The phrase "We are a multicultural school" greets you as soon as you enter several of South Africa's former Model C schools. Everyone is welcome. It sounds liberated and progressive on paper. However, there is a more subdued and uneasy reality hidden beneath that meticulously constructed facade. Inclusion is frequently subject to conditions. Everyone is welcome, but only if they are prepared to fit in. That conformity is actually linguistic. African languages are marginalized and learners are required to speak English at all times, with Afrikaans occasionally being accommodated informally. Therefore, schools both celebrate and control the expression of ethnic variety. It becomes evident that you can be here, but not completely as yourself.
The explanation is nearly always the same. English is the language of global opportunity, we teach, and assessment in English. Speaking English is said to boost learners' self-esteem, open doors to better jobs, and ultimately "better their lives." Indeed, it is true. It is true that learning English opens doors. However, how this story is employed to defend the suppression of other languages is rarely questioned. It goes beyond academic preparedness when students are discouraged or even punished for speaking isiZulu, Sesotho, or Setswana in class. It turns becomes a control mechanism. It educates students that separating themselves from their linguistic identities is necessary for success. Afrikaans, on the other hand, frequently eludes these regulations and is nonetheless widely used by individuals who already have privileged positions within the school. The outcome is a continuation of linguistic hierarchy rather than neutrality.
Not every student has the same educational experience in these settings. Some people are already familiar with the institution's dominant language and culture. Others have to perform, translate, and adjust all the time. It is expected of Black students in particular to overcome this obstacle by learning English while suppressing their native tongues. They quickly pick up on the fact that using their language in specific settings can result in reprimand, shame, or correction. Over time, this makes a slight but significant difference between people who naturally fit in and people who have to work for it. It is evident that inclusion is not equally distributed when a school professes to be inclusive but limits students' language expression. It is organized, run, and, in many respects, unfair.
Language is intricately linked to identity, culture, and modes of knowing; it is not merely a means of communication. African languages were routinely devalued throughout colonialism and apartheid, while English and Afrikaans were promoted as languages of power. The language order has proven much more resilient, despite the political system's transformation. When a student is instructed not to use their native tongue in class, the effects are long-lasting and psychological. It conveys the idea that their language is inappropriate for places of authority and expertise. Language carries culture, according to Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o (1986), and separating people from their language is equivalent to separating them from themselves. In this approach, colonial power endures through commonplace actions that seem normal, even advantageous, rather than through the use of force.
You experience something when you spend the most of the day in a setting that restricts your ability to talk naturally. It compels ongoing self-observation. It influences your thoughts, emotional expression, and social interactions. Learners start to internalize a hierarchy of languages in which their native tongues are confined to casual or private settings while English is linked to intelligence, achievement, and legitimacy. This can eventually cause learners to experience linguistic uneasiness, when they feel more comfortable communicating complicated concepts in English than in their native tongues. This is not accidental; rather, it is the outcome of long-term exposure to a system that discourages some forms of expression while rewarding others. In many respects, it embodies one of colonialism's most enduring legacies: the capacity to influence people's self-perceptions without having to overtly enforce them.
The role of teachers adds to the complexity of this issue. Student teachers are urged to consider the educational system critically throughout their training, especially in courses like Philosophy of Education. They discuss ideas like inclusive pedagogy, social justice, and decolonization. They learn to see how education might perpetuate inequality and to envision more egalitarian options. However, many find themselves imposing rules that go against these very ideals when they get into the classroom. When learners speak in their native tongues, they are corrected. Fluency in English is their top priority. They join a system they were taught to criticize. This is a systemic failing rather than a personal one. Even when teachers recognize the need for change, schools, regulations, and institutional cultures frequently allow little space for alternative techniques.
In South African education, decolonization has grown to be a potent and popular idea, particularly in the wake of student demonstrations like #FeesMustFall. But it frequently stays at the theoretical level discussed in lectures and written about in essays, but seldom ever put into reality in regular classroom procedures. Real decolonization necessitates structural change in addition to representation. In terms of language, this entails reconsidering laws that give English preference over other languages. It entails viewing multilingualism as an asset rather than an issue. Techniques like translanguaging, which let students use several languages to construct meaning, provide useful strategies for making classrooms more inclusive (Makalela, 2015). Without these changes, decolonization runs the risk of becoming a catchphrase, strong in rhetoric but having little real impact.
The positioning of language in schools must be carefully reevaluated going forward. This does not imply giving up on English rather, it calls into question its hegemony as the sole acceptable language for education and communication. Schools must establish spaces where students can speak in their native tongues without worrying about criticism or punishment. Instead of being discouraged from using many languages into their teaching practices, educators should be encouraged to do so. Rather than stifling South Africa's linguistic plurality, policies should reflect it. Schools won't be able to transition from symbolic inclusion to meaningful belonging until then.
While racial integration in former Model C schools has clearly improved, linguistic and cultural change is still lacking. The history of colonialism continues to influence education in subtle but important ways as long as students must suppress aspects of themselves in order to thrive. English is already a part of the system; the question is not whether it should be. Whether it should maintain its dominance at the expense of all other languages is the question. We cannot genuinely say that education in these areas has been completely decolonized until that disparity is rectified.
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