9.1 Toponyms as a Social Construct

As ‘abstractions of the place they refer to’ (Reference HellelandHelleland, 2012, p. 109), place names connote a mental cluster of intimate knowledge, expressions, and impressions. For an individual, place names function as social signals of belonging to a group. They are markers of solidarity because they denote shared memories and experiences among members of the group and, as such, the more names shared between individuals, the stronger the bond between them (Reference HellelandHelleland, 2012, p. 96). Reference HuldénHuldén (1994) put it very nicely.

Naturally, there are individual variations in the meanings attached to a place. However, as Reference BassoBasso (1990, p. 140) noted, ‘the meanings of landscapes and acts of speech are personalised manifestations of a shared perspective on the human condition’. Despite the variations in mental representations, place names are ultimately grounded in the same shared underlying events and experiences, and the nature of the meanings remains consistent across individuals within a group (Reference BassoBasso, 1990, p. 140). The importance of place names to individuals and groups is best exemplified by the toponymic knowledge of the Sami, who are Indigenous people of northern Fennoscandia (the Scandinavian Peninsula including Finland, Norway, Sweden, Karelia, the Kola Peninsula, Murmansk Oblast, and parts of northern Leningrad Oblast, in Russia). Reference Cogos, Roué and RoturierCogos, Roué, and Roturier (2017) documented how the cultural landscapes of the Sami reindeer herding communities of Sireges, in Jokkmok, northern Sweden, are transmitted and passed down through their oral traditions. The Sami have never used maps to facilitate their orientation in their environment. Instead, they have developed and relied on their own way of mapping, based on oral narratives and discourses built around place names. For the Sami, toponyms ‘constitute “mental maps”, drawing a landscape by telling a story within the series they form together’ (Reference Cogos, Roué and RoturierCogos et al., 2017, p. 45). A native inhabitant compared the Sami mapping system to having ‘a GPS in there [his head]’ (Reference Cogos, Roué and RoturierCogos et al., 2017, p. 46).

Toponyms are also ‘mirrors reflecting various scenarios and activities of the past’ and serve as a connection to the past itself (Reference HellelandHelleland, 2012, p. 102). They form an essential part of a group’s cultural heritage, in that they tie the past – with its historical events and personalities – to the present. In many cases, such as that of the Sami, place names are orally transmitted, passed down from one generation to the next. For example, most of the Sami people learn them as children, when they accompany their older relatives during reindeer migrations. While many place names are related to physical features of the landscape, some toponyms are associated with myths or stories of the Indigenous culture (Reference Cogos, Roué and RoturierCogos et al., 2017, p. 46), illustrating how place names are culturally rich and closely tied to the narratives of the past. For the same reason, there is a growing concern among the Sami that, with the increasing use of maps and technologies (see more on mapping technologies in Chapter 10), traditional toponymic knowledge will disappear, along with the narratives and stories that accompany them (Reference Cogos, Roué and RoturierCogos et al., 2017).

In a way, place names also serve as social consensus across generations. This can be seen in the issue of standardised versus colloquial/dialectal toponymic forms. In Norway, when local people talk about places, they use the dialectal forms and not the standardised ones (Reference HellelandHelleland, 2012, p. 103). As a result, the standardised written forms (on road signs or maps) of place names in Norway face a negative reception as they are seen as a departure from the ‘correct’ (dialectal) names (Reference HellelandHelleland, 2012, p. 103). ‘Correctness’, here, is not determined by the standard decided by the government, but by the generations that came before. At the same time, this conflict highlights the importance of ensuring that the historical value of toponyms is not lost in the standardisation of place names.

Additionally, toponyms shed light on the changes in the cultural and historical landscape of a place. Reference SaparovSaparov (2003, p. 179) claimed that place names are ‘some of the most durable of national symbols’, as they can ‘outlive’ changes in the cultural landscape. This was reflected in an analysis of the diachronic and synchronic development of Singapore urbanonymy, which revealed that ‘the influences of all the cultures which have “sequentially” occupied Singapore from the past to the present can be seen in the history of its place names’ (Reference Cavallaro, Perono Cacciafoco and TanCavallaro, Perono Cacciafoco, & Tan, 2019, p. 16).

For example, the etymology of Fort Canning Hill, a small hill located in southeast Singapore, reflects its origins as a Malay settlement, before it became a colonial outpost during British rule and, eventually, a landmark in the modern Lion City. Indeed, its earliest recorded name, in 1330, was (probably) Ban Zu, attested by the Chinese traveller Wang Dayuan (Reference WheatleyWheatley, 1961). Ban Zu is thought to be a transliteration of the Malay word pancur, meaning ‘spring’, or ‘stream’ (Reference MiksicMiksic, 2013, p. 177). Before the arrival of the British on the island, the place was known to the Malays as Bukit Larangan ‘Forbidden Hill’. During the colonial rule, a residence was built on the hill for Sir Stamford Raffles (the British statesman credited for the founding of Singapore), and the place came to be known as the Singapore Hill. After a series of name changes, the hill’s denomination was finally fixed as Fort Canning Hill, as a military fort was built on the hill in a bid to strengthen harbour defences (Reference Cavallaro, Perono Cacciafoco and TanCavallaro et al., 2019). What we see here are the historical and cultural changes in Singapore reflected in the naming process of this hill. This is a further confirmation of the fact that place names are a reflection of the historical events and changing landscape that occur at a specific location across time.

9.2 Toponymy and Indigeneity

The connection between place names and social groups is keenly felt among Indigenous communities. An ‘Indigenous’ person is, generally, defined as:

The relationship that Indigenous people have with their territories has sparked the interest of many scholars on ‘indigeneity’. Reference Hunt, Richardson, Castree, Goodchild, Kobayashi, Liu and MarstonHunt (2017, p. 2) stated that, while there are different definitions of indigeneity, all Indigenous peoples share a number of ‘cultural markers’. That is, ‘indigeneity’ is generally rooted in living in a reciprocal relationship with the places that comprise Indigenous peoples’ territories. Reference Trigger and MartinTrigger and Martin (2016, p. 826) also reinforced this attachment to the land by saying that ‘an autochthonous connectedness to place remains central to conceptualizations of indigeneity’. This is further supported by Reference HeikkiläHeikkilä (2018, p. 1), because ‘tension, naming and re-naming the landscape are deeply intertwined with the politics of identity and belonging’. This relationship has been recognised by many ‘settler nations’ who have granted civil and land rights to Indigenous minorities. This has usually gone together with the recognition of the past injustices against Indigenous people and efforts to revive or revitalise the languages and cultures of Indigenous groups. The relevance of this to toponymic studies is illustrated by Reference HeikkiläHeikkilä (2018, p. 1), who noted that ‘One aspect of indigenous cultural revival, particularly in the North American, Australasian and northern European contexts, is the documentation of indigenous ancestral place-names.’

