On Scottish Gaelic, Heritage, and the Right to Care

I was served this video about an hour ago thanks to the YouTube algorithm.

It was one of those linguistic comparison videos where spliced clips demonstrate Scottish Gaelic, Irish, Welsh, Breton, Manx, and Cornish side-by-side, stripping away regional accents to highlight the similarities and differences between these ancient tongues.

I wasn't expecting it to hit me the way it did.

The Weight of What Wasn't Spoken

My maternal grandfather was Glaswegian. He spoke English, as far as I know – only English. Glasgow has been predominantly English-speaking for generations, and by the time he was born, Scottish Gaelic had long since retreated to the Highlands and Islands. There was no family tradition of Gaelic in our line, no phrases passed down, no songs sung in the old language.

And yet, watching that video, I felt something. Not quite loss – you can't lose what you never had – but maybe absence. A sense of what could have been part of the cultural landscape my grandfather grew up in, had history gone differently.

I'm a quarter Scottish by heritage, three-quarters English, and I live in England. I don't speak Scottish Gaelic. I have no direct connection to Gaelic-speaking communities. By most measures, I'm about as far removed from this language as you can get while still having any ancestral tie to Scotland at all.

The only other tie there is just nomenclature. Ewan, Eòghann, "born of Yew."

So here's the question that's been nagging at me: is it brazen to say I'd really like to see Scottish Gaelic more widely taught in Scotland?

The Hesitation

There's this instinct to second-guess yourself when you care about something that isn't "yours" in the most immediate sense. I don't live in Scotland. I'm not affected by Scottish education policy. I'm not part of a Gaelic-speaking community fighting for recognition and resources. Who am I to have opinions about what should happen in Scottish schools?

This hesitation feels particularly acute in an age where we're (rightly) more conscious about not speaking over people, not centering ourselves in conversations that aren't about us, not presuming to know what's best for communities we're not part of.

But then I think about what language preservation actually requires, and I'm not sure that silence is the right response.

Languages Need Advocates

The thing about language revitalisation is that it doesn't happen through the efforts of native speakers alone. It can't. By the time a language is endangered enough to need "revitalisation," there often aren't enough native speakers left to do the work by themselves.

Welsh language revival succeeded in part because many non-Welsh-speaking Welsh people decided it mattered. They supported Welsh-medium education even if they didn't personally speak the language. They voted for policies that expanded Welsh language rights. They recognised that Welsh was part of their cultural heritage even if their own families had switched to English generations ago.

Irish language efforts in Ireland follow a similar pattern. Many people who advocate for Irish today don't speak it fluently, and their families may not have spoken it for a century or more. But they still consider it worth preserving as part of Ireland's identity.

In that sense, it makes sense as to why my American boyfriend of Irish descent wants to learn it and is learning it. I support it wholeheartedly.

For me, Scottish Gaelic isn't my language in the sense of personal fluency or direct family transmission. But my grandfather was Glaswegian, which places my family in Scotland's cultural heartland. And Gaelic is part of Scotland's heritage, even in places where it hasn't been spoken in living memory.

What I'm Actually Saying

I want to be clear about what I'm advocating for here, because there's a difference between expressing support and presuming to direct policy.

I'm not saying "Scotland must prioritize Gaelic education over everything else" or "Scottish education budgets should be allocated this way." Those are decisions for people who live in Scotland, pay taxes in Scotland, and are directly affected by Scottish policy.

What I am saying is this: I think Scottish Gaelic is beautiful. I think it's worth preserving. I think it represents a linguistic heritage that enriches Scotland's cultural landscape. And I would love to see it more widely taught—not necessarily as a mandatory subject, but as something more accessible to people who want to learn it.

That's it. That's the extent of my "advocacy." I think this thing is valuable, and I hope it receives support. There is already BBC Alba, the Scottish Gaelic sister to the anglophonic BBC Scotland, so it is still there. And it's displayed in the Scottish Parliament!

The Personal Is Valid

There's something uncomfortable about the idea that you need a certain threshold of connection before you're "allowed" to care about something. As though interest itself is presumptuous unless you can produce sufficient credentials.

I care about Scottish Gaelic because I find languages fascinating. I care because I have Scottish heritage, even if it's diluted and distant. I care because I watched a YouTube video and felt moved by the sound of these ancient Celtic languages, by the reminder of how much linguistic diversity once existed within the British Isles.

None of these reasons make me an authority. They don't mean I should be leading the conversation or dictating priorities. But they do, I think, give me permission to have an opinion and to express it.

The alternative – saying that only native speakers or people living in Gaelic-speaking regions can care about Gaelic preservation – would leave the language with almost no advocates at all. That doesn't seem right either.

What Watching That Video Taught Me

When I watched those Celtic languages spoken side-by-side, what struck me wasn't just the beauty of the sounds or the cleverness of the linguistic connections. It was the realisation of how easily these languages could have been completely lost.

Cornish very nearly was. Manx came perilously close. Irish and Welsh fought their way back from the edge through sheer determined effort by people who refused to let them die. Scottish Gaelic is still here, still spoken, but it's vulnerable in a way that languages shouldn't have to be.

My grandfather didn't speak Gaelic, but he lived in a country where Gaelic is part of the cultural DNA, even in Glasgow, even in the Lowlands where English has dominated for centuries. That connection feels worth acknowledging, worth caring about, even from a distance.

The Conclusion I'm Stumbling Toward

I don't know if I'll ever learn Scottish Gaelic. I might. It's on my ever-growing list of things I'd like to study, alongside continuing Welsh and the linguistics of constructed languages and about fifty other hyperfixations waiting their turn.

But whether or not I personally learn it, I want it to continue existing. I want it to be taught in Scottish schools, not as some dusty historical artifact but as a living language that young people can actually learn and use. I want resources available for people who are curious, who want to connect with that part of their heritage, who just think the language sounds beautiful.

Is it brazen to want this, given how tangential my connection is? Maybe. But I don't think it's wrong.

Languages belong to their speakers, but they also belong to everyone who finds meaning in them. And sometimes meaning comes from the most unexpected places—like a YouTube video you watched on a random afternoon that made you think about your Glaswegian grandfather and the language he never spoke but that was always, in some sense, part of his world.

That's worth something, I think. Even from England. Even at one quarter Scottish. Even without fluency or authority or any real claim to speak for anyone but myself.

It's worth caring about. And caring, I've decided, doesn't require permission.