Why Hessian Isn’t a Secret Language, Though Sometimes It Might as Well Be

I’ve been saying this for years. Usually with a twinkle in my eye, but not entirely without conviction: if someone really is listening in on our conversations, whether in the United States, Russia, or China, I wouldn’t particularly want to trade places with the poor soul assigned to analyze my phone calls.

Not because I have anything especially mysterious to discuss. Quite the opposite. My conversations would probably be of very limited interest to international intelligence agencies. Unless, of course, someone is compiling a database on Hessian moods, pets, gardening, and the precise characteristics of a regional cheese called Handkäs.

The problem is something else entirely.

I’m from Hesse.

And I speak Hessian.

Hesse is the German state around Frankfurt, and Hessian is a family of regional ways of speaking. It is not simply Standard German pronounced badly. It has its own vocabulary, rhythms, expressions, and an impressive ability to make outsiders wonder whether they have accidentally wandered into the wrong country.

I don’t speak it all the time. I’m perfectly capable of speaking Standard German. I’ve even written books in it. But when I’m not making a special effort to be understood, when I’m talking to people I know well, I sound rather different.

And that is the point at which the international surveillance community may encounter a challenge for which nobody is adequately prepared.

Imagine an intelligence monitoring center somewhere in the United States.

An analyst is sitting in front of his screen. For three hours, he has been trying to decipher a conversation intercepted somewhere in central Hesse.

“Sir, we have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The subject appears to be speaking German. But our translation software is producing inconsistent results.”

“What is he talking about?”

“We believe he is planning something involving a substance called Handkäs. He also repeatedly mentions someone named Schorsch.”

“Who is Schorsch?”

“Unknown, sir. Possibly an accomplice.”

“And what does Ei, horsche Sè mol! mean?”

“We suspect it is a command.”

“Military?”

“Possibly.”

The supervisor studies the transcript thoughtfully.

“And this Handkäs?”

“We haven’t identified its chemical composition yet.”

At this point, I should probably explain that Handkäs is a traditional Hessian sour-milk cheese. It has a distinctive aroma, a rather determined personality, and is often served with onions, vinegar, and oil in a dish known as Handkäs mit Musik, literally “hand cheese with music.”

The music is not provided by a band. It is traditionally associated with the digestive consequences of the onions.

I would therefore like to emphasize that Handkäs does not generally pose a threat to national security. At least not when stored properly and when everyone involved agrees on what constitutes appropriate musical accompaniment.

But the difficulties begin much earlier than that. You don’t need an intelligence agency to encounter them.

A smartphone will do.

Over the years, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to observe automatic speech recognition at work. Things become particularly interesting when I make an effort to speak slowly, clearly, and in something resembling Standard German.

The result is often a linguistic invention whose meaning remains equally mysterious to me and to the computer.

Once I start speaking proper Hessian, however, all bets are off.

An innocent sentence becomes an instruction. A person’s name turns into a household appliance. An ordinary conversation becomes a document that looks as though James Joyce, a malfunctioning GPS, and a particularly bad-tempered dictionary had decided to collaborate on a literary project.

One especially charming example from my digital adventures is:

“Microsoft Handkaes 12.3.”

Whatever that is supposed to mean.

Perhaps a new software release. Perhaps a regional operating system. Possibly a program that refuses to start until somebody has poured enough Äppelwoi into the computer.

Äppelwoi, for the uninitiated, is the traditional Hessian apple wine, a fermented alcoholic drink somewhat comparable to hard cider. It plays a considerable role in the region’s cultural life, although its compatibility with computer hardware remains insufficiently researched.

What fascinates me is this: a machine can process enormous quantities of data, recognize millions of words, and analyze complex relationships. Yet it can still fail spectacularly at a sentence my neighbors would understand without giving it a second thought.

Not because the sentence is particularly complicated.

But because language is more than the sum of its words.

Let’s return to our intelligence agency.

A second analyst has now been brought in. A specialist in European languages.

“We have identified the word Schorsch, sir.”

“Excellent. Who is he?”

“Apparently, it is a regional form of George.”

“George who?”

“We don’t know.”

“Could it be a codename?”

“Possibly. The subject also mentioned des annère links.”

“What does that mean?”