This topic will be taken up in our discussion of colonialism and of the practices of renaming and decolonising toponyms later in this chapter.

9.3 Toponyms, Ideology, and Power Relationships

Place names are a means for groups to assert ownership, legitimise conquest, and flaunt control (Reference MonmonierMonmonier, 2007, p. 121). The more powerful claim the toponymy, while ‘the losing side can make its own maps, designed to refresh memory, sustain dreams and reinforce resentment’ (Reference MonmonierMonmonier, 2007, p. 121). After all, place names have symbolic, cultural, and historical significance to both individuals and groups.

At this point, it is important to note that toponyms are part of a much broader ‘linguistic landscape’ (hereafter LL). Reference Ben-Rafael, Shohamy, Amara and Trumper-HechtBen-Rafael et al. (2016, p. 7) described this as the ‘symbolic construction of public space’. More importantly, though, there is a distinction between top-down and bottom-up discourse. Top-down LL elements are ‘used and exhibited by institutional agencies which in one way or another act under the control of local or central policies’ (Reference Ben-Rafael, Shohamy, Amara and Trumper-HechtBen-Rafael et al., 2016, p. 10). On the other hand, bottom-up LL elements are produced more autonomously by individual social actors (Reference Ben-Rafael, Shohamy, Amara and Trumper-HechtBen-Rafael et al., 2016). As such, official place names, along with other official semiotic features, are part of the top-down discourse that reveals much about the power relations that exist among people in a community.

Place names are used as means to reinforce political ideologies as well, as we outlined in Chapters 7 and 8 (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016; Reference SaparovSaparov, 2003). They have a symbolic role in representing abstract or concrete national, as well as local, sentiments and goals (Reference Cohen and KliotCohen & Kliot, 1992, p. 653). Reference SaparovSaparov (2003) argued that place naming, as a top-down discourse, is an important vehicle for a state or nation’s ideological system.

Other place naming practices that reflect the political ideologies and beliefs of a particular period of time can be seen in the naming patterns in Israel. According to Reference Cohen and KliotCohen and Kliot (1992), Zionist symbolism featured prominently in place names in the contemporary country’s pre-state period (i.e., before 1948). This was done through the use of ancient biblical or talmudic names and those of Zionist leaders or philanthropists when developing new toponyms. After 1948, ancient and new names played an important role in transforming the landscape of the new country. The recreation of an ancient Zionist homeland with biblical roots meant that there was very little transposing of names from places or cultures outside of Israel. Instead, ancient names and those of military heroes became toponymically widespread. After the Six-Day War of 1967, ancient biblical themes were the most used in place names (Reference Cohen and KliotCohen & Kliot, 1992, p. 668). Reference Cohen and KliotCohen and Kliot (1992) attributed this to the political goal to avoid antagonising the country’s Arab neighbours, as affected settlements were densely populated by Palestinians. Interestingly, Reference MonmonierMonmonier (2007, p. 114) highlighted how this period coincided with a rise of abstract names that ‘signify change and optimism’. For example, Urim (‘lights’) and Alumim (‘youth’) are kibbutzim ‘collective communities’ that have names associated with ideas of ‘joy, stability, or confidence’.

Reference BenvenistiBenvenisti (2000) pointed out that, due to the limited number of Hebrew names in ancient sources and the limited number of actual biblical places within Israel, there have been some creative naming practices. For example, he tells us (Reference Benvenisti2000, p. 20) that the name of the Kibbutz Grofit came from the Arabic Umm Jurfinat, that the place name Be’er Ada was originally the Arabic Bir Abu ‘Auda, and that the name of Yerukham, a town located near Beer Sheva, shows remnants of the Arabic name it replaced, Rakhma. He also reported some controversial naming of ‘uncertain locations’ (see also Reference MonmonierMonmonier, 2007, p. 115). For example, Mount Hor, the burial place of Aaron the High Priest (Moses’ brother), is recognised to be near Petra, in Edom, which is now in Jordan. However, mapmakers placed it in Israel, in the middle of Negev. Nearly twenty years later, ‘it became clear that it was impossible to persist in identifying this mountain as Mt. Hor (which had been a dubious exercise from the start), and it was re-named Mt. Zin. But in order to maintain the honor of the committee, the name Mount Hor was left in parentheses’ (Reference BenvenistiBenvenisti, 2000, p. 21).

In her study of the Moso (Na) people who live on the border between Tibet, Yunnan, and Sichuan, in China, Reference XuXu (2017) analysed several place names that refer, in pairs or triplets, to the same localities. The names were originally coined in Moso (Na) and Tibetan, and have been transliterated and reformulated, over time, in Mandarin Chinese, in order to transcribe them into the standard language of the country, and to make them official toponyms. This double-/triple-naming for the same villages is still attested and these inhabited centres are still called and/or indicated in official documents and landmarks by two or more different denominations.

One example of this is the village of Wujiao 屋脚, the headquarters of Wujiao Township. The name was transliterated, sometime between the Ming and Qing Dynasties, into Renjiang 仁江, from Tibetan. It was then converted again into Wujiao. Nowadays, both names, Wujiao and Renjiang, are attested in local signs and in plaques on public buildings and temples. They both share the same origin, being connected with the same place, but they naturally have different morphologies. The local Na people pronounce Wujiao as [ʁɯ˩dʑo˧]. A visual representation of the naming process is as follows.

