In our globalized world, it’s common for people to relocate due to work, education, war, or climate change. But there is a growing group of people whose migration is driven by something many take for granted – the right to language. Within the Deaf community, stories are emerging of so-called language refugees: parents leaving their home countries so their Deaf children can access sign language, Deaf education, and a linguistically accessible environment.

“We didn’t flee war – we fled language oppression”

In many countries, there are no schools where sign language is used as the language of instruction. Hearing technologies like cochlear implants (CI) and speech therapy may be offered, but without support for visual language exposure. Some countries lack a well-developed system for Deaf individuals, such as access to sign language, sign language education, and Deaf associations. This often leads to language deprivation – a condition where a child doesn’t develop a full language, which can have serious consequences for cognitive, social, and emotional development (Humphries et al., 2012).

For some families, the situation becomes untenable. They begin to search for other countries where their children have better chances of establishing a linguistic foundation. Countries like Sweden, Canada, and the USA offer, to varying degrees, Deaf schools, sign language support, and recognized Deaf culture. For these families, migration becomes an investment in their child’s future – but also a farewell to home, language, and social networks.

Sweden as a sanctuary?

Sweden has started to gain an european reputation for its support of Deaf individuals, although access to sign language-based education is not uniform across the country. There are state-run Deaf schools, trained sign language interpreters, and linguistic rights written into law, but challenges remain – especially for newcomers.

For language refugees, Sweden’s sign language environment offers a new chance. But also a new struggle: navigating the migration system, understanding rights, and building community again.

“We moved to give our child a language”

When Fatema Afroza and her husband Reza left Bangladesh in 2017, it wasn’t because of war or an economic crisis – it was because their daughter, who is Deaf, had no future in a society where language was absent.

“In Bangladesh, there were no schools for Deaf children or access to sign language. Children like our daughter were expected to be silent, invisible, and kept at home,” Fatema says.

Their daughter Raiya was born prematurely under dramatic circumstances in May 2008. She spent a long time in an incubator and faced severe complications after a cochlear implant surgery, which required several follow-up procedures. After months of care in Bangladesh and India, it became clear that the country could not offer the medical or educational security the family needed.

“We searched for a school that could accept a Deaf child. But there was nothing. No instruction, no sign language, no social inclusion. We felt like we were suffocating – that she was losing her life, and we were losing our dream for her life.”

That’s when the decision became clear: to leave everything behind – jobs, home, family, security – to give their child something as fundamental as language.

“We wanted her to be able to say ‘I’m hungry’ or ‘I want to play.’ We wanted her to have friends, go to school, and become whoever she wanted. So we moved to Sweden.”

In Sweden, they encountered a completely different system. Raiya was placed in a school with staff proficient in sign language, and the family received support in learning Swedish Sign Language.

“We had started teaching ourselves American Sign Language online at home in Dhaka, but we quickly realized that Swedish Sign Language is a different language. We were worried at first, but the adjustment went better than expected. Today we use Swedish Sign Language as a family, and Raiya has a language she can call her own.”

Fatema describes Sweden as a country where opportunities are truly provided, even if the path isn’t always easy.

Still, they grieve leaving Bangladesh.

“We miss our family every day. But staying would have meant shutting down our daughter’s future. That’s why we say we are language refugees. We didn’t flee poverty – we fled silence.”

“We feel like language refugees”

When Steffen Røntved Egeberg and his family – a Danish sign language-using family where both parents and children are Deaf – had their first child, a struggle began that eventually led them to leave Denmark for Sweden.

“Even before our first daughter was born, we discussed the possibility that she might be Deaf, but didn’t think it would happen. When we later learned she was, we looked into whether we could use a home daycare instead of preschool. The municipal preschool wasn’t an option – we didn’t feel welcome because our child was Deaf and unimplanted.”

“We were shocked when the representative from the municipality visited us and said, with a ‘heavy heart,’ that by not giving her a CI, we will be worry for her welfare. I have a CI myself and know what it means, but that comment was disrespectful. We felt awful after that meeting and started exploring other options.” Their search led them to Sweden.

They also noticed significant differences in healthcare.

“In Denmark, doctors focused solely on CI and speech development, never mentioning sign language. In Sweden, we were met with a completely different openness – we were listened to, shown both sides, and allowed to make our own decisions. That was a huge relief.”

When their second daughter was born in Sweden, they encountered a healthcare system that respected their choices from the start.

“We felt no pressure to choose CI. We were informed, but the choice was always ours. Our daughter was born into a system where our identity and language were respected.”

