Thank you for your participation!
We would like to thank everyone who participated in this contest that asks undergraduates to name a word they consider to be untranslatable and to explore the linguistic, cultural, social, and affective reasons for its untranslatability. We received many thoughtful submissions from a wide array of languages that demonstrated an extraordinary breadth of linguistic and historical knowledge as well as sensitivity to how meaning is made across, through, and in languages.
Congratulations to the winners! Please scroll down to read the full submission.
AY 2025-2026
1st Place
Sophia Hawthorne: 勿体ない（もったいない) "mottainai" (Japanese)
2nd Place
Xingyu Chen: 缘 "yuán" (Chinese)
3rd Place
Ariana Mansouri: دلتنگی "del-tangi" (Persian)
FULL SUBMISSIONS
Sophia Hawthorne: 勿体ない（もったいない) "mottainai" (Japanese)
While studying abroad in Japan, I encountered one of the most memorable untranslatable words I have ever heard: mottainai (もったいない).
I first heard it at dinner with my host family. I had left food on my plate, a faux pas I had not yet learned, and when I went to throw it away, my host dad stopped me, ate the leftovers, and said, “mottainai kara,” or “because of mottainai.” I smiled as if I understood, then went to my room, unsure what he meant.
After that moment, I began noticing the word everywhere. An extra bus ticket about to expire? Someone would offer it to a friend “because of mottainai.” Advertisements for composting services used “because of mottainai.” Even outlet stores selling unwanted clothing had “mottainai” written on their doors.
At first, I assumed it simply meant “don’t waste.” But as time went on, I started to realize there were more feelings involved in the word than I had realized. Through conversations with my host family, I realized my initial translation of “don’t waste” was profoundly insufficient. To understand why, I had to look beyond everyday usage and into the word’s cultural and historical roots.
The term dates back to the Muromachi period (1336–1573), when it described something lacking its proper form or dignity. Over time, it became intertwined with Buddhist and Shinto beliefs, especially the idea that all things, living or not, possess intrinsic value. Today, mottainai expresses not just disapproval of waste, but sorrow and reverence: a recognition that something valuable has been underappreciated or not allowed to fulfill its full potential. My host dad ate the leftover food off my plate not just because he wanted to reduce waste but “because of mottainai.”
For this reason, mottainai resists direct translation into English. While English contains terms related to wastefulness, it lacks a single word that conveys the moral and emotional weight behind the concept. The gap is not merely linguistic, but cultural as it reflects a different way of understanding value, consumption, and responsibility.
I chose mottainai because of its relevance in the Anthropocene. In a world defined by overconsumption and environmental degradation, the absence of an emotional response to waste is problematic. Mottainai suggests an alternative ethical orientation in which waste provokes discomfort or even grief.I wonder how the world would look different if people around the world understood not to waste because of mottainai.
Xingyu Chen: 缘 "yuán" (Chinese)
The word "yuán" evolved from concrete to abstract—originally meaning the rim of an object, later extending to "surrounding" and "following along," pointing toward the possibility of connection. With Buddhism's introduction, it acquired deeper philosophical meaning, referring to karmic connections and fated encounters.
Yuán describes the invisible force that brings people together—not destiny's command, but life's quiet arrangement. It is why strangers become soulmates, why paths cross at just the right moment, and why some relationships naturally end. In daily life, it often appears in the compound "yuánfèn," referring specifically to predestined human connections. Several translations capture facets: Lin Yutang's masterful "predestined affinity" perfectly captures both fate's arrangement and the warmth of souls recognizing each other; "meant to be" suggests quiet destiny; "serendipity" captures chance meetings tinged with magic, though misses the destiny; "our paths crossed for a reason" offers a poetic rendering of meaningful encounters.
The word appears everywhere: friends meeting unexpectedly say "We have yuán"; couples parting acknowledge "Our yuán has ended"; in uncertainty, people remind each other to "follow yuán"—neither forcing nor abandoning, but allowing relationships to unfold naturally.