Some Moso (Na) place names, already transliterated into Chinese (for the reasons explained above), have been wholly renamed in order to better match with the geopolitical setting of the mainland and now have an official Chinese name, an ‘older’ Mandarin Chinese transliteration, and their original Moso (Na) name, all attested at the same time.

One such example, among others, is Qiansuo 前所 Village. Qiansuo is a name connected with the denomination of a Chinese Army base during the Ming Dynasty (Reference Zhang and JiZhang, 1999 (1773)). It was redesignated as Lugu Lake Township in 2020. The current Na endonym is [nɑ˩˧]. It also retains its original Moso (Na) name, /ʁwɑ˧ʐu˧/, meaning ‘village-warm’, which is still attested, albeit only orally. This local name is based on a hydro-geo-morphological feature of the landscape of the village, that is, the presence of a natural hot spring in its territory. The names currently in use are listed below.

Another example of how the differences in power relations in a community affect toponyms can be seen in the case of the Tai people in southern China. The Tai people originated from the border areas between southern China and northern Vietnam. They speak a language known as Tai, which is characterised by basic agrarian vocabulary and naming traditions. Over the course of Chinese history, successive waves of Han Chinese migration into Tai-speaking areas have led to the Sinification of these territories, and this process has affected Tai place names. Reference Wang, Hartmann, Luo and HuangWang et al. (2006) reported that the Tai people often named their villages based on landscape features like rice fields, rivers and their basins, mountains, and so on. However, with the influx of Chinese speakers into these areas, the Chinese-speaking officials have renamed many Tai toponyms by transliterating them, in order to make them sound ‘more Chinese’, disregarding the actual meaning of the names themselves. For example, in Yunnan, the prefecture of Sipsongpanna, a toponym which means ‘Twelve Thousand Rice Fields’ in Tai, was transliterated into Chinese as Xishuangbanna (a name without any semantic content),Footnote ¹ ignoring the original meaning in Tai and its historical importance to the related minority group (Reference Wang, Hartmann, Luo and HuangWang et al., 2006). The original name was altered to better fit with the language spoken of the new more powerful populace, even though the new name has no real meaning.

In this section, we have seen how in some cases power dynamics involved in naming processes imply that a new and more powerful linguistic group asserts its influence linguistically and subdues minority groups and their languages.

9.4 Colonialism

The fact that place names ‘possess a symbolic power that can inflame as well as claim’ (Reference MonmonierMonmonier, 2007, p. 121) is also apparent in the context of colonialism. Naming becomes a main part of the colonisation process, because it ‘appropriates, defines, captures the place in language’ (Reference Ashcroft, Griffiths, Tiffin, Ashcroft, Grffths and TiffinAshcroft, Griffiths, & Tiffin, 2003, p. 392). The contested naming of Mount Douglas, a mountain located in Saanich, British Columbia, Canada, provides us with an insight into the complex and delicate issues of colonial renaming.

Since the colonisation of Vancouver Island, the mountain has been known as Mount Douglas to the settler society. The Indigenous peoples of W̱SÁNEĆ and Lekwungen Territories, however, knew it as PKOLS. In May 2013, members of the Indigenous nations and their supporters gathered on the very mountain in a bid to reclaim the name – PKOLS.

The mountain had been renamed Mount Douglas in the mid-nineteenth century after James Douglas, who, as the governor for colonial settlements in Vancouver Island and British Columbia, was responsible for the signing of the Douglas Treaty. The treaty resulted in the expropriation of the lands from the Indigenous population to the colonising people. Therefore, its existing name was very much a constant reminder that ‘the material and symbolic violence of colonial dispossession continues to shape Indigenous-Settler relations in the neocolonial present’ (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016, p. 189). Yet, the ceremonial reclamation of PKOLS was not simply a response to past injustice. Instead, it rekindled Indigenous connections with the land and served as ‘a declaration of cultural resurgence, and an assertion of the right to authorize the decolonization of “place” without seeking prior permission from the settler-colonial state’ (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016, p. 191).

Often, place names are used to assert the asymmetrical power relations between colonisers and colonised. This was evident in early Singapore, where street names, like Arab Street in the Arab Kampung, were used by colonial administrators as markers, seeking to order and divide the colonised groups into ‘recognisable containers’, in order to prevent a united resistance against them (Reference YeohYeoh, 1996, p. 300; cf. Chapter 8). British place names in early Singapore were starkly disconnected from their locality, suggesting that the settlers were seeking to ‘escape the impress of the tropics and native culture and symbolically exist in British settings’ (Reference YeohYeoh, 1992, p. 316). For example, names such as Devonshire Road and Chatsworth Road were highly detached from their local environment, and instead ‘conjured the idyllic imagery of the English countryside’ (Reference YeohYeoh, 1992, p. 315). The fact that these place names reflected the cultural assumption of the settler only highlights this aspect of imperialism that accompanies colonisation, one that reinforced the superior status of the colonisers.

Given the historical and cultural value of place names, the assertion of dominance by colonisers demonstrated their disregard of the history, or ‘storyscapes’ (Reference ElseyElsey, 2013), of the Indigenous populations (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016). According to Reference NdletyanaNdletyana (2012), the replacement of aboriginal toponyms by settlers is part of their ‘civilising mission’, in which colonisers sought to ‘[convert] natives into the image of settlers’ (p. 90). The collective Indigenous history, culture, and identity denoted in place names were lost with the use of colonial toponyms. Thus, it is not surprising to see the Indigenous population’s strong emotional response to being cast into insignificance, as in the renaming of PKOLS outlined above.

9.5 Renaming and Decolonising Toponyms

Toponymic inscriptions serve as means of public commemoration, and this gives rise to the question of who has official power to determine what should be remembered and forgotten (Reference Rose-Redwood, Alderman and AzaryahuRose-Redwood, Alderman, & Azaryahu, 2010, p. 463). Thus, the renaming and decolonising of place names is, ultimately, part of a much larger picture – the cultural politics of naming, which looks at ‘how people seek to control, negotiate, and contest the naming process as they engage in wider struggles for legitimacy and visibility’ (Reference Rose-Redwood, Alderman and AzaryahuRose-Redwood et al., 2010, p. 457).

