Why do we code-switch?
If I tell you I grew up in Karachi, Pakistan, you will probably have a very clear idea of what you expect me to sound like. In reality, my accent is far more confused. The Netflix and YouTube I grew up with, the lingering imprint of colonialism, and the British school I attended all colluded to give me what is politely termed an “international school accent”.
But since moving to London, that accent has become even more convoluted. As I met new people, I began noticing my intonations shift and my pronunciations alter – and quietly the Pakistani hints in my voice started to soften. Subconsciously, I started to code-switch.
This isn’t unique to me: as defined by the Cambridge Dictionary, code switching is “the act of changing between two or more languages, dialects, or accents when you are speaking”. But that feels too clinical. Code switching goes beyond linguistics; it is inherently social. It helps us navigate power dynamics and the still-accepted rules for which voices sound friendly, intelligent, and worth listening to.
The language we use determines more than we think; Western accents are taken as credible while others are corrected, judged or simply disregarded. In academic, professional and even everyday social settings, sounding a certain way can be an unspoken entry requirement. Code switching becomes less of a choice, more of a strategy.
There is no ill intent in it. In my own case it comes with an uncomfortable sense of shame – a fear of white-washing my identity to fit in. But it isn’t about erasure, it’s about a deep-rooted instinct for self-preservation. A way to get our foot in a door that otherwise wouldn’t be open.
The problem isn’t that we change how we speak, but that we are rewarded for doing so. We don’t code switch to lose our voices, but to propel them in a way people are willing to hear.
