Two weeks ago, Wales elected Rhun ap Iorwerth as First Minister. The online reaction followed a depressing and entirely predictable pattern, highlighted recently by Nation.Cymru. Commentators rushed to mock his name, suggesting he should call himself “Ron Jones” or claiming he altered his identity to win votes.
The mockery exposes a complete ignorance of Welsh history and language. The name follows the traditional Welsh patronymic system. “ap Iorwerth” simply means “son of Edward”.
A historical pattern of erasure and cultural disrespect
We often dismiss these comments as internet rage bait. My own experience tells me otherwise. This behaviour comes from people we know and live alongside. It stems from a deep-seated disrespect within the English-speaking world for Welsh language and culture.
This disrespect has deep roots. For generations, the British state actively suppressed the language, most famously through the system of the Welsh Not in schools. Children faced physical punishment and public shame simply for speaking their native tongue. The modern urge to mock Welsh names is a direct continuation of that historical erasure.
We see this at the highest levels of British politics today. Prime Minister Keir Starmer recently struggled to pronounce the name of our previous First Minister, Eluned Morgan. When the leader of the country fails to invest the minimal effort required to learn a colleague’s name, it sets a terrible standard for everyone else.
The compromise of changing who we are
My name is Dafydd. It is a traditional Welsh name, pronounced ‘DAH-vith’. The spelling and phonetics frequently confuse people outside of Wales. Throughout my life, people have struggled to say it and failed to spell it.
When I moved across the border to England for sixth form, the pattern began. People asked why I did not simply call myself David. These questions usually came accompanied by tired, offensive jokes. The same pattern repeated throughout my time at university.
Early in my professional career, I chose to compromise. I shortened my name to ‘Dai’ to make life easier for colleagues. I altered how I presented myself to accommodate their lack of effort. Using ‘Dai’ for so long means it has now become a permanent part of my identity.
Today, I navigate two worlds. I find myself using Dafydd more when I am working and living in Wales, and returning to Dai elsewhere. I will continue to use both, but the choice belongs to me.
I know that respect is possible because other countries manage it without issue. During my time working in Canada, people made the effort to pronounce Dafydd correctly. On another occasion, the Prime Minister of Barbados managed the correct spelling and pronunciation immediately, without any prompting.
Reclaiming our geography and identity
The same pattern of erasure applies to our geography and our democratic institutions. For decades, official maps replaced historic Welsh place names with anglicised alternatives. We are finally seeing a shift, with institutions reclaiming original names like Eryri and Bannau Brycheiniog.
This return to our proper language extends to our democracy. We have Senedd Cymru, our Welsh Parliament, where politicians serve as Members of the Senedd. We have Welsh constituency names like Casnewydd Islwyn and Sir Fynwy Torfaen. And we now have a government where names like Heledd, Mabon, Sioned and Dafydd are normal. These names are a core part of our everyday culture. They are part of our national fabric.
The public debate surrounding these geographical and institutional updates reveals the exact same resistance that individuals face over their own names.
Cultural laziness is a choice
Expecting people to learn how to say a name or a place is a reasonable boundary.
Joking about anglicising someone’s identity is disrespectful. We must expect better.