In reclaiming the original name, for example, PKOLS, Indigenous peoples seek to reclaim part of their history, culture, and identity that vanished with the renaming process operated by the settlers. As such, place names also serve as a form of cultural recognition – or lack thereof – in the public sphere for social groups (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016). For minorities or the socially marginalised, toponyms offer the opportunity to challenge the existing political situation. The reinstallation of the PKOLS sign, initially installed during the ceremonial reclamation of the mountain and then temporarily removed over safety concerns by the Saanich government, signalled the latter’s implicit recognition of the name (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016, p. 192). However, Mount Douglas remains the official denomination, while PKOLS is listed as the traditional name on the British Columbia Geographical Names website (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016, p. 192). Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood (2016) sees this as having the opposite effect to an official acknowledgement. As such, the move by the government can be viewed as ‘recognising the PKOLS yet relegating it to the realm of history’ (p. 191).

The reclaiming of PKOLS is just one of many examples of ‘toponymic resistance’. While, in this case, the Indigenous population had taken matters into their own hands, there are other instances in which marginalised groups have (successfully) utilised formal, political means to challenge existing names. Ethnic minorities in the United States, such as African Americans, have been actively adopting place naming as a ‘political strategy for addressing their exclusion and misrepresentation within traditional, white-dominated constructions of heritage’ (Reference Rose-Redwood, Alderman and AzaryahuRose-Redwood et al., 2010, pp. 463–4). One such example was the attempt in Texas to rename the ethnically offensive Negrohead Lake to Lake Henry Doyle. The original name of the body of water used to be Nigger Lake, but this was changed in 1962. Naming decisions in the United States are made by the US Board on Geographic Names, which recently rejected the new name Lake Henry Doyle because, in the opinion of the board members, there was not enough community or local involvement in the renaming process. Henry Doyle was the first African American to apply to the temporary Law School for Blacks established by the Texas State University for Negroes, which is now known as Texas Southern University. This happened at a time when he was not allowed to enter the classroom with his White peers. Another example was the push by the Native Americans in Phoenix, Arizona, for the renaming of Squaw Peak, which was deemed as obscene, as well as ethnically derogatory (Reference MonmonierMonmonier, 2007, p. 2). The place was eventually renamed Piestewa Peak, in honour of the first Native American female soldier to die in combat during the Iraq War in 2003 (Reference MonmonierMonmonier, 2007, p. 4). To the Native Americans, it was a move that recognised their link to the land and their historical importance.

This is also an example of how nations around the world have been addressing place names that contain ethnically offensive terms. For example, the Australian state of Queensland, in 2017, deleted ten ethnically loaded names from its register. The toponyms included Niggers Bounce, Mount Nigger, Nigger Head, and seven places named Nigger Creek (RTÉ, 2021).

Toponyms that commemorate individuals with an unsavoury past have also come under close scrutiny. In 2020, a mountain range in Western Australia, The King Leopold Ranges, was renamed The Wunaamin Miliwundi Ranges. The new name featured the traditional ethnonyms of the Ngarinyin (Wunaamin) and Bunuba (Miliwundi) aboriginal peoples. The landmark had originally been named, in 1879, after the Belgian King Leopold II, who was responsible for the death of millions of people in what is now the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The minister for aboriginal affairs in Western Australia, Ben Wyatt, said at the time, ‘The traditional owners of the region have always known the ranges by their own name, so it’s momentous to finally remove reference to King Leopold II and formalise the name’ (Australian Associated Press, 2020).

That being said, not every Indigenous community shares the same desire to restore Indigenous memory through renaming. Reference NdletyanaNdletyana (2012) explained that this is largely influenced by how an Indigenous population relates to colonial memory, which in the example he provided accounts for the unevenness in the renaming process across the nine provinces of post-apartheid South Africa. For most natives, colonial toponyms were an unavoidable reminder of subjugation and the times they had lived through. However, the extent to which they ‘remained a permanent object of local enmity’ was dependent on the nature of colonial policy towards the natives – whether they adopted an assimilationist approach or reinforced settler-native separation and hostility (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016, p. 98).

The former led to some extent of acculturation and identification, with natives eventually ‘[embracing] the culture and the authority it symbolises’ (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012, p. 99). This was the case in Eastern Cape, where the British were able to justify their conquest as part of their civilising mission. As a result, even though the province had numerous Eurocentric town names, such as Queenstown, King Williams Town, and Port Elizabeth, none of them were renamed (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012, p. 93). Instead, the province concentrated its resources on orthographic corrections, such as Bisho to Bhisho and Umtata to Umthatha (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012, p. 93).

While the assimilationist approach adopted in British colonial states ultimately ‘softened the alien, invasive symbolism’ of colonial toponymy, the settler-native relationship in Boer Republics in the northern provinces was characterised by hostility (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012, p. 98). This only ‘accentuated the strangeness and invasiveness of colonial memory’, motivating a stronger desire and urgency to replace colonial toponyms (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012, p. 99). For example, Mpumalanga, a province in eastern South Africa, renamed ten major towns at once, which included renaming Ellisrus to Lephalale and Warmbaths to Bela-bela (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012, pp. 92, 101).

In provinces such as Western Cape, the absence of local agency led to indifference towards the renaming of local toponyms with colonial names. This was because the surviving Khoe-San community was not only small, but also somewhat detached from the unpleasant experiences of their ancestors (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012). Therefore, what Reference NdletyanaNdletyana (2012, p. 96) summarised as the ‘effect of colonial symbolism on the collective psyche of the indigenous populace’ plays a significant role in local agency and attitudes towards renaming.

The position taken by the Saanich government in the naming of PKOLS is only reflective of a much broader message – that the power to name, ultimately, is concentrated in the hands of the settler-colonial state, thereby reaffirming its influence in neocolonial societies. This ideology is also reinforced by the ubiquitous presence of colonial odonyms in the spaces of everyday life, as is the case of the Greater Victoria Region of British Columbia (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016, p. 194). The result is the ‘[normalisation] of colonial imaginary as the taken-for-granted order of the discursive universe through which neocolonial modes of being-in-the-world are experienced’ (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016, p. 194).

