockery. Without hierarchy. It must become a space for expression again—not a trial or a reminder of failure. In therapy, I sometimes suggest a simple exercise—what I call «gentle double exposure». Take a phrase in darija, one that's difficult to say, and repeat it softly in a safe, comforting setting. While walking, listening to music you love, associating it with a positive memory. It's not magic. It's emotional re-education. Creating a new trace. A gentle memory. So yes, this text tells only one version of the story. There are other experiences. Some perfectly French-speaking Moroccans are sometimes seen as «too French», suspected of having had a privileged educational path or being «disconnected» from their culture. That perspective can also wound. It might be the subject of another text. Because every language carries its wounds. It would take time—and other voices—to explore those other sides of the mirror. But here, I speak of a very specific fracture: that of those who return and can no longer speak the language of their childhood. Not because they have forgotten it, but because it has frozen—somewhere between memory and the throat. It's time to name this fracture—not to assign blame, but to begin to heal it. Because a language, before it can be spoken… must be allowed to be felt. And loved, just a little. Even if spoken with hesitation.
