The existence of different names for the same geographical features across languages and cultures is a natural phenomenon, shaped by historical, social, and linguistic factors. Yet under certain circumstances, toponymical issues transcend linguistics, becoming a potent—and often explosive—element of domestic and foreign policy. We have previously addressed the “name correction” that Donald Trump initiated shortly after his return to the White House, exemplifying one of the two main scenarios for the politicization of toponymy—in this case, aimed at a domestic audience. Trump targeted toponyms that did not align with his vision of American greatness, but his campaign had virtually no impact on the rest of the world. Mexico expressed outrage over the renaming of the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America, yet continued to use the original name. It could not have been otherwise: such decisions carry no extraterritorial effect.
The second scenario—and the focus of this article—involves the promotion of local toponymical versions on the international stage. This often occurs smoothly, particularly when it concerns the wholesale rebranding of countries. Africa offers numerous examples, with nations changing their names either upon liberation from colonial rule or sometime thereafter. Ghana and Mali (formerly the British Gold Coast
and French Sudan
, respectively) adopted the names of ancient empires upon achieving independence. In 1975, after fifteen years of sovereignty, Dahomey changed its name to Benin as a more inclusive designation, unassociated with any single ethnic group within the country
. A desire to escape colonial and ethnic connotations also underpinned the renaming of Upper Volta to Burkina Faso in 1984. However, the logic of standardizing the name across all languages also played a role—and the new name was accepted by the international community without major difficulties.
Yet this same logic proved only partially effective when two other African countries—Ivory Coast and Cape Verde—announced in 1986 that their names should henceforth be fixed in their French (Côte d’Ivoire) and Portuguese (Cabo Verde) forms, respectively. In several countries—particularly in the USSR and, by extension, post-Soviet Russia—this change was adopted both officially and in everyday usage. However, a significant portion of the world continues to use translated names outside official contexts, as is readily apparent from examining Wikipedia article titles in various languages. This raises the question of the acceptance of such directive changes beyond the initiating country: in some nations and languages, they are embraced, while in others, they provoke resistance.
In 1989, the Burmese authorities renamed the country to Myanmar and its capital, Rangoon, to Yangon, citing rejection of the colonial legacy. Strictly speaking, this was less a renaming than a process of aligning the international name with the pronunciation norms of the Burmese language. A similar rationale underpinned the renaming of Indian cities, which began in 1995 (the first being Bombay, renamed Mumbai) and continues to this day. However, while the new names of Indian cities have been successfully adopted internationally, the situation with Myanmar has been more contentious. The opposition and sympathetic external actors have continued to use the name Burma, thereby emphasizing their rejection of the ruling regime.
Standing apart from this background is Turkey’s démarche, which announced in 2022 that it would change its official name specifically in English. The motivation is clear: the English word turkey carries connotations that are far from noble. But despite the fact that the country’s name has been changed in official UN documents in English, and the word Türkiye is actively used in English-language texts within the country, Turkey’s efforts are unlikely to lead to the adoption of a new norm in vernacular English. At best, the prescribed form may be used by individual authors seeking to express solidarity with Ankara—but a genuine shift in everyday usage remains improbable.
Turning to Russia, Soviet-era support for the toponymical initiatives of Third World countries was consistent. The assertion of sovereignty through the rejection of colonial legacies aligned with the general ideological line, but there was more to it: for Russian speakers, the names of African countries always remained exotic, and their change did not constitute a significant event for native speakers. However, in the late 1980s, the USSR faced an unexpected challenge on its own territory. The “parade of sovereignties” also affected toponymy: the union republics and autonomous regions demanded name corrections as part of national revival. A distinctive feature of this process was the elevation of national toponymical variants to the all-Union level. They demanded the use of forms like Belarus, Moldova, or Kyrgyzstan, as used in Belarusian, Moldavian, and Kyrgyz respectively, in the state language, i.e., Russian, and the response from Moscow was generally positive. The adoption of new norms represented a concession to the union republics that accelerated centrifugal processes, yet it remained fully consistent with the traditions of Soviet nationality policy.
In the 1990s, Russia officially reverted to the older forms, and the All-Russian Classifier of Countries of the World, approved in 1995, employed the equivalents of Byelorussia, Moldavia, and Kirghizia (borrowed from Russian, they were also used in English in the Soviet era). However, six years later, Belarus and Moldova returned to the classifier—and they appear in its current edition as well. Yet this document regulates the naming of countries only in official contexts; outside it—including in everyday speech—the situation differs, and here we enter the terrain of everyday “toponymic wars,” in which one of the primary arguments is precisely an appeal to official reference works or directive decisions on word usage adopted in the relevant countries. In other words, toponymic prescriptivism.
In English, the transition from Russian borrowings, such as the rather cumbersome Byelorussia, to names derived from local languages proceeded quite smoothly. This was not the case with the Russian language, where the names of the historical regions that would later become Soviet republics and, subsequently, independent states, were grounded in centuries-old tradition. Encompassing the whole post-Soviet space, the Russian-language internet, or RuNet, became a battleground for toponymical wars with battles waged over the “correctness” of Беларусь (Belarus) versus Белоруссия (Byelorussia, Belorussia), as well as the use of the preposition в (in) versus на (on) with reference to Ukraine.
The Valdai Discussion Club was established in 2004. It is named after Lake Valdai, which is located close to Veliky Novgorod, where the Club’s first meeting took place.
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