Inclusive language has become one of the most discussed topics in recent decades, especially in the context of debates about gender, identity, and representation. At its core, it proposes modifying certain structures of the language — particularly those related to gender — to include identities that have traditionally been made invisible. However, behind this seemingly progressive proposal, legitimate doubts arise about its linguistic, social, and even democratic impacts.
In languages like Spanish and Portuguese, which have a clear distinction between grammatical genders, the issue is particularly complex. For example, words like “amigos” (friends) or “profesores” (teacher) are traditionally used in the masculine form to refer to mixed groups — an old linguistic convention codified by formal grammar rules and taught in schools for generations. Even so, some people advocate for using alternative endings, such as “-e” or symbols like “x,” to challenge this supposed masculine neutrality. In English, similar efforts can be seen in the use of gender-neutral pronouns like they/them instead of he or she, or titles such as Mx. instead of Mr. or Ms.
The motivation behind these changes is understandable: there is a genuine effort to make language more representative and respectful toward individuals who do not identify with traditional genders. However, the attempt to alter an entire linguistic system raises important questions.
First, there is the issue of intelligibility. Many of these new forms are not officially recognized, which can cause confusion, especially in contexts where clarity is essential — such as education, the legal field, or public administration. Second, there is the risk of elitizing discourse: a large portion of the population simply does not know or understand these innovations, which can create unnecessary barriers between different social groups.
Another sensitive point is the question of imposition. Some people are concerned about the explicit or implicit pressure for everyone to adopt these new structures to avoid being accused of discrimination. Language, after all, is a collective heritage — and shaping it exclusively according to the preferences of a minority, no matter how well-intentioned, can come across as authoritarian.
This does not mean that the debate should be ignored. There is legitimate space for institutions and individuals to experiment with more inclusive forms of communication. The problem arises when a proposal becomes a rule, disregarding the history, structure, and communicative function of the language.
For interpreters and translators, inclusive language presents a practical challenge. Gender-neutral terms or pronouns, like they/them, do not always have a clear equivalent in other languages, making faithful and fluent translation difficult. In simultaneous interpreting, this can cause confusion or delays, forcing interpreters to make quick decisions that are not always well-received.
Furthermore, the use of inclusive language creates additional obstacles in adapted communication systems such as sign language and braille. In sign language, for instance, many gender-neutral constructions have no direct translation or require longer explanations, which slows down communication. In braille, changes in word structure to reflect gender neutrality can make fluent reading more difficult for people with visual impairments. It is important to recognize that these groups already face daily barriers to social inclusion, and adding complexity to language without clear adaptation may end up excluding them even further, rather than integrating them.
In summary, inclusive language raises relevant issues and deserves open discussion. However, this debate must be approached with balance: between respect for minorities and the linguistic freedom of the majority, between the desire for inclusion and the limits of clarity. Forcing deep changes in a complex language can generate more noise than dialogue — and when it comes to language, mutual understanding must always be the priority.