“The other left.”

“The other left?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that some kind of navigation instruction?”

“We believe so.”

“Where is he going?”

“That’s unclear. Apparently, even the person receiving the instruction doesn’t know.”

The supervisor sighs.

“Keep monitoring.”

What neither of them realizes is that Schorsch is actually a voice in a GPS navigation system. A rather cheeky, occasionally impatient voice that accompanies its driver through traffic with a running commentary in Hessian.

“Jetz links! Des annère links! Ey, hörste mir iwwerhaabt zu?!”

In English, approximately:

“Turn left! Your OTHER left! Hey! Are you even listening to me?!”

For the driver, a perfectly ordinary situation.

For the intelligence agency, possible evidence of a secret command structure.

Naturally, it would be absurd to conclude that Hessian is a secure encryption method.

There are people who understand Hessian. Even outside Hesse. And modern language models are becoming increasingly capable of recognizing regional expressions and working out their meaning from context.

Besides, Hessian is not one single, uniform dialect. The differences between its regional varieties can sometimes be so considerable that elsewhere people would already be applying for passports.

But that isn’t really my point.

What interests me is what happens when we reduce language to something that can be processed technically.

Take, for example, the Hessian expression “Ey!”

It is remarkably difficult to translate into formal English.

Depending on the circumstances, it may mean something along the lines of:

“I am profoundly dissatisfied with your present behavior and must insist that you discontinue it immediately!”

In Hessian, one syllable is sufficient.

This is not merely an impressive example of linguistic economy. It also suggests that certain regional communication systems have achieved levels of efficiency that modern management consultants can only dream of.

Another important Hessian technical term is “Hä?”

At first glance, one might assume it simply means that the speaker has failed to understand what was just said.

Something like “Huh?” or “Pardon?”

But that would be a serious underestimate.

In Hessian, “Hä?” can constitute an entire sentence.

Depending on tone and circumstances, it may express surprise, skepticism, incomprehension, outrage, or a fundamental refusal to devote any further intellectual resources to the nonsense one has just heard.

Some people are even said to have adopted it as a philosophy of life.

One tiny word, capable of conveying anything from a polite request for clarification to a complete reassessment of humanity’s claim to rational thought.

Try teaching that to translation software.

And there is another possibility.

You may have heard and understood every single word perfectly well, yet find yourself unable to believe that an apparently intelligent human being has actually said something so spectacularly ridiculous.

At that point, “Hä?” is no longer a request for translation.

It is a judgment.

Back at the American monitoring center, progress has apparently been made.

At least, that’s what everyone believes.

“Sir, we believe we’ve identified the leader.”

“Finally! What’s his name?”

“Äppelwoi, sir.”

“Äppel… what?”

“Äppelwoi. The subject mentions him frequently. Apparently, he is very popular in the region.”

“Do we have a photograph?”

“Not yet, sir. But we’ve intercepted several references to him being im Bembel.”

“In Bembel? Is that a prison?”

“Possibly. We believe Bembel is a secret facility.”

“And the subject?”

“He said he was going to petze en Schoppe.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’re still working on it, sir.”

The supervisor examines the organizational chart that has now been assembled.

“So Schorsch works for Äppelwoi, Handkäs is their weapon, and Bembel is their headquarters?”

“That’s our current assessment, sir.”

“And this Microsoft Handkaes 12.3?”

“An operating system. Apparently developed specifically for the organization.”

“Encrypted communications?”

“Very likely, sir. In fact, our technical department has identified another program.”

“What’s it called?”

“MettweckMitZwibbelle 256.”

“What does the 256 stand for?”

“We believe it’s the encryption strength.”

“And MettweckMitZwibbelle?”

“Unknown, sir. Possibly the developer.”

“Is it secure?”

“Extremely. We haven’t been able to extract a single byte.”

“How often does the subject use it?”

“Usually around breakfast, sir.”

The supervisor falls silent.

“Every morning?”

“Almost, sir.”

“That suggests a highly disciplined organization.”

“Indeed, sir.”

For the first time that day, everything makes sense.

Unfortunately, it’s the wrong sense.

