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.
Outside the Russian-language space, it is hard to fathom these intra-Slavic nuances, but, in a nutshell, each option is “correct” in a particular context. While the form Belarus is official in Belarus and registered in Russia’s country classifier, the equivalent of Belorussia has been used in the Russian language for more than two hundred years. In different historical periods, the use of either “on”- or “in”-preposition with regard to Ukraine predominated (the latter, for example, was more popular in the nineteenth century). However, historical linguistic arguments do not convince supporters of the “only correct” version.
“Correctness” in this case is determined, among other things, by the logic of a country’s self-positioning. This was clearly demonstrated in the case of Ukraine, which officially demanded that the Russian language should use the “in” preposition, since, according to Ukrainian politicians, the “on”-preposition is a marker of lack of independence and “backyardness” (similar to the use of the definite article with Ukraine in English, abolished post-1991). Curiously, Russian officials were sympathetic to such concerns and, during periods of constructive relations with Ukraine, often accommodated them—unlike linguists, who insisted on preserving the traditional (albeit unstable, as shown above) norm. In fact, the willingness to accept proposed forms directly depends on the quality of interstate relations. This is precisely why the equivalent of Belarus, natural for the Belarusian language but not for Russian, is accepted in Russia without particular difficulty.
There would be no reason for toponymical battles if local norms of the Russian language were formally established in Russia’s neighbouring countries, without attempts to extend them to the entire Russian-speaking world. But this is impossible for political reasons, as it would mean acknowledging Russian as the native language of the overwhelming majority of the population.
It should be noted that the promotion of nationally preferred toponymical versions has also occurred, with varying degrees of success, outside the Russian-speaking world. For example, the debate over “in”- versus “on”-preposition with regard to Ukraine has been waged not only in Russian but also in Polish. The latter traditionally uses the “on”-preposition (sounding exactly like the Russian one)—as it does with the names of several other immediate neighbours of Poland: Lithuania, Belarus, Slovakia, and (historically) Latvia and Hungary. Yet Ukrainian activists demanded—following the same logic as in Russian—a change in the preposition. Until 2022, these demands—despite Polish society’s favourable stance toward Ukraine—were largely ignored. However, in July 2022, the Polish Language Council rejected the use of the “on”-preposition as the only correct form, taking into account “the special political situation and the special feelings of our Ukrainian friends.”
Furthermore, since the mid-1990s, Ukraine has lobbied for its capital to be spelled Kyiv in foreign languages, and in 2018, its Ministry of Foreign Affairs launched a diplomatic campaign to displace the “Russian” transliteration of the city’s name. As a result, the proposed form was adopted by a number of leading English-language media outlets, governments, and international organizations. In languages more resistant to external pressure, such as French, attitudes toward the change were initially cautious but later shifted. In February 2022, the newspaper Libération announced its transition to the spelling Kyiv, citing the familiar Kiev as a “symbol of Russification.” Between 2022 and 2024, government agencies and media outlets in Germany and Austria announced their adoption of Kyjiw as the official spelling. The extent to which these forms will become established in the vernacular remains an open question.
Interestingly, alongside the Ukrainian campaign, a quieter Belarusian one was underway, aimed at correcting the country’s name in languages where it is, quite literally, rendered as “White Russia,” such as Chinese or Swedish. After the thaw in Minsk’s relations with the West came to an end, the expected outcome followed: the Belarusian opposition successfully hijacked the toponymical agenda. While the government’s initiative had no overt anti-Russian overtones, the slogan “Belarus is not White Russia” has now become part of the information war against Russia.
It is noteworthy, however, that even countries with the most hostile attitudes toward Russia are in no hurry to change their linguistic norms. For example, despite lobbying by the Belarusian opposition, a Lithuanian government commission refused to change the official name of Belarus in Lithuanian (Baltarusija—literally “White Russia”). In 2022, the French National Commission on Toponymy advocated for retaining the traditional form Kiev, emphasizing that it is not a “Russian” but a genuinely French norm, established historically and not subject to change for political reasons.
All these examples convincingly demonstrate that toponymy remains an important element of identity politics. Although history has yet to witness a toponym serving as a guarantee of a nation’s historical success, toponymical prescriptivism reflects the widespread belief that a country’s fate depends on its name. Without changing political realities, toponymical initiatives influence discursive space, which is why states—primarily small and medium-sized powers—continue to expend diplomatic resources on them. As for native speakers, the choice always remains theirs. Each individual must answer for themselves the question of how acceptable external linguistic pressure is, and whether they are prepared to transform speech into a political statement.
