O
n March 1, 2025, when President Donald Trump declared English the official language of the United States (US) with the stroke of a pen, my heart sank. I was working at the Annapolis, Maryland, district court’s interpreters office and felt light-headed, wondering what this would mean for an already fragile language access framework that millions of people rely on just to participate in public life. It felt as if the proverbial rug had been pulled out from under communities whose connection to essential services hangs by a thread of communication.
Very quickly, the picture became more complex. Executive Order (EO) 14224 did not erase language access rights outright, as various civil-rights and disability laws — like Title VI, Section 1557 of the Affordable Care Act and the Americans With Disabilities Act — still prohibited discrimination when language is the barrier. What it did was direct the Department of Justice to pull back federal guidance that, for 25 years, had explained how agencies should serve people with limited English proficiency (LEP). The harm shows up in how agencies set priorities, how services are funded, and how welcome people feel when they seek help — even if the underlying laws technically remain in place.
That realization raised a sharper question: In American society, who really benefits from English-only policies? On the surface, the most obvious people harmed are LEP individuals, who face yet another symbolic and practical barrier to healthcare, legal protections, education, and other essential services. But professionals who depend on clear communication — such as doctors, lawyers, teachers, and caseworkers — do not benefit either, even if some insist that people should “just learn English.” When communication fails, everyone pays the price in errors, readmissions, delays, and mistrust.
Even in that bleak moment when EO 14224 was signed, silver linings appeared. Language companies, interpreters, and language access advocates rallied, forming new coalitions and issuing joint statements that would have been unthinkable a few years ago. Language access moved from a niche policy topic into mainstream discussions about civil rights, racial justice, disability rights, and health equity. States, cities, and school districts began adopting or updating their own language access ordinances instead of waiting for Washington, D.C. Advocates published multilingual materials explaining Title VI, Section 1557 and related protections so LEP communities could better understand and assert their rights.
One lesson has become clear: Language access for LEP people is a civil right that must be encoded in law beyond any one president’s pen. For those who do not speak the dominant language, linguistic barriers are as real as physical ones; English-only policies function like staircases for wheelchair users, making access available only to those who can “walk” and excluding everyone else by design. Protecting language accessibility is as crucial for Deaf and hard-of-hearing people as it is for those who use non-dominant spoken languages; the legal regimes may differ, but in both cases, people are excluded unless the system builds a ramp.
Advertisement
After the shock of the executive order, I wanted to learn more about the state of language access in other countries. When I was traveling abroad, I would ask about language access at conferences, in hospitals, and in everyday
conversations.
While in Spain, within the European Union (EU)’s framework, I encountered a real institutional commitment to multilingualism. EU documents appear in 24 official languages, and multilingualism is celebrated as part of Europe’s identity. Yet when I visited hospital intake desks, municipal offices, and service counters, this high-level policy often failed to translate into meaningful access on the ground — revealing a gap between EU ideals
and local practice.
In Qatar, a visit to a hospital demonstrated how invisible language barriers can be when you are not the one facing them. When I asked the information officer about interpreting services, she seemed puzzled and reassured me that “plenty of doctors are native English speakers,” as if the presence of English alone solved the problem. When I asked about languages other than English, I was sent to a manager, and it became clear how much hinges on unspoken assumptions about which languages “count” and who is expected to adjust. It was an example of how language barriers stay hidden until someone crashes into them.
Conversely, at a conference in the Qatari city of Doha, language access was treated as non-negotiable infrastructure. Talks in Arabic were simultaneously rendered into Arabic Sign Language and into English, and no one questioned whether this was “too much” or a luxury. Multilingualism was treated as part of the event’s basic architecture rather than as charity, in recognition that language access matters everywhere in which knowledge is shared.
Conversations with friends from Gulf countries highlighted this mix of invisibility and visibility. In some contexts, the focus is often pragmatic, as consumers need to understand what they read in order to use services or navigate daily life. In countries where expatriates make up a large share of the population, there is a strong incentive to make high-profile services navigable in multiple languages, even without a detailed civil-rights framework like Title VI. Yet protections in these countries are often thinnest where people are most vulnerable: clinics serving low-wage workers, labor camps, and small workplaces.
Advertisement
From Annapolis to Madrid to Doha, the state of language access around the world is uneven. In some places, it is treated as a civil-rights guarantee; in others, as a customer-service feature; and in too many, as a fragile act of kindness that could disappear overnight. Building a world where language access is a reality everywhere starts with recognizing that language barriers are a universal human experience and that democratizing access to public life does not need to look like charity work. In fact, there are three pillars for any human-centered, sustainable model:
The global language services market has grown into a multi-billion-dollar industry, demonstrating both economic space and responsibility to support language access. The good news is that backlash to EO 14224 has sparked organizing, creativity, and cross-border connection. If language companies, public institutions, and communities can weave these strands together, the pain and fear unleashed by US English-only policies may yet become the starting point for something more powerful: a world where language is not a wall but a bridge.
Carol Velandia is a nationally recognized advocate for language access in the United States. She is founder and CEO of Equal Access Language Services, and she developed the award-winning program “Effective Inclusion Through Language Access” to enhance language service delivery across various sectors.
Advertisement
Related Articles
When a group of Advanced Placement (AP) Spanish students in Martha’s Vineyard stepped in to act as impromptu interpreters for non-English-speaking migrants last week, mainstream…
→ Continue ReadingThe international pitfalls of body-based gestures on the iPad. Perhaps.
→ Continue ReadingThis marks a strategic move in expanding Fidel's global delivery capabilities, especially in the United States, where demand for nearshore solutions is rapidly growing. This…
→ Continue Reading
