Last week’s article tackled the official move to change the names of places, frequently leading to a long-acting process of obliterating the identity of the place, this move gave rise to intensive response from Watani readers. If anything, the reader’s response revealed the extent of frustration that Egyptians feel at being forced to use unfamiliar, officially-imposed names for places they have long known under another name. And it certainly does not help that the new names are used only on paper; in oral, day-to-day dealings the first name that comes to mind is the old one. In many cases it is necessary to use both names; the new one is the official name used on all formal papers and with which almost no-one is readily familiar, while the old name remains in use with an ‘ex-’ prefix.
Why all the confusion and complication? The well-established names of lands, mountains, seas or rivers; the names of countries, towns, villages or streets are an unfailing reminder of the history, identity, and cultural heritage of the inhabitants. Trifling with these names is no light matter. Given that our Egyptian civilisation goes back to time immemorial, have our officials lost all sense of pride in our identity? Has the source of our culture dried up or have our historical roots withered that we should abandon an authentic name in favour of some alien name imported from wherever?
I must admit that I pity those in charge of drawing maps or setting up signposts in Egypt, its towns and its roads. It is, admittedly, no easy task to keep up with the changing names. Following up on the names of the streets and squares in Cairo alone throughout the last half-century is a maddening routine; a generation gap appears to exist where these names are concerned, with each generation automatically using the name it is more familiar with to indicate the same place. And the same routine applies to Alexandria, Port Said, Assiut, Mansoura, and many others, where names which for ages reflected the rich history and culture of the place were replaced with others that reflect an imported culture and obliterate the original one.
Many Cairenes still use “Bab al-Hadeed” instead of “Ramses Square” to denote Cairo railway station square, “Fouad Street” instead of “26 July Street”, and “Triomphe Square” instead of “Al-Hussein Bin Talal Square”. Even though the new names here are all worthy ones, residents could never get themselves to easily give up the old names they grew up with. Matters are usually much worse if new names merely attempt to wipe out dear, old ones, and offer unworthy new names in their stead.
It is noteworthy that even names which warrant real change, such as the names of hotels that have been sold to new owners or operators and thus acquired new names, continue to retain the old names on the tongues of people. The “Meridien”, “Nile Hilton”, and “Gezira Sheraton” are still unfailingly referred to as such even though they no longer belong to the Meridien, Hilton, or Sheraton chains. But the most indicative—and droll—example of all, on how a name lent itself to an entire neighbourhood and stuck on even long after the incumbent left, is that of “Sheraton Heliopolis”. That was the name of a hotel built near the Cairo airport in the 1970s and run by Sheraton Hotels. The neighbourhood got to be known as the Sheraton neighbourhood; there was the Sheraton residences, the Sheraton mosque, the Sheraton church, and so on. A couple of years ago Sheraton Hotels quit and Fairmont now runs the hotel but, for Cairenes, it is still Sheraton—and the entire area is still Sheraton neighbourhood. My heart goes out to the Fairmonters; it must be frustration day in day out to be branded “Sheraton”. And I cannot imagine any official decree that would be able to have all the “Sheraton” utilities named otherwise.
Trifling with the names of places yields nothing but frustration, utter confusion, and dual character. People will go on calling places what they have always been, official decrees nonetheless.