Its untranslatability lies in the unique Eastern philosophical logic behind it. "Yuán" is rooted in Buddhism's "cause and condition" and Daoism's "following nature"—not simply "fate" or "chance," but a dynamic relationship of mutual interdependence. This embodies Chinese as a high-context language, skilled at expressing implication and relationality, whereas English favors direct description.
What makes yuán most exquisite is how it contains seemingly contradictory meanings: chance and necessity—meetings feel both accidental and prearranged; passive acceptance and active cultivation—"following yuán" yet nurturing relationships through "fèn," one's share of effort. Many words attempt to approach it but fall short: "fate" is too heavy; "karma" too focused on moral cause-and-effect; "serendipity" too brief and light.
Heidegger said "language is the house of being"—a people's understanding of the world is housed in their language. "Yuán" is precisely such a window into how Chinese people understand relationships: not passive resignation, but a balance between "going with the flow" and active cultivation. Some things cannot be forced, yet what is fated still requires care to flourish. This understanding of relationship—as both gift and task—has no equivalent in English.
Ariana Mansouri: دلتنگی "del-tangi" (Persian)
The Persian word I have chosen is دلتنگی (Del-tangi). Its history is deeply tied to Persian literature and poetry, where writers have long used it to describe the weight of longing and the ache of absence. Unlike “homesickness” or “missing someone,” دلتنگی (Del-tangi) conveys a physical and emotional tightness in the chest, a quiet heaviness that lingers whether one is alone or among people. It appears in classic poems by Hafez and modern Persian poets, always hinting at the intimate pain of separation, memory, or yearning for what is out of reach. In English, دلتنگی (Del-tangi) might be described as a “tightness of the heart from longing,” but even that falls short. It is both a feeling and a condition, simultaneously melancholic, tender, and restless. I picture it as a heart bound gently yet firmly by threads that glow faintly, tugging it toward something absent. People use the word in everyday life, for example, a student might feel دلتنگی (del-tangi) for their family while at school, or someone might experience it while remembering a childhood home or a lost friendship. It is an emotion that is ordinary yet complex, familiar but impossible to fully name outside Persian culture. I consider دلتنگی (del-tangi) untranslatable because no single English word captures its full spectrum, the bodily sensation, the quiet melancholy, the poetic resonance. Translation reduce it to “longing” or “missing,” ignoring the cultural context, the nuance of subtle grief, and the way it inhabits everyday speech. I picked this word because it struck me during my Persian studies. It made me notice how language can carry sensation, memory, and subtle judgment about the world. For a machine to translate دلتنگی (del-tangi) accurately, it would need more than vocabulary. It would need cultural context, knowledge of human relationships and memory, and the ability to link words to images and bodily sensations. Only then could it begin to approach the kind of understanding a person feels when the heart tightens for someone or something that is absent.
With gratitude
We would like to extend a warm thank you to the following members of the review committee:
- Vesna Rodic, French instructor, Director of Lower Division, Coordinator of Second-year French Language Program
- Emily Hellmich, BLC Associate Director
- Rosa Norton, BLC Postdoctoral Fellow
- Vanessa Menjivar, BLC Student Worker
Finally, many thanks to the generous financial support provided by the Found in Translation (FIT) working group, led by Vesna Rodic and Michel Arrigo, and sponsored by the Berkeley Language Center and the Townsend Center for the Humanities.
Exploring the Boundaries of Translation Contest
This contest, organized by the Berkeley Language Center (BLC), encourages UC Berkeley undergraduate students to critically explore the boundaries of translation and the relativity of cultures. Participants will name an “untranslatable word” and engage with this boundary by exploring its (un)translatability by humans and machines.
Essay prompts:
(1) If known, what is the history of the word?
(2) Recognizing that you have identified the word as untranslatable, how would you best describe the meaning of the word in English (feel free to also include an image) and in what contexts is the word used?
(3) Why do you consider this word to be “untranslatable”? Why did you pick this word?