Needless to say, the postcolonial process of renaming is largely influenced by political forces. It appears that the motivation to replace colonial toponyms is very much dependent on a government’s political stance, which, by extension, determines the pace and extent of the renaming. This was a major factor in accounting for the unevenness in the renaming process in South Africa (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012).

Indeed, most provinces in South Africa had initially mirrored, to varying degrees, the cautious approach adopted by Nelson Mandela’s inaugural post-apartheid administration in toponymic renaming. This was because Mandela was wary that replacing apartheid toponyms associated with names of personalities involved in the liberation struggle would undermine reconciliatory efforts (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012, p. 92). On the other hand, the extent and pace of renaming picked up once Thabo Mbeki took office in the early 2000s. Unlike Mandela, Mbeki pressed for changes in colonial place names. Not only did he express ‘bewilderment at the persistence of colonial toponymy’, but he was also ‘[disgusted] at the continuing celebration of colonial personalities that wrought agony on the indigenous population’, while those who fought for liberation were not recognised (Reference NdletyanaNdletyana, 2012, p. 93).

While it appears that colonial toponyms ought to be renamed, whether as part of conciliatory efforts or as means to re-establish previously disregarded ‘storyscapes’, there are those that argue against renaming. Opponents see renaming as historical erasure, equating the removal of place names honouring historical events or personages of settler colonialism to denying their very place in history, and that regardless of the injustice towards the Indigenous people, their history, culture, and identity should be recognised and celebrated (Reference Rose-RedwoodRose-Redwood, 2016).

9.6 The Cultural Politics of Naming

The cultural politics of naming remain a contested social phenomenon, which Reference NewtonNewton (2016) argues requires a closer look at the ‘intersection between corporate profit, government policy and meaning-based issues of belonging’ (p. 114). The rejection of the aboriginal name Mullawallah for a suburb located in west Ballarat, Victoria, Australia, in December 2014 sheds light on the influence of such contextual conditions on place naming (or renaming).

In a time where ‘belonging and national [had] been sought through acknowledging, and reaching out towards, Indigenous people and culture’, the proposed name Mullawallah could have been viewed as an official reconciliation effort to recognise the Indigenous Wadawurrung people that had become ‘invisible’ as a result of historical silences and effacements (Reference NewtonNewton, 2016, pp. 119–22). However, the perceptions at the time were that the Indigenous population had disappeared and that there were no legally recognised Wadawurrung descendants. These perceptions, along with a limited knowledge of the name Mullawallah, ‘contributed to wiping Indigeneity from the landscape and cultural worldview’ (Reference NewtonNewton, 2016, p. 127). Therefore, it was easy for a few individuals who strongly opposed the renaming to galvanise support with inaccurate reasons, such as Mullawallah’s difficult pronunciation and spelling, as well as how it would be easily confused by emergency services – all of which are untrue (Reference NewtonNewton, 2016, p. 127). Furthermore, the democratisation of place naming procedures meant that the minority Wadawurrung had little real power in reclaiming what had once belonged to them.

This Australian example comes while the country as a whole has been embracing the use and promotion of Indigenous place names. Indeed, since the 1990s, there has been a practice of promoting and reinstating Indigenous place names in Australia. In fact, it is now very common to pay respect to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people and cultures by recognising the Traditional Owners of the land, and there are two ways to formally recognise the Traditional Owners (NIAA, n.d.).

1. (1) A ‘Welcome to Country’. This welcome can only be given by the Traditional Owners of the land where the ceremony takes place. The format of this welcome depends on who is giving it.

2. (2) An ‘Acknowledgement of Country’. This ‘acknowledgement’ can be done by anyone. It does not have to be by an Indigenous person. This is usually chosen when there are no Indigenous people present at the event. In turn, there are two types of acknowledgements (NIAA, n.d.).

   1. i General: ‘I begin today by acknowledging the Traditional Custodians of the land on which we <gather/meet> today, and pay my respects to their Elders past and present. I extend that respect to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples here today’.

   2. ii Specific: ‘I begin today by acknowledging the <insert name of people here (e.g., Ngunnawal)> people, Traditional Custodians of the land on which we <gather/meet> today, and pay my respects to their Elders past and present. I extend that respect to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples here today’.

In the case of Melbourne, Australia, which is recognised as belonging to the Kulin Nation, the Acknowledgement of Country would be: ‘I begin today by acknowledging the Kulin Nations people, Traditional Custodians of the land on which we gather today, and pay my respects to their Elders past and present. I extend that respect to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples here today’.

In fact, Australians now have the option of including the ‘Traditional place name (if known)’ when they mail a parcel. Australia Post stated that ‘To mark NAIDOC [National Aborigines and Islanders Day Observance Committee] Week in November 2020, Australia Post updated the addressing guidelines to include Traditional Place names. Australia Post is also updating 22 of its satchels’ labels to include Acknowledgement of Country and a dedicated Traditional Place name field in the address panel’ (Australia Post, 2021).

As Reference TentTent (2019) stated, ‘Reinstating an Indigenous placename amounts to reinstating a way of looking at the land, together with a set of associated responsibilities, and is may only be really possible in regions where Aboriginal people hold title or have a strong presence’ (p. 10). He also pointed out that assigning names to places that are yet unnamed is neither difficult nor controversial. The same can be said about giving new names or reinstating Indigenous names in remote areas. However, in territories that have been settled by Europeans for a long time, ‘the reinstatement of an Indigenous name can be highly contentious’ (Reference TentTent, 2019, p. 10).

The strategy adopted in Australia for reinstating Indigenous toponyms has been to use dual designations for such places. This calls for the reinstating of an Indigenous denomination alongside an ‘introduced’ (Reference TentTent, 2019, p. 10) one. When the local appellation is first restored, the two toponyms are gazetted, with the introduced name first, followed by the Indigenous name. After some time, the order of the names is switched. A very famous example of this is the toponym Ayers Rock that was renamed Uluru in 1993. In that year, the two denominations were gazetted as Ayers Rock/Uluru. In 2002, the doublet was gazetted as Uluru/Ayers Rock. This also gave the opportunity for the introduced name to be dropped altogether. Another example is represented by Mount Olga, which, in the same year Uluru was reinstated, had its Indigenous name, Kata Tjuta, announced. The place was then known as Mount Olga/Kata Tjuta. Later, in 2002, the place was gazetted as Kata Tjuta/Mount Olga. Generally, though, only one name is used in non-official circumstances, for example, after nearly thirty years, most people refer to the above-mentioned places as Uluru and Kata Tjuta, respectively (Reference TentTent, 2019, p. 10).

