Justice Speaks English: Language Barriers, Legal Reform, and the Unequal Architecture of Pakistan’s Undergraduate LLB
This article argues that legal education reform in Pakistan is unlikely to succeed without addressing the critical gap between the English-language dominance in the legal system and the insufficient English proficiency of undergraduate LLB students, a conclusion supported by an analysis of constitutional provisions, judicial precedents, and qualitative data from legal professionals and students.
Original paper licensed under CC BY 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/). This is an AI-generated explanation of the paper below. It is not written or endorsed by the authors. For technical accuracy, refer to the original paper. Read full disclaimer
Imagine the legal system as a giant, high-stakes video game where the goal is to solve problems and keep society fair. In this game, there are two very different rulebooks. One rulebook is written in a complex, ancient language that only a tiny, elite group of players learned in special, expensive schools. The other rulebook is written in the everyday language that almost everyone in the neighborhood actually speaks. The problem arises when the game's referees (the judges) and the training manuals (the law schools) insist on using the ancient, elite language for everything, even though the players are trying to help the neighbors who only understand the everyday language. This creates a confusing situation where the players are trained to speak one way but have to play the game in another, leaving the neighbors confused and unable to get help. This paper dives into that exact confusion within Pakistan's legal system, exploring how the language used in law schools and courts might be accidentally locking out the very people the system is supposed to serve.
The paper, titled "Justice Speaks English," investigates a major glitch in Pakistan's legal education system. The author, Waqar Afzal, argues that while there is a lot of talk about reforming how lawyers are trained, everyone is ignoring the biggest hurdle: the English language. The study suggests that the current system is built on a "colonial legacy," a fancy way of saying it's stuck in habits from the time when Pakistan was ruled by the British. Back then, English was the language of power, and the system was designed to keep the common person out. Today, the paper finds that this old system is still running the show, creating a strange mismatch. Law students are taught in English, but when they graduate, they often have to argue cases in Urdu or local languages in lower courts. Meanwhile, the big, fancy courts still speak English.
To figure this out, the author didn't just read old books; they went out and talked to real people. They interviewed 25 participants, including professors, final-year law students, and practicing lawyers from three major universities in Pakistan: the University of the Punjab, the University of Peshawar, and Quaid-i-Azam University. They also looked at the country's constitution and court rulings. The study suggests that the current way of teaching English isn't working. It's like trying to teach someone to drive a race car by only showing them a picture of a bicycle; the students might know the words, but they can't actually drive the car. The curriculum assumes students already speak perfect English, but many arrive with only basic school-level skills. The classes often focus on literature and grammar instead of the specific "legal English" needed to write contracts or argue in court.
The research finds that this language barrier isn't just an annoying inconvenience; it's a wall that stops justice. Because the training doesn't match the reality of the courtroom, many graduates feel unprepared. Some can handle the high-level English courts but struggle to talk to their own clients in Urdu. Others, who are great at speaking Urdu, feel shut out of the higher courts because they can't write in English. The paper suggests that this creates a two-tier system where only a few people with the right language skills can become "super lawyers," while the rest are stuck in the lower courts, unable to fully help their communities.
The study also points out a funny contradiction in the law itself. The Constitution of Pakistan says that Urdu should be the official language, and a Supreme Court judge once ordered the government to switch to Urdu within 15 years. But that deadline passed in 1988, and nothing changed. The courts and law schools are still speaking English, even though the law says they should be speaking Urdu. The paper argues that you can't just change the curriculum or the degree length without fixing the language issue first. If you don't teach students how to speak both languages effectively, the new reforms will fail.
In the end, the paper suggests that the solution isn't to ban English or to force everyone to speak only Urdu. Instead, it proposes a "bilingual" approach. Imagine a law school where students learn the complex legal concepts in English but also practice explaining them in Urdu and local languages. The participants in the study, from teachers to lawyers, mostly agreed that the system needs to change to reflect the real world. They want a curriculum that teaches the specific language of the law, not just general English, and they want the legal system to finally respect the language of the people it serves. The paper concludes that until this language gap is closed, the dream of fair and equal justice for everyone in Pakistan will remain just that—a dream.
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