After a few years in Malmö, the family moved to Örebro, where there were more sign language-using children, a stronger Deaf network, and a full educational system from preschool to high school.

“We wanted to find the best place in Sweden to put down roots, and Örebro offered what we needed. We couldn’t say no.”

But Steffen still worries about developments in Denmark.

“I hope Denmark wakes up. We can’t fight this alone – sign language must be supported and respected, regardless of technology. We didn’t move voluntarily – we were forced. That’s why we see ourselves as language refugees.”

Sweden – a sanctuary with flaws

Even in Sweden support varies greatly depending on where you live. It’s not just families from other countries who are forced to migrate. Even within Sweden, Deaf parents experience the marginalization of sign language in interactions with healthcare and authorities. For Nike Nordin, it became clear early on – despite being Deaf and a native sign language user, she was treated as a guest in her own language.

“I moved for my son’s language – we had no choice”

When Nike Nordin became a mother, she immediately faced a decisive choice. Her son was born Deaf, just like her and several others in the family. She knew the situation in Vänersborg and the region – and realized it wouldn’t be enough.

Nike, who grew up with sign language, immediately sensed something was missing. Even though she repeatedly explained her background, the focus remained on hearing implants.

“I had to travel to the CI clinic eight times and said no every time. I knew what it meant to be Deaf, and I wanted my son to grow up with a strong identity and linguistic foundation. It scared me that no one mentioned other options like sign language, support materials, or Deaf role models.”

Eventually, it became clear that Vänersborg couldn’t provide the environment her son needed.

“There were only two Deaf boys his age, born in 2013. I immediately started thinking about his future. Where would he find community? What would his free time look like? Was there a Deaf culture or identity he could relate to? The answer was no – and then I knew I had to act.”

Nike quit her job, left her secure daily life, and decided to move to Örebro – a city with a strong Deaf network, sign language environments, and access to education from preschool to high school.

“I was a single mother, and it was my decision. It took some time because I wanted to be sure, but eventually we moved when my son was 1.5 years old. It was tough – a new city, no job, no friends. But I thought: ‘Oh well, it’ll work out. It’s for my son.’”

Leaving Vänersborg was painful. She had friends, a job, and a sense of belonging there. But none of that outweighed her son’s future.

“Today I just say: WOW. I’m so glad I made that move. My son thrives in Örebro. He’s social, has a strong Deaf identity, and is surrounded by other sign language-using children. I see his self-esteem and confidence grow every day.”

Nike particularly remembers one recent moment.

“On April 1, I joked and said we might have to move back to Vänersborg. He was devastated, screamed ‘NO! I don’t want to leave Örebro, I have everything here!’ That was such a strong and emotional confirmation that we did the right thing.”

She sees herself as part of a larger movement – a family, a collective fighting for linguistic and cultural equality.

“Yes, we see ourselves as language refugees. I didn’t move because I wanted to, but because I had to. For my son. For his right to his language – and to a life where he can grow on his own terms.”

Conclusion: When the right to language becomes a struggle

The stories of these families show that language migration is not about choice – it’s about necessity. In the absence of functional sign language environments, relocation becomes the only way to ensure a child’s right to language. It raises important questions: Why isn’t the language development of Deaf children given the same priority as that of hearing children? Why is sign language still seen as an alternative rather than a given?

When children are born Deaf, they are not born without language. But society can either take it from them – or give it to them. And that choice should never have to be forced through migration.

These stories show that language flight isn’t about freedom – it’s about survival. It’s about children who are otherwise deprived of their mother tongue, their identity, and their future. And about parents forced to leave everything so their children can have a chance at language.

It calls on politicians, decision-makers, and healthcare systems: Why is sign language absent in so many decisions? Why is CI often seen as the only solution? And why is the right of Deaf children to their language given so little space in practice?

“Deaf children should not be hidden away. They should be heard – in their own way,” says Fatema.

It’s time to recognize that the right to language is not guaranteed – not even in Sweden. And that linguistic migration is not just about choice – but about life conditions.

A Political Responsibility

All of the interviewees share one feeling: that migration wasn’t a choice, but a necessity. Something that could have been avoided – if society had simply recognized their children’s right to language. It’s not technology they oppose – it’s coercion, invisibility, and the lack of options.

“Politicians must understand that sign language is not an add-on. It’s a language, an identity, a life,” says Nike Nordin.

 

Mona Riis, Teckenbro

Jorn Rijckaert, Visual Box

Benedikt Sequeira Gerardo, manua