A Hidden Language Revealing the Soul of Gießen

Walking through the streets of Gießen, something caught my eye: the word “Ulai” scrawled on a wall. It wasn’t just another random mark on the urban landscape—there was something enigmatic, almost ritualistic about that term. That's how I discovered Manisch, a secret language cultivated by marginalized communities, primarily the Jenischen people. Inspired by a recent report on Manisch's recognition as intangible cultural heritage, I felt compelled to dive into this universe and reflect on what this language represents for the city and for us, as a society.

The roots of Manisch, also known as Gießener Jenisch, run deep and are complex. It emerged as a closed form of communication among those living on the margins – scavengers, itinerant artists, knife sharpeners – since the 19th century, yet its origins stretch back to the Middle Ages. Stripped of formal grammar, the language is a tapestry of codes and words borrowed from various sources like German, Rotwelsch, Western Yiddish, Romani, and the Jenisch language itself. Discovering this, I realized Manisch is more than a secret language; it’s a living testament to cultural resistance. For a long time, this language was passed down orally, a silent pact between generations who needed to protect themselves from a world that often excluded them.

In 2023, Manisch was officially recognized as intangible cultural heritage by UNESCO, thanks to the tireless work of scholars like Klaus Siewert and Günter Hecher. This achievement represents more than just a historical stamp of approval; it’s a recognition of the dignity of a people who have always had to fight to exist authentically. The report that inspired this text highlighted how this recognition has reignited local and national interest in the language. Exhibitions, dictionaries, academic projects, and even crime dramas have started incorporating elements of Manisch—as if Gießen is finally rediscovering a forgotten part of itself.

What's most fascinating to me is how Manisch still pulses through the streets. Words like “Ulai,” “maschabo” (friend), “ballesforesch” (drunk), and “stichl nowi” appear on t-shirts, hats, walls, and even in conversations among older residents. This popular adoption of the language reveals something powerful: a city finding in its marginalized heritage a new form of pride. Gießen, with its history full of contrasts and social divisions, seems to have found in Manisch a symbol of unity. As politician and linguist Frank-Tilo Becher put it, this recognition is more than an award—it's an invitation to value the cultural diversity that shapes local identity.

Writing about Manisch has made me think about how much languages can carry scars and victories. What was once a code for survival is now transforming into a banner of belonging. By acknowledging this heritage, Gießen not only honors its past but also builds a more sensitive future for voices that often go unheard.