This essay was written by Mariam Habib Matta, age 20, from Egypt in response to the 2024 Global Voices Essay Contest in the Middle East and North Africa. Mariam was awarded first place for this entry.

Despite being a fundamental part of everyday life, language is vastly undervalued as a key component of dialogue building. In sectarian contexts, it is often treated as a source of division. Yet, for me, appreciating the beauty of Coptic and how it has tied different generations together could also be an opportunity to positively tie Egyptians together in a context of sectarianism.

As a Copt, the Coptic language is powerfully intertwined with my identity as a reminder that Egypt has more than just Arabic. The Coptic language is the latest version of the language spoken by the Ancient Egyptians, an amalgam of Greek and demotic script. The ‘Coptic people’ established through Christianisation in late antiquity have preserved the Coptic language for centuries under varying levels of discrimination. Yet despite this, at times, brutal suppression, the Coptic language has been resiliently protected and maintained.

Many in the West actively label the Coptic language a ‘dead language’; in some ways, this is correct; you can’t select it as an official language or find a keyboard to type it. Even Copts’ first language is Arabic. However, what is an ancient abstract figment of the language of Pharaoh for the elite who study advanced classics, is, I argue, a language that still ties us together as a community across borders for Copts in Egypt and the diaspora. In this sense, it is alive.

I find Coptic to be not a relic, but a fascinating mixture of history and life. Coptic was always slightly mysterious since I never grasped conversational Coptic, but I loved learning it from my father and hearing stories about how he learned it. It deepened my own ties, hearing the chanting hymns in religious spaces, and my own tie to my community, as we learn Coptic through the traditions practised throughout the year. Some entire ‘kora’a’s in Egypt speak conversational Coptic, and some pioneering leaders such as Sayedna Anba Demetrius of Malawi teach it to the next generation. Learning a language that was used in ancient epigraphs from YouTube is surreal.

Preserving and promoting the Coptic language is precariously risky. For example, scholar Abdel-Aziz discredits the term “Coptic heritage” as a ‘heretical claim’ coined only in the mid-20th century. This is not the only example; rhetoric that erases the Copts is widespread. This is despite the abundant paucity of papyrological and archaeological evidence, such as the Rosetta stone, spanning from the Ottoman Empire and Egyptian rulers. Discourse that erases cultivates, although perhaps inadvertently, a sense of marginalisation.

Could Coptic be a source of hope amidst sectarian violence? I hope so. Genuine interfaith dialogue necessitates transparency and cannot thrive by suppressing or sidelining smaller communities. Oft stressed the proverbial solution for interfaith conflict is to increase dialogue, yet what is ironically forgotten is language itself. Language can symbolise more than just syntax and conjugation, but also an opportunity for strengthening interfaith relationships.

Counterintuitively, in many ways, Coptic is a link, both between Copts and their own history, and between Muslims and the Copts. Even non-Coptic groups regularly engage with the Coptic language every day. In the case of Muslims, the etymological roots of many Arabic words used daily in Egypt can be traced back to Coptic. The linguistic fragments of Coptic tie together the Muslim majority and the Coptic minority. The much beloved ‘falafel’ comes from the Coptic word, “” meaning broadly, ‘the thing of a lot of beans’. Cities of Egypt bear Coptic names, such as Cairo, coming from the Coptic ‘Kahira’, “” and Faiyum, the Coptic,      “”. Coptic permeates all aspects of modern-day life. When walking to the grocery shop, the word “walk” comes from “”, picking up some tomatoes comes from the Coptic “”, then to rinse and dry the produce, uses the Coptic word for towel “”.  The confluence of Coptic and Arabic in Egypt should be used to deny fissiparous divides in Egypt.

During my first term of university, I, funnily enough, sat next to another Egyptian student, and we began chatting. I mentioned that I had just picked up a new Coptic book to study from, and she seemed utterly bewildered. Her confusion made sense since our entire conversation was in Arabic, and everyone in Egypt does speak Arabic as the standard. Despite being from the same country, education, and city, and even being friendly with other Copts, she had never even known that the Copts had their own language. I joked about how she had encountered Coptic without even knowing it! It became an amazing opportunity for us, where we realised how much language had bridged between these two groups beyond our differences. It also offered the chance to learn from each other; for her, it was a chance to learn about a community that is often overlooked, and for me to share a part of myself.

Generally, a knee-jerk reaction to difference is often hatred, simply driven by fear of not knowing or understanding this difference. Whilst not a panacea, language allows for recognising similarities and familiarising the unknown.

 Language offers numerous opportunities to exchange knowledge and history, bridging centuries-old divides. It adumbrates new avenues for learning through Coptic language departments and institutes, creating pathways to connect with ancient history that Coptic communities were previously unable to explore openly alongside their Muslim colleagues. To change the status quo ante would change how Copts are positioned within Egyptian culture, and impact society for the better.