What the analysts have mistaken for advanced encryption is, in fact, a Mettweck mit Zwibbelle: a bread roll topped with seasoned raw minced pork and onions. A perfectly respectable Hessian breakfast, although perhaps not one that would meet with universal enthusiasm at an international diplomatic reception.

And the other mysteries are no less alarming once properly understood.

A Bembel is a traditional stoneware jug, usually decorated in blue and gray, used for serving Hessian apple wine. Far from being a secret facility, it can be found in countless pubs throughout the region.

And petze en Schoppe simply means having a glass of apple wine.

In other words, the supposed mastermind is a beverage, the secret headquarters is a jug, and the subject’s suspicious activities consist largely of eating breakfast and enjoying a drink.

After hours of intensive analysis, the Americans are now convinced that something is happening.

What exactly, nobody knows.

But the sheer number of unanswered questions is increasingly being treated as evidence that something sinister must be going on.

And yet the problem of understanding language is hardly limited to technology.

Dialects have had a peculiar history in Germany.

For a long time, speaking dialect was widely regarded as a sign of poor education. Anyone hoping to advance professionally was expected to speak “properly.”

And properly generally meant: with as little regional character as possible.

What this attitude overlooked was that dialects are not defective versions of a supposedly correct language.

They are living forms of speech, shaped by history, with their own expressive possibilities and a cultural significance that extends far beyond the simple exchange of information.

When someone speaks a dialect, they communicate more than facts.

They communicate where they come from, where they belong, what they remember, and sometimes something of their entire life story.

A Hessian sentence can remind me of people who are no longer alive. Of places that have changed. Of conversations whose content I have forgotten but whose sound has remained with me.

That is not romantic nostalgia.

It is part of what language is.

And sometimes this history reveals itself in places where one might least expect it.

Perhaps the real problem isn’t that a machine knows too little about language.

Perhaps it knows too little about the people who speak it.

Because sometimes people separated by an ocean and several centuries of linguistic development can still recognize something surprisingly familiar in one another’s speech.

Take Pennsylvania, for example.

Some communities there still speak Pennsylvania Dutch, also known as Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch.

Despite the English name, it is not Dutch in the sense of the language spoken in the Netherlands. The name is traditionally associated with Deitsch, a dialect form of Deutsch, meaning German.

Pennsylvania Dutch is a German-derived language variety, based primarily on dialects from the Palatinate region of Germany, which has developed independently in North America over several centuries.

It is especially associated with the Amish, whose ancestors came from various German-speaking regions of Europe. The religious history of the Amish and the linguistic origins of Pennsylvania Dutch are related, but not identical.

What makes this particularly interesting to me is that Palatine dialects and Hessian belong to related branches of the German dialect landscape.

That does not mean every Hessian speaker can effortlessly understand Pennsylvania Dutch. Far from it.

But there can be striking similarities.

Imagine meeting people whose families have lived in America for generations and suddenly hearing expressions, sounds, and turns of phrase that feel unexpectedly familiar.

Not exactly your own dialect.

But familiar enough to recognize something of home.

For our increasingly desperate intelligence analysts, this might just be their last hope.

By now, it is getting late.

The American analyst has his third cup of coffee in front of him. The translation software has given up several times. The European language specialist has been replaced by another specialist, who is beginning to regret having answered his phone that morning.

“Sir, we have a new development.”

“Finally. What is it?”

“The subject said: Isch glaab, misch tritt en Gaul.”

“A horse?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he being attacked?”

“We don’t think so.”

“Then why did he mention a horse?”

“Apparently, he was surprised.”

“Surprised by a horse?”

“No, sir. Just surprised.”

The supervisor slowly removes his glasses.

“And what did he say next?”

“Des glaabste doch selwer ned!”

“Meaning?”

“You don’t believe that yourself.”

“Is he questioning our intelligence?”

“We can’t rule it out, sir.”

The supervisor stares at the screen.

Then at the organizational chart.

Then back at the screen.

“Hä?”

For the first time that day, he has expressed himself in perfectly understandable Hessian.

I think that at this point I would rather like to offer the two gentlemen some Handkäs.

Not as a bribe.

As a gesture of international understanding.

Then my mother calls.

“Ei Bubsche, isch habb nu endlich des Kucherèzept!”

“Des guhde Kucherèzept von de Omma?”