The reinstating of Indigenous toponyms is not always simple. Reference TentTent (2019) recounted how, in 2008, the government of Victoria, Australia, renamed Mount Niggerhead, a mountain in the Alpine National Park, as The Jaithmathangs. The renaming was aimed at deleting a derogatory name and at promoting Indigenous heritage and culture. The chosen denomination is the ethnonym of an Indigenous group, purportedly from the area. Unfortunately, another aboriginal group, the Dhudhuroa people, claim that the mountain is not in the territory of the Jaithmathangs, but in their own country. For the Dhudhuroa, the new name is as distasteful as Mount Niggerhead. As Gary Murray, co-chair of the Dhudhuroa Native Title Group, put it bluntly, ‘It’s a bit like re-naming Australia as England. The name is linguistically and culturally inappropriate’ (Reuters, 2008).

The rejection of the above-mentioned Mullawallah was also fuelled by the ‘contemporary corporate culture of commercial naming’ (Reference NewtonNewton, 2016, p. 122). In proposing the concept of ‘toponymic dependence’, Reference KostanskiKostanski (2011) pointed out that ‘place branding is depended on for its ability to portray the unique characteristics of a place’ (p. 18), which would ultimately aid in promoting tourism and supporting the economy. In some instances, Indigenous toponyms are thought to help in branding an area as a unique travel experience (Reference KostanskiKostanski, 2011, p. 18). Scholars (see Reference Hercus, Simpson, Hercus, Hodges and SimpsonHercus & Simpson, 2002) agree on the fact that when Indigenous names are brought into the public domain, this will give ‘public recognition of the names, and thus of prior occupation of the country by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. But once the names are in this public domain, they become a commodity. They can be used, say, in business names, without permission being granted by the Indigenous owners of the placenames’ (Reference TentTent, 2019, p. 10).

In the case of Mullawallah, however, it was suggested that the use of the aboriginal name would decrease property values, and that the name did not suit the environment and failed to match with surrounding street names (Reference NewtonNewton, 2016, p. 125). This fits into the discussion on the commodification of place names in Chapter 8. Commercial developers have often opted for marketable ‘high status’ English names that allude to an English landscape, giving, for example, new retirement villages names such as Riverside Gardens and Windsor Country Village (Reference NewtonNewton, 2016, p. 122). As such, the democratisation of place naming and the influence of commercial developers have played a major role in the rejection of Mullawallah. The suburb in question was eventually named Winter Valley. The name Mullawallah was subsequently given to a wetland reserve outside of Ballarat.

9.7 Other Toponymic Changes

Sweeping changes in place names reflect ‘ideological upheavals and are often expressions of revolutionary values’ (Reference Cohen and KliotCohen & Kliot, 1992, p. 653). Following major power shifts, toponymic purges are a strategy adopted by new regimes to alter once official narratives and remove traces of past governments. In post-revolutionary administrations, the purpose of creating new state symbols is to ‘at once remove evidence of the deposed regime and to establish an identity for the usurper’ (Reference LewisLewis, 1982, p. 99).

A discussion inherent in this topic was presented in Chapter 7, where we analysed the contemporary odonymy of Bucharest. Ideological renaming was also evident in the toponymic changes undertaken by the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), which Reference SaparovSaparov (2003) summarised as ‘directly related to the ideological, political and national policy of the authorities’ (p. 181). In his study of Soviet Armenian toponymy, Reference SaparovSaparov (2003, p. 186) revealed that place naming in the Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic reflected the internal political processes of the USSR. Place names that were either religious in nature or associated with feudal landowners were deemed unacceptable and formed a large part of early renamings (Reference SaparovSaparov, 2003). Christian and Muslim place names, like Kilisakend (Turkish for ‘church’) and Hojakend (which is associated with a pilgrimage to Mecca), were replaced with Srashen and Kuzikend respectively, while toponyms that reflected feudal relationships, such as Hussein Kuli Agalu and Siltan Ali Kishlag, were renamed as Narimanlu and Janahmed, respectively (Reference SaparovSaparov, 2003, p. 186).

A number of toponyms fell under what Reference SaparovSaparov (2003) categorised as ‘socialist place names’, which were, by the Soviet ideological formula, ‘national by form, socialist by content’ (Reference SaparovSaparov, 2003, p. 195). These consisted of toponyms that were names of local communists, as well as other terms important to the communist regime (Reference SaparovSaparov, 2003). For instance, a village in Azerbaijan was named Bir May ‘1 May’, commemorating the Soviet Labour Day (Reference SaparovSaparov, 2003, p. 196). Therefore, place naming was used as a tool to create a national cultural landscape that aligned with the totalitarian Communist regime. It is interesting to note that the village Bir May was renamed Bahrāmtepe in 1992, after the dissolution of the USSR. Bahrāmtepe is a relatively transparent place name, meaning ‘Bahrām’s Hill’. Tepe comes from Ottoman Turkish tepe, تپه, ‘crown of the head’, ‘peak’, ‘highest point’, ‘hill’, from Proto-Turkic *tepü, *töpü, ‘hill’, ‘top’. Bahrām is the name of a god of war (or of military victory), Armenian Vahagn, Proto-Ind-Iranian Wr̥tragʰnás, from *wr̥trás, ‘shield’, but also ‘obstacle’, *gʰan-, ‘to slay’, *-ás (< Proto-Indo-European *wer-), ‘to cover’, and *gʷʰen-, ‘to strike’, ‘to slay’. The proper noun is generally translated as ‘The Destroyer of Obstacles’. Bahrām is among the main gods in the Zoroastrian pantheon of yazatas (‘entities which are worthy of worship’) (Reference JustiJusti, 1895).

