Barbaros
βάρβαρος (bárbaros)
The Greek word for the foreigner, defined by the mere sound of their language: to the Hellenic ear, which does not understand, the other does not speak—they make "bar-bar," an inarticulate noise. The barbarian is thus not defined by what they are, but by what I fail to grasp of them from my own shore. The term carries within its very origin the provincialism of the judgment it passes: it says less about the other than the limits of my own usage.
il n'y a rien de barbare et de sauvage en cette nation, à ce qu'on m'en a rapporté, sinon que chacun appelle barbarie ce qui n'est pas de son usage
The Greek bárbaros (βάρβαρος) is an onomatopoeia. Where the Greek ear recognizes no language, it hears only a repeated bar-bar, a stammer without articulation. The barbarian, originally, is nothing more than one whose speech, failing to be understood, is reduced to noise. The word does not describe the foreigner: it admits that I cannot decipher them. It names a boundary of my own understanding and mistakes it for a trait of the other.
Hence Montaigne’s clarity: “each man calls barbarism whatever is not his custom.” The verdict “barbarian” measures the distance from my own ways, not a degree of the other’s humanity. It belongs to received opinion, to doxa, that common voice mistaken for reason’s voice because one has never left the land where it holds sway. The foreigner Montaigne listens to speaks in truth “a sweet language,” and his poetry strikes him as “entirely Anacreontic”: the babble lay only in the ear.
Barbaros ≠ fellow citizen. The first fixes the other as an unintelligible outside, carved from my own shore; the second—the common city of the Stoics, homonoia extended to the whole world— recognizes beneath languages a shared reason. Between the two, there is not a fact, but a gaze: the one that divides and the one that connects.