a day ago
A German city mobilizes to save Sorbian, a vanishing Slavic language
BAUTZEN, Germany — In the singsong cadence of Sorbian, Europe's westernmost Slavic language, a milk-drinking dragon came to life in a small preschool in Bautzen, a German town in east Saxony, not far from the borders with Poland and the Czech Republic.
Outside, bilingual signs mark the town's name not only as Bautzen but Budyšin, in Sorbian. Inside, a dozen children giggled as a teacher animated the green dragon hand puppet, telling a modern tale rooted in Slavic folklore.
The Sorbs, a West Slavic group, settled in what is now eastern Germany more than 1,000 years ago and never left. Borders shifted, regimes and ideologies changed. But the Sorbian language, in its upper and lower variants, endured.
Now, however, the Sorbian language is on the brink, threatened by assimilation and also overt hostility from the region's surging German ultra-nationalists. In response, artists, educators and tech innovators are undertaking an urgent effort to preserve the language and Sorbian customs.
'The language can only be saved if more and more people speak it,' said Stefan Schmidt, a Sorbian-language broadcaster and father of five Sorbian-speaking children. 'It's an ambitious goal.'
The Sorbs are one of Germany's four officially recognized national minorities, alongside the Danes, Frisians, Sinti and Roma. The designation provides cultural funding, education and media in Sorbian, as well as protection under European law.
Fewer than 20,000 people still speak Upper Sorbian in Saxony — and even fewer speak Lower Sorbian in Brandenburg. UNESCO, the United Nations cultural and educational arm, lists Sorbian as endangered, along with other minority languages such as Welsh and Breton.
Beate Brězan, head of the Witaj Language Center in Bautzen, has a bold goal: 100,000 active Sorbian speakers by 2100. State and federal funding, bilingual signage and public awareness campaigns help, Brězan said — but the true battleground is within family homes.
'What happens at home is key to the language's survival,' she said.
This isn't the first time Sorbian has confronted extinction-level risk.
The Nazis sought to erase Sorbian identity through cultural annihilation and assimilation, and banned the language from public use. In the former East Germany, Sorbs were given more freedom, but only within a tightly controlled framework that often commodified their traditions.
Across the rest of Germany, the Sorbs are best known for their elaborate traditional dress, or 'Tracht,' and their colorful Easter eggs.
But here in the Lusatia region — straddling Brandenburg and Saxony — the effort is to make Sorbian relevant day-to-day, not just in folklore or on holidays.
The Witaj Language Center's digital arm, for example, is working to ensure Sorbian has a digital presence.
Its Sorbian translation app, Sotra, launched in 2019, is now being developed to include speech functions. In a small studio in Bautzen, Sorbian native speakers like Veronika Butendeich have recorded hours of Sorbian sentences.
It's painstaking work — but essential if children are to use the language digitally, said Daniel Zoba, who leads the digitization effort.
'If it's not available in Sorbian, they'll take it in another language — and get used to German or English,' Zoba said.
At Jan Radyserb Wjela preschool, named for a 19th-century Sorbian poet, about 80 percent of the children come from German-speaking families. 'We speak only Sorbian with the children,' day care director, Grit Hentschel, said. 'They first understand through constant listening — and only later start to speak.'
For Hentschel, who learned Sorbian at school while growing up in a German home, the mission is personal.
'I really live the Sorbian culture and I wear my Tracht with pride,' she said. 'We're especially proud when former students come back and say they passed their school exams in Sorbian,' she said.
With fewer children raised in Sorbian-speaking homes, maintaining native-speaking staff is a challenge. The facility now partners with a local vocational college to sustain staffing.
Sorbian language is taught just as much through Sorbian culture. The highlight of the year at the preschool is Ptači Kwas (Upper Sorbian for 'Bird Wedding'), a midwinter tradition, featuring Tracht crafted by a dwindling number of seamstresses like Petra Kupke in nearby Räckelwitz.
The country road from to Kupke's studio winds through rolling cornfields, flanked by ornate wayside monuments that bear witness to the Upper Sorbs' deep Catholic roots. Across the state border in Brandenburg, the Lower Sorbs have traditionally followed the Protestant faith.
Kupke, 57, began sewing Sorbian outfits in the mid-1990s after losing her factory job following German reunification. She learned from local grandmothers mastering the intricate floral embroidery to keep Sorbian identity alive, one stitch at a time.
'It makes me proud to look around the church at festivals and see my work,' she said. But with few young people taking up the craft, she worries for its future. Training an apprentice is expensive.
Traditionally, the outfits are worn only on religious and festive holidays, and Kupke believes things should stay that way. But some younger Sorbs have begun to merge elements of the Tracht with modern streetwear.
Janźel Panaš — known onstage as Angel van Hell — is one young Sorb pushing boundaries.
Earlier this year, Panaš, 24, performed in drag at the first non-heteronormative bird wedding organized in Cottbus by Kolektiw Wakuum, an initiative that aims to create a space for feminist and queer elements within Sorbian society.
Wearing traditional ribbons, an apron and a denim bonnet, Panaš played the role of the wedding entertainer. 'My mum was worried I'd upset people — the bonnet didn't fully cover my hair, like it's supposed to,' he recalled.
But for Panaš, blending tradition with personal identity offers a path forward to preserving Sorbian culture.
Dressed in drag, on a hot August day in his hometown of Schleife, Panaš wore one of his favorite pieces: a neck bow passed down from his great-grandmother and updated with a silver hoop chain.
'She was the last person in our family who really spoke Sorbian,' he said of his great-grandmother. Even in Germany, 'many people outside of Lusatia don't even know that Sorbs exist,' he said.
Rural population decline is one of the main challenges. But for families like Andrea Schmidt's in Räckelwitz, the language is very much alive.
Growing up in Crostwitz, Sorbian was part of everyday life. Now, her grandchildren carry on the legacy. 'Witaj Wowka!' her granddaughter Hana, 20, called through the kitchen door — 'Hi grandma!'
'It would feel artificial to speak German with the children,' Schmidt, 61, said.
Jurij, 4, the youngest of Hana's four brothers, entertained himself on the lawn with a toy horse, practicing to ride through the village as an 'Osterreiter,' or 'Easter rider' — a traditional Sorbian procession proclaiming the resurrection.
Despite studying and living in a big city, Hana still speaks Sorbian with her roommates from back home. In her teenage years, she once had doubts: 'There was a phase when we spoke more German. But the awareness of how important Sorbian is came back quickly.'
An emerging threat from ultra-nationalists is a concern for many Sorbs.
The Alternative for Germany (AfD) party, classified as extremist by domestic intelligence, is surging in the Sorbs' traditional heartland.
Last year, the Domowina, an umbrella organization of Sorbian societies, banned AfD officials and candidates from holding office within its ranks.
A number of young Sorbs recounted incidents in which they were threatened by far-right groups and told to speak German. Despite the hostility, families like the Schmidts remain defiant. 'We definitely don't avoid speaking Sorbian,' Hana said.
For her grandmother, protecting the language is a matter of identity and of the heart. 'It's amazing with how much emotion and with how much love you can pass it on,' Andrea said. 'If you don't put your heart and soul into it, it won't work.'
