The Quiet Violence of Language Policing

I remember the first time I caught myself censoring a story. Not because I wanted to, but because I was afraid. Afraid that the words I chose would mark me as “other,” or worse, unsafe. It was subtle—a hesitation before speaking, a carefully edited sentence—but it was there, like a quiet tremor before an earthquake.

Language policing isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whispered warning, a sideways glance, or the slow erasure of dialects and accents. It’s the constant pressure to speak the way power expects us to—neatly, politely, “correctly.” For marginalized communities, this isn’t just about words; it’s about survival.

When your language is policed, your identity gets clipped at the edges. You start to doubt if your stories are valid if your voice deserves space. Freedom of expression becomes a minefield, where one misstep can mean exclusion or worse—silencing.

But here’s the thing: language is alive. It breathes the culture, history, pain, and joy of a people. To police it is to tame a wild thing, to cut off a vital artery of human connection. The violence isn’t loud, but it is no less real. It seeps into the bones of those forced to bend their tongues, shaping not just speech but self.

Still, voices persist. They grow louder in cracks and corners, finding new forms. It’s a quiet rebellion — words that refuse to be erased, accents that won’t disappear, stories that scream from the margins.

Because controlling language is never just about language. It’s about control. Control of power, control of space, control of who belongs.

And the fight to reclaim words is a fight to reclaim ourselves.

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