Is speaking in Arabic losing ground with young Arabs?

Mohammed Mandi, renowned Arabic calligrapher at work, at the Cultural Foundation in Abu Dhabi. Khushnum Bhandari / The National

In many Middle Eastern homes across the UAE, conversations start and end with the same anxious question: “Are the children learning Arabic? How is their Arabic? Do you know any good Arabic language tutors?” This isn’t just about language proficiency, it’s about preserving identity, memory and connection.

In 2019, the UAE released a report on the status and future of the Arabic language. It highlighted the dual challenge we face: preserving Arabic as a marker of heritage and identity while also making it a vehicle for modern education and global discourse. Soon after that report was released, the UAE launched the Arabic Language Declaration, a roadmap signed at an Arabic Language Summit during Expo 2020 Dubai.

It laid out 10 principles on teaching, digital content, translation and technology that commit institutions across the Arab world to protecting and advancing the language.

Several surveys in at least the past decade have echoed what many Arab parents can already see and feel in their homes. The Arab Youth Survey of 2015 showed that more than a third of Arab youth used English more than Arabic daily, and two-thirds expressed worry about Arabic’s declining value.

In GCC countries, the figure was even more striking: more than half reported that English had overtaken Arabic as their primary spoken language.

By 2017, some 68 per cent of Gulf Arab youth were using English on a daily basis, more than Arabic, a steep rise from the year before. These statistics mirror the dinner table discussions parents are having about whether to hire tutors, switch schools or create Arabic-only rules at home. The fear is that if Arabic is not robust, connections to grandparents, to the Quran for Muslim families, and to culture and heritage will weaken.

In the Arab Youth Survey of 2023, 54 per cent said they believed the Arabic language was less significant to them than to their parents, while only 11 per cent said they thought it central to their identity.

It is important to make a distinction here. Arabic is a unifying language across the Arab world, but not all Arabs are Muslim. For Muslim communities, whether Arab or not, Arabic carries additional significance as the language of the Quran.

For many non-Arab Muslim-majority societies – such as Indonesia, with the world’s largest Muslim population, and Malaysia – learning Arabic is essential because it is the key to reading the Quran and engaging with Islamic texts. This adds another layer of urgency to the efforts to preserve and teach Arabic in ways that are meaningful and accessible.

In reflecting on why speaking Arabic among young people has lost some ground, I see three overlapping realities. The first is the story of the Arab diaspora. Decades of conflict, displacement and economic migration have sent millions from the Levant, North Africa, and beyond to Europe, the Americas, and Australia.

In these homes, Arabic is often the language of the grandparents but loses dominance to English or the local language. Over generations, usage declines. Schools rarely offer Arabic programmes, and in some cases, young people may even feel that maintaining Arabic is a barrier to assimilation, especially in societies where anti-Arab or anti-immigrant sentiment is present. For some young people, speaking Arabic could invite stereotypes or subtle social exclusion, so families choose to downplay the language as a way to integrate more fully.

The second reality is one I know personally – growing up in a multilingual home where English dominated. Like many of my peers, I had one parent who was Arab and another who was not, and the language of our home naturally became English. Although Arabic was taught in my school, the experience often felt fraught.

Grammar mistakes were met with scorn, dialect slips were seen as careless, and humiliation from peers and even teachers was common. This made many children of my generation turn away from Arabic altogether or use it as little as possible.

It is natural to avoid what makes you feel inadequate, and over time, that avoidance can harden into shame. I was fortunate that my professional life placed me in government roles where Arabic was not optional. Over time I had to use it, think in it, and even write in it, which helped build my confidence. Many, however, never get that chance and so they speak Arabic infrequently and with hesitation.

The third reality is a more recent one – the result of rapid globalisation and the dominance of English as the language of commerce. As the UAE and other Gulf countries opened themselves to international partnerships and private-sector investment, English became a professional necessity.

Many of my fluent Arabic-speaking friends who studied at Arabic-medium schools found themselves at a disadvantage when applying for jobs or seeking to study at universities such as NYU Abu Dhabi or the American University of Sharjah. Their solution was to place their own children in English-medium schools, hoping to prepare them better for future opportunities. Yet this choice also meant that Arabic became a secondary subject.

Despite these challenges, there are signs of hope across industries. Publishing houses such as Sharjah-based Kalimat Group issuing Arabic books for children, and streaming platforms commissioning original Arabic series and films — including Netflix, OSN+ — show that audiences want authentic Arab stories.

When Arab writers, directors, and production teams are supported, Arabic storytelling can stand alongside global phenomena such as Korean dramas and Turkish series. This is possible through sustained funding, mentorship, and industry investment to give Arabic a stronger foothold in the cultural marketplace.

At a more personal level, I believe the solution begins with empathy. We must stop shaming those speakers whose Arabic is imperfect and start creating a culture where learners are encouraged, not belittled. Every mispronunciation and every grammar slip should be seen as a step forward, not a sign of failure. Teachers and parents play a powerful role in shaping this emotional environment. The more we praise effort, the more we create conditions for children and young adults to keep trying.

Parents and policymakers also have a role to play in expanding Arabic content and making fluency in it an aspiration. Arabic should be present not just as a subject but as a vibrant medium of creativity and joy. Bilingual education can be balanced, with Arabic literature, debate clubs, theatre, and creative writing embedded in school life so that children see the language as alive and evolving.

Arabic will flourish when families, institutions and societies treat it not as a burden or a test but as a living, breathing inheritance. Every word we speak, every story we share in Arabic is an act of loyalty to history and a gift to future generations. If we can approach this challenge with compassion instead of criticism, we can make sure that Arabic continues to be not just our heritage, but our home.