South Africa’s Graaff-Reinet renaming exposes colonial legacy and racialised memory politics in post-apartheid nation-building

The renaming debate erases the Khoikhoi and San peoples, who inhabited the region long before colonial settlement and whose original names for the land—such as *!Khwa ttu* (meaning 'water hole')—hold deep ecological and spiritual significance. Indigenous knowledge systems view place-names as living entities tied to land stewardship, contrasting with the colonial practice of naming as domination. The absence of Khoikhoi consultation reflects a broader pattern where post-apartheid South Africa’s decolonisation efforts prioritise political symbolism over Indigenous sovereignty.

Place-naming has been a tool of colonial control since the 17th century, when Dutch settlers imposed names to assert dominance over Indigenous and African populations. The 19th-century British renaming of Graaff-Reinet (after Dutch governor Cornelis Jacob van de Graaff) was part of a broader strategy to erase African and Khoikhoi histories. Post-apartheid South Africa’s renaming policies echo earlier African decolonisation efforts, such as Zambia’s 1964 renaming of Livingstone to Maramba, but lack the participatory mechanisms of those earlier transitions.

In India, post-colonial renaming (e.g., Bombay to Mumbai) was framed as reclaiming cultural identity, though it also sparked linguistic tensions. Similarly, in Algeria, French colonial names were replaced with Arabic ones after independence, but this process often excluded Berber communities whose pre-colonial names were sidelined. South Africa’s debate mirrors these tensions, where the Afrikaans-speaking minority’s attachment to colonial names reflects a struggle for cultural recognition in a rapidly Africanising public sphere.

Research on toponymy (place-names) shows that renaming can reduce cognitive dissonance for marginalised groups by aligning spatial identity with self-determination, as seen in studies of Indigenous place-naming in Canada and Australia. However, the psychological and social impacts of forced renaming on majority populations (e.g., increased anxiety or resistance) are less studied. The Graaff-Reinet case lacks empirical data on how name changes affect community cohesion or economic outcomes, despite claims from both sides.

For many Afrikaans-speaking residents, the name Graaff-Reinet is tied to a shared cultural and linguistic heritage, even if it is rooted in colonial violence—a tension explored in Afrikaans literature like André Brink’s *A Chain of Voices*. Conversely, the name Robert Sobukwe evokes the spiritual and political struggle of the anti-apartheid movement, resonating with Pan-Africanist and Black Consciousness traditions. The debate thus reflects a clash between secular nationalism and spiritualised resistance, where names become vessels for collective memory.

If South Africa adopts a participatory renaming framework—such as citizen assemblies or truth commissions—it could model a reconciliatory approach to historical justice, as seen in Colombia’s peace process. However, if the process remains top-down, it risks deepening racial polarisation and eroding trust in state-led transformation. Future scenarios suggest that economic incentives (e.g., tourism branding tied to Sobukwe’s legacy) could either mitigate or exacerbate tensions, depending on how benefits are distributed.

Coloured communities in Graaff-Reinet, who are descendants of Khoikhoi, slaves, and Dutch settlers, are often excluded from the renaming debate despite bearing the brunt of colonial spatial hierarchies. Their perspectives—such as a preference for bilingual or hybrid names—challenge the binary racial framing imposed by mainstream media. Additionally, poor Black residents may prioritise economic development over symbolic changes, yet their voices are rarely centred in national discourse.