What We Lose When a Language Worker Disappears
His phone rarely stopped ringing.
In Gaza, during the war, Mahmoud became the person friends turned to when they needed help understanding a document, translating a message, or communicating with someone outside the Strip.
He had studied English and worked in translation before the war. But as the war continued, translation became more than a profession. It became a way of helping people navigate a world that was becoming increasingly difficult to reach.
He worked wherever he could find electricity and an internet connection. Sometimes that meant working from a displacement shelter. Sometimes it meant waiting for hours for the network to return so he could send a file or respond to a message.
The documents he translated were never simply documents.
One might be connected to a travel request. Another to a legal case. Another to an application for assistance or a scholarship. A message might be the only way for someone in Gaza to explain what was happening to someone on the other side of the world.
A friend remembers Mahmoud saying that the hardest part of translation was knowing that a document is never just a document for the person who owns it.
Then, one day, his phone went silent.
At first, his friends assumed it was another communications blackout. Power and internet outages were common, and they had become accustomed to losing contact with him.
But this time, he did not return.
They eventually learned that he had been killed in a strike, along with a member of his family.
His friends were left trying to absorb the news. But after the initial shock came another realization: the people who had relied on Mahmoud for translation could no longer call him.
There were still documents that needed translating. Messages that needed answering. Files that needed to reach organizations outside Gaza.
The person was gone. The need was not.
Eventually, some of those needs reached Respond Crisis Translation.
When a Translation Is More Than a Translation
For people living through crisis, language access can determine whether they are able to move forward.
A recent survey conducted by Respond Crisis Translation with people who have used its services shows just how varied those needs can be. People described needing translations of legal and immigration documents, birth and marriage certificates, identity documents, academic records, and materials connected to scholarships and other applications.
For one person, translation was essential to an asylum claim. They needed legal decisions, official letters, personal statements, and supporting evidence translated so that their circumstances could be properly understood.
For another, translation was connected to family reunification. They needed their child's birth certificate translated into English to support an application to reunite their family in the United Kingdom.
For others, translated documents opened access to educational opportunities and scholarships.
These are not simply pieces of paper.
They can be an asylum application.
A birth certificate.
A family reunification request.
Proof of identity.
Evidence that could affect the outcome of a legal case.
Sometimes, translation is the small step that makes all of those things possible.
When Language Becomes a Barrier
Finding a professional translator is not always easy. Paying for one can be even harder.
People who shared their experiences with RCT described struggling to find professional language support, being unable to afford translation costs, and needing translations urgently for asylum and immigration proceedings.
One person urgently needed legal documents translated but could not afford professional translation. Another said they could not afford to translate their legal file while relying on support during asylum proceedings.
In these circumstances, language itself becomes a barrier.
But money can create another one.
This is where RCT's work matters.
By providing free professional language services to individuals and grassroots groups with limited resources, RCT helps people access systems that can otherwise feel impossible to navigate — from immigration and asylum processes to healthcare, education, legal services, and humanitarian support.
The Work Behind the Words
For someone requesting translation, the process might seem simple: send a document and wait for a translated version to come back.
But behind every request is a person trying to do something.
Submit an application.
Provide evidence.
Prove their identity.
Reunite with family.
Apply for a scholarship.
Explain what happened to them.
One person who received support from RCT described the experience as fast, reliable, professional, and free.
Another said the team was kind, professional, and understanding of their difficult circumstances.
And one beneficiary captured the deeper meaning of the work in a single sentence:
“Your work does not only translate words. It gives people like me a chance to be heard.”
That is what language access can mean in a crisis.
Not simply understanding a sentence, but having the ability to participate in a system that determines what happens next.
What Happens When the Language Worker Disappears?
Mahmoud was not separate from the crisis he was helping others navigate.
He was living through it too.
He searched for electricity. Waited for internet connections. Moved from place to place. And tried, in the middle of all of it, to continue helping people communicate.
This is one of the contradictions faced by language workers during crises: the person helping others communicate with the outside world may be struggling to communicate with their own family.
A translator may be displaced.
An interpreter may have relatives who need medical care.
A language worker carrying their community's stories to the outside world may barely have enough internet access to send their own message.
And yet, the work continues.
Until it doesn't.
When a community loses a home, the loss can be seen.
When a hospital is destroyed, the damage can be measured.
But when a community loses the person who used to translate for them, the loss can be harder to recognize.
A translator does not leave behind an empty building.
They leave behind a gap in communication.
Someone else may eventually fill it. An organization like RCT may help bridge part of it. But the knowledge that person carried — of the context, the language, the culture, and the people — cannot always be replaced easily.
Language workers are part of an invisible infrastructure within communities.
Like electricity or internet access, their importance can go unnoticed while they are there.
It becomes obvious when they are gone.
The Words That Continue
After Mahmoud was killed, there were still people who needed translations.
Some of those needs eventually reached RCT.
Another translator carried the words.
Someone else read the documents.
The files returned to their owners in the language they needed.
It was not a replacement for Mahmoud.
Nothing could be.
But it meant that the work he had been doing — helping people be understood — did not completely stop when he died.
Perhaps this is one of the least visible truths about language work in a crisis:
The person doing the work may be invisible, but their absence can be enormous.
We often do not recognize the value of a translator until we need someone to take their place.
And sometimes, we do not understand how much one person was carrying until they are gone.
Because language is not simply words.
It is how a person explains who they are.
What happened to them.
What they need.
And what they hope for.
In a world where people experience crises across different languages, keeping those words moving can itself be a form of humanitarian response.
The person was gone.
The need was not.
And when another translator opens a file and begins carrying those words into another language, they are not simply translating.
They are helping someone else continue to speak.
by Athar Abu Samra
Arabic Team Project Manager