Renaming can be a way of making new claims over a territory, as in the case of the island of Cyprus. Greek and Turkish Cypriots were ethnic rivals that occupied opposite sides of the Green Line, a demilitarised buffer zone patrolled by the United Nations. The de facto partition occurred after the ceasefire between Greek and Turkish forces in 1974, with Greek Cypriots moving south of the Green Line and Turkish Cypriots moving north. In a bid to claim Northern Cyprus as the (self-declared) Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, Turkish Cypriots begun what politicians in the south called ‘cultural genocide’ (Reference MonmonierMonmonier, 2007, p. 108). This involved a series of ‘cultural assaults’ that sought to remove Greek elements of the pre-1974 cultural landscape, which included replacing all Greek place names with Turkish ones (Reference MonmonierMonmonier, 2007). Reference Ladbury and KingLadbury and King (1988, p. 364) gave a detailed account of the renaming process. They stated that the names fall into three categories. First, those toponyms that were already ‘Turkish-rooted names’ were not changed but, in some cases, the Turkish spelling was adopted (e.g., Geunyeli became Gönyely). Second, in villages that traditionally had two names, a Greek and a Turkish one, the Turkish denomination was kept or the Greek name was changed so that it sounded Turkish, for example, the Greek name Lapithos became Lapta. Third, the villages that used to have only Greek denominations received brand-new Turkish names. For example, the town that went by the Greek name of Morphou was known to the Turkish Cypriots as Omorfo before 1974. After 1974, however, it was renamed to Güzelyürt, meaning ‘beautiful home’. The village of Bellapais, whose name came from the Italian Belpaese (i.e., bel paese ‘beautiful village’, or ‘beautiful country’), was ‘phonetically rendered into the nearest meaningful Turkish word that meant something’, Beylerbeye, meaning ‘lord of men’ (Reference Ladbury and KingLadbury & King, 1988, p. 364). The Turkish Cypriots were responsible for what Reference KadmonKadmon (2004) deemed as the ‘most extreme form of verbal toponymic warfare’ (p. 85).

Berlin’s streets, along with its parks and squares, from the early nineteenth century have been peppered with commemorative names (Reference AzaryahuAzaryahu, 2011). Odonyms which were named from 1813 to 1920 mainly commemorated Prussia’s military achievements and members of the House of Hohenzollern. Among them are the Belle-Alliance-Platz in Kreuzberg, which commemorated the Prussian victories in the battle of Waterloo, Yorkstraße, Gneisenaustraße, Blücherstraße, and also in Kreuzberg. There were also names remembering the Prussian heroes of the War of Liberation (1813). Additionally, there were many streets named Kaiser-Wilhelm-Straße and Auguste-Viktoria-Straße that honoured the king and queen of Prussia. Shortly after the end of the German Empire in 1918, and the creation of the Weimar Republic, many streets and squares named after monarchical figures were changed to names that represented the republic, for example, Königsplatz ‘King’s Square’ was renamed Platz der Republik, and Budapesterstraße (a name referring to the times of the Austro-Hungarian Empire) was replaced by Frieddrich-Ebert-Straße (now Ebertstraße) after the name of the republic’s first president. Following the republic, in 1933 Germany was ruled by the Nazis, who proceeded to remove all names representing republican values and replaced them with names of important figures of the Third Reich. Reichskanzlerplatz became Adolf-Hitler-Platz, Friedrich-Ebert-Straße made way to Hermann-Göring-Straße, and Bülowplatz was renamed after the Nazi Horst Wessel, becoming Horst-Wessel-Platz. Post-1945 Berlin saw a two-year-long, large-scale toponymic renaming (both officially by the competent Magistrat, and unofficially by the local boroughs) of not only Nazi street names, but also of those that represented the ‘dynastic’ Germany. Although the initial proposal officially presented a list of over 1,000 streets to be renamed, in 1947 only 151 streets received new designations, due to the high cost involved in replacing street signs.

Over time, the streets of Paris also saw numerous renamings, many of them going back and forth between the old and new names, in line with the changes of governments and their ideology (Reference FergusonFerguson, 1988). Place de la Concorde was, originally, Place Louis XV in 1755, Place de la Revolution during the Revolution, Place de la Concorde in 1795, and then again Place Louis XV in 1814, then Place Louis XVI, until finally reverting to Place de la Concorde in 1830. The same goes for streets commemorating events. Odonyms bearing references to victories in the Napoleonic Wars were replaced after the Napoleonic era. For example, Austerlitz became Hôpital in 1815, after the fall of Napoleon, but later was reinstated during the July Monarchy (i.e., under the 1830–48 reign of Louis-Philippe, brought about by a revolution that started in July 1830). During the Second Empire (1852–70), names bearing references to Napoleonic victories were present in the public sphere again. By the time the Third Republic (1870–1940) had completed a renaming of the street names, Napoléon made way for Opéra, and Prince-Eugène for Voltaire. Haussmann’s renovation of Paris during the Second Empire also changed significantly the odonymic landscape at the time. His project involved the demolition of medieval neighbourhoods and the annexation of the immediate suburbs, the removal of old and narrow streets, and the making of around 450 new, wider streets, in addition to numerous newly constructed parks and squares. Along with this restructuring of the city, medieval streets with names such as Rue l’Arche-Marion, Rue de Chevalier-le-Guet, Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles, and Rue Tirechamp disappeared (Reference ManeglierManeglier, 1990, p. 28), making way for newer, wider streets named after writers, artists, scholars, and doctors who, as Reference FergusonFerguson (1988) puts it, ‘bourgeoisify’ the urban space (p. 387).

9.8 Toponymic Nicknames

So far in this volume, we have discussed how places have acquired their names and how these names are formalised by acts of government or by being transcribed on a map (see Chapter 10). However, as Reference CassidyCassidy, (1977, p. 19) asked: ‘What about the hundreds of others [place names] which live unrecorded – the very local labels that people apply half humorously but nevertheless function as names?’ In Chapters 7 and 8, we saw how during the colonial period in Singapore locals used their own vernacular names for places and streets rather than referring to them by their official denominations. What this shows is that the connection between place names and society is very clear in how places are referred to informally by speakers, as opposed to using their official names. Reference DuckertDuckert (1973, p. 153) accurately stated that nicknames are essentially a social construct and that ‘Nicknames are neither coined nor used by the indifferent; whether they are affectionate or derogatory or merely convenient, their making and application speak involvement.’ This means that place nicknames can offer us a better ‘insight into the humour, spirit, lifestyle, temper, and attitudes of a locality’ than any survey ever could (Reference DuckertDuckert, 1973, p. 153).

