The setting is almost too perfect for a National Geographic spread, which is practically the only currency that matters in the West’s fetishization of the Third World. We find ourselves in the Daliwe valley of Lesotho, a place so remote that civilization—in its infinite, carbon-spewing wisdom—has kindly decided to stop the pavement fifteen miles short of the destination. Here, amidst the damp grass and the cloud-draped peaks that serve as a natural prison for the economically immobile, a scene of profound academic narcissism is unfolding. A traditional healer, Tsotleho Mohale, stands on a wet mountainside, explaining to a pair of European intellectuals which local shrubbery might cure a headache. But the Europeans aren’t there for the aspirin alternatives. They are there for the syntax.

Behold the ‘remarkable revival’ of siPhuthi, a language spoken by roughly a thousand souls who have the distinct misfortune of living in a geographic pocket that Google Maps forgot. The protagonists of this particular tragedy of good intentions are Sheena Shah, a British linguist, and Matthias Brenzinger, her German counterpart. They have descended from the lofty heights of Western academia to ‘save’ a language that was presumably doing a fine job of existing—or dying—on its own terms before they arrived with their recording equipment and grant applications.

Let us pause to admire the sheer, unadulterated hubris of the Linguistic Savior Complex. The narrative sold to the bleeding-heart liberals of the Guardian reading class is one of triumph. We are told that siPhuthi was ‘thought to perish,’ but alas, thanks to the tireless efforts of people who likely have tenure, it has been snatched from the jaws of silence. And what, pray tell, are the fruits of this labor? What material improvement has been bestowed upon the people of Daliwe, who are presumably more concerned with the lack of infrastructure than the morphological structure of their nouns? They received a dictionary and a Bible translation.

It is almost too rich to digest without reaching for one of Mr. Mohale’s medicinal herbs. The Bible. The single greatest instrument of colonial erasure in human history, the very text used to flatten indigenous cultures from the Cape to Cairo, is now being repackaged as a tool of cultural preservation. ‘Here you go,’ the West says, handing over a freshly translated stack of Leviticus to a community fifteen miles from a road. ‘We may have ravaged the continent for centuries, but at least now you can read about the Israelites in your own endangered dialect while you wait for a bus that never comes.’ It is a circular firing squad of irony. The missionaries took the land and gave the Bible; the linguists took the grammar and gave… the Bible.

There is something deeply cynical about the celebration of ‘official recognition’ by the state. The government of Lesotho, a political entity that exists largely at the mercy of its encirclement by South Africa, has stamped a piece of paper acknowledging that siPhuthi exists. Fantastic. Does official recognition pave the road to Daliwe? Does it bring fiber-optic cables or sanitation infrastructure? No. It brings ‘pride.’ Pride is the consolation prize handed out by the global elite when they have no intention of sharing the actual pie. You keep your vowels, we’ll keep the equity.

The mechanics of this preservation effort are equally telling. We have Mr. Mohale speaking, his grandson Atlehang translating, and the Europeans recording. It is a extraction economy, but instead of diamonds or water—Lesotho’s usual exports—they are mining authenticity. The Western world, bored with its own homogenized, English-speaking, smartphone-addicted reflection, desperately needs to believe that ‘ancient wisdom’ still exists in the valleys they will never visit. They need Mr. Mohale to be the noble sage on the mountain so they can feel a fleeting sense of connection to a humanity they abandoned long ago in favor of Prime shipping.

And let’s not pretend this is for the benefit of the youth of Daliwe. When Atlehang translates his grandfather’s words, he is bridging the gap between a dying past and a globalized future that doesn't care about him. The harsh reality, the one that makes the sensitive souls in the humanities department weep into their fair-trade coffee, is that languages die because they lose their utility in the marketplace of survival. Teaching a kid siPhuthi in a world that runs on English and Mandarin is a sentimental gesture, not an economic strategy. It is preserving a museum piece while the museum itself is crumbling.

So, raise a glass to the intrepid linguists. They have ensured that when the last lights go out in the Daliwe valley, the prayers for salvation can be uttered in grammatically correct siPhuthi. The rest of the world won't be listening, of course. They’ll be too busy reading the article about it on their iPhones, feeling momentarily warmed by the preservation of diversity, before scrolling down to buy a pair of sneakers made in a sweatshop.