Each month, Culture Vannin’s Manx language development officer, Ruth Keggin Gell, contributes a column to Island Life.

When scrolling Instagram the other day, I came across a new book by language journalist Sophia Galer, which stopped me in my tracks. It’s called ‘How to Kill a Language’ and, as a speaker of a minority language, the title made me feel a bit sick.

One of my friends always says, ‘when it comes to journalism, sex and death always sells’, and she’s not wrong. There’s nothing more grabbing than reading that something has ‘come back from the dead’.

In reality, the push and pull of languages is much more nuanced, and down to multiple factors: economic, religious, educational, colonial... it doesn’t take much for a language to be edged out, and for other languages to become dominant.

I’m not here to argue for the place of one language over another – that’s not my way: I believe that all languages have the right to a place in the world. I am, however, interested in how people feel when they speak, or don’t speak, a language.

Though I’m from a Manx family, I didn’t grow up speaking Manx. The last person in my family that had fluent Manx was my great-great-grandfather, whose Manx Bible was one of his most prized possessions.

Manx that was passed down to me was fragmentary; words like ‘callig’, ‘skeet’, and ‘brabbag’, as well as Manx place names that had been passed down through the generations.

When I was younger, I sometimes actively avoided using greetings such as ‘fastyr mie’ (good afternoon/evening). I wasn’t confident in how they should sound, and it felt easier to stay silent than risk getting it wrong.

I’ve spoken to people who are quick to assert that they are no less Manx for not speaking the language, and I understand and agree completely.

Identity isn’t conditional on speaking a language. Defensiveness can, however, often hint at something else underneath: discomfort, perhaps even a sense of having missed out on something that should have been theirs.

This mix of loss, defensiveness and, even shame isn’t unique to the Manx language: you see it across the world, and I’ve had countless conversations with those who grieve the loss of their community language. Wherever a language has been interrupted, there are people negotiating what this interruption means for them.

Languages can and do come back into use though; they are fluid and flexible things.

If we choose to, we can reframe the way we look at language learning – instead of talking about decline, we can see things with a glass half-full approach, and ask what is possible to achieve.

We can start with small steps: learning a phrase; using a place name with awareness; listening; trying. Even the act of addressing how we feel about language can be cathartic.

There are lots of different ways that you can get involved with Manx, and there are brilliant opportunities with the Year of the Manx Language.