Nicknames for places can be classified into two main categories. One is represented by the names given by institutions or organisations. These can include tourist offices or advertising companies. These bodies create very artificial or, as Reference DuckertDuckert (1973, p. 154) put it, ‘synthetic or store bought’ denominations. Examples of this type can be seen on the number plates of cars, such as, from Australia, Canberra – The Heart of the Nation, or Victoria – The Education State, and, from the USA, Nevada – the Silver State, or Minnesota – Land of 10,000 Lakes. These nicknames are often only used in their written forms on brochures or other promotional materials and are not popular with the locals. Many of these nicknames change as the advertising campaigns are reviewed. The second category includes those nicknames that were created ‘spontaneously’ (Reference DuckertDuckert, 1973, p. 155) and express the feelings that the locals have for the places. These feelings could be, among others, affection, humour, anger, disgust, and frustration.

A number of researchers have identified various patterns in place nicknaming. The Australian National Dictionary (https://australiannationaldictionary.com.au/) identified the following patterns of the process of toponymic nicknaming.

1. 1. Abbreviation. This is what Reference DuckertDuckert (1973) calls ‘shortening’. For example, Frisco for San Francisco, Melbs for Melbourne, and The Alice for Alice Springs. In Australia, abbreviations are commonly seen alongside the insertion of the ending -y or -ie, as in Brissy/Brissie/Brizzy, for Brisbane.

2. 2. Tongue-in-cheek. Duckert calls this ‘affectionate deprecation’. This usually involves a play in the pronunciation of a name or a play of words from the name itself: Charlie’s Trousers from Charters Towers and Swinging Pig from Rockingham.

3. 3. Other patterns. This is a general category, very similar to what Duckert calls ‘Puns to Pollution’. The Australian National Dictionary reports the addition of ‘town’ in nicknames, as in A-town for Adelaide or P-town for Perth, as well as the addition of -ers, as in Sydders for Sydney, and the use of -bong instead of -ong, as in Dandebong for Dandenong (Melbourne) and Getabong for Ettalong.

Reference DuckertDuckert’s (1973) list also includes the following.

1. 4. Shibboleths.Footnote ² These are certain names of places that are only known to locals or to those people that have been accepted in a particular community. Just like a linguistic shibboleth, the knowledge of these names and the correct pronunciation distinguish members of the local community from outsiders.

2. 5. Determined deprecation. These nicknames are usually created by outsiders or by people who do not feel or want to be part of a community. For example, Grahamstown, in South Africa, is called Grimtown by the boarding school residents.

3. 6. Promotional coinages and occupation names. These include the ‘artificial’ nicknames mentioned above.

4. 7. Points of the compass. The four points of the compass are common references around the world. Worldwide, we see that people either come from the East, which includes most of Asia, or the West. Within countries, the North–South divide is also very commonplace, usually with different connotations, such as the ‘poor South’ and the ‘rich North’ in Italy. We see these equivalences played out in cities as well, where the North Side can be the expensive part of a town (e.g., in Chicago and Sydney).

5. 8. Ethnic and economic names. Ethic nicknames are often due to the concentration of a particular population group in an area. Famous examples of these are the many instances of Little Italy around the world. The contrast here is with Chinatown, which is normally reflected in the official maps, while Little Italy usually is not, unless it is recorded in a tourist brochure. For many years, a part of Richmond, Melbourne, was referred to by locals as Little Saigon. Nicknames like The Wrong Side of the River or Shanty Town refer to the poorer side of a city.

6. 9. Ruralia. Rural areas are often named after the main crop that is grown there. Hence, for example, we have a number of places around the world known as Wheat Belt.

Reference CassidyCassidy (1977, p. 20) collected a large number of place nicknames from the USA. He found that the addition of -town or -ville was the most common feature of the nicknames he collected. These two elements were added to denominations referring to people’s names, both given names (Jimtown) and surnames (Brownstown, Holtville). This notwithstanding, he found that -ville was more commonly added to surnames and not to given names, and coined after the type of people who lived in a specific place and their occupations (Cheesemakers Town, Dutchtown, Indianville). These toponyms also referred to animals (Dogtown, Turkeyville), plants (Potato Town, Pickleville), and physical-geographical features (Stony Town, Windyville). Moreover, Reference CassidyCassidy (1977, p. 20) came up with a large set that he categorised as ‘others’, for example, Stump Town, Bone Town, Gun Town, Muttonville. Cassidy stressed on the fact that, in most cases, the nicknames in this category were derogatory.

While place nicknames are coined by local people, some apply to large areas, such as cities, states, or even countries, and many become well known around the world. For instance, The Big Apple is easily recognisable as referring to New York. Many have more than one nickname. Some examples are outlined in Tables 9.1–9.3.

Indeed, toponymic nicknames have many different forms, and there are many different reasons for their creation. What they all share is a strong social and emotional connection with the places, and they reflect the feelings of those that conceived them.

9.9 Summary

In this chapter, we have shown how place names are, by nature, social constructs. Toponyms show the attachment that people have with the land they live in. From prehistoric times, people needed to name places in order to survive and to orientate around them, be it to avoid dangerous territories or to know where drinking water and edible plants could be found. This intrinsic link to the land can still be seen among Indigenous populations around the world and, in postcolonial times, this has sparked an interest in indigeneity, particularly in the so-called ‘settler countries’. Colonialists used the renaming of places as a way of taking possession of the newly colonised lands and, in many cases, we have seen efforts to reclaim these names by Indigenous groups. The naming and renaming practices are also ‘windows’ on the relationships between groups, where those with more power are able to claim more places as their own. Within these sociopolitical imbalances, people demonstrate creative ways of subverting those in authority by ignoring the official toponyms and using unofficial and vernacular names for places or by creating nicknames for them.