There are six million Mongolians living in China. In the capital of the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region, Hohhot (ᠬᠦᠬᠡᠬᠤᠳᠠ), there have long been only four schools that teach in Mongolian. Since 2020, however, both of these Mongolian-medium schools have already stopped offering instruction in the Mongolian language. Their disappearance may mark the day when Mongolian exits the stage of history. Hohhot may very well become a place where living Mongolian disappear.

The name “Hohhot” comes from Mongolian, meaning “the blue city.” But that does not mean the extent of its sinicization can be overlooked.

While Hohhot had 195 ordinary primary schools, and 120 ordinary middle schools teaching Mandarin Chinese, there were only 4 schools in the entire city that offered education in Mongolian. (Even that 4 have discontinued Mongolian education since 2020 )In other words, even at the symbolic center of the so-called “autonomous region,” Mongolian language education has always been the exception rather than the norm—and now, even that exception is disappearing.

However, stopping Mongolian-language classes was not the end.
In October, the school sign at the gate of Hohhot Mongolian School was replaced. The old sign was still visible, the words “Hohhot Mongolian School” not yet fully erased.

Workers fixed it, tightened the screws, and wiped the surface.
The new name appeared:
“The Third Affiliated School of Inner Mongolia Normal University.”

There was no public notice. 

There was no explanation.

There was no ceremony.

It was done faster than changing a light bulb — quick, simple, and leaving no trace.

In several Mongolian group chats I’m in, people shared photos.
Someone reminded others:
“Don’t talk about this.”

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“The renaming was not just an administrative decision. As long as the school was still called Hohhot Mongolian School, it continued to signal that Mongolian identity had a place in the public space, that there was a place for Mongolian. And now that is gone.” said Enghebatu Togochog, director of Southern Mongolian Human Rights Information Center.

Replacing Mongolian-language instruction changes how children learn the world. But changing the name alters how the past is remembered. Hohhot Mongolian School is a public acknowledgement that a community exists - or once existed - in Hohhot. With the disappearance of its name, the memory attached to it becomes easier to question and eventually dismiss. It becomes possible to say that the school was never Mongolian at all, that Mongolian was never spoken, that it never existed at all.

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In fact, none of this came without warning.

On August 4 of this year, the Hohhot Municipal Commission for Discipline Inspection announced that Bai Batu, the principal of Hohhot Mongolian School, was under investigation for “serious violations of discipline and law.”

The notice was brief. It did not explain what he had done, nor what the accusations referred to. It simply stated that he was being investigated. In China, this kind of announcement has a very specific meaning. Once someone is placed under “discipline inspection,” they are immediately removed from their position, arrested, and interrogated without access to lawyers. The outcome is usually predetermined. The investigation itself signals the punishment.

In 2020, when the government in the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region moved to replace Mongolian language instruction, local people launched massive protests. Tens of thousands of students and parents protested. One U.S. reporter was detained for about four hours. 11 people committed suicide. International media briefly covered the story, then the attention faded.

This is what it looked like in September, 2020 Hohhot:

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Mongolian carries within it an entire world.
The language has an especially fine-grained vocabulary for describing nature, climate, grassland, and animals. Almost every variation in the shape of an animal, a plant, or a landscape has its own term. The Mongolian way of observing the world names things by their form and movement: the curve of a horn, the gait of a running horse, the way grass parts under wind.

For Naranbilig, a Mongolian researcher currently living in the United States, the joy of the language lies not only in speaking it, but in writing it.
“When I write Mongolian script,” he told me, “there is a softness in the wrist, a curve in the line. It feels like the way we speak — there is beauty in it.”

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In Hohhot, life goes on as usual. At six in the morning, street vendors begin to set up their pots. The steam from milk tea rises and turns into mist in the air. Children in school uniforms walk quickly. Their parents lead them toward the school gates.

The voices on the street are in Mandarin.
The voices broadcasting on the school playground are in Mandarin.
The conversations between taxi drivers and passengers are in Mandarin.

As one user on Douyin(Chinese version TikTok) said, “Mongolian hasn’t been banned. It has just become rare.”
The language has slipped into the corner, almost without being noticed.

The wind moves through the leaves. Cars pass along the wide roads. Concrete buildings line the city, and the Party’s propaganda praises the progress of modernization.

A few elderly people sit together in the sunlight. They sit there quietly, not speaking—just sitting.

And the language their parents spoke?
ᠮᠤᠩᠭᠤᠯ ᠬᠡᠯᠡ — Mongolian — where is it now?
Where has it gone?

Source：The Final Moments of the Mongolian School Sign