Are Dialect–Language Distinctions Linguistic or Political?

I sat down with the nail artist whom I first visited. Eyes to eyes, hands to hands for at least an hour. It is inevitable to have conversations to break the awkward silence. Having an expat in a foreign country. The kickstarting of the questions is always “Where are you from?”

“Hong Kong.” I replied and smiled, and was ready for the bunch of expected questions. 

“So, what language do you speak?” The nail artist asked. 

“I speak Cantonese.”

She thought about it for a while and asked, “Is that a dialect?“ 

 “No, it’s a language.” I looked into her eyes and said. 

She quickly apologized and continued her work.

We often call a language a “dialect” simply because that is what we have heard others say. Without questioning the label, we tend to describe unfamiliar or lesser-known languages as dialects, rarely pausing to consider the assumptions behind that choice of words. What we once believed—or still believe—might actually be nothing more than perception. Perhaps the very concept of a “dialect” shouldn’t exist, since it carries loaded implications.

The distinction between a “dialect” and a “language” is often presented as a linguistic question, but in practice it is deeply political. 

Oxford English Dictionary defines “dialect” as “a form or variety of a language which is peculiar to a specific region, especially one which differs from the standard or literary form of the language in respect of vocabulary, pronunciation, idiom, etc.; also, provincial or rustic speech.” More broadly, it can refer to a language considered in terms of its relationship with other languages in the same family. 

A language, by contrast, is “the system of spoken or written communication used by a particular country, people, or community, typically consisting of words arranged according to a regular grammatical and syntactic structure; it can also include formal systems of communication by gesture, such as sign language” (Oxford English Dictionary).

These definitions appear neutral. Yet the decision to label a speech form as one or the other often reflects power rather than purely linguistic criteria.

According to the World Fact Book,  there are approximately 900 million native Mandarin speakers, while there are about 85 million Cantonese speakers, which is not a small number. To give you an idea, there are 67.3 millions of German speakers worldwide. 

Yet Cantonese is often called a “dialect” of Chinese, but linguistically and culturally, it is a full language which is not mutually intelligible to Mandarin. First, it has distinct grammar and vocabulary, unique sentence structures, verb usage, and thousands of words absent in Mandarin make it largely unintelligible to Mandarin speakers. Second, its pronunciation and tonal system are different, with six to nine tones compared to Mandarin’s four, so meaning changes independently of Mandarin, creating a separate phonological system. Third, Cantonese carries a rich literary and cultural tradition, from informal writing to opera, songs, and media, reflecting a centuries-old regional identity. Fourth, it has deep historical roots, originating in Guangdong and preserving older Chinese phonetics that predate the standardization of Mandarin. Last but not least, the label “dialect” is often applied for political reasons to promote Mandarin as the national standard. However, Mandarin is in fact standardized around the Beijing dialect to serve as a national lingua franca across China for power preservation over its vast population. 

Historically, states have used language classification to consolidate authority. During the Soviet era, Russification policies promoted Russian across diverse republics, despite the USSR—and modern Russia—being home to over 150 ethnic groups. Language functioned as a unifying administrative tool, but also as a mechanism of control. A recent symbolic example occurred when Vladimir Putin remarked to the Kazakh president Kassym-Jomart Kemeluly Tokayev that “Kazakhstan is a Russian-speaking country.” only for the latter to reply in Kazakh publicly —an assertion of linguistic sovereignty. Meanwhile, Central Asia countries which are former members of the Soviet Union are gradually reclaiming the country’s indigenous language’s legality. Kazakhstan’s draft constitution proposes reducing Russian from equal status to a language “alongside” Kazakh, angering Moscow and some local critics. The change reflects a push to promote Kazakh identity as ethnic Kazakhs now make up over 70 % of the population, while officials insist practical effects will be limited, though Russian commentators warn it diminishes Moscow’s influence. 

In January 2021, the Kazakh government unveiled plans to switch to a Latin-based alphabet, yet Cyrillic continues to be widely used across the country to this day. Uzbekistan has been gradually transitioning from the Cyrillic to the Latin script since 1993. While Kyrgyzstan, a member of the Organization of Turkic States (OTS) , remains committed to its Cyrillic script for now.

Europe offers parallel cases. Catalan and Basque which coexist with Spanish, are often mislabeled as “dialects”. The revival of the Czech language after centuries of German dominance shows how standardization can restore national identity. Meanwhile, tensions between English and Irish Gaelic—highlighted in cultural works like Kneecap—demonstrate how minority languages become symbols of resistance.

Ultimately, linguistic classification, political recognition, and minority language policy intersect with geopolitics. When someone asks, “Is that a dialect?” they may be posing more than a linguistic question—they are engaging, knowingly or not, in a hierarchy shaped by history, state power, and identity.