Bragging rights go to the victor,

language rights go to the majority, all things being equal. Nothing is equal. Language follows the path of least resistance, at least theoretically. Like animals evolving smaller as the world fills with species and the competition gets fierce, so words reserve their options until the last possible moment, eschewing bound forms and forced marriages. The occupiers usually take the language of the occupied, all the better to force their hands, unless they’re also part of a local migration, which will make them the majority of the populace, or unless the local language is just too damn hard. Such is the case with Thailand, where a Farang would never be expected to speak the local language, maybe not even allowed to. This is all voluntary, of course, the tyranny of the majority, dreadful freedom. Society is united by its lowest common denominators, the greatest good for the greatest number, and the rare birds are left to flounder in brittle cages, taking solace in mirrors and nourishment from crumbs on the floor. It’s cold in here and somebody keeps shitting in the nest. Shine some light in dark corners and let some fresh air into musty corners.