1Linguists estimate that a language or distinct dialect falls silent somewhere in the world roughly every two weeks.
2When I was a boy, the old people in our valley spoke a dialect that outsiders found almost impossible to follow.
3Their words carried the shape of the hills, the names of lost farms, and jokes that no translation could rescue.
4Schools then punished children for using that speech, calling it backward and quite unfit for a modern nation.
5My grandmother hid her dialect in the kitchen, the way one hides something precious from a careless guest.
6Today, her grandchildren study abroad, speak three languages fluently, and cannot understand a single verse of her songs.
7Researchers are now racing to record the last fluent speakers before their voices disappear from the valley forever.
8Yet a recording, however faithful it may be, remains a museum piece rather than a living conversation between neighbours.
9A dialect truly survives only when young children use it to quarrel, to bargain, and to whisper secrets.
10Losing a dialect means losing a whole way of noticing the world, and that loss cannot be recovered.
11Perhaps progress always demands a price, but we should at least count honestly what we have actually paid.