“Ja, des habb isch. Awwèr isch warn disch gleich: Des is è hefdisché Kalorièbomb!”

In ordinary English, the exchange would be something like this:

“Hey, son, I’ve finally found that cake recipe!”

“Grandma’s good old cake recipe?”

“Yes, that’s the one. But I’m warning you, it’s an absolute calorie bomb!”

The word “bomb” is not a reference to explosives, of course. It simply means that the cake is exceptionally rich and probably contains enough butter, sugar, and other ingredients to make a nutritionist consider early retirement.

Unfortunately, the American monitoring center has intercepted only one clearly recognizable word.

Bombe.

Bomb.

The analysts look at their organizational chart.

Schorsch.

Äppelwoi.

Handkäs.

Bembel.

MettweckMitZwibbelle 256.

And now a bomb.

“Sir, we have a possible threat.”

“What kind of threat?”

“The subject mentioned a bomb.”

“Where?”

“We don’t know, sir. But he appears to have received information from an older woman.”

“An older woman?”

“Yes, sir. Possibly a senior member of the organization.”

Fortunately, someone has finally had the idea of consulting a linguist from Pennsylvania.

He comes from a Pennsylvania Dutch-speaking family and has spent years studying the language used by Amish communities.

He listens to the recording, smiles, and removes his headphones.

“Sir, I understand what the speaker is saying. It’s about baked goods. Just stay calm.”

“How did you know?”

The linguist shrugs.

“Ei, weil der Mann doch ganz normal babbelt!”

Or, in English:

“Why, because the man is just talking perfectly normally!”

Meanwhile, in Vladivostok, a state of high alert is declared.

A Russian officer, who has understood only the word “bomb” from the entire conversation, picks up the telephone.

He isn’t sure what is about to happen.

But he is absolutely convinced that it must be something terrible.

“Шеф, я не совсем понимаю, что это значит. Но, по-моему, это будет что-то действительно страшное!”

“Chief, I don’t quite understand what it means. But I think it’s going to be something truly dreadful!”

In Beijing, meanwhile, several analysts are attempting to identify the language of the intercepted conversation.

After hours of investigation, they conclude that it must be a very old, possibly Germanic language whose precise origins have yet to be established.

The head of the working group reads the report, frowns, and says:

“咦?”

A Chinese expression of surprise or puzzlement which, depending on context and intonation, can come remarkably close to the Hessian “Hä?”

All three intelligence services have essentially heard the same thing.

And none of them has understood what is actually going on.

In the end, the important question is not whether an American, Russian, or Chinese intelligence agency can understand my Hessian.

The important question is what we mean by understanding in the first place.

We live in a world where communication is becoming technically easier all the time.

Messages cross continents in seconds. Languages are translated automatically. Conversations are transcribed, analyzed, and summarized.

And yet people frequently fail to understand one another.

Sometimes even when they speak the same language.

Because between recognizing a word and understanding a person lies an entire world of experience, relationships, unspoken assumptions, memories, and subtle shades of meaning.

Our American intelligence analysts, incidentally, get quite a few things right.

There really is a Schorsch.

Handkäs and Äppelwoi are real. So is the Bembel.

And there really is a bomb, although it is intended for a Sunday afternoon of coffee and cake rather than a military target.

Only their conclusions are wrong.

They do not lack information.

They take the information they have and construct a story that fits their expectations.

If you are looking for a threat, you will find signs of one everywhere.

And that is not a problem exclusive to intelligence agencies.

We all have a tendency to hear what we expect to hear and to treat our interpretation as the only possible one.

Sometimes a simple “Hä?” is enough to make us question what we thought we had understood.

That alone would be progress.

As for me, I intend to keep speaking Hessian.

Not to hide from intelligence agencies. It would be a rather unreliable method.

But because it is my language.

One of my languages, to be precise.

Because I recognize myself in it, and because some things simply sound better in Hessian.

There is a Hessian expression that roughly translates as “Now, listen here: why not simply ask?” It is a friendly invitation to pay attention and ask questions instead of jumping to conclusions.

And if somewhere in the world someone really is listening to my conversations, desperately trying to decipher them, I have one piece of friendly advice:

“Ei, horschè Sè mol: Fraché Sè doch oafach!”

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